Chapter 3
Three
Swayze
Something nudged me from the deep, jet-lag-fueled sleep I’d fallen into—some sound or shift in the air that my exhausted brain couldn’t quite identify.
Even in a state of semi-consciousness, my head ached with that dull, persistent throb that came from too little sleep and too much stress, so I just curled my fist tighter around the covers and pressed my face deeper into the pillow, willing myself back under.
It didn’t stop the coughing fit that dragged me the rest of the way to waking, my chest seizing with violent spasms that tore up my throat.
My eyes watered from the hacking cough and from something acrid in the air—something sharp and chemical that burned the back of my nose and made my lungs rebel.
Smoke?
I fought to see clearly through the haze that had transformed my borrowed bedroom into something unrecognizable and spotted the lick of orange flames dancing across the far wall, spreading with terrifying speed.
They crawled up the faded wallpaper like living things, consuming everything in their path.
Terror banished the last of sleep as I rolled off the bed and onto the floor with a crash that knocked the wind out of me.
The bedding trapped my legs in a twisted cocoon, and I fought to free myself, yanking and kicking at the sheets with growing desperation.
My limbs were heavy and uncooperative, sluggish from sleep and the smoke filling my lungs, but eventually I kicked loose and began to crawl toward the bedroom door.
A quick touch of the panel had me jerking my hand back with a hiss of pain. Hot. Too hot. The metal doorknob had to be scalding on the other side. No getting out that way.
Refusing to give in to the panic trying to claw up my throat like a living thing, I kept low, looking around for options through the thickening smoke.
There was a window on the other side of the room, its curtains already starting to smolder at the edges.
If I had to, I could grab a lamp or something—anything—and break through the glass.
The fall might hurt, but at least I’d be alive.
Smoke thickened as I made slow, crawling progress back around the bed, dodging hotspots already smoking on the shag carpet, little circles of orange ember eating through the ugly brown fibers.
Breathing got harder with every passing second, each inhalation a struggle that left me dizzy, but I pushed on.
I had to get out. I kept my focus on the window like it was a lifeline.
One foot of progress. Three. The glass seemed impossibly far away.
With a mighty groan that sounded like the house itself was screaming, something broke free from the ceiling and crashed down in front of me in an explosion of sparks and burning debris.
On a shriek that tore at my already raw throat, I hurled myself backward, away from the burning beam that now blocked my path.
My route to the window was cut off completely.
Even as I processed that, the bed caught fire, going up in a rush of heat and flame that would’ve caught me just five minutes ago if I’d still been sleeping.
But it didn’t matter. Because I had no way out.
There was no bathroom attached to this room.
No way to reach water, no wet towels to press over my face.
No exit. Nothing I could use to try to get through the door and fight my way down the hall through what had to be an inferno by now.
I was going to die in this shithole rental.
And honestly, that was just a perfect end after my entire career had gone up in flames in a different kind of fire.
At least the universe was sticking to a theme.
Would the smoke take me out before the flames reached me?
The way my head swam, the way the edges of my vision had started to go dark and spotty, told me there was a very real possibility I’d simply pass out and never wake up.
That seemed a far better alternative than being conscious while burning to death.
The bedroom door burst open with a crash that shook the walls.
At the sound, I flinched back, wondering if there’d be some spurt of flame, like a dragon’s breath roaring through the opening.
But instead of death incarnate, I saw a firefighter in full gear, his helmet reflecting the orange glow, his face obscured behind protective equipment that made him look almost alien.
I managed to lift an arm—to reach out to him? To shield my face from the intense blast of heat that had come with him opening that door? I wasn’t sure anymore.
He came forward without hesitation, moving through the flames like they were nothing more than an inconvenience, scooping me up and over one shoulder in a practiced motion before turning to hustle back the way he’d come. My body folded against him like I weighed nothing at all.
God, it was hotter up here, away from the floor where I’d been crawling. I felt my skin screaming in protest as he moved through the hellscape of the burning house, every second an eternity of heat and smoke and the roar of flames consuming everything around us.
Then we were outside in the blessedly clearer air, the cool breeze hitting my face like salvation.
He cleared what was left of the porch—the boards crumbling and smoking beneath his boots—just as a pair of firetrucks rolled in, their sirens cutting through the falling night.
Sound was muffled, my ears ringing, as he eased me safely down into the scraggly grass of the front yard, but I could tell he was snapping some kind of orders at the people rushing toward us.
One of the other firefighters hurried over with a medical bag and an oxygen tank.
She slipped a mask over my face with gentle hands, and I breathed in, grateful as the clean, pure air filled my abused lungs, pushing out the smoke I’d been inhaling.
My rescuer squatted down beside me, his face level with mine now. “Is there anyone else in the house?” Urgency underlined the calm tone.
Another coughing fit overtook me, wracking my body with violent shudders as I shook my head, trying to communicate that I was alone, that no one else would die tonight because of this disaster.
He turned away and returned to orders, his voice carrying authority as he directed the organized chaos.
Men and women in full gear spilled out of the trucks like ants from a disturbed hill, dragging hoses and starting water like some well-oiled machine that had performed this dance a thousand times before.
Most of the attention was on the house, already fully engulfed, the flames reaching toward the darkening sky, but some of them aimed for the trees that surrounded the property, their branches too close to the inferno.
God, was it fire season here? I didn’t know.
But certainly, after a flood, they couldn’t be prepared to deal with wildfires if the trees caught fire, too.
This town had been through enough already.
I sat in the grass, the oxygen mask cool against my face, and watched my temporary home collapse in on itself.
The firefighters had the blaze contained now—no spreading to the surrounding trees, no danger to neighboring properties—but the house itself was a lost cause.
Flames still licked through the skeleton of the structure, illuminating what remained of the walls, the roof gone entirely.
Smoke billowed into the darkening sky in thick, choking plumes.
My suitcase was in there. The one I’d dragged through three airports and a twelve-hour layover at LAX.
My laptop with all my design files, backed up to the cloud but still—gone.
The few things I’d grabbed when I’d fled my apartment in Auckland, the remnants of a life I’d been building on the other side of the world.
Not that any of it mattered. Not really.
A hysterical laugh bubbled up in my chest, turning into another cough that had me hunching forward as the female paramedic—Cho, according to the name on her uniform—rubbed circles on my back with one gloved hand.
“Easy. Just breathe. Nice and slow.”
I nodded, but the absurdity of it all crashed over me in waves.
Two days ago, I’d been in New Zealand, watching my career implode in real-time across every social media platform.
The brand I’d championed, the eco-friendly skincare line I’d promoted to my half-million followers, turned out to be using child labor in its supply chain.
The exposé had gone viral within hours. My inbox had exploded with vitriol, my follower count dropping like a stone thrown from a cliff.
I’d made a formal reply. An apology. Even then, I’d watched the follower counts plummet further, the hate comments multiplying, and I’d just bailed.
Turned comments off wherever I could, and pretended the email address attached to those accounts simply didn’t exist. I’d just walked away from every platform where my name had once meant something.
I’d considered nuking everything, but that felt too much like an acknowledgment of guilt, and it would have been erasing my life for the past six years.
From there, I’d packed what I could fit into two suitcases, grateful that at least I’d already booked a one-way ticket back to the States weeks ago, before everything had fallen apart.
Grateful, too, that I’d already pre-paid for this rental in Gibson Hollow, a decision I’d made when I’d still believed I was coming here for the right reasons.
I hadn’t originally planned to come here to hide like a wounded animal seeking shelter. I’d come here to help, to volunteer with the community rebuild projects, to do something meaningful with my platform before it had all gone up in flames—metaphorically then, literally now.
But this place was small enough, remote enough, tucked away in the mountains where hardly anyone would recognize me, that maybe, just maybe, I could disappear for a while.
Fade into obscurity and figure out what came next, who I was supposed to be when I wasn’t Swayze Parish, influencer extraordinaire.
And now? Now I had nothing. No career, no reputation, no home, no belongings beyond the clothes on my back—pajamas, because of course I’d been sleeping—and whatever was still in the car. If the car had even survived.
The firefighters moved with efficiency, their voices calling to each other over the roar of water and the groan of the collapsing structure.
My rescuer stood near one of the trucks, his helmet off now, revealing dark hair plastered to his head with sweat.
He gestured as he spoke to another firefighter, his profile sharp against the glow of the dying fire.
He’d saved my life. Charged into a burning building without hesitation and carried me out like some kind of action hero before even the rest of the team had arrived. Why had he even been here before them?
I pulled the oxygen mask away from my face, my breathing steadier now, though my throat still felt like I’d gargled broken glass.
“You should keep that on a little longer.” The paramedic’s tone was gentle.
I ignored her, watching as the house gave one final shudder and what remained of the roof collapsed with a shower of sparks and a sound like thunder.
There went everything.
I dropped my head into my hands and tried very hard not to cry.