Page 10 of Off-Limits Daddy
I was halfway to jokingly telling him to shut up when I heard the first pop.
Not loud, but sharp enough to make me sit up straighter.
“What the?—”
Jon’s screech followed, high and panicked. “Shit, shit?—”
“Jesus Christ,” Cael muttered, already shoving up off the couch and practically launching over the coffee table.
I was right behind him, Kyree and Layton scrambling up next, tripping over each other as they bolted after us.
Another pop—louder this time. A wet, angry crack hitting something it shouldn’t.
The smell hit. Thick, heavy, greasy. The kind of smell that clings to your hair for days. And then smoke. Not much at first. Just a curling ribbon spilling around the entrance of the kitchen.
Jon stood frozen by the stove, spatula hanging useless, panic wide across his face. Flames licked up the wall behind the burners, turning cheap wallpaper into bubbling plastic, spitting oil in violent pops.
“What the hell, bro?!” Cael barked, shoving Jon out of the way with a wild swipe of his arm.
“I didn’t know it was gonna dothat!” Jon shrieked, stumbling sideways. “It said pan fry on the package!”
“Yeah,afteryou defrost it!” Cael snapped. He tried grabbing the handle, barehanded. His shout of pain snapped like a whip.
Kyree coughed hard behind me, dragging his shirt up over his nose. “What the fuck?—”
“Water,” Layton said, eyes wide. “Do we throw water on it?”
“NO!” Cael and I shouted together.
The smoke alarm finally started screaming overhead, way too late to be useful.
I was already scanning the room for something—anything—that could help. Dish towel? No, too flammable. Fire extinguisher? Did Cael evenownone?
No, probably not.
Then the banging started.
“Cael! Open up!”
The sound of his voice hit low in my chest, like a chord struck too hard, the vibration reverberating under my ribs.
Daddy.
“What the fuck—” Layton started, but before he could finish, the door shoved open with a jolt, the frame rattling against the hinges. Old wood, swollen from too many humid summers, made it louder than it needed to be, but it wasn’t locked.
Bootsteps—heavy, sure—crossed the threshold.
And then he wasfilling the entrance of the kitchen. Backward ball cap on, sweat darkening the neckline of his T-shirt, expression flat except for that flicker of something brewing behind his eyes.
That old ache curled low in my stomach—not the raw, wild crush of sixteen-year-old me, but something older, worn-in. I hated that I still felt it at all.
One glance, that’s all he needed. His eyes swept the kitchen—pan, flames licking up, smoke curling greasy around the ceiling.
“Everybody out.Now.”
His voice was calm. Calm in that way that made you listen.
Jon was already halfway to the entrance. Kyree pulled at Layton’s sleeve, dragging him along.
