Page 217 of Waiting Game

Her eyes flare wide. “No! It can’t?—”

“It is.” I jerk my chin at the open doorway where shadows are already starting to flicker in what was once darkness. The glow has commenced. Red and feral. “Look. You can see it. Where’s the emergency exit?”

She swallows. “O-Out there.”

“Fuck,” I hiss as I jump to my feet, adrenaline soaring through me, masking my myriad aches and pains as I make it to the doorway.

The chaos might only have started a few minutes ago, but it’s already growing. Surging toward the bar and the table she was using to hold her equipment, drifting over the floor like a snake being charmed, pouncing from oily rag to oily rag that she hadn't picked up yet.

“FUCK,” I snarl this time when I see the fire is about to?—

I shove away from the doorway as I slam it closed, practically leaping on her as I drag her toward the desk while the fire collides with the bucket she'd used to clean her brushes.

The blast as the fire ignites the paint thinner is a trigger my brain wants to hide from, but I've never been afraid to face my fears.

Even when Betsy was dying, I felt no compunction about jumping into the blaze to save anyone I loved.

The sound of the fire raging, of glass bottles exploding, of the destruction, has Mia tunneling deeper into my arms as I try to figure out our best next move.

“The fire’s going to hit the office soon enough.” On the lookout for a high window, I find one and point to it. “Do you have a key for that?”

Unlike me, her reactions are dulled. But fire is my natural fucking enemy and we. Will. Not. Burn like my Betsy did.

I snag a hold of her shoulders and shake her. “Mia, answer me. Do you have a key for the window?”

In a daze, she nods, her head whipping toward the door where the sound of the fire gusting grows increasingly louder. I can already feel the temperature spiking, and I know we have to act fast.

In the distance, I hear sirens, which tells me a neighbor or passerby has called 911–thank God. But that could still be too late for us if we don’t shift our asses.

“Where’s the key, Mia?”

I bark the question again until she jerks in response then tugs at the bottom drawer on the desk.

Because she’s moving too slowly, I take over. After tearing through the piles of crap in there, I find a bunch of keys. Only problem? There are about forty. Did Chuck do anything without excess?!

And, no, we do not have that in common.

“Shit,” I hiss before I shove them at her. “You need to tell me which is which.”

“Y-Yellow upper.” She whimpers at yet another explosion, shoulders cowering in terror.

I need to go two lifetimes without seeing her like this.

Another blast rocks the floor.

Ah, shit—the fire must have reached more of the liquor bottles.

I refuse to lose my cool as I search for the ‘yellow upper,’ which turns out to be a rubber case on the bow of the key.

Correct one in hand, I jump over the broken recliner to reach the window. The key slots in, turns, and lo and behold, it opens too. What, with Chuck’s penchant for bribery, I wasn’t sure if it’d be jammed shut. Fire code be damned.

The cool air blowing into the office is a danger in and of itself, though.

Returning to her side, I grab the trading card album, snatch Honus from her hand and tuck him back into a slot for safety, and order, “You hold onto that, Mia, or I’ll whoop your butt,” before I pick her up bodily and take her across the room.

But my angry words are unnecessary—she clings to the album like it’s a life raft and we’re adrift at sea.

If only.

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