Authors: Jill Winters
Gretchen woke up to her apartment on fire. It was strange the way you could fly out of bed—burst up from a cocoon of comforters, your head still heavy with sleep but your body jolted awake and thrumming with fear. How, in the murky depths of your mind, you could believe you were still dreaming, even as pure instinct sent you racing out of your room and into the acrid stench of burning plastic.
Gretchen slapped hard on the wall switch and flooded the hall with light.
"Oh God!" she yelped as panic seized her chest. Billows of smoke slid between the cracks of Dana's door, then expanded, puffing up into listless clouds that evaporated into the ceiling.
God, is she okay, please, please let her be okay!
With her heart slamming against her ribs, she bolted across the hall to her cousin's bedroom.
Grasping at her neck, Gretchen felt herself choke—on smoke or on fear—as she flung the door open. A bright orange glow in the corner by the window illuminated the rest of the room. A thick fog of smoke was rushing toward her, gray and smothering, and through it she saw Dana's bed, still made. The mustard-colored quilt was pulled tightly across it; the spiral, satiny pillow rested at the head of the bed like a plump golden rod.
Gretchen's eyes stung. The smoke burned into them, made them water like diluted acid and clogged her throat like a rough piece of bark. She struggled to cough—to breathe—as she blinked away tears.
Then, like an electric shock, a bolt of relief struck her chest; Dana was out tonight. She'd said something earlier about crashing at her friend's place so she could make an early audition the next morning.
Thank you, God,
Gretchen thought frantically, exhaling a shaky sigh.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Inching over the threshold of the room, she tried to move past the smoke, but it didn't seem possible; it was rising furiously, but from where—from what? From that orange glow in the corner, of course. Squinting, Gretchen tried to make it out, to make sense of it, as the pungent smell got stronger with each step she took toward Dana's window. She'd gotten only halfway across the room when suddenly, the frilly yellow curtains exploded into flames.
"Aaah!"
she screamed, leaping back.
Startled and terrified, she pressed her hand to her pounding heart. Her mouth dropped open and her eyes shot wide, watching as the curtains were devoured by fire.
She turned and ran from the room. Hooking a sharp right, her socks nearly skidded on the hardwood floor as she raced away from the smoke, from the stench, from the flames, and toward the front door.
Then she stopped. She couldn't just leave. What about her neighbors? What should she do? Think fast. Call 911, or simply flee the scene in her nightgown and socks, hitting the fire alarm in the hallway on her frantic way to the stairs?
Wait—was there even an alarm in the hallway? Now she couldn't remember. She'd moved to New York only two weeks ago and had spent none of that time exploring the building, and if her cousin kept a fire extinguisher around here, she'd never mentioned it.
Suddenly something crashed in the other room. Startled, Gretchen jumped. She scurried into the living room and fumbled in the darkness for the end table beside the couch and the brass lamp that sat on top of it. Once she had some light she could find her cell phone, which was tossed God-knows-where.
Her knee banged into the table. Hurriedly, she reached out, registering the cool metal against her fingers as she slid her hand up the lamp. More choking coughs. Each one spread a hot blast of pain across her chest. Smoke from the other room was still stuck inside her, gagging her.
Shit!
she thought, panicked, as she raced around the room.
Where is that damn phone!
She thought she'd find it tucked within the soft curves of the sofa or buried in the bulk of the armchairs. Nothing. Climbing over the side of the sofa, she jammed her fingers between the cushions, then all but tumbled onto the floor and ran a hand underneath.
Bang, bang! Bang, bang, bang!
Startled, Gretchen yelped, nearly dropping the phone from her trembling fingers. Someone banged on the door again. She hopped to her feet just as she heard a man's voice shout: "Open up—fire department!"
The voice was deep and loud, though a little muffled, and Gretchen was suddenly, inexplicably, frozen in place. Terror closed up her throat as she clutched her chest with her palms, feeling her heart thud hard beneath her breasts; reality was barely sinking in, her reason and judgment suddenly scattered, uncomprehending, paralyzing her, even as she willed herself,
Do something already—fucking move!
The door burst open. Big and faceless, a man in black barged into the apartment, moving past Gretchen without seeming to notice her at all, went down the hall, straight into the fire, when Gretchen had run from it.
The floor nearly shook as his boots thumped across it. Gretchen had barely taken in any details about him other than his tall, broad frame, the gas mask on his face, the hard hat on his head, the big metal canister strapped to his back. Now she heard a ferocious gush of spray coming from Dana's room, and she edged closer, waiting on the border between the living room and the hallway. Waiting for him to come out, to tell her everything was okay, waiting for him to explain, or rather for a chance to explain to
him,
not that she even could.
Her mind buzzed with a scrambled mess of indiscernible thoughts when suddenly—abruptly—all sound stopped.
Except for the sound of her own breathing, which was short and choppy and barely calm even as she realized:
The fire is out.
It was over, solved, no thanks to her, but still over. Relief seeped like warm liquid into her skin. Gingerly, she walked toward Dana's room, but just as she started down the hall, she heard a loud, hoarse voice call from behind. "Hey, Pellucci!" Gretchen whipped around. "You okay?"
A second man was standing in the doorway now, wearing the same heavy black garb, only he was much shorter than the first. He had his gas mask pulled up so it was resting on his head almost like a visor, and she could see deep wrinkles creasing the flesh below his eyes, like spider webs woven above his cheeks.
"Yeah," the first firefighter called back as he exited Dana's room, pulling off his hat and mask. Again he walked right past Gretchen in the hall like he didn't notice her. Hey, maybe he truly
didn't
notice her; and that would actually be a good thing. "Just a girlie fire," he added, expelling what sounded like a tired sigh.
Girlie fire,
Gretchen thought speculatively.
What does that mean?
"Scented candles?" the shorter one said.
"Yup."
Oh.
Wait... suddenly Gretchen realized. Dana and her inane relaxation rituals—that was how this mess started. Before an audition, Dana did the whole scented candles and meditation bit—apparently trying to get into deep concentration about a character, or so she'd mentioned a few times when she'd shut the door on Gretchen, apologizing but telling her she needed to be alone for it. She should've known her cousin wouldn't be completely innocent in all this.
Meanwhile, the firefighter called Pellucci was no less intimidating without his mask on. Gretchen eyed him as she drew closer. Tall and broad-shouldered, he had blackish hair that was messy and disheveled from his hat and a strong jaw darkened by stubble. Waiting, she bit her lip, feeling her heart kick up again. He still wasn't looking at her and it was making her nervous. "Jesus Christ," he muttered savagely. He sounded exhausted and angry—especially angry.
"Ma'am," the shorter one said, nodding politely at Gretchen.
"You all right?"
"Yes," she said tenuously, like a mute speaking for the first time. She cleared her throat to get all of her voice back. "I'm fine," she added. "Thank you."
Then Pellucci slanted his gaze at her. It was narrow, assessing, almost squinting; she'd say he appeared... annoyed? Disgusted? Or maybe he was just shy?
Right. A sudden shiver rippled up her spine; the aftermath of the fire had left her starkly cold. Or maybe she was just realizing now that she was cold. After all, she was hardly dressed for a night in the middle of January. Her black nightgown was long but flimsy with spaghetti straps and a deep V that barely covered her breasts. Definitely too skimpy when you were standing in a lit room with two strange men, but perfect for her typical ideal evening: snuggling in a bed thick with pillows, buried under a heap of covers, sleeping soundly.
Now she crossed her arms, partly for warmth, partly to cover her breasts, and was about to say something to Pellucci when he averted his eyes. "I'll call the boys off," he said, then muttered, "Goddamn those fucking girlie candles." The other man chuckled as Pellucci brought his radio up to his mouth. "Class A, Code four," he said. He glanced back at Gretchen briefly before adding, "Possible HBD."
Huh? She flashed him a tremulous smile, wondering if "HBD" was a bad thing, and then there was some mumbling on the other end, followed by a long, low-pitched beep. With that, Pellucci shoved the radio back underneath his coat somewhere and looked again at his coworker (or was it colleague? What did firefighters call each other anyway?). "I'll give the place one last look; then we can get the fuck outta here," Pellucci said.
"Well, I'm flattered," Gretchen said sarcastically, bizarrely trying to lighten the mood, because he just seemed so...
annoyed.
But if Pellucci heard her, he didn't show it.
"Tell the others, I'll be right down," he said to the other one, his voice gruff and commanding.
The shorter one simply nodded—first at Pellucci, then at Gretchen. Putting his hand to the gas-mask visor on his head, as though tipping his hat, he smiled briefly. "Ma'am," he said, and turned to go. Gretchen had never been thrilled with the term "ma'am," but at least
this
guy had some manners. The surly one, Pellucci, could definitely learn a thing.
Once they were alone, Gretchen's breathing became shallow, labored. Somehow the older, friendlier fireman had sucked much of the air out with him. Why had Pellucci stayed behind? Why had he sent his partner off? What did he want?
He turned to look at her. There was an intensity in his gaze, in the way his light blue eyes studied her, and his assessing glance lingered before he spoke.
In turn, Gretchen assessed him, too. He stood tall above her. She'd guess he was around six-two, and there was a kind of heat that vibrated off him—or maybe it was just anger. As his gaze pored on her, Gretchen swallowed a bit awkwardly but kept her head up. There was definitely something powerful about him. Maybe it was the height, or maybe it was just the thumping boots. In any case, he was making her nervous.
With her fingers locked around the cool, soft flesh of her upper arms, she was still trying to conceal her cleavage and waiting for whatever he was going to say, whatever reason he had for staying behind. "Have we been drinking tonight?" he said finally, his voice flat and cold. It came out somewhere between a question and a statement.
"No!" Gretchen nearly exclaimed, taken aback by the question.
It was a reasonable one, but she just hadn't been expecting it. More calmly, she added, "I mean, no... I was asleep. Well, I had some wine with my steak earlier..."
With a perfunctory nod, he said, "Sure, right." But he didn't sound overly convinced. At this point, it was pretty clear he was a jerk, but he'd saved her life, so she wouldn't nitpick.
Then it clicked:
HBD,
as in
Has Been Drinking.
So he thought she was a clueless drunk. Oh, whatever—she just wanted to make nice and put this whole night behind her. "Look, I'm really sorry about all this," she said. "I just woke up and I... well, thank God you came when you did."
Wordlessly, he moved past her again. He went down the hall, but before he disappeared, she could've sworn she saw him roll his eyes. "Where are you going?" she called after him. No response; he had this maddening tendency of ignoring her. She followed a few steps behind. First he checked Dana's room, then glanced across into Gretchen's, which was dark; then he stuck his head in the bathroom doorway, flicked on the wall switch, gave it a glance, and went back down the short hallway toward the living room.
"So about those scented candles," Gretchen said again, though she wasn't sure why she was bothering to explain to him; she supposed she just wanted it on the record somehow. "They weren't mine," she threw in, but he ignored her and continued to the front door.
Stopping just two feet in front of her, he turned around. As he pulled off his heavy black gloves, he shook his head and gave a humorless laugh. "You know, people like you have a Goddamn nerve." Whoa—people like her? She hadn't expected open hostility; the simmering attitude up to now had been just fine. "Fucking unbelievable," he added, looking at her dead-on, his blue eyes drilling into her like ice picks.
And the cursing really unnerved her. Was that a New York thing?
"Wait a minute," Gretchen said, holding up a hand. "The candles weren't mine," she repeated. "My cousin must've left them burning before she left tonight. I had no idea. I mean, I know there's no excuse, but—"
"You're right about that," he interrupted. "None of those candles were insulated; you had papers and folders stacked up all around. What the hell were you thinking?"
She expelled a frustrated breath and tried again to explain. "I wasn't
thinking
anything; I already told you, it wasn't my room. I didn't even realize—"
"Didn't
realize?
You couldn't smell that shit before half the room caught on fire?"
Oh,
now
it was half the room—a minute ago, it was a "girlie fire."
"No, of course I smelled it," she protested. "Eventually."
"I smelled it all the way downstairs," he said. His shadowy, stubbled face screwed up at her like she was a moron. "And by the way, if you can't even work a fire extinguisher, you could at least call 9-1-1. Do
something
for chrissake. You could've burned the whole building!"