After The Flames (Hope Harbour #2)

Chapter One

Gage

C hecking the time on my watch, I see that the bar’s been open for an hour. The place isn’t busy yet, but I’m hoping for more customers. With the way things are going, it’ll be difficult to stay in business if I can’t make enough money to cover my expenses.

While I’m grateful for those who still come here instead of staying home, the small amount of money we take in each night is barely enough to cover the daily overhead. When I first came to this town six years ago, I could tell this bar was in trouble as soon as I walked through the doors.

At thirty-three, I had a background in construction but couldn’t always count on job security once projects were finished, which often left me desperate for money. I sometimes felt like I could have achieved more in life, but somehow, I’ve always managed to stay afloat and make ends meet, which was enough for me—until it wasn’t.

I grew tired of the routine and monotony, feeling bored with the town I called home. And once I’d parted ways with Brad, my secret, long-term boyfriend, I became increasingly frustrated with my cramped, subpar, one-room apartment. I found myself spending more time in the damp and moldy room, which gave me ample opportunity to reflect on my life. Brad, who worked as a lawyer, didn’t really consider me a ‘ good match ’ for his luxurious lifestyle—except, of course, for the times when I sucked his dick or he required me to house-sit his three-bedroom property during his work trips. I wasn’t na?ve enough to think he wasn’t getting dick from other men while he was away from me, which is why I’m a wrap-it-up-and-get-tested-frequently kinda guy. In all fairness, I allowed this shit show of a relationship to go on for eight years because it was convenient for both of us.

He was ten years older than me but ensured my security by generously providing me with nice things, paying for my less-than-desirable apartment, cooking for us, and taking me out to fancy meals… albeit three towns over to avoid any chance of being seen with me.

Unfortunately, he broke off our relationship with no consideration for me, using his promotion and subsequent move from Boston to New York as his justification for the breakup.

His abrupt decision to break off our relationship, or whatever the hell you wanna call it, without regard for how I might’ve felt about it, left me feeling a bit rejected and cast aside. It sucks. Brad was selling his house, moving on, so I decided I was gonna move on too.

When my mom’s sister, Aunt Petunia, asked me to come help her in Hope Harbour, Maine, it was the escape and new beginning I needed, so I eagerly accepted the opportunity.

When I arrived at the bar that first day, its neglected state and badly needed improvements didn’t escape my notice. But Aunt P assured me she was on top of it and getting things sorted. And I was just so happy to be in a different environment that I kinda ignored it. It wasn’t until I became the owner four years ago that I truly understood the magnitude of the renovations it needed.

Aunt Petunia had smoked excessively for years, so her death from lung cancer wasn’t entirely unexpected. With her bright purple hair and loudmouth, her absence was not only sad, but a great loss to this town as well.

Standing at four-foot-ten, she commanded attention and respect. So, when she assured me not to fret about the state of the bar, I trusted she had everything under control, not to mention I didn’t dare provoke her fiery temper. With just a glance, she had the power to diffuse a bar fight, freezing even a fly in its path.

Despite her faults and lack of renovation skills, she was consistently kind and willing to help anyone who needed it. She had a playful personality, which I suspect I inherited from her. She had a knack for being brutally honest, whether or not you wanted to hear it—or at least, that’s what I believed.

On certain days, it feels like I can almost smell the faint remnants of her cigarette in the bar, wafting from the unoccupied stool to my right, where she would spend hours watching people. Liquid Hope is a non-smoking bar now, so the scent kinda spooks me, like she’s keeping an eye on me.

“Yeah, Aunt P, I’m still here, surrounded by the mess you left behind,” I mutter to the vacant stool. If she were here now, she would be cackling at me.

So here I am, still struggling.

There are times when I contemplate selling the bar and starting fresh elsewhere. Even though I would have nothing, selling this place and moving on would still be an improvement compared to the shit I’m currently dealing with. Still, I realize that this town is an excellent place to call home, with genuine, good-hearted individuals, and that in itself is enough to keep me here. I’m thankful for having a place to live, my apartment over the bar, and I’m fortunate to have the friendship of Maxwell and his partner, Jaxon—even if they hate my sense of humor most of the time.

Life’s great when I ignore all my problems.

While I’m using my rag to wipe down the bar, I notice another smell, not quite smoke, but more like the scent of burnt plastic. Making my way to the kitchen at the back, I find Jax preparing the chowder for tonight.

“Hey, what ya up to? Did you burn something?” Jax frequently stops by to lend a hand to Bert and immerse himself in the art of chowder making, as he enjoys preparing meals for his man.

Jax turns from the double stove, his hair neatly tucked under a hairnet, wearing an apron with a cheeky slogan across the front that reads, ‘ Once you taste my meat, you won’t be able to resist swallowing .’ I chuckle.

“You don’t get to say anything about it, seeing as you’re the one who bought it.” He scowls and points at the hairnet. “As for this, you might be okay with finding hair in your food, but I’m not.”

With my hands raised in surrender, I quickly defend myself. “I said nothing.”

“Yeah, well, I could see you were about to.”

“Where’s Bert? Isn’t he supposed to be helping you?”

“He’s out back on his break.”

Turning, Jax stirs the large, deliciousness-filled pot. I’ve always enjoyed Bert’s chowder. Aunt P had casually—perhaps too casually—mentioned that he started working in the kitchen when she took over. Aunt P was a sly and mysterious woman, always harboring secrets and I’m still not completely convinced that they didn’t have a romantic relationship. Bert remains tight-lipped about it, leaving me forever curious.

“Smells amazing. I can’t wait for a bowl.” I grab a clean spoon to scoop a little bit.

“Get the hell away from the food. You can wait your turn,” Jax says, slamming the lid back on the pot.

“Gotta sample it. Who knows if you put poison in it? Don’t want my customers dropping dead.”

He feigns disgust. “I’ll poison you if you keep that up.”

Just then Bert comes in. “What’s that smell?”

“I knew I could smell something. That’s why I came in here. Thought you two had burned a pot.”

“Jeez kid, I ain’t burned nothin’ in my life and I ain’t ‘bout to start now. Don’t smell right, though.”

Bert, with his full head of white hair and matching mustache, is in his seventies. He stands around five-foot-seven, weighs about hundred and fifty pounds, and possesses the strength of an ox while remaining as sharp as a whistle. If he says something’s not right, then it probably isn’t.

“I’ll go take a look around. Jax, can you keep an eye on the bar for me?”

Removing his hairnet and apron, he’s already heading through the doors. “Sure, no problem.”

I start by double-checking the kitchen, but the faint aroma isn’t coming from here. So, instead, I head out to the back, where Bert had been enjoying his break. Outside, there’s a door to the cellar on the left, as well as several plastic chairs and some large bins. As I head down, I carefully maneuver around the rows of beer crates and barrels. Since the only aroma down here is that of stale hops, I leave, closing the door behind me, and make my way back to the kitchen. My next stop is the door that opens into a dimly lit hallway that takes me to the back stairs of my apartment. The smell is much stronger out here, which leads me to the fuse box. I come to a stop. Shit, it’s smoking! The burning plastic smell is powerful and gets worse by the second.

Pulling on the handle of the panel, I’m greeted by strong, acrid smoke that fills the air.

Panic engulfs me. I’m acutely aware of the sparking chaos inside. Moving swiftly now, I push open the door to the bar, but my heart skips a beat as a sudden whoosh fills the air, and flames burst upward violently.

As I enter the bar in a hurry, my voice echoes through the room as I scream, “Everyone, out now! There’s a fire!”

Turning to Jax, I urgently plead, “Come on, help me get everyone out of here!” The cacophony of scraping chairs and hurried footsteps fills the room as we guide the few customers toward the exits, while my heart pounds in my chest.

“I think that’s everyone,” Jax says, his voice muffled by the thick smoke that’s now engulfing the bar.

“Get out of here. I’m gonna check the restrooms.”

With his hand pressed against his mouth, he pleads with me to leave. “No, let’s just go.”

“Can’t, Jax. I need to go check.”

Just then, the sound of coughing reaches our ears, and we turn to see a disheveled Bert emerging from the kitchen door. The two of us rush toward him and lead him to the exit.

“Jax, make sure he’s okay. I’m heading back in.”

“No Gage,” he says, his voice raspy from coughing.

“Don’t worry about me. Just call 9-1-1.”

I don’t give him a chance to answer. Pulling off my white tee, I scrunch it up and hold it over my nose and mouth. Rushing toward the men’s washroom, I scan it quickly to ensure no one is inside. Then, I hurry back through the bar toward the women’s washroom, the scent of smoke growing stronger with each step. With the washrooms empty, the sound of crackling flames breaks the silence as I remember the extinguisher behind the bar. I quickly tie my shirt around my face for protection against the smoke and sprint toward it, pulling the safety clip off as I burst through the door toward the flames.

With force, I squeeze the handles together and direct the nozzle toward the flames. Even through my shirt, the potent smell of smoke fills my nostrils, making it increasingly difficult to catch my breath, but I refuse to give up in my quest to put out the fire. Flames lick at the jackets hanging beside the panel, filling the air with suffocating heat. The flames loom larger, growing in intensity, making it clear the extinguisher is insufficient. Backing away, I’m caught off guard as the fire suddenly lashes out. A stinging sensation in my forearm has me dropping the extinguisher, the scent of burned flesh now mingling with the smoke. Just as I turn to leave, two firefighters burst through the door, armed with a hose, ready to confront the flames.

“Come with me.” The voice barely reaches my ears through the NOMEX face shield. With his arm around me, the firefighter hurries me out the door, and I’m immediately greeted by a chaotic scene of flashing lights and gawking onlookers.

As I gasp for breath, I hastily yank the shirt down my face and bend over, resting my hands on my thighs, allowing the fresh air to fill my lungs. The sounds and lights all around engulf me in a blurred symphony, making everything seem both loud and muffled. Amidst the chaos, I can distinguish a man’s voice desperately calling for someone, a firefighter maybe, or someone looking for a loved one, while another voice urgently summons a paramedic to bring a stretcher.

Standing up, I put my shirt back on as goosebumps cover my body. Just then, an oxygen mask is secured onto my face, and I take in long, satisfying breaths, savoring the blissful air filling my starved lungs. My head feels light, almost as if it’s floating, and then I’m hit with another coughing fit.

“Please take a seat here, sir,” the EMT suggests. I look at her, standing tall in her navy uniform, with her brown curly hair neatly pulled back, her pretty brown eyes mirroring the shade of her skin, and she points. I turn, following the direction of her finger, seeing there’s a stretcher right behind me.

While she attaches a monitor to my finger, she gives me a gentle smile and asks what my name is.

“Gage,” I answer, voice muffled through the mask.

“Nice to meet you, Gage. If you could, please lie back now. I’m going to secure you with straps so that my colleague and I can transport you safely to the ambulance.”

The badge she wears displays her name in bold lettering; Lynn.

The other EMT, Sam, introduces himself with a warm greeting. Dressed in the same uniform, he stands a foot taller than Lynn and has a calm, friendly expression on his face.

“Just keep taking deep breaths. It might get a little bumpy, but don’t worry, we’ll get you there in one piece,” he says, smiling. Sam pulls the end of the stretcher as Lynn pushes toward the waiting ambulance.

I’m still feeling a bit shaken, but the oxygen is providing relief, and now that we’re settled in the back of the ambulance, I’ve started to feel better.

“Gage?” I direct my attention to Lynn.

“I’m just going to shine this light in your eyes. Sam, could you do me a favor and hand me the medical bag?” she requests with a smile. “Let’s get this young man taken care of.”

“Yep, I’ll get on it now,” he replies.

“Just give me a second to inspect this burn; it looks like you’ve hurt yourself pretty badly.”

With a downward glance, my attention is immediately drawn to the angry red skin on my lower right arm, measuring approximately twelve inches long. The skin is blistering, and although it doesn’t look pleasant, strangely, I don’t feel anything.

“How’s your pain, honey? Do you need any relief?”

“Nah, I’m good. Don’t feel a thing.”

“The adrenaline pumping through your body is masking the pain for now, but it won’t last. Just give me a heads up if it becomes painful, all right?”

I nod in response.

“Can you tell me your birth date?”

“July tenth, nineteen eighty-five,” I say in between bursts of coughing.

“So that makes you... thirty-nine?” I nod.

“Do you have any allergies?” I shake my head.

“What is your last name?”

“Miller.”

“Experiencing any headache? Nausea? Sore throat? Dizziness?”

“My throat feels scratchy, but I’m ok. I’m starting to feel a bit better now.”

“That’s good,” she says. “It means the oxygen is doing its job. Keep the mask on, okay?”

I look past Sam as he moves over from where he’s been filling out forms. Fantastic; yet another thing I have to stress over—figuring out how I’ll cover these medical expenses.

Lights continue to flash outside, but the smoky atmosphere diminishes their visibility. There’s a crowd standing behind the taped-off section. This is an absolute disaster, and I bear the sole responsibility for it. Fuck.

Sitting upright, I pull down my mask, asking, “What about my bar?”

“The building is currently being cleared, but don’t worry about that at the moment. Focus on your breathing,” Lynn tells me.

“Yeah, but...”

“Mr. Miller, it’s important that you keep the mask on, as you’re suffering from smoke inhalation.” She places it back on my face. “Let’s wrap your burn. On a scale of 1 to 10, how would you rate your pain now?”

“I’m fine,” I cough.

“Mhm, well, let’s see if you change your mind once I’ve finished wrapping it up. Sam, could you please call to let Lady Margaret’s know we’ll be there soon?”

“No problem,” he says as he jumps out.

“I’ll be as gentle as I can. I’m going to apply a dressing and then wrap it. How are you feeling?”

“Much better,” I inform her. Max suddenly appears, his eyes wide with panic.

“Are you okay, Gage?” he shouts.

“Yeah,” I cough, pulling the mask off. “Some…smoke inhalation. A minor burn…all good,” I offer him a weak smile, hoping to convey I’m fine, but he just looks pissed.

“It’s not good, Gage. The fucking bar is on fire. I warned you that this would happen; you should’ve taken care of it. Why didn’t you take care of it?” he shouts at me angrily, and I get it. It’s my fault.

“I understand, okay...” I cough. “I’m fucking stupid…but it isn’t as simple as that.” Talking like this has me coughing and struggling to breathe.

“Excuse me, sir,” Lynn says in her stern voice. “You need to leave. You’re getting him all worked up, and he needs to keep his mask on. We’re going to take him to Lady Margaret’s.”

Still coughing, I put the mask back on.

“Gage, did you see Jaxon?” Max pleads with his eyes for me to say he’s fine and safe, but I can’t confirm that, even though I saw him leave the bar.

“Earlier,” I say, my voice raspy.

“Was he inside?”

I just nod and then realize the guy he’s fallen for was in my bar helping out and how I could have killed him, killed us all with my pride, because I was too much of a coward to tell anyone that I’m struggling. “He was…helping…Bert...”

I can see he’s trying to be a good friend, trying to decide if he should stay with me or go find Jax. But he loves Jaxon. Anyone can see it, so I give him a reprieve from his friendship duties. It’s the least I can do after putting Jax in danger.

“Go…I’ll be fine. Find him.” The struggle of emotions crosses his face, but with his decision made, he says, “Keep me posted, okay?”

Nodding, I watch him run off.

“I think I need those pain meds now.” Resting back on the stretcher, I close my eyes, trying to block out the chaos that I’ve caused. Pain spreads through my arm, growing stronger and more pronounced with each passing second.