Fighting the Flames (Southern Heat Book 2)

by Jamie Garrett

  “Ma’am, we’d better get down, don’t you think?”

  She stared at him, wide-eyed. How? He reached his arms through the window. Grabbed her waist. She hesitated. “What are you doing? How am I going to get out of here? Do you want me to climb down after you?” The thought terrified her. The logistics of the required balance and positioning frightened her to death. “I’ll fall!”

  “Nope, you’re going to let me do all the work,” Dean said. “I want you to lean forward. Grab onto my shoulders. That’s right, I’ve got you.”

  Meg placed her hands on his shoulders and leaned forward out of the window like he asked. She had to trust him. Suddenly she felt herself being pulled forward. Hands from his partner beneath him guided her shoulders as she was literally flung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Beneath her she saw the ground. She screamed. “No, wait!”

  “Hold still, ma’am, or you’ll send us both toppling,” he urged, one massive arm draped around her waist, holding her torso close to his body.

  She had nowhere to put her arms, but she couldn’t just let herself dangle. She clasped her fingers tightly around the bottom of his turnout coat. Looked down, then groaned and squeezed her eyes shut as Dean descended the latter step-by-step with the guidance of his partner. The blood rushed to her face. Her heart trip-hammered and her pulse pounded in her ears. An inglorious way to escape, her backside, clad only in a thin pair of pajamas, exposed to everyone’s view. Oh God, oh God, oh God . . .

  Hair hanging over her face, she felt the slight jolt every step of the way downward, a small breath of air leaving her body each time Dean took another step downward. She didn’t dare move, taking him at his word. It probably wouldn’t take much to knock him off balance. Suddenly, she felt hands on her shoulders, then around her waist. She was lifted off Dean’s shoulders and lowered to the ground, her legs threatening to give way beneath her as Dean settled her on her feet.

  Strong hands gripped her waist and she turned to find another firefighter watching her.

  “You okay, ma’am?”

  Was she okay? Was it possible? She began to nod when she glanced over his shoulder and saw her house. Her shelter. She clapped a hand over her mouth in horror, eyes wide. Black smoke billowed upward out of the windows at the far side of the attic as orange flame licked at the eaves. No, this couldn’t be happening!

  Meg’s gaze bounced around the yard, frantic. Where was everyone? She tried to pull away from the hands that held her.

  “Let’s check you out real quick, ma’am, and then you can see to your people.”

  She looked at Dean and nodded. He gestured to someone beyond her and relinquished her to two EMTs, who quickly ushered her to the back of an open ambulance. She didn’t want to climb inside and sat down on the wide bumper instead. In a matter of seconds, an oxygen mask was placed over her face.

  “Just take deep, normal breaths,” the EMT instructed, watching her.

  Grateful for the air, she nodded and watched as his partner wrapped a blood pressure cuff around her upper left arm. The other took her injured arm and began to dab at the blood with gauze. After the first one got her blood pressure, he nodded and took her pulse, eyeing her chest at the same time. What the hell? Oh, he was checking her breathing.

  She felt a stab of pain in her injured arm and she stared down at it as if it belonged to someone else. A large gash had opened up the skin on the inside from the pad of her thumb nearly halfway to her elbow. It still bled, not spurting, but it looked deep. A surge of nausea promoted her to swallow. Hard. She would not throw up in front of these guys. She would not. Meg bit her lip and turned away from the sight as the EMT quickly layered gauze pads over the cut and then wrapped it in a gauze bandage.

  “You’re going to need stitches, ma’am,” he said.

  “No, no, not yet.” She turned back to the house, her heart pounding in stomach-churning dread and disappointment as she watched the efforts of the firefighters. Two fire hoses snaked into the house from the pumper engine. The sound of banging jolted her gaze from the front door toward the far side of the attic. A fireman was up there on the roof, hacking at the shingles with an ax. Oh God. Would she lose the house? The shelter?

  It dawned on her that she saw more smoke than flame. Maybe that was a good sign. She looked through the yard again, her gaze traveling over the bystanders, the police cars, and the otherwise quiet neighborhood alive with movement. To the east, dawn was just lightening the sky. She began to shiver. The air was cool but she knew it was fear and adrenaline that caused the goose bumps to race along her skin. One of the EMTs unfolded a foil blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders.

  Meg stared at her home and her eyes filled with tears. She prayed the firemen would get the fire put out before too much damage had been done.

  What had caused it? Old, faulty electrical wires? She had everything checked out, a new panel and fuse box installed, everything brought up to code. The building inspector had given the place a clean bill of health before she’d opened the doors, and then again during an inspection six months ago.

  If not electrical, then what? Had someone been smoking? Her thoughts immediately drifted to Tim Jefferson, the veteran who had the room down in the basement. He was a smoker, but he knew the rules. Had abided by them. But had he lit up in his room, not wanting to venture into the cool night air to smoke? Fallen asleep? Where was he? She scanned the street and sidewalks on either side of her property lines. There, on the far side of the driveway was Tanisha, Aliyah, and Amy. Huddled together in their nightclothes, staring up at the house in shock. Where was Tim? He didn’t stay at the shelter every night. Maybe he hadn’t even been there.

  As the EMTs continued to fuss around her, Meg didn’t pay attention to anything but watching the firefighters get the house fire under control. It appeared that the urgency had dissipated, that things were settling down a bit. The sun had just broken over the horizon when she saw a black SUV turn onto her street. She glanced at it, figured it was someone attached to the fire department or the Monroe Police Department, and turned her gaze back to the house.

  Distantly, she heard the muffled sound of a car door slamming shut. Footsteps crunching on the asphalt. Coming closer.

  “Hey, Liam,” one of the EMTs said. “Your presence doesn’t bode well.”

  “And good morning to you too, Stephen.”

  She turned toward the footsteps and did a double take. Despite her fear, despite the pain throbbing in her arm, despite her myriad of questions regarding the origin of the fire, what she was going to do, the severity of the fire and smoke—and water—damage, her mind just went blank. B-l-a-n-k. She couldn’t help but stare at the man. She’d seen good-looking men before, but this guy. Whoa. He oozed masculinity. It was like an invisible cloud of charisma surrounded him, pulling her gaze, her emotions, her body, toward him. At any other time she might have laughed at her visceral response to him but—wait. He was walking her way. Toward her.

  She stared, unable to pull her eyes away. Tall, lean, but with a commanding presence, he wore jeans, a blue T-shirt with a yellow Monroe Fire Department emblem over the left chest pocket. His chest muscles were clearly delineated by the tight fitting shirt, as well as his broad shoulders and bulging biceps. Narrow hips. Well-worn jeans and a pair of tan work boots. Her eyes roamed back up to his face, to the cut of his jaw line, a perfectly proportioned nose and a dark slash of eyebrows. Short-cropped sandy-brown hair, like a military cut. Light early morning stubble on his jaw. Back to his mouth, perfect lips, a flash of white teeth as he smiled at the EMTs then looked down at her, the smile transforming to a slight frown. The stubble surrounding those lips and his cheeks made her want to reach out and touch it.

  “You are the owner? Meg Devers?”

  “Yes,” she replied hesitantly. “This is my house.” He took another step closer, a clipboard in one hand. He extended the other toward her, noted her arm swathed in a bandage, and changed his mind. Instead, he sat down next to her, so c
lose she felt the brush of his arm against hers. The scent of aftershave wafted up her nostrils, chasing away the scent of smoke. Damn, why did he have to wear that particular brand? Intoxicating, her favorite, all-time aftershave scent. In spite of her present predicament, worries, and uncertainty, she felt the instant attraction.

  She shook her head. Stupid thought. Stupid reaction. Must be the remnants of adrenaline. Her life was crumbling down around her and she was thinking of how handsome this guy was? “Who are you?”

  “My name is Liam. Liam Cohen. Got a couple of questions for you but it can wait until you get to the hospital—”

  “I need to find Tim.”

  “Tim? Who’s Tim?”

  “He’s one of my . . . one of my tenants.” She turned to the house. She didn’t see flames anymore, just smoke. Not black, but grey now, oozing from several of the upstairs windows and one on the ground floor at the back of the house near the kitchen. Oozing, not billowing. She sighed. What hadn’t been destroyed by flames was likely toast anyway from water or smoke damage. All her paperwork, her files, and business papers were piled upstairs in the attic office. A quiet sob caught at her throat and she lowered her head, blinking back the tears. She had to be strong, not just for herself, but the others. The people she was trying to help.

  Liam frowned. “It’s a shelter you’re running, right?” She nodded. “All your people accounted for?”

  “Except for Tim,” she replied shakily. She pointed with her good hand. “Over there. They stay in the house at this time.”

  “And they are . . .?”

  “Tanisha Watkins, Amy Valenso, Aliyah Halabi.” She glanced at him, then away. He was too close. He made her nervous. “I get a few others who are in and out. Tim Jefferson stays in a room down in the basement. He’s a sixty-five year old veteran. Please, can someone check the basement?”

  He nodded and stood, made his way toward the fire captain. She couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he pointed to the house. The fire captain nodded, clapped him on the shoulder, and then shouted instructions.

  “Dean! Mason!” He gestured them over. Within a minute, two firefighters in full regalia, oxygen tanks, and masks and headed for the front door.

  Meg tried to follow their movements but Liam had turned back and approached, blocking her view. “You need to go to the hospital, get that arm looked at. Then we need to talk, all right?”

  “I don’t want to go. I need to stay.”

  “The police are going to want to talk to everyone, get their statements. Yours included. Go on. Let the ambulance take you to the hospital.” He offered a smile. “I’ll still be here when you get back. Maybe by then we’ll have some answers for you.”

  3

  Meg

  The EMTs moved away briefly, grabbing up bags and packing the rig. Someone called Liam’s name and he looked up and nodded. Turned back toward her.

  “Excuse me a minute.”

  He turned and walked toward two police officers watching from a short distance away. Foolish or not, Meg made a decision. The fire was under control, and the immediate danger past. The firefighters might be inside, looking for Tim, but she couldn’t wait any longer. No one had gone to the other side of the house, toward the cement steps that led down into the basement space from the outside. She had to see whether Tim was down there. If he was, he might have been overcome with smoke, unable to call out like she’d been.

  Allowing the foil blanket that had been wrapped around her shoulders to drop, she stood and quickly made her way toward the darker side of the driveway, away from the bystanders and the cluster of firefighters pulling their fire hoses from the building. Another fireman unloaded a large fan from a support truck.

  Her tennis shoes didn’t make a sound as she crossed the dew-laden grass and headed around the side of the house, opposite of the driveway. She stayed near the trees bordering this side of the property from the neighbor’s fifty yards away. Her feet shuffled among some fallen leaves but not enough to garner attention. No one paid any attention to her. She had no intentions to venture very far into the house. After all, she didn’t know the extent of the damage. She just wanted to take a quick look. The door on the back wall at the far side of the house near the corner led down a short stairway and connected to the larger portion of the basement. It didn’t look damaged by smoke, fire, or water.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Meg turned the knob and slowly pushed open the door. While she caught a hint of smoke, it wasn’t too bad over on this side of the house. Thank God for small favors. She poked her head in and gazed around the semi-darkness, eyeing the walls and the ceiling. No signs of fire damage.

  “Tim?”

  She pushed the door open a little more, then quickly padded down the cement stairs. The short, small entryway was barren. She had made sure of that after she converted the first of three rooms down here for possible tenants. This entrance was rarely used to access the basement space. Inside, stairs leading down from the kitchen were the main access and egress from not only Tim’s room, but to the laundry space and other rooms under renovation for future use.

  She pushed open the door that separated the hallway from the basement space, watching where she stepped, gazing into the space with wary caution.

  “Tim?”

  Again no answer. She took several small steps into the room. To the right sat the washing machine and dryer sitting side by side under a small and grimy basement window. She should have washed all the windows in the place. The water heater in the far corner made several sporadic popping noises. Upstairs somewhere she heard the sound of running water. A burst pipe? To the left, the doorway leading into Tim’s room. Beyond that, two more, at the moment locked with simple clasps and padlocks. Not ready for tenants yet.

  She knocked on Tim’s closed door. “Tim?” Nothing. She tested the knob, found it unlocked. “Tim?” She slowly pushed open the door. Took a hesitant step inside. The bed was empty and unmade, a desk on the same wall as the bed piled with books and papers stacked haphazardly. A pile of magazines on the floor in the corner. She spied the antique dresser that she’d brought down from the attic against the wall opposite the doorway, several drawers open to varying degrees, shirts, socks and boxer shorts dangling over their edges. Several empty bottles on the dresser. Jim Beam from the looks of it. She frowned. Drinking was prohibited in the shelter.

  “Tim?”

  Meg stepped into the middle of the room and turned toward the closet. A few clothes hanging on hangers, but otherwise the closet had obviously been used to store . . . over a dozen large black plastic yard trash bags were shoved into the closet space, the accordion doors braced open by two more. Stuff the homeless man found on his daily neighborhood rounds. She shook her head at the clutter as she got a whiff of garbage. She held her hand over her nose and scowled. While the room didn’t appear touched by the fire, the junk in here could have provided a likely source of fuel, and the fact that Tim was breaking more than one rule annoyed her.

  Several bags dangled precariously from the shelf in the closet. Stepping closer, she tugged at one of the bags. What was this crap? Clothes? If so they needed to be washed. Garbage? In that case, they needed to be tossed.

  Inside the closet, the first bag came down, but it dislodged another. She let go of the first bag and lifted her arms over her head. No way did she want whatever was in there to land on her head or worse, spill its contents onto her head. She adjusted her footing, but her tennis shoe slid on the surface of another of the bags on the closet floor. She slipped, a startled cry escaping her throat as she landed on the pile of bags.

  “Shit!” She reached out her good arm, braced herself on something hard beneath the bags, anxious to get back to her feet. But whatever it was she’d braced herself on gave a little. She peered into the clutter. “What the hell?”

  Hard, whitish in color, protruding from between a couple of the plastic bags. What was that? What was he doing with . . . a mannequin? Or was it . . . a plastic blowup d
oll? She made a face, disgusted. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to let Tim come and go as he pleased. She leaned closer, lifted a corner of the torn bag to get a better look.

  A scream erupted from her throat. She scrambled backward, ignoring the stab of pain that raced up her arm. She tipped onto her side, still slithering away from it, her heart racing, her gag reflex kicking in. Oh God. Not a blowup doll. Not a mannequin. The protruding, pale leg had hair on it.

  She pushed herself away with her feet, her hands landing on the uneven surfaces of the bags as they gave way beneath her. She screamed again, her heart in her throat, her ears buzzing. Something grabbed at her. She wind-milled her good arm, trying to keep whoever it was away. A choked sob escaped her throat as hands reached under her arms and lifted her roughly to her feet. She panicked, screaming at the top of her lungs as she spun to strike out at whoever was grabbing at her.

  4

  Liam

  An unrecognizable sound came from her mouth. A sob? Another sound from deep in her chest, something between a moan and a whimper. Meg fought him, her small fists pounding against his thighs as he clasped her tightly against his body, her back to his chest. Struggling to free herself from his grasp, she stomped her heel onto his instep. “Stop!”

  “Let me go! Let me go!”

  “Meg! Stop it! It’s Liam!”

  Another sound, this time a muffled groan of relief. Her chest heaved against him with panicked breaths, her body trembling wildly in his arms. “What are you doing in here? I left you at the curb! You shouldn’t be in here, not until the scene’s cleared.”

  He turned her to look at him. Her face was pale, mouth open, fearful and tear-glazed eyes staring up at him. The fear morphed into relief and she clutched at him for support. Her body pressed so close against his, he felt her breasts, her stomach, her hips, molding against him as if trying to make herself disappear into him. He inhaled a scent incongruous to his surroundings. Strawberries? Either her shampoo or skin lotion. Whatever it was, it was intoxicating. Despite his surroundings, despite the fact that he shouldn’t be feeling this way, his balls clenched and he felt stirrings of desire in his dick.