Caught in the Flames
Caught in the Flames
Kacey Shea
Copyright © 2016 by Kacey Shea Books LLC
All Rights Reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. All characters and storylines are the property of the author and your support and respect is appreciated. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Recognition
Cover Design: Sommer Stein, Perfect Pear Creative Covers —
www.ppccovers.com
Photography: Eric Battershell –
www.ericbattershellphotography.com
Cover Model: Shane Williams –
www.facebook.com/aka.eyeball
Editing: Brenda Letendre, Write Girl Editing Services –
www.facebook.com/writegirlediting
Proofreading: Christina Weston
Formatting: Stacey Blake, Champagne Formats –
www.champagneformats.com
Table of Contents
To Kerry, Danielle, Rachel, Vivian, Rikki, Laura, and Amy.
Writing is a lonely experience, but with you it’s not.
I love you dearly.
Thank you.
Enough said.
I hate firemen.
I can’t stand their cocky as hell, arrogant, self-absorbed, oh-look-at-me I-can climb-ladders-and-play-with-my-hose goddamn attitudes. As if putting your life on the line and saving people on a daily basis gives you the right to do whatever the hell you want?
Which is why I’m standing outside my home, clad in a pair of sweatpants and a worn college T-shirt, debating whether I need to make this call. I
really
don’t want to make the call, but it seems the universe has other plans. Thick black smoke plumes from the back of my house.
Fuck!
Cell in hand, I punch the dreaded numbers.
“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”
“My house is on fire.” I rattle off the address.
“Ma’am, is anyone else inside the building? Any pets?”
“No, it’s just me.”
Thanks for the reminder.
“We have a truck on the way, just hang tight. We’ll have firefighters on the scene in five minutes,” the operator replies, and I groan at the thought.
Shit
. I look like shit. Because I work from home I didn’t feel the need to brush my hair, or teeth, or wear makeup, or get dressed today. I’m not even wearing a bra!
Oh, hell no.
I look down and yes, my nipples are clearly visible through the thin white fabric. The cool morning breeze has them fully erect.
Awesome.
A bang and clatter of wood pulls my gaze back to the house where flames lick through the rooftop.
“Shit!”
“Ma’am, is everything okay?”
“No. It’s really not.” I need a bra. A sweatshirt would do. My bedroom is at the front of the house. If I run, I can be in and out in less than two minutes. I stomp up the short cement drive.
“Do you know which unit is on its way?”
“Uh . . .” There’s a brief silence and then her voice comes back on the line. “Looks like Station Ten, ma’am.”
Fuck!
Of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be?
Fuck my life.
“I have to go back in the house. I’ll just be a second. I left something important inside,” I huff into the receiver and jog the rest of the way, then stop when I reach the door.
What?
Giving the girls full support is important.
“Ma’am, do not go into the structure. I promise, the crew is on its way.”
That’s what I’m afraid of.
I pull open the door and the scent of smoke fills my nostrils. I choke and cough as the sensation burns my throat. Dry heat stings my eyes and I squint to relieve the pain.
I consider not going any further, but I spot my dresser through the open bedroom doorway. It’s taunting me. A mere fifteen feet and my rack—along with my pride—will surely thank me. There’re no flames here. It’s not even that hot in the room. The shrill sounds of the approaching safety vehicle spur my steps forward.
“I have to,” I rasp into the phone line.
“Ma’am.” Her voice is angry now, demanding. “Do not. I repeat. Do not go into the home.”
“Too late.”
The sirens gain volume and I set my phone atop my dresser, slipping my arms out of my shirt and through the straps of my bra. Cups in place, I sigh in relief and reach behind to clasp the hook in place.
Boom!
The force of an explosion throws me backwards. I try to catch myself but my foot snags the corner of my dresser and my body goes down.
Bang.
The side of my head collides with the bed frame and my body crumples to the ground. My temple pulses and my view goes a little fuzzy. A haze of darkness blankets my mind.
Oh shit
.
Four months before
I love firemen.
I don’t know what it is exactly. The element of danger in the occupation. The bravery, selflessness, and honor they must possess. The uniform. Those pants they wear and how easily said pants can be removed. I assume anyway. Okay, so maybe it’s mostly the pants for me. No one ever nominated me for sainthood.
Regardless, my love of firemen has been ignited with the help of my realtor. After obtaining my first real-deal, full-time, post-college job, I’m ecstatic to finally move out of the cracker box apartment near campus and into this little single family in the suburbs of Richmond, Virginia. It’s less than ten miles from my office where I work as a graphic designer, but more importantly, the location of my house is a mere half-mile from Firehouse Ten.
Did I buy a house based on the fact it’s within walking distance of a fire station? No. That would be immature. And at twenty-two I’m a hard-working, tax-paying, responsible adult member of society and a law abiding citizen. I won’t lie, though—the station down the street did increase the home’s appeal. Besides, they say location is everything! There’s even a nice jogging path through the neighborhood that leads right past the open bays.
I’ve never been more inspired to take up daily running.
But running will have to wait as I still have another carload to empty and boxes to unpack before I start my workweek tomorrow. I blow an escaped curl away from my face and wipe the sheen of perspiration with the sleeve of my shirt.
I like order. Can’t stand chaos. And I find it impossible to concentrate while my house is a disorganized mess. I won’t sleep until it’s done. Won’t focus at work tomorrow knowing that my forks and frying pans are shoved in a box under dishtowels. Or, God forbid, stacked under a box marked clothes. Which is why I’ve called in the reserves.
“Callie?” Alicia yells from the front door.
Good! They’ve arrived.