Torch (Take It Off)

by Cambria Hebert

  The front door was white, and I knew if it had been my house, the first thing I would have done was paint it to match the shutters.

  But this wasn’t my house.

  My cute little house was no more.

  “Everything okay?” Holt asked, turning to face me when I made no move to climb out of the truck.

  “I like your house.”

  “Thanks. I haven’t lived here very long. The inside’s pretty bare.”

  “Like a clean slate,” I murmured without thinking.

  “More like a bachelor pad.”

  I glanced at him, feeling my lips pull into a half smile.

  He didn’t say anything else but got out of his monster-sized truck. I opened the door and stared down at the ground hesitantly, thinking about how far up I actually was.

  “Going down?” Holt said in a distinguished tone. He held out his hand and I didn’t hesitate placing mine inside.

  His hand merely cupped mine, so gentle it was like he wasn’t holding on to me at all, and his skin felt cool against my heat-burned skin. Then he was taking me by the waist, lifting me down, and setting me gently on the pavement.

  He didn’t step back but instead stayed in my personal space—invading it, taking it over. He leaned forward, causing me to lean back, and we bent in a gentle arch while he reached in and collected my sad bag of belongings.

  Then he straightened and palmed the edge of the door and smiled, still not moving back.

  I ducked around him, brushing up against his side as I moved. The brief contact sent a little sizzle of desire through me.

  Get a grip, Katie! I told myself, disgusted with my own behavior.

  I heard a soft chuckle from behind, and I resisted the urge to turn and glare at him. Did he know the effect he had on me?

  “Come on Katie-cat, let’s go inside. It’s hot out here.”

  “Do not call me Katie-cat.”

  “Why not?” he said, glancing over his shoulder while he unlocked the front door.

  “Because I’m not twelve.”

  “Thank God for that,” he muttered as the door swung open and a blast of cool air reached out and beckoned me inside. Summers in the south were brutal and today was a scorcher.

  “I love air-conditioning,” I said as I followed him into the house. I pretended not to hear his last remark. I didn’t want to think too closely about what it meant anyway.

  “Everyone in the south loves a/c,” he said, pushing the door shut behind me.

  His home was beautiful. It was a single-story ranch home with an open layout. We were standing by the front door that opened into a fairly large living room. The walls were off-white and the floors were made out of dark hardwood. There were shades covering the windows but no curtains. The shades were white, so it allowed light to get in without disrupting privacy. The only piece of furniture in the living area was a large gray couch and—big shocker—there was a flat screen mounted to the wall.

  From my position, I could see directly into the kitchen, which was separated from the living room by a large island with a couple barstools slid underneath. Behind the island, I could make out stainless steel appliances and dark-wood cabinets. There was a space off to the side of the kitchen for a dining table, but there wasn’t one there.

  Off to our right was a hallway that I assumed led to the bathroom and bedrooms.

  “How long have you lived here?” I asked.

  “About six months.”

  I made a noise in the back of my throat—a noise that irritated the already sensitive area. “You’ve lived here six months and only managed to get a couch and a TV?”

  He grinned. “I have a bed too.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  He moved into the house, tossing his car keys and cell phone onto the island, and opened the fridge to pull out a bottle of water. He unscrewed the cap and carried it over toward me, extending it. “How’s your throat?”

  “It’s fine, thank you,” I said, taking the offered drink and sipping.

  “You gonna stand at the door all night?” he asked, going over and flopping onto the couch.

  He took up half of it.

  Being here suddenly seemed like a bad idea. I guess I hadn’t thought about what it would be like to be truly alone with him. At the hospital, someone was always out in the hall. The nurses were always coming in and out, but here… here there was only him and me.

  He glanced over the back of the couch, his bright eyes spearing me in the fading light of the room. “You hungry?”

  My stomach rumbled. I nodded.

  “Pizza?”

  I nodded again. “Veggie?”

  He made a face. “Please tell me you don’t eat nothing but lettuce.”

  I smiled, the tense muscles in my back relaxing. “No, but I like veggie pizza.”

  “Sausage too?”

  I nodded even though sausage wasn’t my favorite.

  “Veggie it is!” He must have had the pizza place on speed dial because he had the pizza ordered in five seconds flat.

  I decided to stop clinging to the door and moved farther into the room, slipping my flip-flops off and leaving them beside the door.

  “So, Freckles,” he said when I sat down.

  “Freckles?” I interrupted.

  “You said I couldn’t call ya, Katie-cat.”

  I shuddered. “I do have a given name, you know.”

  “I don’t want to call you what everyone else calls you.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why?” I asked suspiciously.

  “Because I’m special.”

  “There goes that ego of yours again.” I held out my arms wide. “Big,” I mouthed.

  A few minutes later, the pizza arrived and I was a little shocked at how fast that happened. But when Holt opened the door and greeted the delivery guy by name, I understood. He must eat a lot of pizza.

  When the box was open in front of us, the TV volume was turned down low, and napkins were scattered on the couch between us, he shoved half a slice in his mouth and then looked at me. “So, Freckles, who’s trying to kill ya?”

  I choked a little on the bite as I swallowed, a little shocked at his bluntness. “No one.”

  He looked at me in disbelief.

  “I think it was just a random thing. A burglary gone wrong. The police seem to agree.”

  “You think someone tying you to a chair and pouring gasoline all over your house was random?”

  I set down the pizza, no longer hungry. “Yes, I do. I don’t know anyone who would try to kill me.”

  He regarded me for long moments. “No one?”

  “You say that like I’m some criminal with a bunch of mobster friends.”

  He laughed. “There is no mob in Wilmington.”

  I leaned in. “You sure about that?” I deadpanned.

  His eyes widened a little and I grinned.

  “Funny,” he said and shoved the rest of the pizza into his mouth.

  “May I use your restroom?”

  “Make yourself at home,” he said and then directed me toward the right room.

  I shut myself in the bathroom and studied myself in the mirror. It was just as I thought. I looked like crap. Well, except for my hair, thanks to the nurse. It actually looked good, falling in waves over my shoulders and onto my chest. It actually stayed fairly straight too, the cinnamon-colored, thick strands only taking on a bit of waviness, likely from the time I spent in the hospital bed. My skin was paler than usual, making the practically orange freckles that scattered across my cheeks and nose stand out. My eyes were light colored, blue, but they weren’t icy cool like Holt’s. They were more grayish, like a stormy sky, and were lined with light-red eyelashes that kind of disappeared against my skin (thank goodness for mascara). My lips were full and peach-colored, on the pale side, and I usually used gloss to give them more pop.

  I looked down at Holt’s shirt buttoned up over my hospital gown and grinned ruefully. I looked
ridiculous. Carefully, I peeled off his shirt and untied the gown from around my neck. It was so large it fell around my bare feet in a puddle. I covered back up with Holt’s shirt, glad for once that my breasts weren’t large because I didn’t have a bra to hold them up. I couldn’t help but notice how comfortable the worn fabric of his shirt was against my skin and how it carried the scent of him, which caused me to breathe a little deeper.

  I shoved the gown in the trash, hoping I would never have to wear one like it again, and then did my business and left the bathroom. By the time I was back on the couch, I felt weary and my injuries were hurting.

  “Everything come out okay?” Holt said when I sat down.

  “Did you seriously just ask me that?” I couldn’t help but laugh.

  “You were gone a long time.”

  “My hands are burned and so are my wrists!”

  That seemed to wipe the humor off his face. I hadn’t meant to do that. “Want me to help you with the bandages?”

  “No, the nurse did it before you arrived.”

  “You barely ate,” he observed.

  I picked up the pizza and took a bite, not because I wanted it, but because he clearly wanted me to. I paused in chewing. Since when did I do things because someone else wanted me too? Uh, never.

  I set the pizza back down and scooted into the couch cushions, leaning my head back and trying to get comfortable. I felt homesick. I missed my couch, my favorite blanket, and my house. I knew this was only temporary, that I would have my own place again, but I hated temporary.

  Temporary was just a word—a state of being that really just meant nothing was mine. It was like I was borrowing something that didn’t belong to me.

  I was tired of that.

  I wanted permanent.

  Some action movie was playing on the flat screen and I turned my attention toward that, trying to distract myself. I was only tired. Tired and upset. A combination that always made me feel slightly grouchy and, tonight, kind of sad.

  Tomorrow I would feel better.

  Holt snorted at something on the TV and I turned my head to look at him. He was so solid looking—wide shoulders, strong jaw, and rock-hard biceps. The stubble on his face was soft, setting off some of the hardness he projected. His presence was reassuring; somehow he made me feel like everything was going to be okay.

  The blurry vision of him stepping through the fire to rescue me arose in my head, and I tried to see more of him, but a memory was just that—a memory. I couldn’t really pull more detail out of that moment even though I wanted to. If I were able, I doubt I would notice how good-looking he was in his fireman’s gear. If anything, I would notice the way the flames devoured my home.

  I closed my eyes, willing myself to stop thinking altogether. I took a few deep breaths and positioned my arms so my wrists wouldn’t get squished beneath my body. It didn’t take long to drift off into soundless sleep. Every once in a while, the TV would break into my slumber, but I found the sound comforting. It made me feel less alone.

  I don’t know what time it was when I felt myself being moved. Alarm slammed through me—my instincts thinking someone was somehow taking advantage of me in my sleep. I jerked awake, flinging my arms wide while my body went rigid.

  “Everything’s fine. You’re safe.” Holt’s voice was a soft rumble beside my ear.

  I blinked, looking up. I was in his arms. He was cradling me against him and my cheek brushed against his T-shirt-clad chest. “What are you doing?” I mumbled, my eyes drifting closed again.

  “You’ll be more comfortable in a bed.”

  He carried me like I weighed nothing, and his body gave off a delicious heat that my skin just soaked up like a flower on a sunny day. Then he was laying me in a bed with soft sheets and tucking a blanket up around my shoulders.

  I could have sworn I felt the brush of his lips at my hairline, but it could have been a dream because just after that brief feeling of contact, deep sleep claimed me completely.

  6

  Something was burning. I shot up in the center of a very large bed. The first few moments, I sat there disoriented, trying to remember where I was.

  I remembered the fire. The hospital. I remembered being carried to bed by Holt.

  Something was on fire.

  Again.

  Acting swiftly, I threw off the covers and jumped down, barely noticing how chilled the wooden floors felt against my feet. I looked for signs of the fire as I rushed out into the hallway, ducking slightly low in case of rising smoke.

  A loud piercing beep assaulted the quiet morning and went off with an enthusiasm that could only be produced by a really good battery.

  “Holt!” I shrieked, my voice straining to reach the volume I wanted. “Fire! Get out of the house.”

  My heart was beating so fast I thought it might collapse in my chest. My knees began to shake with adrenaline as I bolted into the living room and rushed toward the front door.

  I had to get out.

  I did not want to burn.

  “Holt!” I screamed again, tearing open the door, preparing to rush out into the yard.

  Something caught me around the waist and pulled me back into the house. My feet were lifted off the floor, but they continued to make a running motion, kicking whatever was holding me.

  “No, please!” I yelled, trying to squirm free.

  “Katie!” Holt said, his voice loud against my ear. “It’s me. There is no fire.”

  I stopped struggling, going limp in his arms. He reached around us and shoved the door closed, spinning around and facing us toward the kitchen.

  “I was trying to make you breakfast.”

  It took a moment for his words and their meaning to sink in. I stared dumbfounded across the room and past the island. There was smoke billowing up from the stove and the window above the sink was wide open.

  Bowls and spoons littered the island and there was a carton of eggs sitting out.

  He was trying to cook.

  He was really bad at it.

  I started to laugh.

  The kind of laugh that shook my shoulders and bubbled up hysterically. My heart rate was still out of control, and I took in a few breaths between laughs to try and calm it down.

  He said something, but I couldn’t hear him because the fire alarm was still going off. I had no doubt half the neighborhood was now awake from the sound. He didn’t bother to put me down, instead hauling me along with him, where he finally set me down, dragged a chair over near the alarm, and climbed up to remove the battery.

  The noise cut off and the kitchen fell silent.

  “Well, shit,” he said, staring at the battery in his hand.

  A giggle escaped me. “Does this always happen when you cook?”

  He shrugged. “The only time I ever cook is when it’s my turn at the station.” His forehead creased and a thoughtful look came over his face. “The guys are never around when it’s my night to cook. Now I know why.” He snagged a towel off the counter and began waving away the rest of the lingering smoke.

  I clicked on the vent fan above the stove. There was a pan with half a melted spatula, something that may or may not have once been eggs, and a muffin tin with half-burned, half-raw muffins (how was that even possible?).

  “Well, this looks…” My words faltered, trying to come up with something positive to say.

  “Completely inedible?” he finished.

  I grinned. “You did all this for me?”

  “I figured after a week of hospital food, you might like something good. Apparently you aren’t going to find that here.”

  I had the urge to hug him. I kept my feet planted where they were. “Thank you. No one’s ever ruined a pan for me before.”

  He grinned. “I have cereal. Even I can’t mess that up.”

  I watched as he pulled down a bowl and poured me some, adding milk. He looked so cute when he handed me the bowl that I lifted the spoon and took a bite. “Best cereal I ever had.”

&nbs
p; “Damn straight.”

  I carried it over to the counter and sat down. “After we eat, would you mind taking me to my car? I hope it’s still drivable.”