Hannah

 

There's ringing in my ears. Horrible ringing. Despite the pillow over my head designed to block out the light and the overenthusiastic activity of my fellow marketing student, Polly, and her latest squeeze next door, there's no stopping it. Damn!

I reach out and slam my hand down on the alarm. But I miss the stupid thing and start batting about like I'm playing a game of Whack-a-Mole. Only this mole refuses to be whacked.

That's the last time I go out with Amy on a weeknight. It can't be time to get up already; I only just got to bed. And then I remember. I only did just get to bed. Two a.m. is an early night for my bestie any day of the week. I shouldn’t have had that last glass of wine.

That noise won’t go away, and I need to pee. I'm just pulling my ass out of bed, about to wrench the plug out of the wall to shut that stupid alarm clock up, when the door flies open and bangs against the wall. What the hell?

“Can't you hear that, lady?”

The ringing is coming from the hall, not my room. I look up through the gloom, the light filtering in from the corridor. There's a burly, larger-than-life fireman standing there and glowering at me, a pass key in his hand.

And it's only when I notice how hot he is in all his full-geared helmeted glory that I look down and see I'm not wearing much at all. At the same time as I blush in shame, his eyes follow mine and I know without a shadow of a doubt he sees exactly the same thing. A thin camisole that I'm sure wasn't this see-through when I put it on, nipples on alert, and lacy boy shorts that are more sexy than sensible.

A grin rolls over his lips as I cover my chest with my arms and panic all at the same time.

“Is there a fire?” Surely, he wouldn't be looking at me like that if there was a fire. Shouldn't he be putting it out or something? But then this place has false alarms every few days. Students burning their toast usually. Or smoking where they shouldn't be. Getting their asses fined.

“There is.” He's far too calm about it.

“Oh, my god! I've gotta get out of here.” My heart is pounding. Why doesn't he care we're about to get fried?

“I'd put something warmer on if I were you. It's freezing out there. And there's no need to panic. The fire is on the ground floor, and it’s already out by now. Just a guy with a cigarette who fell asleep. He woke up, got out, and set off the alarm. I'm just clearing the rooms of students who thought they'd ignore the alarm. There are always some who think they're too clever to burn like the rest.”

“I didn't... I don't...”

“You're still here, aren't you? You're the fifth student tonight I'll be reporting. And the last, given you're the end room on the top floor. All the rooms are cleared apart from yours.”

“There are so many false alarms. I didn't hear...”

“The one time it's not false could be fatal.” He hands me my robe from the floor, the robe I've been scrambling about to find since he caught me in my underwear.

But crap—floor swallow me up, please. There, right under it, is B.O.B., my trusty battery operated boyfriend. The only action I've seen lately—well, the only action I've seen since that jerk Simon, if the truth were known, six months ago.

If I was blushing before, it's got nothing on the heat coming off my cheeks now. And if only I hadn't gasped he might not have noticed. But of course, I do—a loud gasp of horror and B.O.B. is there between us—definitely noticed and not going to be unnoticed this side of me getting out of that room. For the first time, I curse that single rooms are the norm at Scottish universities. My old friends back in Seattle are always complaining about their roommates.

There's nothing for it. I grab the first footwear I find and stick my feet in my furry granny slippers, a joke present from Amy because she thinks my vagina is getting old and withered before its time. She might not care who she goes home with, but I'm not going to go out with any old creep for the sake of it. The slippers are a bit tattered now but still appropriate, given the B.O.B. situation.

“Great outfit, by the way.” Mr. Hot Firefighter laughs. “Best I've seen all night.”

I go out and he pulls the door closed. I turn to make my way downstairs, strangely excited by his presence behind me. But ugh. I feel like death. I blame Amy.

“Fire exit is the other way,” he says.

“But you said the fire was out.”

“You've got to learn the route for next time when you might not be so lucky.”

I sense him watching me as I turn and plod past him and through the fire safety door in my furry slippers and robe. And somehow, I can’t help imagining a walk of shame of an entirely different kind, the kind you do the morning after in high heels rather than furry slippers.

Mr. Sexy Fireman doesn't seem quite so hot next day, though, when I get a letter with a fifty pound fine shoved under my door from the college authorities for failing to respond to the alarm system. That's all I need with funds already tight.