Incendiary

Chapter 4 - Combustion

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Brian

Michael catches up to me just as I reach my car.

"Where are you going?"

"Wherever it is, you're not invited," I tell him flatly.

"What about Justin?"

I pause a moment and pull the aftercare instructions out of my pocket. "Make sure he gets these." I'm in the driver's seat, about to close the door, when I look up at his concerned face. My voice is only slightly softer when I add, "And make sure he follows them."

I do try to close the door then, only to encounter an uncustomary resistance. I frown as I look to where Michael's holding it open, preventing my escape.

"Come and stay at our place tonight."

I bark a harsh laugh. "Thanks, Mikey, but I'd rather stay in the burned-out loft than in your little corner of homo-heaven with the two happy hubbies."

He frowns, his anger growing in the face of my callousness. "Why do you have to be such an asshole?"

I shrug wearily. "Part of the package. Take it or leave it."

"Is that what Justin's supposed to do? Take it or leave it? Jesus, Brian, he could have died tonight!"

"But he didn't!" I snap back. "As I'm sure you heard, he's not only very much alive, but he's finally come to his fucking senses."

"You going to tell me he was right back there? That all you care about is the tricks? Bullshit. I don't believe it and neither does Justin. He's just upset right now. You both need to calm down and…"

"As much as I'd like to stick around and listen to the patented Dear Mikey response, I've got places to be." I wrench the door from his hands and slam it pointedly. Without sparing him so much as another glance, I'm tearing out of the parking lot.

The street is still jammed with fire and emergency vehicles and I have to park nearly a block away and make my way toward the building on foot.

I talk to the first firefighter I see and he introduces me to another guy with 'chief' emblazoned on his helmet.

"I own the loft on the sixth floor. How bad is it?"

"It's not good news, I'm afraid. The building is structurally sound, but the top floor was gutted. We managed to contain the majority of the fire to that level, but between that, the water and smoke damage, I don't know if there'll be anything worth salvaging."

I nod in acceptance of his words. "Can I go in?"

"I'm afraid not. Possibly tomorrow, once we're sure there are no lingering hot spots."

Another firefighter approaches. "I got the pictures, Chief."

"Pictures?" I repeat.

He takes the camera and scrolls quickly through the different views as he answers. "I 'll file them along with a copy of the investigation and incident reports."

"Mind if I take a look?"

He seems hesitant, then nods, handing me the camera. "The pictures can't look any worse than what you'll see when you go in there."

Slowly, I scroll through the images, stopping when I get to one that shows the interior of the loft. Fuck. Justin was in there, in that. He must have been fucking terrified. Terrified and alone. I swallow the lump in my throat and scroll to the next picture, a closer view of the bedroom, recognizable only by the slightly familiar shapes of the charred furniture.

I can't believe it was only a few short hours ago that I was laying there, trying to come up with a brilliant idea for Remson.

Smoking

I was fucking smoking

Right before I decided that I'd be better inspired at Babylon

I can't tear my eyes off the picture, thinking about what could have happened. New anger surges through me and it's with shaky hands that I finally hand the camera back to the waiting chief.

"You OK?" he asks, his brow furrowed with concern.

"Yeah," I tell him roughly. "Thanks."

I have to swallow the bile rising in my throat as I walk quickly back to the car.

Once inside, I start the engine and consider my next move. Part of me wants to find Justin and tear him a new asshole for doing something so unselfishly stupid. Make him promise me that he'll never again intentionally put himself in harm's way. Not for anything.

Especially not for me.

Still another part wants to just grab him and hold on tight, never letting go, thanking whatever fucking powers are out there that he's safe, that he wasn't permanently disfigured or worse.

Of course, we don't really know that. Minor burns. What the fuck does that mean to someone whose hands are such a big part of who he is? What he does? The slightest loss of tactile sensation due to scarring would mean nothing to me, to most people.

It could mean everything to an artist.

To Justin.

Christ. Why his fucking hands?

I take my phone out of my pocket and dial a familiar number, drumming my fingers impatiently on the steering wheel until my call is answered.

"Hey, it's me. Is he there?"

"Yeah, kiddo, just hold on a second."

"No, wait, I wasn't calling to talk to him." I pause. "I just … wanted to make sure he was there and … OK."

I hear her sigh on the other end of the line and know there's interference on the way.

"He's here and he's fine, considering. But don't you think you should talk to him?"

"Don't you think I've already said enough?" I counter.

"Brian, he…"

"Deb, not now, OK?"

Another sigh. "Ok. But where are you going to go? You know you're welcome to stay here. Vic's bed's a double."

"Thanks, but I've already made other plans."

"Other plans? What kind of fucking plans? Jesus, Brian, your goddamned house just burned down."

"I'm well aware," I tell her sharply. Taking a deep breath, I try to rein in my irritation. "Look, could you just keep an eye on Justin and stop worrying about me?"

"Old habits die hard," she mutters and I smile a little.

"Yeah, I know." Silence stretches between us for a good five seconds, no doubt a record for any conversation involving Debbie Novotny. "Deb?"

"Yeah, kiddo."

"Thanks."

Obviously not what she was expecting. "Are you sure you…"

"I'm sure."

"Ok, then … well… good night, I guess."

"Night."

I click the phone shut and put the car in gear. My night's not over by a long shot.

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