Emergency: Wife Needed

Another explosion got Phoebe moving again and Max followed her down the stairs.

The cellar wasn’t huge and the floor space they had at their disposal wasn’t much bigger than a hospital lift. The others were already sitting on the floor in a semi-circle, Mitch, Steve, Cookie, Malcolm, Marg and Nifty. Benji was lying in Marg’s lap, opposite Steve.

Despite the fact the cellar was several degrees cooler than the rest of the house, it was still hot. Max knew his thick fireproof clothing didn’t help matters but he was reluctant to remove his jacket, its protective qualities were too important. His crew were all still wearing their full kits, too, and the others had thick woollen blankets over their shoulders. Everyone would be feeling the heat.

Max wrapped a spare blanket around Phoebe, taking care to leave a decent portion of it around her shoulders. ‘Pull this over your head if I tell you to.’

She nodded, and he could sense the nervous tension running through her. Her shoulders were tense, her back rigid, but, like all of them, she was maintaining a calm façade.

He put his oxygen cylinder on the floor and sat in the only free space at the base of the stairs, pulling Phoebe down with him. Each member of his crew would need to share their tank with a civilian—the reason Mitch, Cookie and Nifty had positioned themselves where they were.

Max checked his watch again—4.10 p.m. the fire front must be almost on them. It was becoming more difficult to breathe as the fire sucked all the oxygen from the air. They needed to conserve their energy and that meant keeping their chatter to a minimum. He held up the auxiliary mouthpieces and spoke to the people huddled around him.

‘We’ll share our oxygen with you—you’ll need to breathe through these mouthpieces. Just breathe normally through your mouth, regular breaths.’

Max settled Phoebe between his knees, her back tucked against his front. The auxiliary line was short and the lack of space meant they couldn’t sit face to face and for that Max was grateful as he knew he’d find that too distracting. He opened the valve on his cylinder, pulled his mask over his face and then handed the auxiliary mouthpiece to Phoebe.

He checked the room—from what he could see in the torchlight, everyone appeared to be breathing comfortably. They might not need supplementary oxygen but Max figured the unusual activity gave everyone something else to concentrate on and would hopefully serve to keep their minds off the bushfire.

Phoebe shifted her position slightly, the movement momentarily pushing her bottom further into Max’s lap, before she settled into a more comfortable spot. One that didn’t leave her pressed into his groin. The cellar might just be large enough to accommodate four firefighters, four adult civilians and one child but it wasn’t big enough for him to escape his growing awareness of one very womanly woman.

He was caught between a rock and a hard place, although he wasn’t complaining. Since this was the situation they were in, at least he was the one who had the opportunity to reassure Phoebe. Then again, maybe it was a cruel joke. They were in a situation he was all too aware could spell death for all involved, he was holding a woman he was seriously attracted to, and they were stuck in a cellar with a mob of other people, meaning there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about acting on his attraction. He looked around for a distraction, anything to get his mind off the round firmness of Phoebe’s backside as she shifted again to tuck the blanket underneath her.

But there were no other distractions. There was nothing to do but sit and wait. The breathing apparatus made conversation impossible so there was literally nothing left to do except sit and think.

He checked his watch for the third time—4.20 p.m. Fifteen minutes had passed. He’d give the fire another five minutes before checking the situation. By then they’d either be safe or—He didn’t want to think about the alternative.

Phoebe’s blonde hair was shining in the dim light, reflecting the meagre light of the torches. She looked golden and perfect, epitomising everything that was good in the world, and he promised himself then and there that if they survived the day, he’d ask her out.