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“Shit.Shit.” Everyone should already be on the bus, except for BJ—who sleeps like the actual dead.
I wrench open my door and rush down the stairs. I’m not fully coherent yet, my body in flight-or-fight mode. My coordination is bullshit on the best of days, so I skid down the first set of steps on my ass, slam into the wall on the landing, and then hurtle myself down the second set. For sure I’m going to have bruises, but all I can think of is BJ in that burning house.
I bolt through the living room and come to an abrupt halt when I see BJ stretched out on one of the recliners, mouth open, a hot dog hanging out of the right side like an unlit cigar. He’s surrounded by empty food boxes. It smells like stale farts and sour sleep breath, but I have never been so freaking happy to see my cousin in my entire life.
I rush over, trip on a half-empty carton of Ramen noodles, and land on top of him. The hot dog slides out of his mouth and down into the chair somewhere. He grunts, but otherwise doesn’t rouse.
I shake his shoulders until his eyes pop open. It takes me a moment to find my voice through the panic. “There’s a fire!”
His confusion morphs into concern. “What? Where? Here?”
I give my head a violent shake and clamber out of the chair, stumbling backward. BJ is quick, though, and he grabs me before I land on my ass.
“Your place. Come on.” I grab his wrist and tug, making him follow me outside.
Instead of a clear, bright morning, we step out into a cloud of acrid smoke.
“Holy shit!” And now it’s not me pulling BJ along, it’s him pulling me.
I stumble, barefoot and light-headed. BJ wraps an arm around my waist and hauls me up so my feet aren’t touching the ground. He cuts across the lawns to get to his house, but police stop him. There’s already a crowd of students congregated across the street, watching smoke billow out of the windows on the first floor.
“Hey, hey, you can’t go in there,” an officer tells us.
“That’s my house. What happened? Was there anyone in there? Is there anyone in there?” His panicked gaze darts to mine, the same fears reflected there.
“Game.” My voice is a whisper I’m sure he can barely catch over the sound of people shouting and the spray of water.
“Shit. Right. Thank God.” BJ runs his free hand through his sleep-messed hair.
The police officer nods in confirmation. “The house is empty. The fire started in the kitchen. You said you live here, son?”
BJ scrubs his palm over his face and motions to me. “Yeah. I crashed at my cousin’s last night.”
The police officer looks from him to me and back again. “Your cousin?”
It takes me a few seconds to understand why he’s wearing a confused expression. BJ is dressed in only a pair of low-slung jogging pants. His entire lean, somewhat wiry chest on display, along with his tattooed arm, which is mostly a colorful burst of flowers. Lilies to be exact, because that’s his mom’s name, and he loves the freaking shit out of her.
Beyond the shirtlessness, based on the way his jogging pants hang, and the outline at the front, he’s commando. I’m dressed in a pair of sleep shorts and a tank top. It’s black, thankfully, so it hides my nipples, but I’m braless, and there’s a lot of cleavage. BJ’s arm is wrapped around my waist, presumably to keep me from tripping over my own feet.
“Yeah. Cousin. She lives just there.” BJ thumbs over his shoulder and then points at the smoking house. “How bad is it? Do you know what happened? My dad is going to shit a brick.” BJ is all over the place, but I can understand why since his house is currently on fire.
“Hard to say. We’ll know more soon, but it looks like the fire was confined to the kitchen for the most part. You have roommates?”
“Yeah, two, but they play hockey for the school team, so they’re away until tonight.” He looks to me. “This is gonna be bad. We’re gonna have to call everyone.”
I shake my head. “I’m not calling Quinn’s dad.” Lance Romero scares the crap out of me. He’s a nice guy, but when he gets pissed about something, he’s a lot like my dad. The fuse gets lit, and he goes off. I’ve only seen it a few times, but that is more than enough. “Do you think it’ll be better if we call your mom or your dad first?”
BJ strokes his beard like a magic genie is going to appear and blows out a breath. “Dunno who’s gonna be less volatile. I’d say my mom, but man, I can’t see her being happy to hear the kitchen went up in flames. I really hope it was faulty wiring or something.”
Since there’s nothing we can do but stand around and watch the firefighters do their job, BJ and I head back to my house so I can change and find him something to wear from Maverick’s room. I pull a T-shirt from my brother’s closet, unwilling to look inside his dresser. There’s a distinct possibility I might find things I don’t want to, if the tub of lube and box of condoms decorating his nightstand are any indication.
When I return, BJ is sitting at the kitchen table, his phone in front of him, his hands in his hair. I toss the shirt at him and turn on the Nespresso machine.
“Coffee?”
“Please.”
Neither of us talks while I prepare lattes; mine is coconut milk. I grab a box of Lucky Charms from the cupboard and tuck it under my arm. “We should probably go back out there.”
