Incendiary

Chapter 7 - Backdraft

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BRIAN

I open my eyes to see Ted looking down at me, not even trying to hide the smile of amusement on his face.

"Let me guess, Justin kicked you out of the loft."

I pull myself to sit upright on the sofa and rub a hand across my face. When the fuck did I fall asleep, anyway? Seeing Ted still looking at me with that smug, knowing smile, I get a rather perverse urge to wipe it off his face. "Why, Theodore, is that any way to talk to a man who's just been burned out of house and home?"

Without waiting for a reaction, I'm on my feet and pushing past him toward the door. "Cynthia!"

"What is it, Brian?" she asks, her frown a mixture of concern and annoyance.

"Coffee."

She grumbles something and moves off to fulfill my request. Demand, in this case. When I turn around, Ted is still staring at me but with confusion where the glee once was.

"What do you mean, burned out of house and home?"

I level a feigned look of incredulity in his direction. "I'm surprised you haven't heard. A landmark of such historic and hedonistic importance doesn't go up in flames every day."

"Cut the crap, Brian." He's looking decidedly irritated now. Much better. "Are you telling me the loft burned down?"

"Down, out, whatever the fuck. The building's still standing, but the interior is but a blackened shell of its former self. Now, if that concludes the current events portion of our program, do you think maybe you could get me the files on the Bronson account?"

"Was anyone hurt? Justin?"

"In more ways than one," I mutter. And I know it's true. I know how he feels about the tricking, or at least the frequency with which I've been doing it lately. I also know that hearing I was with a trick while he was thinking I was dead or dying only added salt to the wounds.

"Jesus. Is he all right?"

I sigh and resign myself to the fact that I won't be getting the Bronson files until I answer his questions. Not that I couldn't silence him with a carefully turned phrase or two, but he's a friend. A concerned friend at the moment. "He'll be fine. He burned his hands but the doctor says it's nothing serious."

"Where is he now?"

"Under the watchful eye of nurse Florence Novotny, where else?"

He's shaking his head slowly now as though unable to believe it's true. Welcome to the club, pal.

"Jesus, Brian. I can't believe it."

"Well, believe it. I'll need you to give the Bronson presentation this morning."

"Me?"

"Yes, you. As you might imagine, I've got a shitload of stuff to take care of today."

"Of course," he says, nodding his head. "Sorry, Bri, I just…it seems so surreal."

I sigh again. "I'm sure it will feel real enough when I'm picking my way through Armani ashes."

"At least no one was killed."

No. The only fatality was possibly the fucked-up relationship I never really wanted in the first place. The one I no longer want to live without, though I'd cut off my other ball before admitting to that. "Theodore? The Bronson files?"

He hurries out of the office just as Cynthia is entering with my coffee.

"What bug got up your ass this morning?" she asks in an icy tone. "I'm your assistant, not your servant."

My look is obviously contrite enough as her expression softens somewhat. "Bad night," is all I say in way of an apology.

"Anything I can do?"

I look at the documents spread out on my desk. Here we go again. Doesn't anyone watch the fucking news anymore? "There was a fire at the loft. If any calls come in concerning that, put them right through. If I'm not here, call me on my cell and I'll call them back."

"A fire? How bad?"

I really need to either gather everyone together or put it on a fucking CD that they can play to their hearts' content in my absence. "The loft was destroyed." I debate not telling her about Justin, but I know she'll chew me a new asshole if he shows up swathed in bandages. "Justin suffered some minor burns to his hands, but other than that, he's fine."

"Well, that's good," she says with genuine relief.

"Yeah. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to get in touch with the insurance people and then I'm heading over to the loft. Or whatever the fuck is left of it."

"Is Ted doing the Bronson presentation?"

I nod. "We've practically already got the account. I don't foresee any problems."

"Ok. Let me know if there's anything else I can do."

"Thanks."

Once she's gone, I take a moment to collect my thoughts before picking up the phone.

Nearly twenty minutes later, I hang up, having received all the information and advice I need from the insurance company. Make a list of what's been lost. Like I didn't fucking know that. My mind inevitably wanders back to the last time I had to make such a list. Justin was half way to New York at the time and Lindsay was trying to convince me that he was the most important thing I'd lost. I can still see his name scrawled across my neatly itemized inventory.

Now, another list, and once again, Justin's name belongs at the fucking top. I'm not naïve enough to think I've lost him just because of what happened last night. It was more a catalyst than anything. It only served to speed up a process that was set in place long before the fucking fire. Things have been slowly going to shit since he got back from Los Angeles.

And that's only because he came back… different. He's not a kid anymore. Some might argue he never really was. Sure, he was mature and had more balls than most men twice his age, but he was still young, impressionable, wanting to learn everything he needed to know about being a man and wanting me to be the one to teach him. And I did. Or maybe life did. Either way, he learned his fucking lessons well. He is a man now, a man who knows exactly what he wants and won't let anything stand in the way of him getting it.

And I realize that while I was busy teaching him to be the best homosexual he could be, I wasn't preparing myself for the day when I'd reap the fruits of my labour. When he'd become what I'd been grooming him to be. A better homosexual, Hell, a better man than I'll ever be.

And I can feel him growing impatient as he waits in vain for me to catch up.

"Here you go, Bri," Ted says, mercifully, albeit unknowingly, pulling me from my thoughts.

I look through the files and nod in satisfaction. "The art boards are ready. I signed off on them last night before I left. Pick them up from Andy and have Cynthia set them up in the small conference room. Bronson likes things 'cozy'." I can barely keep the grimace from my face as I repeat the word, but Bronson's account is worth a lot of money and if he feels more comfortable in what he considers a 'cozy' setting, the least I can do is give him the smaller of the two conference rooms.

"No problem," Ted's saying, looking through the presentation folder. "If I have any problems…"

"Don't have any problems," I cut him off with a warning. "All you have to do is show him the boards and give him the spiel. Nobody could possibly fuck that up, Theodore, not even you."

He nods with a nervous smile and I feel the need to offer something in the form of more positive encouragement. Sometimes I fucking hate being the boss. "You'll do fine," I tell him, my voice slightly softer. "Dandy Lube was a far more difficult presentation and you pulled it off without a hitch."

His smile is a proud one now. My work here is done.

When I pull up across the street from the loft, I have to take a moment to acquaint myself with the sight. Soot darkens the brick, especially above my sixth floor windows which, I note, are almost all broken. The street level door is propped open and there's a car with official insignia emblazoned on the door parked directly out front. Taking a deep breath, I get out of the car and walk across the street.

The stairway is littered with debris, most of it sopping wet, and I grimace a little as the acrid smell of smoke and burning objects assaults my senses. It gets stronger the higher I climb, clinging to the walls, the stairs, the very air. When I reach the sixth floor landing it's more subdued, more a lingering reminder than an overwhelming presence. Due, no doubt, to the fact that all the fucking windows are broken.

As soon as I step into the loft, a man in a black windbreaker turns to face me.

"May I help you?"

"I'm Brian Kinney. This is my … place."

He moves forward to shake my hand. "Tom Gibson from the Fire Marshal's Office. I'm sorry for your misfortune."

I only nod my head in response, wondering if he rehearses that line in front of the mirror every morning. If his friends actually call him 'Tom Gibson from the Fire Marshal's Office'. "Do you know anything yet?"

"I can tell you where it started."

Here it comes.

"Right up there in the bedroom."

Fuck. All I can hear in my head is Justin telling me over and over again how dangerous it is to smoke in bed. Well, that's not exactly all I hear. I also hear myself telling him that I'm a responsible adult and to fucking get off my back about it. Now this guy, this Tom Gibson from the Fire Marshal's Office is about to refute my claim.

"…electrical outlet."

What?

"What?"

He motions for me to join him and we step up into the bedroom.

He points to the electrical outlet beside the bed. "According to the burn patterns, it originated here. We'll have to investigate further to determine the actual cause, but this is definitely the point of origin in regards to your apartment."

The fucking outlet. Not the bed or even the ashtray. The fucking outlet.

"Once we've concluded our investigation, you'll be notified of our specific findings, but it appears to be electrical in nature."

"Thank you." I know I shouldn't feel such relief; the place was still destroyed, after all, but I can't help but feel glad that it wasn't careless stupidity on my part.

He walks away to finish his job, whatever else that may entail, and I find myself wandering around the place as though in a daze. I open the closet to see an expanse of ruined suits, Prada boots and Gucci shirts. Between the smoke and water, nothing escaped unscathed. Tom calls for my attention when he's ready to leave, telling me they'll be giving a copy of the report to the insurance company. I thank him again and watch as he exits the apartment before returning to my dismal inventory.

There's really nothing left and I finally give up hope that anything can actually be saved. A flash of colour catches my eye and I bend down to pick up what's left of a picture frame, Gus' features barely recognizable courtesy of excessive heat and water. My back is to the door so it's no real surprise that I don't realize anyone is standing there until I hear a voice.

"Brian."

I turn to face him and a wave of relief and anger sweeps over me anew. Relief that he's standing there, alive and relatively well. Anger that he was ever in danger in the first place. Unwilling to show him what's in my eyes, I turn away. This is it. This is where the proverbial shit hits the fan.

"Brian, we need to talk."

Fuck.

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