I didn’t exactly feel like talking about work, though, or my mother. I tried to shift the conversation to something else, but Parker didn’t take the hint.
“Do you think the mayor’s going to the ball?”
My skin grew hotter, and I realized this was more than a flush of embarrassment or excitement. This was exactly what had happened the night before.
Moments before the fire had started.
Panic washed through me, and I shot out of my chair. “I need to go to the bathroom.”
“What?” he asked in surprise. “Now?”
I grabbed my purse and phone. “I’ll be right back.”
He looked a little shell-shocked, but I didn’t have time to pacify him. It felt like every part of my body was on fire. I bolted toward the restrooms, passing a table of men deep in conversation. One of them glanced up at me—the man from the bar. Didn’t care. I needed to cool down. I needed the January night air. So I ran past the bathroom and down the hall to the exit and burst out into the parking lot behind the building. A quick glance around confirmed I was alone.
Only the air wasn’t cooling me down. I was getting even hotter. I had to do something.
I had to get out of my dress.
The rational part of me protested the idea, but I had already flung my purse and phone to the ground and my fingers were desperately fumbling with the knot securing the dress’s wraparound sash. Once I had it unknotted, I frantically tugged at the straps until I had the front of my dress open, welcoming the cool air as it hit my skin.
Too bad those stupid high-waisted Spanx were covering so much of my body.
Grasping both edges of the opened wrap dress, I started flapping, hoping the breeze would cool me off more.
Except it didn’t.
I heard the unmistakable whoosh of a fire coming to life, like the moment the gas burst into flames on a stovetop. My dress had caught fire, starting where my hands clutched the fabric and racing outward as though the cloth were soaked in gasoline.
Panicked, I tried to shrug it off, but the entire garment was in flames.
Out of nowhere, my body was being slammed into a snowbank, and I found myself face-first in packed snow covered in cigarette butts and dirt. Before I could grasp what had happened, strong hands rolled me onto my back as my rescuer tried to smother the flames with a jacket.
Dense smoke filled my nose, but surprisingly, I didn’t feel the urge to cough. The coat lowered and started to thank my rescuer, then saw who had saved me.
Of course it was the asshole from the bar.
Dammit.
I pushed him off me and sat up. “What the hell are you doing back here? Are you following me?”
He sat back on his heels, confusion filling his eyes. “Okay, not the reaction I was expecting.” But he recovered quickly, not that I would have expected anything else, and got to his feet with a wry grin. “Were you so desperate to get away from your date that you set yourself on fire?”
Well, crap.
“No,” I grumbled, trying to find the words to explain what had happened, which proved difficult when I didn’t understand it myself. Tears stung my eyes and began streaming down my face.
What the hell was happening to me?
The rogue’s expression softened, and he reached down to help me to my feet. For a second, I considered pushing his hand away, but I was currently sitting in a pile of snow …not that I was cold. If anything, the snow had helped neutralize the extreme heat emanating from my body. The melty wetness of the snow beneath me suggested I’d had more of an effect on it than vice versa. I wiped the tears off my face, then took his hands. He hefted me off the ground so that I was standing in front of him, nearly chest to chest.
“Seriously, Darcie, what the hell just happened?” he asked in a worried tone, saying just what I’d been thinking. “One second you were just standing there with your dress open, and the next you were engulfed in flames.”
“I don’t know.” More tears leaked out of my eyes. I nearly demanded that he tell me how he knew my name, but it struck me that Parker had said it when he’d told me our table was ready.
Panic filled my rescuer’s eyes. “Oh, my God. Did you get burned? I need to get you to the hospital.”
I glanced down at my hands and arms—the skin looked perfectly smooth, not even red.
He stared down at me in disbelief, then grabbed my shoulder and turned me halfway so he could examine my back.
“Somehow you escaped getting any burns, but nice tattoo.”
I considered blasting him for making fun of my bruise but decided it wasn’t worth it, especially since it occurred to me that I was standing in front of him wearing nothing but my new lacy black bra and my god-awful support underwear.
“My dress!” I wrapped my arms over my chest, not for warmth but out of a futile attempt to regain some dignity.
“I’ve had plenty of time to look, Darcie,” he said dryly. “And trust me, you’re adequately covered.”
He had a point, but I still started searching the ground for what was left of my dress. But there was nothing but a smoldering pile of ash. What made the whole situation even more perplexing, and frightening, was the fact that I had never actually taken it off. The dress must have literally burned to ash around my body, and yet I had experienced no injuries. I felt no pain at all.
But that was impossible—just like Vee’s disappearing act and the weird stripe in my hair. I felt a little pulse in my mind, that old memory trying to surface again, but my desperate need to feel sane latched on to the first diversion that presented itself: my would-be rescuer’s jacket lay in the snow beside the ashes.
I squatted and picked it up, feeling guilty about the burnt hole in the middle of the back. “I’m so sorry,” I said, handing it back to him. “I’ll buy you a new one.”
“That’s not necessary,” he said, his smooth operator tone returning. “Your money would be much better spent replacing the gorgeous dress that was destroyed.”
Perhaps because of the shock of it all—I’d nearly been burned alive again, then tackled, then forced to accept that Mr. Pickup Artist had saved me, and I couldn’t even begin to process how the fire had started—but it was just now hitting me that I was standing in my underwear… next to the Dumpster…behind Figaro’s…with my date waiting inside.
I gasped in panic.
What was I going to tell Parker?
How was I going to drive home?
What was I going to tell my kids?
Oh, Lord. What was I going to tell Harriet?
“Looks like you need some more rescuing,” he said with his cocky grin.
Propping my hands on my hips, I cocked my head and said in a disgusted tone, “And I suspect you think you’re the one to do it?”
“Of course.”
I just couldn’t with this guy right now. I slipped my arms into his suit coat, then stooped to pick up my discarded purse and phone. “Your jacket is a total loss, so if you’ll give me your PayPal or Venmo information, I’ll send you money to cover its replacement.”
“That’s not necessary, Darcie,” he said, losing some of his bravado.
“I insist.”
His phone beeped and he pulled it out of his pocket and frowned. “Wait here while I tell my dinner companions that I need to leave, then I’ll take you home.”
“I have my own car, thank you very much,” I said in a snippy tone. “All I need is your payment information and the amount.”
He opened his mouth to say something, then stopped. “It’s really not necessary. The rescuer doesn’t charge the rescuee.” He gave me an earnest look. “How did your dress catch on fire? How are you not burned?”
Both excellent questions that I couldn’t begin to answer. Panic pressed in on me, but I pressed back. I needed to get home before I could let myself fall apart. “I’m not sure how it started, and just lucky, I guess.”
His phone beeped again, and he swore under his breath. “I have to get back
in there, but I’ll be back out in five minutes. Okay?”
Why was he coming back out? He’d insisted he didn’t want to be reimbursed for the jacket, which was probably a good thing. Judging by the feel of the fabric against my bare skin, it likely cost more than I made in a week.
“I really appreciate you tackling me into the snow,” I said truthfully. “You likely saved my life, but I don’t see the point—”
His phone beeped a third time, and he motioned to the door. “Darcie, I have to get back in there. Please, give me five minutes.”
I gave him a tight smile. “I’ll give you five.”
Relief filled his eyes. “Thank you. I’ll be right back.” Then he turned and went inside.
But I’d never said what I was giving him five of… I counted to five, then headed to my car. The sooner I got out of here the better.
Chapter Eight
I snagged my purse and phone off the ground, then sprinted for my car and dived behind the wheel. As I took off, I remembered a block away from the restaurant that poor Parker was still inside, waiting for me to return.
I drove for another mile and pulled into a convenience store parking lot to text him, cringing when I sent, I wasn’t feeling well so I left. I’m sorry for not telling you goodbye, but you wouldn’t want to see me in the state I’m in.
Not my finest moment.
He’d probably assume I’d vomited all over myself, which was embarrassing, but not nearly as weird and perplexing as the truth. I couldn’t even begin to form an explanation for why my dress had caught on fire, but it seemed obvious it was linked to whatever had happened at Nikki’s last night.
Plus there was the strange older woman who’d spouted nonsense to me in the changing room and then promptly disappeared.
And the fact that my skin was no longer responsive to heat.
Oh, Lord. I needed a drink. But then Elena’s terror-stricken face filled my head. Her fear that I had become an alcoholic.
Alcohol wasn’t going to fix this, but my rusty credit card could help.
There was no way I could go home wearing Mr. Cocky’s burned jacket. My kids would pummel me with questions and the fire would worry them to death, perhaps rightfully so. I had only one possible course of action—I had to go back to Macy’s and buy another wrap dress.
But first I had to find something else to wear. Thankfully, I had a duffel bag with gym clothes in the back of my SUV. I felt like I was channeling Nikki, but at least the bag didn’t contain pole dancing attire. I got out and retrieved it, pulling down the jacket to cover my butt as I reached for the bag. In my younger days, I might have changed in the car, but I knew better than to try that now. I tugged the jacket down and walked toward the convenience store. A middle-aged man pumping gas into his SUV watched me with a gaping mouth.
I heard a catcall and turned to see a bearded biker grinning ear to ear. “Lookin’ good, hot momma!”
I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or offended, but I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been catcalled, so I went with flattered and gave him a coy smile as I walked toward the entrance—then promptly walked into the glass door.
Good heavens.
The biker laughed but called out good-naturedly, “You’re still hot, momma.”
“She’s not your momma!” a young woman called across the parking lot. “That’s sexual harassment!”
Oh crap. She was right. But I couldn’t ignore the fact that I felt sexy and desirable for the first time in years.
What the heck was going on?
Hurrying into the bathroom before I got distracted by anyone else, I locked myself in a stall and unzipped the bag.
A wave of dust and BO slammed me in the face.
Crap. How long had my bag been out in the car, unopened? A quick mental check confirmed it had been months. Likely five or more, since I’d gotten a gym membership about a month after Richard left. I’d gone to work out twice, and if I remembered correctly, I’d forgotten to reapply deodorant before my second workout, a Zumba class led by an overzealous instructor named Hilary. I’d stuffed my sweaty clothes into the bag, intending to take them in and wash them.
Five months ago.
But smelling bad was better than walking around half naked, so I put them on and stuffed the jacket into the bag, trying not to gag from the stench. When I emerged from the stall, a young woman was washing her hands, but she made a face and ran from the restroom, covering her mouth and nose with the crook of her arm.
Great.
When I glanced in the mirror, I gasped at my reflection. It was me, but somehow I looked different. The oversized gray workout shirt did nothing for my complexion, but my hazel eyes seemed to shine like emeralds, and I spotted another streak of blond on the left side of my head. Running my fingers through it confirmed that it was just as silky as the other blond piece.
What the actual hell?
The memory that had been flirting with my consciousness all day finally surfaced. According to family lore, Nana Stella’s mother had become obsessed with fire. She’d died in a house fire that she’d set, although my uncle used to say she’d spontaneously combusted.
Was that what was happening to me? Was this some sort of hereditary thing?
I shook my head. That was insane, but was it any more insane than me starting fires whenever I had a hot flash?
Oh, dear Lord. I couldn’t deny it now. They were hot flashes, which meant I was perimenopausal. I wasn’t sure what was worse—the fires or this.
I was cracking up for sure.
I needed someone to talk to. I needed my best friend.
I hurried out of the convenience store and across the parking lot to my car without attracting any of the attention I’d gotten before. I called Cyn as I took off toward the mall.
“Hey, girl,” she said in her cheerful voice. “What’s up?”
“More than I can possibly tell you on the phone. Are you closing the coffee shop tonight or is your new coworker handling it?”
“I got off a half hour ago. You want to come over?”
“God, yes.”
“I’ll have a bottle of wine ready to pour.”
“I’ll be there in twenty to thirty minutes.”
A quick stop at the mall proved humiliating. I felt like Pig-Pen from the Charlie Brown cartoons. Even if you couldn’t physically see my stench, everyone parted like the Red Sea as I walked through. I grabbed the same black wrap dress in my size—dear Lord, I really needed to actually use my gym membership—then picked up a pair of yoga pants and matching long-sleeved T-shirt, plus a pair of comfortable underwear. And because I liked the bra I was wearing so much, I bought another one in beige.
The store clerk tried not to gag as she rang me up, and thankfully she skipped all the customary attempts to convince me to sign up for a credit card or their mailing list.
The smell no longer made me want to retch by the time I got back to the car.
So this was how people let themselves go.
When I pulled into Cyn’s driveway, I sent her a text. I’m coming in and heading straight for your bathroom. Don’t ask questions and don’t try to intercept me.
I was stupid to believe she’d actually obey my order. She greeted me at the door and covered her nose with her hands.
“Sweet baby Cheezez. What the heck happened to you?”
“I warned you,” I said, brushing past her and heading straight for the small bathroom that was still stuck in the 1970s. After I stripped down to my underwear, I opened the bathroom window and tossed the offending clothes into the yard, planning to collect them on my way out. As I tried to struggle out of the shapewear, I heard Cyn’s dog outside the window, barking and snarling over my pile of clothes—only to run away whimpering moments later. Great. My things were too smelly for a dog that was notorious for eating poop.
“What’s going on, Darcie?” Cyn called through the door.
“I need a pair of scissors.”
Like the great frie
nd she was, she said, “Coming right up,” without asking a lot of pesky questions. At least not up front. When she returned, she opened the bathroom door and stared at me in disbelief. “What the heck are you doing?”
“I’m getting undressed,” I said. “What’s it look like I’m doing?”
“It looks like you’re standing in my bathroom trying to extricate yourself from a medieval torture device.”
“Did they have Spanx in the Middle Ages?” I asked wryly as I snatched the scissors from her and started to cut the side of the garment. “Because I’m sure it would have had a high success rate.”
“I don’t know, but you can be sure they were invented by a man,” she said, only sounding halfway present as she watched me in fascination. “The real question is, why are you wearing them?”
“I had a date,” I snapped as I tried to hack my way through the fabric. “What the heck? Is this made of chain mail?” I’d only managed to cut an inch or so slit.
Cyn snatched the scissors from me and took over, starting at my waist. “You, Darcie Weatherby, had a date? With a man?”
“Yes, of course with a man, and it all happened so fast I didn’t have time to call and tell you.”
“Okay,” she said, not giving away any hint of emotion. “Who with?”
“Parker. From work.”
“Hot Parker?” she gasped. “The boy who works in sales?”
“He’s not a boy. He’s thirty-three, for heaven’s sake. When I was thirty-three, I’d been married for nine years and had three kids.”
She waved a hand of dismissal. “Men mature more slowly than women, especially if they’re not married. He’s a man-child.”
I wasn’t going to argue with any part of that.
“Don’t stop there, woman,” she said as she put her all into trying to cut the fabric. “How did this come about?”
I told her about the breakroom experience, then moved on to my shopping trip with Harriet and meeting Parker at the restaurant.
Let it All Burn: A Paranormal Women's Fiction Novel (From the Ashes Book 1) Page 6