Chapter Twenty-Eight
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
LIAM CHECKED HIS phone for the hundredth time since Tate drove away.
Nothing.
Not a text, not a call, not even a notification.
Maybe the cell towers are out.
“And maybe you’ll sprout wings in your sleep,” he mumbled as he walked into his apartment. It’d been a very long day. He barely managed to get the window cleaned in time for his class. The kids complained about a gross smell in the studio, but it faded as the day went on. Somehow, he’d made it through all his classes without breaking down, but the odds of keeping it together weren’t looking good anymore.
He was done teaching and alone in the apartment he and Tate had shared for the past few weeks. At first, he’d worried about living with another man. It was a first for both him and Tate, and he feared it would prove difficult, but the opposite was true. They’d blended seamlessly, and Tate’s noticeable absence left a gaping hole in Liam’s heart even after only a few hours.
As with lunch, he couldn’t eat dinner. But drinking was another story. A few glasses of wine should help lighten the heaviness in his heart. Or, better yet, make him drunk enough not to notice it.
He poured with a generous hand, topping off near the rim of the wine glass. After a few sips to ensure he wouldn’t spill, he made his way to the couch. A new episode of his favorite trashy reality TV show was due. Wine and bitchy housewives were exactly what he needed to boost his mood.
Except he couldn’t concentrate and was back to obsessing about Tate within minutes. Worry nagged him no matter how many times he reminded himself Tate could handle this and would be fine. But why had he been gone so long? Did he get arrested? Was he hurt? Images of worst-case scenarios wouldn’t stop harassing him. Over and over, his mind conjured nightmares of Tate hurt, alone, and suffering, or sitting in Swan’s single jail cell. And all of it because he wanted nothing more than to protect Liam.
“Shit,” he muttered before taking another sip—guzzle—of wine. “I should have made him stay.” Instead of getting pissy and turning his back on Tate, he should have forced the man to stay. “I coulda blown him until he was too stupid in the head to think.” He could have done it, but he’d let his hurt feelings take over and turned his back on the man he loved as Tate was to make a dangerous decision.
“What a prize you are.”
He sat in silence, stewing in his intrusive thoughts until he couldn’t stand himself any longer. Tipping his glass to his lips, he frowned and looked down into the empty glass.
Whoops, that went fast.
Nothing remained but a single purple drop of wine. It must be why his head was feeling floaty and his limbs light. He shut his eyes and rested his head back with a sigh, letting the tipsy sensation wash over him. It helped a bit with his misery, sending it to the periphery of his mind instead of the forefront. Sadness lingered, but exhaustion took over the longer the wine had to soak into his bloodstream. He’d keep his eyes closed for a few moments, maybe catch a power nap, then get back to worrying.
Liam’s eyes flew open, and he jerked upright with a gasp.
What was that?
He blinked, unable to see through the pitch-blackness surrounding him.
Where am I?
His heart raced as he tried to take in the dark surroundings.
Home. He was in his home, on his couch, and it was night.
Where’s T?
The events of the day came rushing back at him with staggering force. “Tate?” he called out, jumping to his feet. “Whoa.” He steadied himself against the armrest of the couch. “Guess there was more in that glass than I realized. Tate, you here?”
He ran through the apartment, which took all of three seconds, ending up back in the den.
“He didn’t come home.”
It hurt. God, it hurt.
But it also made him worry.
“Breathe,” he whispered to himself before inhaling a deep breath that had him frowning.
What was that smell? He whipped around, sniffing as he checked the apartment again. A faint scent of smoke tickled his nostrils. Tate smoked on occasion, but this didn’t remind him of cigarettes. And what had woken him with such a start? Now that some of the fog had cleared, he’d swear a loud crash had jolted him from sleep.
The smell intensified.
“No,” he whispered as an outrageous thought popped into his mind.
Barefoot, he ran to the door leading him down to the studio through the indoor staircase. The acrid odor grew stronger with each step he descended. “No, no, no,” he whispered, picking up the pace.
Without thinking, he grabbed the door handle at the bottom of the stairs. Tremendous heat scorched his palm. “Ow, fuck!” he shouted, jerking his hand away. He cradled it to his chest. It hurt like hell, but he couldn’t spare the time to assess the damage. Using his uninjured hand, he wrapped the bottom of his T-shirt around the doorknob and opened it as fast as possible. The shirt did little to dull the heat, but it was good enough to keep from searing the other hand while he opened the door.
The second he pushed the door open, oven-hot air blasted into the stairwell. He didn’t need to see the flames licking over every surface of his life’s dream to know someone had set out to destroy him.
And they’d succeeded.
“Oh my God.” The studio was so dark that he couldn’t make out a single feature. Orange flames flickered, engulfing almost everything. Thick smoke hovered in the air like black fog. He coughed as the hot, smokey air filled his lungs. Every breath singed his insides and made him hack and choke more. He tucked his face into the crook of his arm, but it did little to purify the filthy air.
Think. Think.
What was he supposed to do in the event of a fire?
Heat rises.
He pulled the neck of his T-shirt over his nose, then dropped to his hands and knees. Pain exploded through his right palm. He cried out, then bit his lower lip, blinking back tears. The air down there was maybe a fraction of a percent more breathable, but he’d take it. The fire had grown too big, too fast. He’d never be able to contain it himself, but maybe he could save a few things from a blazing death.
He crawled forward a few shuffles, aiming for the front desk. Smoke and ash stung his eyes, making tears pour down his face. The air was so viscous and dark that he couldn’t see a foot in front of his face. With each inch he advanced, the ground grew hotter, his vision decreased, and the coughing worsened.
Keep going.
He tried.
Hot fragments fell from above, scorching his neck, arms, and legs. If he could just make it to the desk, he could grab his laptop or some files, something to make it feel like he hadn’t lost everything.
A violent cough ripped through him, jolting him so hard he levitated off the ground. Sweat dripped from every pore in his body. Panic clawed at his throat. His brain screamed at him to go back upstairs and call the fire department before it was too late, but he needed to save something. Just one little piece of his dream.
All around him, the flames were closing in. He crawled another few feet forward before a coughing fit made his arms give out. His chest hit the ground with a thump. He shouted, but the sound instantly disappeared into the roar of the fire.
Defeat and despair washed over him. He couldn’t do it.
He’d failed.
A sob burst from deep in his gut, turning into another vicious cough. This time, he spit a wad of gunk onto the ground.
The instinct to survive took over, making him nearly desperate for clean, fresh air. Still on all fours, he turned back toward the stairs.
Or did he?
The smoky darkness stole his sense of direction. He didn’t have a clue where the stairs were. All he could see was gray fog and flames.
Get out. Get out.
Tears blurred what remained of his vision. Every breath felt like spikes driving into his chest. Burning palms and raw, stinging knees kept him moving at a snail’s pace.
He crept forward for what felt like hours. Each movement was agonizing and caused more hacking. Dizziness set in. He needed clean oxygen and fast.
For all he knew, he was heading straight into a studio room and to his certain death.
His arms trembled, threatening to give out at any moment. Each movement took a monumental effort. He wasn’t going to make it. The exhaustion was too great.
Where the hell am I going?
Another coughing fit stopped him dead in his tracks. It zapped what little remained of his strength. He collapsed to the floor, unable to push himself up again.
Do. It. Get up!
He tried. His arms shook, and his shoulders ached as he tried to push onto all fours again. But it was a wasted effort.
I’m sorry, Tate…
He choked on a sob.
This would destroy Tate.
As Liam lay prone on the burning floor with his eyes drifting shut, a distant shout tried to break through the haze of delirium.
It happened again. Liam couldn’t get his brain on board to decipher the noise.
“Liam!”
Oh my God. His name. So far away.
“Liam! Oh, Christ. Liam, are you in here?” The sound grew, still muffled by the flames but closer now.
“Here,” he managed in a weak whisper.
“Liam!”
“Tate?” Tate was there?
Oh God, no.
“Don’t.” He tried to shout, but it was barely audible. “Go back.”
A boot crashed into his shoulder, followed by a muffled, “Holy fuck. I found you.” Strong arms rolled him onto his back, then hooked under his armpits. His eyes drifted open and shut as he was dragged out of the fire and up the stairs.
“Fuck, what were you thinking?”
“Tate?” he whispered before coughs stole his breath.
“No. But he’s on his way.”
The air became clearer as his rescuer hauled him up the steps and into the apartment. As soon as they made it inside, his rescuer let him go and slammed the door shut. Liam immediately rolled to his stomach and coughed up a bunch of garbage from his lungs. “I-I can’t see yet.”
“I got you.” He recognized the voice now. “Fire department is two minutes out. We gotta get the fuck outta here. It won’t be but a minute before the flames make it up here. Or the fucking floor collapses.”
“R-randy?” A wet cloth wiped across his eyes.
“Yeah. Figure the least I owe Tate is to keep you from dying. Maybe then he’ll be able to forgive me for being such a piece of shit.”
He blinked. The apartment came into view, blurry but clear enough that he wouldn’t crash into anything.
Randy coming to his rescue was almost as shocking as the fire itself.
Liam used what little strength he had left to push up to his knees.
“C’mon, lean on me.” Randy’s arm went around his waist. He hauled Liam to his feet, tucking him close. “You solid?”
“No.” A weak chuckle escaped but turned into a coughing fit once again.
“Shit, I can hear it in the stairwell. We gotta move.”
Together, they made it out the door and down the outdoor stairs. Sirens blared in a loud chorus of help coming for them. Randy kept an arm around him as he hobbled around the front of the building, coughing and spitting out black crud the entire way. His vision cleared enough to see well again, but his eyes stung like someone had taken coarse sandpaper to his eyeballs.
Two enormous fire trucks filled the parking lot. A dozen or so firefighters ran around listening to the orders of one barking from near the truck.
“Hey!” Randy shouted, waving his free arm. “We need an EMT over here.” He coughed, sounding almost as bad as Liam did.
Two women dressed in uniform ran from an ambulance straight to them, pushing a rolling gurney. Randy stepped away as they reached him.
“Anyone else inside?”
“No,” Randy said, shaking his head. “It was just us.” He was filthy, covered in black soot, with two white, frazzled eyes peeking through.
The EMTs took over in an instant, professional and efficient in their assessment. Two seconds later, Liam was seated on the gurney with an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth, a blood pressure cuff on his arm, and an IV in his hand.
“Luxe!”
Tate’s frantic shout had Liam’s spine snapping straight.
“Luxe! Someone tell me where the fuck he is.”
Tate. Liam tried to hop off the gurney.
A strong hand clamped down on his shoulder. “Don’t even think about it, buddy.”
“Please,” he rasped, voice like death. “That’s my boyfriend. I need to see him.”
“We’ll get him over to you. You are to do nothing but sit here and breathe all that wonderful pure oxygen.”
“Luxe!”
“Over here, T,” Randy called back, waving his arms.
Tate tore around the side of a fire truck, appearing like a rough country angel. Liam tried again to jump down but was restrained by a scowling EMT. He paid her no mind, focusing all his attention on the man sprinting toward him.
The man he loved.
“Jesus Christ, Luxe,” Tate cried as he slammed into Liam’s open arms so hard the gurney wobbled. “Fucking hell, I was so scared.”
Liam squeezed Tate as he sobbed against him. Of course, it kicked off a coughing fit, which had Tate releasing him with a gasp. “Shit, sorry.”
“Don’t go.” Liam clung to his forearms.
Tate cupped his face. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me, Luxe.”
They were the best words Tate could have spoken. “I love you, Tate.” He coughed and wept at the same time.
“Shh, don’t talk, Luxe. Just breathe.” Tate kissed his cheek, forehead, then chin, basically anywhere not covered by the mask as he whispered how much he loved Liam and how terrified he’d been. When the EMT finally forced him to release Liam, black soot covered his mouth and nose.
“I got you all messy,” Liam croaked as the EMT fussed with his oxygen mask. He reached for Tate’s face to wipe away the soot, but the EMT had bandaged both his hands, and he didn’t want to dirty up her work.
“I don’t give a fuck about that,” Tate said as he caught Liam’s wrapped hand in his. “How bad is he hurt?” he asked the EMT, scanning the bandages with a frown.
The EMT checked the blood pressure reading and wrote something on her clipboard. “He’s got some pretty serious smoke inhalation for sure. BP is a little high, but that’s no surprise, considering. There is a nasty burn on his right hand. The left isn’t as bad, but it has a few spots that need attention. We’re gonna transport him to the hospital for a more in-depth evaluation.” She spoke in a clinical tone devoid of emotion.
Liam shook his head. It felt weird to be talked about while sitting right there. He scowled at the stoic EMT, unlike Tate, who gifted her a winning smile. “He’s the most important thing in the world to me, Risa.”
Risa might be fooled, but Liam saw the stress and strain beneath Tate’s fake smile.
She grinned back. “He’s in good hands, Tate. Promise. I’ll give you two a minute, but we’ll be rolling out of here in five. Tate, you’re welcome to ride with us.”
“Thanks, Risa.”
She nodded before gathering supplies to stow away.
“A friend?” Liam asked.
“We went to high school together.” Tate rested his forehead against Liam’s, probably smearing more soot on his face. He’d be as dirty as Liam if he wasn’t careful. “Luxe…”
“I know.” More tears fell. He didn’t have the energy to fight them. The only good thing about crying was how it helped clear the smoke residue from his eyes.
“That was too close. I can’t lose…”
“I know,” he said again. The thought of the reverse, of someone harming Tate, sent a shudder through him. “I can’t either.”
Tate’s arms went around him in the gentlest of holds. “Is this okay?”
Liam rested his chin on Tate’s shoulder and his bandaged hands on Tate’s back. He’d love to bury them under his man’s shirt and feel the warmth of his skin, but it’d be a bit before he could do that again.
“Just let me do this for a few minutes,” Tate whispered.
“You can do this forever.”
“I’ll hold you to that, Luxe.”
They stayed like that, with Liam perched on the edge of the gurney and Tate between his spread legs, wrapped up in each other.
Liam watched as firefighters battled the blaze, blasting it with powerful streams of water. The men and women worked together as a well-trained team, with the leaders directing and others carrying out their orders, no questions asked.
The building was a total loss. Flames engulfed the entire first floor, shooting out of the nonexistent storefront windows and lighting up the night. The sign he’d loved so much hung by one corner, half charred and unusable.
His heart felt much the same, blackened to a crisp and permanently damaged.
Everything he’d worked for, everything he’d built burned into a smoldering pile of ashes. The crushing weight of failure pressed down on him. He’d set out to prove something to himself and the town of Swan. He’d moved there and opened the studio to show the world that homophobic bullies didn’t scare him. That the world had changed, and Swan, Oklahoma, needed to wake the hell up and get with the program.
But he’d failed.
One backward bigot wiped out all he’d worked for with nothing more than some accelerant and a spark.
Maybe his plan had been a fool’s errand all along.