Page 68 of Falling in Reverse

Pocketing my phone, I hear the operator still speaking as I do. The blaze has already covered so much of the far side of the bar that, in all reality, I’m never going to get it out alone, and black smoke looms blame all above and around me.

I did this.

I lost Jack his bar.

I brought my shit into his business and got it burnt to a crisp.

Hopping to the other side of the bar, I grab my small backpack with all my stuff and sprint for the exit. The vapors, gas, and whatever else fire consists of fill my lungs, causing a cough to shoot from my lips. Heat covers me like a blanket, causing sweat to pour down my face and every crevice of my body the closer I get. And when my hand touches the already warmed knob, I push…and push again with my shoulder.

The door doesn’t budge.

What the fuck.

I shove with all my weight, coming to the only conclusion this story holds.

Those motherfuckers locked me in.

Whirling around, the crack of wood warns me to get out and quick. The fumes are getting too thick that it’s hard to breathe and my visibility is growing darker from the smoke, but I know the bar like the back of my hand. Except flames block my path to the back exit and are crawling up to the bartop.

I’m not going to die here.

I remember sometime in school they told us to get low to the ground to keep away from the deathly fumes of smoke; however, with all the flames consuming the floor that was not an option for me.

Gathering some courage, I run through some, feeling the hot element lap up my naked legs. I trip, either from fear or just not being able to hold my own during a crisis that doesn’t settle well with me. My palms and knees slam into the unforgiving hardwood floors as I force myself to stand. The room begins to spin, and I can’t inhale anything that isn’t contaminated. My next exhale is shaky as the threatening fire behind me laughs that it’s coming. That the air I need is now toxic as fire crests and roars around me like the enemy it is.

I move to the back exit, slowly it seems, my head tucked into my chest to keep as much of the poisonous air out of my lungs. The heat from the fire licks up my spine as I continue to move, and I feel exhausted already. Black rims the fine edges of my gaze as I demand my body to keep trudging forward. A coughing fit attacks my chest, deep and desperate for clean oxygen.

This shouldn’t be so hard. I should be able to run through all this and escape.

My world tips as my feet are hurled upward, my side pressed into something warm and hard. We’re moving quicker than I was, like at warped speed as the air gets thinner and less contaminated. Within the next couple of seconds, a gust of cool air hits my frame, and I relax in the arms of whatever is holding me right now. The alley is dark as we stride through it. I open my mouth to speak, but my chest cavity hurts, and my throat is dry from breathing in unsafe fumes.

A light over the small boardwalk flickers on its last legs above the deck overlooking the ocean as I’m set down on a bench. Consciousness messes with me, wanting to take me over but fighting to back off in the same hand. The sounds of sirens waft off in the background over the gentle waves of the water behind me as I’m gently laid down, my cheek hitting the rough and dry-rotted wood. At that moment, I search for something to know who my hero is, but I only smell a smokey odor, like leather being burnt over a flame.

“Th—” I cough, hard, feeling as though my whole lung is going to come up. It literally knocks me on my ass and out for the count until medics arrive and revive me back to par with pure oxygen and the world of the living where I’m still Emilio Wildes’s daughter.

NINETEEN

bay

I’ve never kept so many things from my dad, and I dare not tell him what happened to me and The Stowaway last night, because it’d only add to what he doesn’t need. Guilt suffocates me as much as the smoke did, and facing Jack when he was called to come down to the docks was close to one of the worse things I’ve had to endure since Dad’s stroke.

Now, apparently, to Emilio, I’m a little pawn to play in his game or suffer the unthinkable consequences.

Not only may I owe the asshole a memory to remember me by when I destroy his legacy, but Jack a brand-new bar. Because the remnants of it are charred wood and pieces of random furniture that lie in a taunting, giant heap of disaster and his income.

When the cops arrived, I lied and stated someone came in wanting to rob the place. When I told the alleged burglars that all the money was in the safe, they burnt the bar down with me in it. I was asked for descriptions, names, times, and what clothing they were wearing. More fibs I had to come up with, because turning Emilio in was a risk in itself.

Jack claimed repeatedly that he was glad I was okay, that it wasn’t my fault when it was. If it wasn’t for me, he’d be opening his bar today like any normal day and continuing on with his life. I’m a mess of nerves, blame, and pure contrition.

I am, really, a piece of shit.

Staying home from school, I lied yet again to Dad and told him it was a teacher-workshop day or some crap. What helps with my story is that Nessa came over to hang out.

We watched old westerns with Dad, played Connect Four, where I let him win every game because I don’t deserve to gain a damn thing, and made him some lunch before he passed out for a nap. I called off the caregiver today to give me some space and Dad a break.

He was happy about that.

Nessa stayed for me while Travis and I ran to the auto store in Newport for a power steering pump that wasn’t available at Tony’s Auto in South Shore. It also gave me a reason to filter through what happened.

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