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His shoulder throbbed and ached. He needed to get out of there.
“Help!”
The scream came from the right. Spinning in that direction, he yanked up his shirt in an effort to cover his mouth. With one hand, he held the shirt, and with the other, he reached in front of him as he searched for the door. The acrid scent of smoke—and was that gasoline?—surrounded him.
It was freaking pitch black up there. His hands touched something. Big. Sturdy. Wooden?
He’d thought to find a door, but, hell, this felt like some kind of shelf or cabinet or?—
“Help!”
The scream was coming from behind whatever the fuck this was. Beau heaved and shoved, and he heard wood grate as the damn thing gave way and flew to the side. Then he stumbled into a room and?—
“Thank you!” A body collided with his. Much smaller. Softer. Feminine. She coughed and shuddered against him. “Someone—someone put the bookcase in front of my door—” Coughs interrupted her. “I-I couldn’t get out!”
He grabbed her hand. “We’re getting out. Now.” He felt dizzy and sick, and her hand was way too fragile in his grip. He had to get her out of that nightmare.
They turned, hurried back to the stairs…and saw hell waiting.
The flames were eating their way up the stairs. Smoke was so thick.
His lungs seemed to clog.
She trembled against him. He hauled her back into her bedroom. Kicked the door shut. Grabbed a cover from her bed and shoved it beneath the door.
“We’re going…” Coughs broke through her words. “To die…”
The hell he was. No way was he dying as some dumb teen. He had plans. He was gonna be feared. Respected. He would have his own bar. Have his own crew. Have his own damn Jag that wasn’t stolen.
He was going to have everything he wanted.
She threw her arms around him. “I don’t want to die.” Her hand scraped over his right shoulder. Pain blasted through him and almost brought Beau to his knees.
She had some kind of nightlight glowing in her room. Small. Square. The only illumination in the place. But her window was open. Open a few precious inches, anyway. The window she’d been using before when she called for help.
He pried away from her and grabbed the pillow from her bed. Beau ripped the pillowcase in two. “Put it over your mouth.” One part for her. One for him. Like the scrap would do much good, but it was better than nothing. Then Beau rushed for the window.
“Jammed,” she muttered. “I-I couldn’t get it…h-higher…”
Yeah, it was jammed. Screw it. He drove his fist through the glass. The glass shattered. He started bleeding, and he just punched harder. He punched until the windowpane was gone, and he could gulp in air. Except that air just tasted of smoke, too.
If they didn’t get out of that room, they were dead.
He looked back at her.
Small. Long hair that tumbled over her shoulders. Oversized pajamas. Hunched shoulders. Shudders shook her body again and again.
What was she? Like, a hundred pounds? He could handle that. Maybe. His idea was a real shit one, but it was the only idea he had. “Get on my back.”
She didn’t move.
“I’m—” He almost hit his knees as dizziness flooded through him, and Beau threw out a hand to grip the window frame. His blood smeared over the edge. “I-I think I can crawl down.” There was some kind of gutter or drain or some shit that extended down the length of the house. He’d spied it a moment ago. Or at least, Beau thought he had. With all the smoke, it was hard to be sure of anything.
Fuck. Maybe he should just jump. It was the third story. He could survive a jump from that height, couldn’t he? Sure, maybe he’d wind up with some broken bones, but getting his bones smashed would be better than burning alive.
She hopped onto his back and held on tightly. A death grip.
He might survive the jump, but Beau didn’t want to risk her. He needed to make sure she got down without any broken bones. Or burns. Or…
