Gena Showalter - Playing With Fire (tales of an extra ordinary girl)

The front door had burned completely away-except for the freaking lock, which clung to the only beam left standing-leaving a gaping hole that led straight into the hallway. Thick smoke billowed and wafted out. An alarm erupted in the hall, screeching with enough volume to make me cringe.

Within seconds, the neighbors were pouring from their apartments. If one of these people knew Rome, they might call him and tell him what I’d done. He could be on his way back right now. And let’s not even discuss the fact that I’d just announced my presence to the bad guys who might not have known where I was.

“What did you do?” an elderly woman demanded, crossing her arms over her ample chest. She wore a cherry-red robe and had blue rollers in her hair. “Does Raymond know you’re in his apartment?”

Raymond? Who the hell was Raymond? Maybe the man Rome had stolen the apartment from-if so, sorry, Raymond!-or maybe it was a fake name Rome liked to use. Either way, I wasn’t sticking around to find out.

“Turn off that goddamn alarm,” someone else shouted.

“Did someone call the super? He’s going to be POed.”

“No way you’ll get your deposit back now.”

At least the apartment was so old it didn’t have a built-in sprinkler system. Every one of us would have been drenched. “Tell the super I’m sorry,” I said, and shoved past the crowd of onlookers.

“Hey, you can’t leave,” the woman in rollers screeched, momentarily drowning the sound of the alarm. “You almost burned us all. Get back here.”

I found the door to the stairwell and slipped inside. Adrenaline poured through me, filling me as if I were drinking it. Urging me onward. The sound of voices and the wail of the alarm faded as I pounded down the steps to the ground floor. Strands of hair slapped at my face, momentarily blinding me. I kept moving and finally made it outside. Morning sunlight streamed from the bright Georgia sky, hot and oppressive. Humidity instantly beaded on my skin; gnats buzzed past me.

People roamed the sidewalks, unaware and uncaring of my turmoil. Cars meandered along the streets. Exhaust wafted to my nose, tickling my throat, and I coughed. The cough continued as I stood in place, trying to figure out which way to go.

I guess I should have thought this through a little more. I didn’t know where I was, where I should go, and had no real plan. I didn’t recognize the area, only knew it seemed so open. Glancing left and right, I willed myself to calm. I’d be okay. I’d be okay. I’d be okay. No one looked suspicious.

Coughing, I turned right and walked. Just walked, acting as breezy as I could. Hopefully I could lose myself in the crowds until I oriented myself and-Shit! Rome raced around the far corner of a building, his eyes narrowed on me as if he’d expected to see me. His features blazed with fury.

Despite the heat, my blood chilled. And chilled. And chilled as fear bombarded me. I spun and leapt into a desperate run. Buildings whizzed by me, glazing with ice as I passed. People sidled out of my way, and those that didn’t froze in place. Literally. I wished I could stop it, but couldn’t make the panic go away.

I hadn’t come this far to be captured by Rome. Again. If, in the near future, I decided to work with him and trust him, it would be on my terms. On my time. I would not be forced. I would not be coerced or manipulated.

Brave thoughts for a girl about to be caught.

The ground beneath my feet developed an icy film, and I began to slip and slide, throwing wild glances behind me. Rome, too, was precarious on the ice, yet he appeared to be closer every time I looked. I blamed my uncontrollable coughing, which slowed me down considerably. What was wrong with me? I’d never reacted this way to car fumes before.

Get yourself under control. Don’t think. Don’t feel. Not knowing what else to do as he barreled at me full speed, I stepped into the street. I got my heart rate under control just as a car honked and swerved into the center lane of traffic. Another car, a bright red Viper, screeched to a halt right in front of me.

“Don’t do it,” Rome shouted.

I raced to the passenger side of the vehicle. Thankfully, it didn’t freeze. My emotions were leveling out. Music blared from the speakers, but the driver turned it off when I ripped open the door. He wore an expression of utter surprise and white-hot anger. Uncaring, I bent to throw myself inside. In the next flash, a small dart flew past me and embedded itself in the car. Shocked, puzzled, I whipped my head to the side. A man-none other than the very beautiful man who’d questioned me at the café-stood several feet away, holding a gun. And that gun was aimed directly at me.

Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod. I dived the rest of the way inside the car, then quickly shut and locked the door. Don’t think. Don’t feel. Several more darts hit the window, cracking the glass. I nearly jumped out of my skin. At least my coughing stopped.

The car’s driver shouted several curses and placed the vehicle in Park. I think he meant to physically kick me out. He was a young man (probably a teenager), with blue hair and an eyebrow full of rings.

“Gas it!” I commanded shakily.

He snarled over at me. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get the fuck out of my car.” Another dart hit the window, cracking the glass a little more. “And who the hell is shooting at my window?”

“Drive. Please drive.”

“Get. The fuck. Out! You’re covered in ashes and it’s ruining my leather. I’m calling the cops.” He grabbed a cell phone from the dashboard. “My window looks like a goddamn spiderweb.”

I dared a peek out of said window and could see (from multiple reflections) that Pretty Boy-Vincent, I recalled-was almost upon us. Rome, too, his expression dark with rage. Then Pretty Boy began shooting darts at Rome, but Rome easily ducked them. All the while, both continued toward me.

“She belongs to me,” I heard Pretty Boy say. “The formula inside her belongs to me.”

“Fuck you,” Rome snarled in response.

Pretty Boy laughed. “If you want me gone, you’ll have to give me the girl or kill me. But we both know you won’t do the latter. You can’t. Pussy. Or maybe you’d like to, at last, join me at OASS. Wouldn’t it be nice to finally be on the winning team?”

The driver had been nudging my arm during the entire conversation, trying to get me out of his car, but I maintained a death grip on his dash. All too soon, Pretty Boy tired of Rome and returned his focus to me. He raised his dart gun.

“Drive now,” I said to the Viper’s driver, more desperate than before, “and I’ll make sure you have sex tonight.”

The car jerked into gear and we peeled out.

HERE’S HOW THE NEXT excruciating hour broke down:

After we’d driven a sufficient distance from Rome (leaving him scowling in the street) and Pretty Boy (leaving him to hopefully choke on his dart gun), I asked my punked-out driver to take me to a cheap motel-a suggestion he loved.

I mean, the kid was all smiles. And why wouldn’t he be? I’d offered to sex him up hard core. Someone should lock me up in a padded room and burn the key. But I had to go to a random location, as planned, or risk being found, and a cheap motel was the best my stressed-out brain could think up. How I would have loved to go to my dad’s, instead, to throw myself in his arms and let him sing me to sleep like he’d done for me as a child. But I didn’t want to involve him.

Sunlight poured through the car windows, but the air inside was ice-cold. Not my fault. The kid-what the hell was his name?-had the AC cranked up, blasting it from the vents. I couldn’t get warm. My nipples were hard enough to cut glass.