EMILIA FINN

Ryan Nichols is my hero. He’s my world.

 

He’s exactly who they model comic books and blockbuster movies after, when they write about the tall, dark, and annoyingly handsome lead swooping in to save the city.

 

Ryan Nichols is also my twin brother, older than me by mere minutes, and no matter how much I adore his existence, brothers were put on this planet to annoy their little sisters.

 

It’s in the rules.

 

“Let’s go, Nova!” Ryan slings my kitchen door open and pokes his head inside, his rear-end still on the back deck.

 

I startle and spill my coffee, the piping hot liquid dribbling along my wrist as I glance over my shoulder and snarl. “You’re a jerk.”

 

He grins and swaggers across the threshold, coming up behind me and grabbing my coffee.

The scent of chopped wood and aftershave filters into the room, settling in the base of my lungs and providing me with a moment of home.

This is home.

He is home.

But then he goes and ruins it all by plopping my mug in the sink and tipping it to the side, dark liquid washing down the drain.

Bastard.

 

Staff Sergeant Ryan Nichols is not only my hero... he’s an American hero who has spent more of his adult life outside our borders than in.

His visits these days aren’t as regular as I’d like, and never for long enough before the phone rings and he’s gone again.

 

But for now, at least for this week, I get to soak him up and store away the contentment I feel when we’re in the same room. Annoying tendencies and all.

 

“You know you love me, kiddo.” He flicks the back of my neck and darts away. Because my duty, as his sister, is to spin and smack him with those handy skills he made damn sure I learned the instant I was old enough to swing.

 

He snags the keys to my truck and heads out the door with a smile so broad, I have no chance of holding on to my annoyance.

Perks of being a hero, I guess.

 

“We’re headin’ to Dukes,” he calls from outside, stomping his boots against the top step with a noisy thud-thud-thud. It’s a habit we’ve had since we were kids, because if we tracked mud into the house and Mom found out about it, we were toast. “If you’re not in the truck in thirty seconds, I’m leaving without you. Then you’ll pout about how we never spend time together.”

 

“You didn’t have to waste my coffee.” And yet, I slide off my stool and grab my phone. “You’ve been here for three days, and you’re already pissing me off.”

 

“Let’s go, Nova!”

 

I jump and snicker, skidding across the kitchen and bursting through the back door after him. Another habit, I guess, ingrained after two decades where our driveway curls around the side of the house and into the backyard. No one uses our front door except salesmen and strangers.

 

I emerge into a sunny September day and catch the red flash of a cardinal darting into the trees at the back of our yard. The branches swell with deep green leaves, while the gardens below overflow with bright color.

 

This is my favorite time of the year; after the summer heat has passed, but the October chill is yet to slide in.

 

Ryan hangs out of the truck door, his muscular chest wrapped in a shirt we both know the ladies like, and cargo pants he seems to think are necessary, even while he’s stateside. It’s all about the pockets, kiddo. It’s about having everything you need nearby. “I’m dying of hunger, Nova. And you’re standing between me and a breakfast burger.”

 

“You could’ve eaten here, ya know?” I turn and lock up the house, dragging the door closed and taking a moment longer than necessary. It’s what siblings do. “The coffee pot was full, the fridge is stocked. I could’ve even made you a breakfast burger the way they do it at the diner.”

 

“But I want Dukes.” He drops into the driver’s side and slams the door, then he starts the old engine and grins at her purr. Just as smooth as it was when it rolled off the showroom floor. Because Ry is a tinkerer of machines, and he makes damn sure to come home at least once a year to service mine and ensure its reliability.

 

Moving across my back porch with slow steps and a sweeping gaze, I take this moment, as I have a million times before, to acknowledge how eerily alike he and our father appear.

 

How, when he pulls on a pair of sunglasses to cover hazel eyes—the same as mine—and tugs on a baseball cap to squash down his dark locks—not the same as mine—he becomes Terrance Nichols’ clone. And since our parents are dead, Ry became what I no longer have.

 

Father and brother. Protector and pest.

 

“I’m seriously questioning whether you’ve learned anything at all, Nova.” He slaps the side of the truck, startling my eyes back up to his. “Daydreaming? Really? There could be snipers in the trees, kid. They could have you in their scope already.” He revs the truck, disappointed as he shakes his head from side to side. “Eyes open, or you’re dead meat. You know that.”

 

“Oh, for God’s sake.” I start down the porch steps and circle the hood of my sixty-something-year-old Chevrolet Silverado. It was once a shining gold. Probably. These days, it’s more of a poo-brown, and the gleaming showroom pizzazz it once had is now nothing more than chipped paint and flaking speckles flying off every time I top fifty miles per hour. Dragging my squeaking door wide, I climb into the cab and plop down beside my frustratingly charming, obnoxiously naggy, minutes-older brother. But when the scent of chopped wood, engine grease, and aftershave hits my senses again, I settle back and smile. “You’re being dramatic.”

 

“You think so?” He taps the gas and brings us along my potholed driveway. “I haven’t eaten since last night, Nov. My body is basically consuming its own muscle at this point.”

 

“The fact you’re almost never here is the only reason I tolerate you when you are.”

He reaches across and tickles the side of my neck, so I whip my hand up and slap his away with a resounding crack.

 

“And daydreaming on my own porch? In my own backyard? A yard wrapped in forty-foot trees and absolutely no neighbors for at least a mile in any direction? Dude!” I smack his hand away again. “This is Mount Gaines. It’s safe. It’s home. There are no snipers in our trees, and you’re not hot-wiring trucks on the wrong side of a battlefield today. Chill.”

 

He pulls out of our driveway and onto a slow, winding, small-town road, and because there’s no traffic—ever—he settles in and opens his legs wide, resting his arm on the back of our bench seat and glancing across to look me up and down.

 

Sunglasses cover most of his hazel stare, but I see the flicker of his lashes behind the lenses. The expression that conveys frustration with my nonchalance. “Paying attention is important, Nov. If you’re floating through life and completely unobservant, I’m gonna worry. And if I worry—”

 

“Then you won’t be able to do your job,” I repeat the line he’s fed me for years already. But since I don’t want him to worry about me tucked safely in the mountains and trees and practical fortress of my home while he’s… wherever he is, dodging explosives and fighting a war he never started, I concede with a nod. “I’ll be more observant.”

 

“Good choice.” He flicks my neck.

 

“Ryan!” A snarling, snapping growl tears along my throat as I bring my fist up and smack his arm. “Stop it!” I punch his ribs, hammer-hand style, and revel in his squeak of pain. His wheezing choke. And under that, the chuckle of an older brother content with his duty. “You’re a pain in my ass.”

 

“It’s my birthright.” He rubs his side. “My legacy, even.”

 

“Oh, you wanna talk legacies? Great!” I flash a beaming smile, and thrill in the panic flaring behind his sunglasses. “You dated Violet for five years, but I see no ring. There are no wedding bells or cute little nieces or nephews for me to obsess over.” I fold my legs and sit criss-cross-style as we head toward town. “Five years is a long time, Ry, and then you just… stop. Like it never happened. Care to explain yourself?”

 

“Absolutely not.” He shoves his palm into my face, blocking my too-smug smile. “My dating life is none of your business.”

 

“Yeah, but—”

 

“And before you even consider it, I don’t wanna hear about your dating life, either. I don’t want to know. Not a fucking peep. And I swear to Christ, if you bring a man home while I’m in town, I’ll cut his nuts out before morning.”

 

“You said that when I was fifteen.” I push him away and lean against the door frame as he gently brings us around a bend in the road. “You had a point back then. But we’re twenty-seven now, which means you—”

 

“Still own a sharp knife, and unusually specific knowledge on how to use it. Don’t test me, Nova. Not while I’m in the next room. He won’t survive the night.”

 

“Big baby.” I turn the radio a little louder as a soft country song plays on the wind, dragging me right back to driving in this truck, on this road, a decade and a half ago, but with my dad at the wheel. His hat pulled low over his eyes, the sun blinding us from ahead. His stubble-covered jaw and his long, slow smile that always made me comfortable. If he was happy like that, relaxed and tapping along to the beat of whatever music was on, then the world was at peace. Back then, nothing could hurt us.

 

“Are you dating anyone?” Ryan side-eyes me, his jaw clenching and gritting. “I didn’t wanna know. I don’t wanna know. But is anyone sniffing around?”

 

“Are they dogs?” I set my elbow on the door frame and my head against my palm. “Sniffing around implies a certain animalistic trait.”

 

“Men?” he clarifies. “Yeah. They’re all dogs. All douchebags. So?”

 

I wrinkle my nose and consider. I don’t think meeting a guy at the bar last month really counts as dating, especially since I left him there. And talking to Old Man Duke down at the diner definitely doesn’t count, since he’s married and old enough to be my grandpa. “I’ve got nothing to report, Cap’n. I’ve been working a lot this year, and even if I let a guy buy me a drink sometimes, they almost always say something stupid within the first five minutes. It’s hard to like them when the bar is set so high. I wouldn’t settle for anyone who isn’t even half as good as—”

 

“Me?” Like a peacock, he flutters his metaphorical feathers and lifts his chin in pride. “I know. Setting the standard so high was intentional.”

 

“I was going to say, Daddy,” I snicker. “But sure, Ry. You, too.”

 

His gloating turns to a harrumph. His grin, to a glower. “You’re just trying to hurt my feelings cos I tipped out your coffee.”

 

As we approach town and traffic grows a little thicker—as in, four cars in sight—he brings the truck to a rumbling stop at a set of lights so those going the other way can cross.

One car.

Two.

And since he has time, he peeks across and tries on his ‘I’m cranky and disappointed’ glare. “I’ve been the knight guarding your door our whole lives, Nova. Even in high school.” His lips quirk up at the side. “Even though it was messing with my social life.”

 

“Oh, please. One of us was cool. The other was you.”

 

“See!? Hurtful.” When our light turns green, he accelerates and brings us forward. “We could call our friends, if you want. Ask them to vote for the most popular Nichols again.”

 

“We graduated an entire decade ago,” I drawl. “It’s kinda sad that you peaked in high school and this is all you’ve got going for you now.”

 

I catch the movement of traffic on Ryan’s left as we amble through the intersection, the shiny glint of a black SUV, not faded even a little, unlike mine.

I guess I expect to see it stopped. It’s what my brain assumes will happen. Instead, the heavy vehicle shoots through his red light without so much as a flutter of hesitation. My brain, still working on what is supposed to be instead of what is, doesn’t fully register the danger.

 

But Ryan is faster. More observant.

 

“Oh, shit!” He swings his gaze my way, throwing his arm across in front of me and pinning me to my seat, and at the same time, he stomps on the gas pedal and revs the engine. But my truck is too old. Unaccustomed to drag-race treatment. “Hold on!”

His words are a distant echo in the back of my mind. His panic, like gunshots in my ears.

 

The SUV slams against our truck, the screech of metal like a piercing scream, and the folding of steel, a groan that will visit me in my dreams. Ryan’s sunglasses fly toward the windshield, shattering and showering the thin brown lenses over our laps.

 

His body bounces from the direct impact of the other car, yet his restraining arm remains entirely controlled. He becomes a second seatbelt for me, stopping me from hitting the dash. But he can do nothing about the way I rocket to the side, my skull cracking against the window in the same moment it blows out, glass shattering into the cab.

 

A scream of terror escapes my lips, clawing along my throat and out to compete with the roar of our truck spinning across the intersection, then tilting on its wheels until we’re flipping and flying.

 

My father’s smile, back in the day, assured me all was well with the world. Ryan’s eyes, today, say the opposite. The momentum of the truck has me hitting my head a second time, harder than the first. Darkness fills my vision, and hot, sticky blood coats the side of my neck.

 

“Ryan?” I cling to his arm as dizziness makes way for nausea, and adrenaline makes it all so much worse. The world outside of us spins and jumps and twirls, and with every revolution, glass and metal cut my flesh.

 

A mere second feels like a lifetime, and a dozen rolls feel like a million. Blood trickles behind my ear and down the side of my neck, sliding into my shirt so the fabric sticks to my skin and draws my mental focus.

 

Which is so strange, really. That I dial in on those details, even as the smell of burning rubber hits my nose, and the distinct tang of gas floats in the air.

 

It’s so odd that I would focus on the warm, tacky feeling on my skin while flames burst to life in the engine bay. We spin and flip and fly for what feels like forever.

 

Until we don’t.

 

Then we crash down with a deafening boom, landing on Ryan’s side as the scream of old metal scraping against the tar road pierces the air. Blood on my neck. Staining my shirt. Such odd details to think about. Until Ryan’s restricting arm falls away and I slip along the bench seat, bouncing my forehead off the steering wheel until stars burst in my eyes and the things that should be loud become nothing more than background noise.

And then we stop. The truck. The world. The noise and stench and heat and reality.

 

Dizzy, I search for my brother amidst the chaos. Nausea creeps along my throat and up to burn my esophagus. My hands shake, and my lips tremble. Shadows dance in my peripherals until finally, I find him. His eyes on mine. Staring, but unseeing. He’s here. But he’s not.

 

“Ryan?” Oxygen clogs in my throat and robs me of the ability to pull more in. Or push a little out. My lungs spasm as people outside the truck shout, and footsteps thunder closer. “Ryan?” My voice breaks. Aching. My hands tingle, half numb as I attempt to free myself from the seatbelt. Jamming my thumb against the catch and releasing the material, I toss it aside on a cry and crawl toward my brother. “Ryan?” Tears sting my eyes, tracking along my cheeks and tickling the edge of my jaw. “Hey?” I grab his tattooed arm, the compass by his biceps giving me something to focus on. Something concrete and hopeful and real, as thick veins bulge in his muscle. “Ryan?!”

 

“Ma’am?” Someone tears my door open, the screech of misshapen metal like a knife to the side of my brain. “Ma’am! We gotta go. Your truck is on fire.”

 

“Ryan?” I jerk his arm, as rough as my waning strength allows.

 

“Wake up, Ry!” Hands wrap around my hips and yank me back. “No! Ryan! Wake up!”

 

“Ma’am! It’s gonna blow!”

 

“Ryan!” I kick out at the groping hands and scramble back to my big brother. Bigger, braver, stronger. He’s my hero. “Ryan! Wake up,” I sob. “Please!”

 

“Ma’am!” A different voice, gruffer and meaner, booms through the cab, his arm snaking around my hip and creating an all-new seatbelt. He’s stronger than the first guy. More determined as flames lick closer to the shattered windshield. “We’ll come back for him!” He wrenches me out in one swift move. “We’re coming back for him. I promise.”

 

“Ryan!” I can’t see. Can’t breathe. Can’t do anything except scratch and kick and search for freedom. “He’s my brother! Someone needs to get my brother! RYAN!”