Not My Match Page 6

  “All women are different, Mama. Don’t judge us.”

  “Well, y’all don’t go together. You need a hometown boy and babies.”

  I exhale. “Never mind him. See you soon . . .” Before she can say anything else, I rush out “I love you” and hang up.

  I plop down on the couch and pour another glass. After pulling out my notebook, I find my goals and pencil in a new one, right under Go to Switzerland, V-Card Must Go, and Write a Sci-Fi.

  Buy a Dress Up To My Ass.

  By midnight, I’m at my desk typing away, wearing my favorite cutoff frayed shorts and a tank top, listening to the sky rumble with a summer storm. At least the front will bring cooler air. I’m headed to the kitchen for water when the power goes out, shrouding my apartment in splotchy darkness. Glow from my laptop sends shafts of light to parts of the apartment, slicing through the black. Maybe it’s the storm or a car hitting a transformer nearby. Power outages aren’t the usual, and I can’t recall a single one in the year and a half I’ve lived here.

  I peek out the window and see that the rest of the city is still lit. After fumbling around, I grab a flashlight out of the kitchen drawer and head to the front door, stiffening as the light catches a curl of gray mist slithering in from the hall and dancing under the crack at the bottom of my door. For a moment, I’m frozen.

  The fuse box. Myrtle mentioned an electrical issue in the basement.

  Fear inches up, and I snap out of my daze and jerk open my door. No flames or crackling sounds, but the smell of smoke drifts to my nose. There’s a layer of the fog around my feet, near the stairwell, and my heart flies, even as I recognize it’s not dense or thick.

  Instinct takes over, and I shut my door to block as much smoke as I can and dash to the stairwell and take the steps three at a time. I fall down the last two in my haste and fall splat on my ass on the landing, not noticing any pain, and jump up. I reach the second-floor door to Myrtle’s hall and fling open the door, already running. The smoke is thicker here, two inches off the ground and rising with every second. Jerking my tank up over my lower face, I’m already screaming her name before I reach her brass knocker, beating on the wood.

  My chest rises rapidly, and I count the number of times I slam my fist on her door. Fifteen. Calling her name.

  She opens her entrance just as the annoying sound of smoke alarms pings around us, ratcheting up my anxiety level. Took them long enough!

  “Thank God! Must be a fire! Smoke is coming from the vents and up the stairwell!” I take her arm, not mincing words. “Where’s Pookie?”

  “What?” She looks disheveled, apparently asleep for hours, her robe askew, feet bare.

  A rumbling, cranking sound reaches my ears just as water spouts from the sprinkler system in the ceiling. She had it installed years ago for the hallways. “Myrtle! It’s a fire! Get the dog!” I tell her, and she pales and weaves on her feet.

  “Can’t be. Electrician said it was fine—”

  I put my hands on her shoulders and lower my voice, infusing calm under the urgency. “Come on, Myrtle, sweetie. Where’s your dog?”

  “In my bed.” She points back into the apartment as she steps out in the hall, looking around with wide eyes. She gasps as I leave her and fly inside, grabbing the lump of trembling brown fur off her comforter and stuffing him in my arms. On the way out, I snatch her purse and cane. She has the alarm system wired to 911. Fire trucks will come. I strain to hear them, but it’s only just gone off . . .

  She scoops Pookie up and follows me at a slow pace that makes me want to scream. I hurry her along to the stairwell, giving orders as I help her the few paces down the stairs to the first level. “Walk slowly down the steps—yes, that’s good. One at a time. You’re doing great.” Horror hits. “The new guy!” If the fire’s in the basement, he’s getting the worst of it. “Don’t open any doors to the basement,” I tell her, thinking out loud. “Back draft.”

  “What?” she yells, her face draining of more color.

  For half a second, I think about explaining that a back draft can be caused by introducing oxygen to an oxygen-deprived fire zone; then the combustion would reignite, and the carbons and black smoke would explode and take down anything in their path. But there’s no time.

  I take a deep breath, and it’s mostly clean. Must be calm for her. Reaching out with my palms, I don’t feel any heat on the last door and open it to a roll of smoke on the first floor. “Just go slow, okay, Myrtle—awesome, you got this. Shut the stairwell door—yes, good—now, let’s get you out the front door. I’ll get the new tenant, okay?”

  She nods, clutching Pookie, her eyes wide as she coughs. Fear rising, I dash past her as she walks outside to safety. Just as I reach his door, the tenant opens it, cat in his hand. Thank God. “Fire,” I breathe, and he gives me a jerky nod and heads to the exit at the front of the building. Smoke tumbles thick and dark, and my eyes water as they dart to the basement door, hearing crackling sounds but no visible flames.

  “Where are you going?” the man yells as I turn back to the stairwell.

  I bite my lip, eyeing the smoke level in the stairwell. It’s not bad there, not thick yet, just tangling around my knees. There’s an escape ladder outside my kitchen if things get hairy—but they won’t.

  “My nana’s pearls.” His mouth drops, and before he can yell at me, I take off in a sprint, legs pumping.

  Once inside my place, I slam the door shut and tear the place apart, counting the seconds in my head. I reasoned on the way up and gave myself forty seconds to search. Less than a minute but doable and safe.

  Ten seconds . . . no pearls on the coffee table or under the cushions.

  Twenty . . . not in the kitchen, where I opened the wine.

  I skid around the corner to the bedroom, eyes bouncing over textbooks on my desk, clothes on the bed. Nothing. Frustration washes over me, mixed heavily with fear.

  Thirty . . . smoke dances around me as I hit the bathroom, kicking open the door, fumbling through lotions, perfumes, and makeup. After jerking out a washcloth, I use it to cover my mouth. It’s fine, it’s fine. I have good lungs. I’m a runner. Just . . . Nana. She died after Dad, and nothing was ever the same. And she wore them every day. She loved them; she touched them. I wasn’t her favorite—Elena was—but she did love me.

  Forty . . . I jerk back from the room and run to the door and stare at the smoke rushing in like a tidal wave from underneath. My eyes water as I cough. Can’t go that way now. Don’t know what’s waiting for me. Could be flames. Could be smoke gets me before I get down the stairs. Nausea sits in my stomach like a thick wad of concrete.

  Backpack in hand, I stride to the bedroom; snatch my laptop, phone, and purse; and shove them inside and run back to the kitchen, my frantic hand already working the window latch next to the small table. Off in the distance, I hear the blare of fire trucks, see the flash of red and white lights.

  Rain drenches me, a bolt of lightning crossing the sky as I swing my legs over the ledge to the barely there balcony and stare down at the concrete below. Perfect, let’s add electricity to the mix while I get on a metal ladder. I look over the edge. Forty-five feet, I estimate in my head quickly. “Not afraid,” I mutter.

  Water pelts me from the sky as I sling the backpack on my shoulders, then unhook and push the metal ladder, listening to it clatter down, screeching and groaning. It’s rusty, but I know it works. A girl like me has a plan. The day I moved in, I was checking the exits.

  Fear zips down my spine as I take the first wobbly steps, my grip tight as I concentrate on staring at each brick I pass.

  Forty-five feet. I can do it.

  Grip of death on the ladder. Move foot down. Repeat.

  Wind buffets me, tugging at me, and the grasp of my right hand slips. My left pulls me back just as fast, but I take a minute to take deep gulps of air and get my heart under control. At least the air is fresh. I adjust the backpack and start again. Dimly, about halfway down, I’m aware of my name dri
fting up from the chaos, a roar of a sound layered in under the rain and sirens, but I don’t look, just keep going. I’m on the side of the building next to the street, so I can’t see who’s at the front, where firemen shout orders. Out of the corner of my eye, an ambulance flashes past. That’s normal, I tell myself. They always come when the fire truck is called.

  I reach the top of the first floor and freeze at the huge floor-to-ceiling window that Myrtle loves, the antique glass old and wavy. Flames flicker and lick from the basement door just a few feet away, crackling and dancing. Smoke hovers thick and black, billowing like a monster down the hall. At the end is the stairwell, although I can’t see the door.

  I drop down off the last rung and sprint down the alley and circle to the front.

  “Myrtle!” I call as a paramedic puts her on a stretcher. What happened to her? She got out! How long was I . . .

  Guilt slams into me, and I bend over to catch my breath at the street, gasping for air, some of the adrenaline dropping. I made it, I made it. But if she’s hurt—

  My gaze scans the scene, past the red trucks, and every thought stops at the man I see.

  What’s he doing here?

  “Devon!” I scream over the melee, at the men who are holding him back from the entrance.

  It feels like a million seconds before he flips around, his wild eyes zeroing in on mine. Then he’s turning and walking—no, running, running so fast, like I’ve seen him on TV, only . . .

  Strong hands land on my shoulders, fingers digging into my skin. His normally tan face is white, his mouth pulled back in a snarl.

  I lick my lips, gasping for air. “We . . . really . . . need to . . . stop . . . meeting like this—”

  He jerks me to him, growls, and kisses me.

  Chapter 5

  GISELLE

  “I’m fine,” I tell the paramedic who made me sit on a bench across the street from the building a few minutes ago.

  She shines another light in my eyes. “You didn’t hit your head? Fall? No dizziness, nausea, coughing?” Her businesslike tone is calming, but nothing stills the jackhammer in my chest.

  “One cough.” I take in the pacing man behind her, the one who’s currently sending me looks that say, I plan to kill you as soon as I know you’re okay. Not able to hold his eyes, I inhale more air and check out the firemen scurrying around the building. The fire is out, but smoke spills from the windows. God, it happened so fast.

  “Her ankle is swollen,” Devon barks, and I flick my eyes down at the ugly yellow bruise on the outside of my right foot.

  The paramedic looks at my ankle.

  I wince. “Oh. I fell down the stairs to get to Myrtle. It doesn’t hurt, just a little sprain . . .”

  “You should have come out with her!” Devon rakes a hand through his hair. Another tell that he’s upset. He’s said this only a hundred times since the moment he grabbed me.

  The paramedic turns around and asks him to take a few steps back. He heaves in a great breath and paces off.

  I tear my eyes off him and press my hand to my chest. My heart still hasn’t slowed, teetering on exploding.

  After checking out my ankle, the paramedic rises and tells me what I already know, that it’s fine and just needs some ice and for me to go easy on it. She’s been sweet, especially since I refused to let her look me over until I talked to my best friend. Myrtle’s okay, I keep telling myself. Before she left in the ambulance, she patted me on the cheek and assured me she only twisted her knee on the last step of the stoop. Worry knots my stomach. She’s frail. Ugh. And John’s cat jumped out of his arms and ran away as soon as he came out. We’ll find his cat. I’ll find him if it’s the last thing I do.

  John left in the same ambulance with Myrtle, his complexion gray as he held an oxygen mask to his face. Welcome to the neighborhood, new guy. Normally, it’s not on fire.

  A whine comes from my lap, and I smooth a hand over the Yorkie left with me. “Shh,” I croon. “It’s over now, sweet Pookie. Your mama is fine.”

  “I can hold the dog at least,” Devon says, walking over from where he was pacing. He seems to have calmed down, and the paramedic nods, giving him permission as he takes the shivering animal. I frown, half expecting her to nip at him, but she takes one look at him and stuffs her nose right in the bend of his elbow. I give up. He’s irresistible to all females.

  With a final searching look at me, as if looking for other injuries, he marches over to a group of firemen huddled near the building, ignoring the yellow tape someone has already put up. Just shoulders his way in and starts asking questions. They don’t seem to mind. Must be nice to be famous.

  I catch snatches of conversation. The fire was localized in the basement. Structural damage is widespread. Fire marshal is en route to assess. Yes, a crew will be out to board up the busted windows and door so looters don’t get in. We need approval to get inside once the tape is up. My eyes go up to the third floor. Did my stuff get wet? No doubt it reeks of smoke. At least the rain has stopped, the cool air rolling in.

  Shit.

  I . . .

  What was I thinking?

  Forget that for a sec.

  He kissed me.

  My hands touch my lips. My first kiss in months. Hard and swift, not a drop of sweetness. No tongue. No saliva. I’m a little disappointed.

  “He’s your boyfriend?” the paramedic says as she nudges her head back at Devon, a smile on her face. “Hot as hell, and boy, what a temper. Devon Walsh, right?”

  “He’s a friend.”

  Her eyebrows pop. “Nearly got himself arrested trying to burst into the building and get you. Lots of colorful words he used.” She laughs.

  My eyes shut as more remorse beats at me. “No one was hurt?”

  She pats my hand, seeming to read me. “Our guys are well trained. We’ve seen much worse. You were on the third floor, right?”

  I nod.

  “You showed up before anyone went inside to search, and even if they had, these firemen know how to handle it.”

  I don’t feel any better. Devon. My lashes flutter. If he’d managed to get past the firemen and gone in after me . . . I recall the image of the first floor, and my stomach lurches. My hands tremble as I press them to my face.

  She walks away to put her things up, and Devon stalks back to where I am. He stops in front of me and hitches Pookie into the crook of his arm. A gladiator of a man with a tiny dog should look ridiculous, but not him.

  “I can take her now.” I stand up and force myself not to weave.

  His face twists as a muscle pops in his jaw.

  I limp the two feet over to him; my ankle isn’t bad except for a twinge, and he blisters out a curse and meets me before I reach him. He takes my hand, then laces it with his, his clasp reassuring and firm—me in one hand, Pookie in the other. He leads me slowly over to where his Hummer is parked.

  “Shouldn’t we stay and see what’s next? At the least, I should look for the cat.” Frustration builds as I realize I don’t even know the feline’s name. “Can you take me to the hospital? Myrtle is by herself. She’ll want me to call her daughter in New York and the insurance people—”

  “It’s two in the morning, the cat will show up, your friend is fine, you don’t have shoes, you’re swaying on your feet, and I need to get you home.”

  I don’t have a home.

  He unlocks the black Hummer, opens the passenger side, and motions for me to get in.

  My chest rises. “Myrtle—”

  “Get in the goddamn car, Giselle, or you don’t want to know what I’ll do next.”

  Kiss me?

  Ravage my body?

  Nope. Just be angry.

  “What were you doing at my place this late?”

  “Get. In. The. Car.”

  “Fine!” With a huff, I slide into the car, sinking into the opulent black seat, inhaling expensive leather and sexy male.

  After settling Pookie in the back on the floorboard with surprisingly
careful hands, he dashes to the hatch and throws stuff around. After jogging back, he wraps a sweatshirt around the dog, tucking her in gently so she won’t roll around in the car.

  He gets in and cranks the car, and I wait for him to pull out, but he doesn’t, his hands on the wheel, twisting around the black leather, his knuckles white.

  Nerves hit, and I deflate, all brave face gone. “Devon, please, I shouldn’t have gone back inside, but I know how a fire works—the smoke wasn’t bad on my floor, and I had the ladder. I monitored my dizziness, gave myself less than a minute—”

  “You can’t predict fire, Giselle,” he says, his face etched with a deep scowl as he glares out the windshield. I wish he’d look at me. “Just to get a necklace.”

  “Nana’s. They remind me of her.” I kick at my backpack on the floor, which he must have put there before I got in. “At least I grabbed my work—”

  “A laptop is replaceable. You could have died.” He throws his head back on the headrest and turns to look at me. His eyes are a vibrant green, gleaming with suppressed emotion.

  “I’m sorry,” I say after several moments, searching his gaze. “You’re right. I reacted on instinct. It happened so fast, and there wasn’t time to think straight—” I suck in a breath as pent-up fear claws at my insides and inches its way up to my throat, stinging and harsh, reminding me of my dangerous choice. My eyes blink rapidly, my hands clenching in my lap.

  He looks horrified. “Giselle, fuck, don’t . . . cry . . . I . . .” He stops. “They wouldn’t let me go inside, and I wanted to kill them.” He abuses the steering wheel with his grip.

  More regret rises as I see how he must have felt. I terrified him. He was here and couldn’t do anything to save me, and he would have been the one to tell Mama and Elena if something horrible had happened to me. Wetness tracks down my cheeks, and I hurriedly brush the tears away.

  “Come here, baby.” He reaches over the console for me and pulls me in for a hug, his hands stroking up and down my back. Electricity arcs between us, a hyperawareness that races over my skin. Sadly, I’m the only one who notices it. Devon is just being kind.