Flight Risk

CHAPTER 1 - Drew

First rule of snowmobiling? Don’t run into shit.

Technically, it’s called a “collision with a fixed object,” but try explaining that to the guy currently bleeding all over the back of my helicopter. I don’t think he took the rule—or the big fucking rock he hit—seriously enough.

Now I’m doing my best to keep his vitals from tanking mid-air. IV fluids running wide open. Pressors in. And a generous hit of morphine to keep him from going full batshit if he wakes up five thousand feet above the tundra.

I can’t hear much over the rotor wash and the wind hammering us from the west, but I can feel Cal flying. His control is steady. Exact. Even when the storm makes the bird shudder like it wants to fall out of the sky.

Six years with the Army Pararescue taught me to recognize when a pilot’s full of shit—and when they’re a goddamn gift.

Cal’s the best I’ve flown with. No contest.

Been in the air with him for four years now.

Been in his bed almost as long.

I plant my boots, and brace as the chopper angles into descent. One hand adjusts the O₂ flow; the other checks the patient’s straps—making damn sure his spine stays in one piece until we hit the ER.

Cal lands us like a whisper brushing skin. Clean. Smooth. Barely a bump.

The tail ramp drops before the rotors fully slow, and two ER providers rush in, gurney up, gloves already on. I guide the backboard into place and keep pressure on the femoral line until they’ve got him stable enough to move.

“BP’s trending low,” I shout over the noise. “Epi and Levophed on board. One amp of bicarb for the acidosis. No airway compromise yet, but he’s circling the drain.”

They nod. One of them barks for a vent setup as we push through the trauma bay doors.

I hang back just long enough to hear the doc start calling for intubation, then I peel off and head for the nurse’s station.

Leaning on the desk like I’ve got all the time in the world, I flash my best grin at the woman seated there.

“Megan, hon.”

She looks up and lights up like the damn sun. “Drew!”

She stands, leans in over the desk a little—hand planted just so, smile coy and familiar.

Just the way I like it.

I slide the tablet across the counter, giving her my best grin—the one that says you know you missed me.

“Sign for me, sweetheart?”

She rolls her eyes, but her fingers are already dancing across the screen. “When you gonna ask me on a date, Drew?”

I chuckle, low and easy. “Baby, you know I live too far away. Wouldn’t be fair to get you all worked up just to vanish back into the snow.”

My gaze drops, slow and deliberate, taking her in from head to toe. “But I gotta admit… you’re almost worth the fuel.”

“Damn straight I am,” she practically purrs.

I laugh as she hands the tablet back, fingers brushing mine just a little too long. I don’t pull away right away. Don’t need to. It’s harmless. Familiar. A nice reminder that not everything in this job is blood and chaos.

We chat a little longer—just enough to make her laugh again—before my watch vibrates.

It’s Cal. Just one word.

Now.

No softness—just command.

I give Megan a wink and peel off toward the pad.

Back at the bird, I double-check the rear—supplies secured, nothing left behind—then swing up into the co-pilot’s seat and buckle in.

Cal doesn’t look at me. He’s already talking to tower, voice calm and clipped over the headset.

The city of Anchorage starts to fall away beneath us, lights shrinking against the dusk-stained sky.

We were supposed to be heading to the airport to pick up our new hire when the call came out for a trauma in one of the remote edges of the backcountry. Cal changed directions. Really takes the slogan for our company, Northline Medical Rescue, seriously: Always There.

I’m pretty sure Cal texted the new hire—our supposed mechanic-slash-co-pilot-slash-EMT—but he hasn’t said a word about it since we got back in the air.

Which, honestly, tracks. Cal’s not exactly loquacious.

I saw the résumé. Cal let me look before he made the offer. It was impressive as hell—flight hours, a shit-ton of mechanical experience, EMT certified. A few odd requests—private room, bathroom with locks, specific tools—but otherwise? Looked like a goddamn unicorn.

On paper, anyway.

I agreed we needed someone full time. But an anxious knot sits in my stomach.

Change—even the good kind—still scrambles my brain sometimes. Kicks up memories I’d rather leave buried.

I glance at Cal.

He knows.

Doesn’t need me to say it.

He always knows.

That anxious knot eases just a fraction.

We’ve gone through four temps in the last year. One puked during takeoff and didn’t stop until landing. One didn’t understand personal boundaries—or pants. The other two couldn’t hack the isolation. This job eats at you if you’re not built for the silence and being 200 miles of barren tundra from the nearest grocery store.

I’m not holding my breath for this one either.

Cal sets us down smooth on the service pad near the Anchorage airport—small, utilitarian, half-covered in patchy snow. The hangar door is rolled up, wide open to the cold, but I don’t see anyone waiting.

Cal powers down the bird. I pop my harness and slide out, boots crunching on the ground. He falls in behind me, quiet as ever, and we walk toward the open hangar.

It looks empty.

Cal’s already pulling out his phone, thumb hovering over the call icon, when a grizzled old guy shuffles out from the back.

“Mr. Merrick, sir,” he says, wiping his hands on a filthy rag.

“Marky,” Cal acknowledges with a nod.

“She’s over there.” He jerks a thumb toward a pile of what looks like cargo crates.

At first, I don’t see anything. Then my eyes adjust, and yeah—there’s someone there. Slouched back on a stack of boxes, boots crossed, arms folded, cap pulled low. Still as stone. Breathing steady.

She’s asleep. Full-on knocked out in the middle of a hangar like it’s a Motel 6.

Cal just tilts his head at me, expression unreadable.

Message received.

I stroll over, stop a foot away, and give one of the crates a sharp kick.

She slowly lifts her head like she was waiting for me—and I’m hit with the sharpest, clearest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. They lock on me for half a beat, then flick to Cal behind me.

She exhales through her nose, like we’ve just interrupted something inconvenient, and stands.

Damn.

Goddamn.

She’s gorgeous.

But not the grease-under-the-nails, blue-collar kind. No—this one looks like she should be sipping champagne on the deck of some yacht, not snoozing on top of aviation crates in a drafty hangar. She’s got that high-gloss, high-society kind of beauty. The fact she’s dressed like a construction worker only makes it more apparent.

Silky brown hair pulled through the back of a ballcap. Worn jeans. Broken-in boots, clearly steel-toes. Heavy coat unzipped to show a loose T-shirt that does absolutely nothing to hide her curves.

Trophy-wife pretty. Corporate-heiress pretty. Too-pretty-to-be-a-mechanic pretty.

The heat that flares in my chest must’ve hit my face, because the second she sees me, her eyes narrow.

“Don’t fucking say it,” she snaps.

I blink. “Say what?”

“That thing you’re thinking.”

I lift both hands. “Was gonna say hi. Welcome.”

She gives me a look like she’s weighing whether to knee me in the balls or just pretend I don’t exist.

“Let’s get something clear before we bother loading up my shit,” she says, arms crossed tight. “I don’t like being touched. I’m not here to fuck either of you. I’m here to fix your bird, help fly it, and keep patients alive. Not to play house or be your live-in whore. Stay out of my space, let me do my job, and I won’t have to become a problem.”

I glance over at Cal. His eyes narrow slightly—barely a twitch—but he doesn’t say a word.

“Got it,” I say.

And for the record? I really was just gonna say hi.

Sure, I hook up sometimes—couple of nurses, here and there, if the timing works out. And yeah, Cal and I have… something. But I don’t usually hit on the people I have to live with for the next year. That’s just bad math.

“Miss Sinclair,” Cal says evenly. Doesn’t hold out his hand. “Cal Merrick.”

“Beck,” she corrects. “I go by Beck.”

Then she turns to me. “And you are?”

“Drew Andersen.” I give her my best smile—warm, charming, a little reckless.

She nods. “Nice to meet you.” It comes out like an automatic response.

She turns back to Cal. “My luggage.” She points to the crates stacked behind her.

Cal raises a brow. “All of that?”

“I’m under the weight allotment,” she says, voice flat. “As stated in the contract.”

“Barely,” I mutter, reaching for one of the crates. It’s heavier than expected. I hear liquid slosh.

“What the hell’s in here?”

She lifts her chin, cheeks coloring just a little. “Year’s supply of Mountain Dew.”

I laugh. “What’d you give up to make room? Clothes? Dignity?”

“Books. Music. Most of my wardrobe.” She grabs a crate like it weighs nothing. “I can live without a lot of things. Caffeine’s not one of them.”

“We do have coffee,” Cal says, like he’s genuinely offering that shit he gets flown in from Africa.

Which, for him, is damn close to flirting.

I shoot Cal a sideways glance.

He’s never looked twice at anyone—man or woman—in the whole time I’ve known him. Not once.

Except me.

Used to think whatever was going on between us was just proximity and biology—two guys working too close for too long, no strings, just release.

But sometimes… I get the feeling there’s more between us, something deeper—something more than just fantastic sex and the comfort of another human when shit gets lonely.

And knowing Cal? If it was more, he’d never say. He’d just keep flying like nothing’s different.

Not that I care if he looks at someone else. I don’t.

It’s just… interesting. That we both noticed her.

Takes us twenty minutes of shuffling, swearing, and creative Tetris to get all her gear loaded.

She claims the back bench like she’s done it a hundred times, snaps the harness into place, and pulls on a headset. Then she stretches out, crosses her ankles, and tugs her hat low over her eyes.

I key my mic, voice filtering through the comms. “You always sleep the first day on a new job? Or when flying over some of the most beautiful terrain on the damn planet?”

“I sleep when I can,” she says without moving. “Jobs like this, you never know when you’ll get the next chance.”

Fair.

Some days, we don’t leave the hangar. Others, we’re in the air for sixteen hours straight, chasing one emergency into the next. There’s no rhythm out here—just weather, luck, and whatever Alaska decides to throw at us.

And where we’re stationed? We’re it. Closest rescue unit after us is thirty minutes away—and they’ve got protocols. Weather minimums. Flight restrictions.

Cal doesn’t.

Didn’t when he was flying with the 160th, either.

Night Stalkers.

Elite Army pilots. Special ops. The best damn rotor-wing flyers in the world.

Cal doesn’t just fly. He owns the sky.

I look back at her.

She doesn’t flinch when we hit turbulence. Just shifts, braces a boot on the corrugated metal floor, and sinks deeper into the bench like it’s a recliner instead of a vibrating steel box bolted to a goddamn helicopter.

Not bad.

Not bad at all.

But handling a rough flight is the easy part.

We’ll see how she holds up when the weather turns nothing but shards of ice.

When the sky goes black and the wind screams like it wants to rip the bird in two.

When flying stops being beautiful—and starts being a gamble.

When you live with no backup. No second bird. No room for panic or pride. Just you, the cold, and the weight of someone else’s life in your hands.

But that’s only part of it.

The real test?

Is everything in between.

Living two hundred miles from anywhere.

Waking up in the same bunkhouse with the same two people, day after day.

Sharing every room, every meal, every silence.

No breaks. No space. No one else.

Just Cal. Me. And her.

The job might break her.

But the quiet might do it faster.

We’ll see how long she lasts when the only way out… is up.