Page 86 of Black and Brown

Big mistake.

He gripped the handle. It was too hot, and in the midst of shifting burners, his brain reacted, and he dropped the pan, causing grease to spatter everywhere, including into the flames from the range that was still turned high.

Oh fuck.

Fire rose almost to the ventilation hood.

Mirage darted to the kitchen sink and turned on the water, but he pulled the sprayer so hard he yanked it out of its compartment.

“Goddammit!”

He cupped his hands and tried to sling the water toward the stove, but the flames were getting higher and beginning to spread outward.

No, no, no. Not the counters.

He knew he was battling the smoke alarm, which he was surprised hadn’t gone off yet. The kitchen fire was almost too hot to get close to and shrouded with dense black smoke that had him hacking as if he had bronchitis.

Mirage ran to the bathroom to get some wet towels or something. He had to get this under control before Grace woke up.

Grace

Grace was lying on his back, shaking his head, with his arm slung over his eyes.

His phone vibrated like mad on his bed, the screen flashing continuous red alerts, notifying him there was a fire in his home.

He didn’t have smoke detectors or ones for carbon monoxide. His home was too high-tech to require them.

If he wanted, he could activate his sprinkler system, but when he pulled up the live footage of his kitchen, he saw it was mostly contained to the stove.

Grace rolled his eyes at Mirage running around like a damn chicken with its head cut off.

“I had no intentions of waking until noon since you said debriefing wasn’t until thirteen hundred.” Spectre yawned through the earpiece.

“Yeah, me either,” Grace rumbled.

“So why the fuck is your house on fire? The alarm on your guys’ floor rang on my phone. I called Mirage, but I got no answer.”

“Go back to sleep. Everything is under control,” he growled before he pressed the code to cut the connection.

The flames were spreading to his custom-made labradorite gem countertops.

Motherfucker.

Grace slung the covers off and stormed out of his bedroom.

The air in the living room wasn’t as thick with smoke since the patio doors were open, but the kitchen was overwhelmed with a dense, acrid fog carrying the scent of burnt eggs and burning aluminum.

The flames were so high now—beyond using his fire blanket—they were leaving black scorch marks on the ceiling.

Grace walked casually into the kitchen and went for his fire extinguisher beneath the sink.

He stood a few feet from the stove and had just pulled the pin out when a heap of freezing cold towels hit him on the back of his head and then slid down his bare back.

“Oh shit! I didn’t see you, Grace, I swear!” Mirage yelled.

Grace didn’t bother to turn around at his partner’s ridiculousness. Instead, he focused on dousing the flames and preventing more damage to his counters.

He wasn’t upset about the potential cost of repairs—he’d send the bills to the organization—he was livid about handypersons and decorators having to come into his sanctuary again.