It’s throwback Thursday!! So today I am throwing back to the first Take It Off novel I wrote: TORCH!

Even after all these years (roughly five!) I still have a special place in my heart for Katie and Holt. This was my very first contemporary romance novel, all the ones previous to this one were paranormal. I remember being so nervous about writing this and feeling strange, but it was so fun. I guess you could say it ignited my love of contemporary romance and suspense. (see what I did there? Torch = Ignited…. #clever).

Torch is the first book in the Take It off series – but remember, you can read the series in any order as they are all standalones!

Below you will find the first two chapters of Torch.

Happy reading!

Chapter One

The pungent smell of gasoline stung my nostrils and my head snapped back in repulsion. I opened my eyes and lifted my hands to place them over my mouth and nose to hopefully barricade some of the overwhelming scent.

Except my hands didn’t obey.

I tried again.

Panic ripped through my middle when I realized my arms weren’t going to obey any kind of command because they were secured behind me.

What the hell?

I looked down over my shoulder, trying to see the thick ropes binding my wrists. The lighting in here was dim.

Wait. Where was I?

My heart started to pound, my breathing coming in shallow, short spurts as I squinted through tearing eyes at the familiar shapes around me. A little bit of calmness washed over me when I realized I was in my home. Home was a place I always felt safe.

But I wasn’t safe. Not right now.

I sat in the center of my living room, tied to my dining room chair. I was supposed to be in bed sleeping. The boxers and T-shirt I wore said so.

I started to struggle, to strain against the binds that held me. I didn’t know what was going on, but I knew enough to realize whatever was happening was not good.

Movement caught my attention and I went still, my eyes darting toward where someone stood.

“Hello?” I said. “Please help me!”

It was so dark I couldn’t make out who it was. They seemed to loom in the distance, standing just inside the entryway, nothing but a dark shadow.

My eyes blinked rapidly, trying to clear the tears flowing down my cheeks. The gasoline smell was so intense. It was like I was sitting in a puddle of the stuff.

“Help me!” I screamed again, wondering why the hell the person just stood there instead of coming to my aid.

The scrape of a match echoed through the darkness, and the catch of a small flame drew my eye. It started out small, reminding me of the fireflies I used to chase when I was a child. But then it grew in intensity, the flame burning brighter, becoming bolder, and it burned down the stick of the match.

The dark shadow held out the matchstick, away from their body, suspending it over the ground for several long seconds.

And then they dropped it.

It fell to the floor like it weighed a thousand pounds and left a small glowing trail in its wake. I watched the flame as it hit the floor, thinking it would fizzle out and the room would be returned to complete blackness.

But the flame didn’t fizzle out.

It ignited.

With a great whoosh, fire burst upward, everything around that little match roaring to life with angry orange flames. I screamed. I didn’t bother asking for help again because it was clear whoever was in this house wasn’t here to help me.

They were here to kill me.

To prove my realization, the dark figure calmly retreated out the front door. The flames on the floor grew rapidly, spreading like a contagious disease up the walls and completely swallowing the front door. The small antique side table by the door, which I’d lovingly scraped, sanded, and painted, caught like it was the driest piece of wood in the center of a forest fire.

Smoke began to fill the rooms, curling closer, making me recoil. How long until the flames came for me?

I began to scream, to call for help, praying one of my neighbors would hear and come to my rescue. Except I knew no one was going to rush into this house to save me. They would all stand out on the lawn at the edge of the street and murmur and point. They would click their tongues and shake their heads, mesmerized by the way the fire claimed my home. And my life.

I wasn’t going to die like this.

I twisted my arms, straining against the corded rope, feeling it cut into my skin, but I kept at it, just needing an inch to slip free.

I tried to stand, to run into the back of the house. If I couldn’t get loose from the chair, I would just take it with me. But my ankles were crossed and tied together.

I called for help again, but the sound was lost in the roaring of the flames. I never realized how loud a fire truly was. I never realized how rapidly it could spread. It was no longer dark in here, the flames lighting up my home like the fourth of July, casting an orange glow over everything. The entire front entryway and stairwell were now engulfed. I could see everything was doused in gasoline; the putrid liquid created a thick trail around the room. Whoever had been here completely drenched this house with the flammable liquid and then set me in the center of it.

I managed to make it to my feet, hunched over with the chair strapped around me. It was difficult to stand with my ankles crossed. But I had to try. I had to get out of here. I took one hobbled step when a cough racked my lungs. I choked and hacked, my lungs searching for clean air to breathe but only filling with more and more pollution.

I made it one step before I fell over, my shoulder taking the brunt of my fall, the chair thumping against the thickness of the carpet. I lay there and coughed, squinting through my moist and blurry vision, staring at the flames… the flames that seemed to stalk me.

They traveled closer, following the path of the gas, snaking through the living room, filling it up and rushing around me until I was almost completely circled with fire. The heat, God, the heat was so intense that sweat slicked my skin, and it made it that much harder to breathe.

It was the kind of heat that smacked into you, that made you dizzy and completely erased all thought from your brain.

I was going to die.

Even if I were able to make it to my feet, I wouldn’t be able to make it through the circle of fire that consumed everything around me.

I pressed my cheek against the carpet, not reveling in its softness, not thinking about the comfort it usually afforded my bare feet. Another round of coughing racked my body. My lungs hurt. God, they hurt so bad. It was like a giant vise squeezed inside my chest, squeezed until all I could think about was oxygen and how much I needed it.

My chin tipped back as I writhed on the floor, making one last attempt at freedom before the flames claimed me completely. I heard the sharp crackling of wood, the banging of something collapsing under the destruction, and I blinked.

This is it.

The last moments of my life.

I’m going to die alone.

I started to hallucinate, the lack of oxygen playing tricks on my fading mind, as a large figure stepped through the flames. Literally walked right through them. He held up his arms, shielding his face and head as he barreled through looking like some hero from an action movie.

My eyes slid closed as my skin began to hurt, like I sat outside in the sun for hours without the protection of sunscreen.

I heard a muffled shout and tried to open my eyes, but they were too heavy. Besides, I preferred the darkness anyway. I didn’t want to watch as my body was burned to death by fire.

Pain screamed through me and the feeling of the carpet against my cheek disappeared. My first thought was to struggle, but my body couldn’t obey my mind. I felt movement, I felt the solidness of someone’s chest, and I could have sworn I heard the sound of a man’s voice.

“Hang on,” he said.

The shattering of glass and the splintering of wood didn’t wake me from the fog that settled over my brain. The scream of pain at my back, the extreme burning and melting that made a cry rip from my throat still wasn’t enough to get my eyes to open.

And then I could hear the piercing wail of sirens, the faraway shouts of men, and the muffled yell of one who was much closer.

I really thought heaven would be more peaceful.

And then I was sailing through the air, the solid wall of whatever held me ripped away. I plunged downward, and with a great slap, I hit water, the icy cold droplets a major shock to my overheated system.

My eyes sprang wide; water invaded them as I tried to make sense of what was happening. I thought I was burning. But now I was… drowning.

The water was dark and it pulled me lower and lower into its depths. I looked up. The surface rippled and glowed orange. I almost died up there. But I would die down here now.

I wanted to swim. My arms, they hurt so badly, but they wanted to push upward, to help me break the surface toward the oxygen my body so desperately needed.

But I was still tied to a chair.

The chair hit the ground—a solid, cold surface—as my hair floated out around me and bubbles discharged from my nose and mouth.

It wasn’t hot here.

It wasn’t loud, but eerily quiet.

It was a different kind of death, but death all the same.

The ripples in the water grew and the chair began to rock. I heard the plunge of something else coming into the water and I looked up. Through the strands of my wayward hair, I saw him again. My hero. His powerful arms pushed through the water in three great stokes. He reached out and grabbed me beneath the shoulder, towing me upward toward the bright surface.

When my head cleared the water, my lungs automatically sucked in blissful air. It hurt so bad, but it was the kind of pain I had to endure. Another cough racked my body, and as I wheezed, the man towing me and my chair through the water said, “Keep breathing. Just keep breathing.”

And then I was being lifted from the water, the chair placed on the cement as I coughed and wheezed and greedily sucked in air.

“Ma’am,” someone was saying. “Ma’am, can you hear me? Are you all right?”

I looked up, blinking the water out of my eyes, but my vision was still blurry. I tried to speak, but all I could manage was another cough.

The ropes around my wrists were tugged, and I cried out. The pain was so intense that I thought I would pass out right there.

“Stay with me,” a calm voice said from behind. It was the same voice that instructed me to keep breathing.

When my arms were free, I sagged forward. The pain splintering through me was too much to bear. And then there were hands at my ankles; I heard the knife against the rope. When I was completely untied, my body fell forward, sliding off the chair and toward the ground.

But he was there.

I slid right into his arms, my body completely boneless.

A low curse slipped from his lips as he yelled for a medic. Yeah, a medic. That seemed like a good idea. I hurt. I hurt all over.

I cried out when he shifted me in his arms, bringing me closer to his chest. I pressed my face against him. He was wet, but his clothes were scratchy against my cheek. I tried to look at him; I opened my eyes and tilted back my head. I caught a flash of dark hair and light eyes, but then my vision faded out, pain took over, and I passed out.

Chapter Two

The problem with passing out is that upon awakening, you had to face the pain of whatever caused you to pass out in the first place all over again. Okay, so the pain wasn’t as bad as it was before, and I figured that was in large part due to the IV sticking out of the back of my hand. I wish they had a pain pill for that because IVs hurt.

I blinked, trying to focus and look around the room. I was in a private room, which was nice. The walls were sterile white; there was a curtain pushed open around the bed and a TV mounted to the wall. The blankets that covered me to my waist were no nonsense and kind of scratchy. Not at all like my pillows and bedding at home.

Home.

The thought brought up a surge of panic. I looked down at my wrists, which were wrapped in layers of white gauze that wound down around the base of my thumbs and then back up again.

Burned.

I was burned.

Images from what happened assaulted me. The match, the fire, the fear. I shifted, wanting to get away from the memories, and a lock of hair slid onto my cheek. It smelled like smoke.

The memory of almost choking to death on smoke made a sound tear from the back of my throat. The monitor off to my right began to beep, and I looked up, the sound helping a little to bring me back to reality.

I was safe.

There was no fire here.

There was no man standing in the shadows with a match.

The door to my room opened and a nurse bustled in. She smiled when she saw me looking at her. “Ah, you’re awake. I’ll get the doctor.” She pressed a couple buttons on the monitor, and the rapid beeping stopped; then she hurried from the room.

There was a dull ache in my shoulder and my skin felt tight everywhere, like it got wet and I was thrown in the dryer, which caused it to shrink around my body. I glanced down at the bandages around my wrists again and wondered how good the drugs they had me on were. As in, how bad was this going to hurt later when I wasn’t taking as much medicine?

I glanced at the water pitcher next to the bed, wondering if there was any water in it. My throat felt so dry, like I hadn’t had any water in days… How long had I been lying here?

I stretched out my arm, reaching for the pitcher, but I didn’t make it very far because every single muscle in my arm and back groaned in protest. But instead of flopping my arm back down, I sat frozen, staring at the red burn on my right hand. The skin was completely crimson, like I stuck my hand out a window and let it roast an entire day in the hot southern sun.

I got burned in the fire.

My brain seemed to be working extra slow because that was just now becoming clear. The bandages obviously hadn’t been enough of an indicator. And the fact that my wrists were bandaged and my hands were not but were still red… Well, that was very telling. Those burns must be worse.

The door to my room opened again. I glanced up expecting a doctor in a white lab coat, carrying a chart. But it wasn’t a doctor. It wasn’t a kind-faced nurse either.

The door swung slowly shut behind him and his footsteps paused when he saw I was staring at him. As if I could look away. Once again, I felt the familiar feeling of my lungs seizing from lack of oxygen. It was like he was some extreme human vacuum that had the ability to suck every ounce of air out of the room.

“You’re awake.” His voice was oxygen to my breathless body. The minute the calm yet strong words passed his lips, my body automatically inhaled. It’s almost like my body knew him—like it recognized him even though my brain screamed it would never forget a single thing about his incredible face. And his words… Did that mean he hadn’t accidentally stumbled into the wrong room on the way to visit his sick and frail grandmother?

Who was I kidding? He didn’t look like the type that would have a sick and frail anything.

He was tall, obscenely taller than I was… He probably stood over six feet (that put him an whole foot taller than me) with very wide shoulders that gave way to lean hips and legs that seemed to go on for miles, only to end with feet the size of Florida. How he found boots to contain those things I would never understand.

Along with his scuffed-up tan boots, he was wearing jeans, a worn gray T-shirt (untucked), and an army-green jacket with about a million pockets on the front. He was dressed like any ordinary guy you would see on the sidewalk or at the mall.

Except he was anything but ordinary.

He was ruggedly casual. He had the kind of look that women of any age would follow with their eyes until he was completely out of sight. It was almost as if he put not a single thought into the way he stepped out of the house.

His dark hair was short but still appeared rumpled. His very strong jaw was covered in stubble, creating a shadow over the bottom part of his face. Above the stubble was a strong nose, heavy dark brows, and eyes… light-blue eyes that seemed out of place with such dark hair and olive-toned skin.

Yet, they weren’t out of place. They were a beacon. Somewhere to focus. Somewhere for my suddenly tilted world to be grounded.

“Are you thirsty?” he said, noticing I was turned and reaching toward the pitcher. He cleared his throat and came quickly across the room, snatching up the pitcher and frowning. “It’s empty.”

I watched, still unable to say a word, as he disappeared into the bathroom where I heard the faucet begin to run. I finally dropped my arm back onto the bed, wincing a little at the pain but feeling more awake than I had since opening my eyes.

The faucet shut off and he strode back into the room, my eyes once again fastening on his face, on his fluid, strong movements. I had no idea who he was, but I certainly enjoyed looking at him. Something began to uncoil in my middle—something warm and pleasant. A feeling that eclipsed the pain and fear of waking up in a hospital room alone and unclear.

“Here,” he prompted softly, placing a straw in the small yellow cup and holding it close to me. His scent wafted close, completely taking over my senses and making me forget my throat was as dry as a desert. It was deep and clean. Very manly. Very powerful without being overwhelming. He cleared his throat, using his thick fingers to bend the straw toward my mouth as he held it still.

My lips parted and the straw found its way between my lips, but my eyes, my stare was held captive by his icy-blue irises. Icy eyes that were far from cold. My body seemed to remember how dry it felt because without me realizing, I drew some water through the straw. It was almost painful going down, and I felt it travel all the way through my throat and spread into my stomach.

I coughed a little, the lukewarm liquid a little startling to my system, and the cup disappeared and the incredibly handsome stranger moved closer, sliding his arm around my shoulder and staring down at me with concern-laced eyes.

“Does anyone know you’re awake?”

“Wh-who are you?” I said. My voice was unusually throaty and low.

The door to my room opened once more. Geez, couldn’t a girl get any privacy with some hottie stranger? It was a fun thought… until I remembered that someone tried to kill me. A stranger.

I jerked away from his touch, biting back a cry of pain.

He straightened and moved away as the doctor moved to the end of the bed, first glancing up at the monitor, which was once again beeping wildly, and then back at me with a polite expression on his face. The nurse was right behind him, coming around to silence the machine once more.

“Miss Parks, it’s good to see you awake. Are you in any pain?”

“Not too much,” I replied, noticing again at the deep tone of my voice. My hand automatically went to my throat.

“The change to your voice is only temporary. You inhaled quite a bit of smoke. You will likely have a sore throat for a while.”

“My hands,” I said, looking up at him.

“How much do you remember?” the doctor asked.

I felt the stranger’s attention sharpen as he stared at me, waiting for my answer. I glanced at him, unsure if I should be talking to my doctor about anything in front of him.

“I’ll just wait outside, in the hall,” he said, clearly noticing my discomfort.

The doctor nodded, but I had to know. “Should I know you?”

He stopped and pivoted. “No, I…” His words trailed away like he wasn’t sure how to explain the fact that he was here.

“He’s the fireman who pulled you out of the house,” the nurse said, excitement lacing her tone like this was some huge scene in one of the soap operas she likely watched.

The doctor cleared his throat and gave her a look full of reproach, and she glanced at the floor guiltily.

Images of the raging fire flashed before me. I felt the heat, the claws of death reaching for me… but then I saw the man—the one I thought had been nothing but a hallucination. He stepped through the flames. He literally walked through a wall of fire to pick me up and carry me to safety.

He was the one who threw me into the pool. While I was tied to a chair.

“You’re him,” I said, not asking because the nurse just said so. She was only too thrilled to spill the beans, so I knew it had to be true.

He nodded.

“Stay,” I heard myself saying. Wait, what?

He didn’t move back into the room. Instead, he leaned against the wall, stuffing his hands into the front pocket of his jeans. I mean, seriously, he looked like he could be in a magazine. Advertising some sexy cologne or perfume. Something by the name of Rogue.

Oh my God, the fire must have melted half my brain cells. I was daydreaming about perfume after waking up from attempted murder.

“Someone tried to kill me,” I told the doctor, looking him straight in the face. The stranger against the wall stiffened but otherwise said nothing, and I didn’t look his way.

“So you remember the fire,” he said, not directly avoiding my words.

“I remember someone trying to burn me alive.”

The doctor frowned and glanced at the nurse, who bustled out of the room quietly. “You can speak with the police about that,” he said. “I’m here to focus on your injuries.”

“How bad are the burns?”

“You have first and second-degree burns, Miss Parks. I would say you were actually very lucky. You have suffered moderate smoke inhalation. As I said, your throat and voice will be affected for a while. You were on oxygen for the first twenty-four hours that you were here, so breathing shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Wait,” I said, “how long have I been here?”

“Four days.”

“Four…” I lost four days. Almost an entire week. That was almost as scary as nearly dying. It was like I did die for four days… four days I would never remember. Four days of being immobile and lost.

“You were very lucky,” the doctor said, interrupting my momentary freak-out.

“Lucky?”

“Your injuries are not serious considering the extent of the fire.” He glanced at the stranger and then back at me. “You have first-degree burns in places on your hands and second-degree burns on your wrists. We kept you heavily sedated for the first couple days to keep you comfortable. But I’m afraid there is still going to be pain. Your skin is damaged. There may be scarring. We are keeping it clean and medicated with antibiotics to help with infection. The dressings must be changed every eight hours. Unfortunately, this will aggravate the pain. The burns on your hands are considerably less and should heal much faster. I’d like to keep you here for another day and, baring no complications or sign or infection, you can leave. I will prescribe you pain medicine for the pain and the nurse will go over how to change your dressings.” He paused with his bad news, then said, “Miss Parks, is there someone that we can contact for you? A relative, a spouse? Someone who will be able to help you during the next few weeks?”

I wanted to say yes. I didn’t want to see the flash of pity that would surely creep into his eyes when I said no. But there was no one. There hadn’t been for a very long time.

“No.”

“I see. Well, in that case, you can come by twice a day to have your bandages changed by the staff.”

“I can manage,” I said a little too harshly.

He nodded curtly. “I would like to examine you now, if that’s okay?”

I nodded.

“I’ll wait outside,” the stranger said and then disappeared.

I suffered through the exam, barely able to concentrate on the doctor or his invasive questions. I couldn’t help but keep glancing at the door, wondering if he had left. Wondering if I would see him again.

After the doctor finished torturing me and poking at the huge bruise covering my shoulder and upper arm (likely from when I fell over in the chair), he took his leave, but not before promising to come back later. Oh, joy.

I heard the deep baritone of a man talking and the doctor giving a short reply. Before the door could completely close, it was pushed open and a dark head appeared. “Can I come in?”

I nodded.

He was carrying a new pitcher of water, identical to the one sitting beside the bed. He gestured toward it. “The nurse gave me some fresh water with ice. It’s probably better than the tap water I gave you,” he said sheepishly.

I was embarrassed to realize I would have drunk sewer water if he were offering it to me.

I watched as he poured me a new glass and transferred the straw from the old cup into the new one and extended it to me. I took it, though curling my fingers around it proved to be harder than I thought, but I did it, proud that I didn’t wince at the pain of my skin stretching over bone.

He regarded me through those crystal-blue eyes as I drank down half of the water. It was icy cold and felt like little needles against my throat, but I continued to drink, my body greedily demanding more.

When I was finished, he took the cup without me asking and placed it on a table that he wheeled right up near my lap.

“You’re a fireman?” I asked. “You’re the one who…?”

He nodded. “I’m a firefighter.”

“You threw me into a pool.” I scowled.

He grinned. “You were on fire.”

“Well, there is that,” I allowed. Talking to him was entirely too easy. Looking at him was entirely too easy. I couldn’t forget the reason he was here. “You saved my life.”

“All in a day’s work,” he said, giving a little shrug.

“Should I call the nurse?” I asked.

Alarm wiped the barely there smirk off his face and stiffened his posture. He leaned a little closer, those eyes sweeping over my body. “Are you in pain?”

“We might need something for swelling,” I replied. “I’ve never seen anyone’s head grow so much so fast.” Was I flirting?

Oh my God, I was totally flirting.

Relief filled his eyes and he grinned. His teeth were bright against the dark of his scruff. “Think she’d give me a sponge bath too?”

The image of him naked and dripping wet with water had the stupid monitor beeping all over again. I hated that stupid thing.

He glanced between me and the monitor, a sly smile curving his lips. When the nurse came in and pressed the button and checked the screen, he winked at me.

He winked.

That small gesture had me clenching my thighs together beneath the scratchy blankets.

After the nurse warned him about too much excitement (I was going to die of embarrassment), we were alone again.

“I have to say…” His eyes gleamed. “You are much more amusing when you’re awake.”

“This isn’t the first time you’ve been here?” I said, all trace of flirting aside.

“I’ve been a couple other times.”

“A couple?”

He shrugged nonchalantly.

“But why?” I blurted before my manners could rear their ugly head.

He seemed to balk at that question, like he wasn’t really sure what to say or how to say it.

“I get it,” I told him. “It’s like some fireman follow-up policy? Checking in to make sure the victim is okay?”

“Yeah, just following up.”

I nodded. “As you can see, I’m going to be fine.”

“You told the doctor someone tried to kill you.”

“Well, I didn’t tie myself to the chair and light my house on fire.”

His fists clenched at his sides, like my words made him angry. The muscles in the side of his jaw ticked—a movement I found very distracting.

“Who would try to kill you?” he asked after a few moments.

“That’s exactly what we would like to know as well,” said a new voice as someone swept into the room.

It was two cops. One female, one male. I had no doubt in my mind that whenever they interrogated someone, the blonde played the good cop and the short, stalky man played the bad cop. “Katie Parks?” the man asked, looking at me.

“Yes.”

“We’re here to discuss the events from four nights ago.”

“That’s my cue to leave,” the fireman said from my side.

I would much rather talk to him than the police.

“And you are?” the female police officer said, pulling out her pad and pen like she was going to write it down. I knew she wasn’t going to. She just wanted to know his name. I really couldn’t blame her.

“Holt. Holt Arkain”

His name sizzled me like a bolt of lightning straight to the heart. I’d never heard that name before, but it fit him so well. Strong yet rugged… casual yet unique.

“You’re the guy who pulled her from the fire,” the male cop said.

Holt nodded.

“You know the victim?”

“Uh, no. I was just…” He glanced at me. “Following up to make sure she was okay.”

Something about the way he said it made me think he was here for more than that. But it must have been the pain meds because the officers nodded and then he was walking out the door… I would probably never see him again.

“Holt?” I said, liking the way his name seemed to slip right into my vocabulary.

He stopped his retreat and looked over his shoulder at me. “Yes?”

“Thank you. For saving my life.”

There it was, that cocky grin again. “My pleasure.”

And then he was gone. I couldn’t help but notice how the “good cop” suddenly looked like the bad one. Perhaps she’d been hoping for his phone number.

I felt a little gleeful knowing she wasn’t going to get it.

Of course, I likely would never see him again either.

All trace of glee went away. In fact, I wave of weariness washed over me. The officer cleared his throat and looked at me expectantly. I didn’t know what I could tell them. I didn’t know anything.

The only thing I knew for sure was that someone wanted me dead.

 

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Torch (Take It Off Book 1)

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Torch: Take It Off, Book 1 

 

 

 

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