Page 4 of Strike
In the room beyond, I stumbled. A woman was lying on the floor, her cheeks smeared with dirt and what looked like paint. Beside her, a can had been knocked over, and it had spread across the floor. She’d been painting in here when the fire broke out.
There was no more shop to explore. This was it. She was the only person trapped in here.
“Help…Help…” she cried, her eyes attempting to focus on me. Then she went limp, her cheek returning to the floor.
“Fuck,” I cursed, kneeling beside her. Had she suffocated? Was I too late?
Pressing my fingers against her neck, I felt a faint pulse.
“I’m stuck…” the woman said with a raspy voice, stirring at my touch. “The thing… The fire was…too hot…”
“I’ve got you,” I said. “You’ll be out of here in no time.”
Shoving my arms underneath her, I lifted her clear off the ground and cradled her against my chest. She was completely out of it, her limbs limp and her eyes glassy.
Meeting her gaze, I hesitated. Her eyes were green like…like I don’t know what. Moss, grass…a rainforest. Her ash-blonde hair was like nothing I’d ever seen before. Her skin was pale and perfect, and her lips were pink. She looked like a china doll. Delicate. Feminine.
“The door’s stuck,” she said.
I glanced up and saw the door through the smoke, and immediately, I saw the problem. Someone had painted it closed, and that was why it wouldn’t open. Morons.
Holding her tight, I kicked, my boot colliding with the wood. It splintered a little, and then I kicked it again. It burst open, letting in a rush of cool, clean air, and I hurried through into the lane beyond.
Outside, the fire trucks had arrived, their sirens and lights flashing. Hoses had been deployed, and men in their bright yellow uniforms were hurrying around, trying to get the blaze under control.
“Oh, God,” the woman muttered, shock beginning to set in. “Oh, fuck…”
“You’re okay,” I murmured against her hair as we moved up the lane. “You’re safe now.”
Striding toward the closest rig, I caught the attention of a firefighter.
“Sir… Miss…” he began, his eyes wide with shock as he saw us approach.
“She’s inhaled a lot of smoke,” I said, setting the woman on her feet.
The guy nodded, wrapping his arm around the woman’s shoulders. “Let’s get you on some oxygen. An ambulance is on the way.”
Shoving my hands into my pockets, I watched him lead her away and retrieve a first aid kit from the truck. A moment later, he took out a small tank of oxygen and eased a mask over her beautiful blonde hair. Her slender fingers wrapped around the apparatus and held it over her nose and mouth as the firefighter wrapped her in a blanket.
He glanced at me, and I held up my hand. I was fine. A little insane, but I was fine.
Why the fuck did I just run into that building and drag a woman out of a raging inferno? Because she would’ve died if I didn’t take a risk. It was that simple. There was no other reason.
She was safe now. She was safe, and that was all that mattered. It was time to walk away before I got embroiled in a situation that would wind up spread all over the newspapers. I could see the headlines now. Disgraced UFC fighter, Mark Ryder, spotted saving a woman from a burning building. No one would give a shit anyway. They would all accuse me of staging it as a publicity stunt to repair my reputation.
I wasn’t the kind of guy who stood up on a stage and had a medal handed to him. I wasn’t the kind of guy who went out of his way to be a hero for kicks. I didn’t want points or accolades. I was the kind of guy who just disappeared.
I didn’t want fame or fortune anymore. I wanted obscurity.
So, I disappeared.
3
Callie
Isatup in a bed in the emergency department at St. Vincent’s hospital, my mind swirling.
Chestnut eyes. Sad, pained, chestnut-colored eyes.
