Page 1 of Scent of Home

Chapter one

Locke

The orange glow illuminatesthe gaps of the door frame, and thick black smoke pours through the cracks, sitting thickly on the ceiling. The orange glow isn’t part of a nightmare I’m having, and the heat isn’t some sick joke. My hand is aching like a bitch, and when I look down, I see a cut along my palm. Blood oozes from it, and I remember throwing myself out of bed, hitting something on the bedside table.

Why do I feel so hazy? Have I been drugged again? What would have happened if I hadn’t woken? The chill that seizes my insides leaves me icy cold despite the bonfire around me. My lungs burn, and I cough and stagger away from the heat. Why haven’t the smoke alarms gone off? Where are the sprinklers? What happened to the firefighters?

This is my home. The place I’m supposed to feel safe in, but unsurprisingly, I never do.

It’s burning. The magnitude of that thought stills my ability to think for precious seconds.

The world has taken on a nightmarish hue. Dark and orange. Threatening. Like the oncoming glow of a hell mouth opening up to suck me in. The heat is terrifying, and the smoke makes my eyes water and my lungs ache.

I need to get out of here. The thought finally slams into my brain, the only thing that’s made sense.

I side step to reach into the bedside table. I grab my wallet and a roll of cash. Beside the sidetable is a backpack I’ve had packed for weeks now. It’s got a single change of clothes and all my important documents. I glance at my phone, but I can’t risk it.

I should have left a note for Raider. I wish I’d phoned Kelly. Bethany asked me, why didn't I tell her? Why didn’t I reach out? They might have been able to save me. My cousins would have come if I’d asked.

Maybe…

I grab my clothes, hastily pull on my jeans while I struggle not to cough, then slam my feet into my boots. I grab my leather jacket and glance in dismay at my guitar. Dad gave it to me before he died. I don’t want to leave it. Indecision steals more precious moments. I’m tempted to try to save it, but I’m two stories up, and the fire is right outside my room. I’m going to have to jump.

I stare at the battered case. It’s all I have left, I can’t leave it. I snatch up the guitar, throw the strap over my shoulders, and set the case on my back.

Oh, please. Someone help me.

The desperate prayer goes unanswered like so often in the last few years. You’d think I’d stop, but when things get bad, there I am sending prayers for someone to save me. Pathetic.

Orange rolls across the roof. It’s almost pretty.

Distantly, I’m aware that I’m far too calm. That this will catch up to me later and threaten to drown me, but right now, all I can think about is the fact that this is really happening. Again.

This is my chance, though.

I’m going to disappear.

I’m the lead singer of the hottest band in the world, and I’m going to vanish. How the fuck am I going to do that?

I don’t know, but if I don’t try, I’ll end up dead. By my hand or someone else’s.

I go to the window I unlocked last night and slip out onto my balcony. I’ve had one too many run-ins with being suddenly and mysteriously locked in my room at night. It had been a calculated risk, and it’s somehow paid off.

Intuition for the win.

The night is freezing, which contrasts with my heated skin and has me shivering. I’m not sure if it’s adrenaline or the cold that’s doing it, but it’s not helpful. At least I know I’m alive.

I glance down and see all the lights on the ground floor are on. I have one leg over the balcony when I see the prone body of my latest security guard. He came incredibly well-recommended. The list of famous people he’s protected is longer than I am tall.

I hope he’s not dead.

My heart thuds against my rib cage, and tension in my temples means that, again, my stress levels are too high. I struggle to suppress a cough.

I must not be seen.

I swing up onto the rail and glance back. The fire has eaten its way into my room and is rolling across the entire roof. I don’t care about the room; I don’t care about the mansion or the things.

I’m almost grateful for the fire. Maybe they will think I’m dead.

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