Burn for You (23 page)

“Thanks,” she said, pressing it to her face and allowing herself a moment to hide behind the big white sheet.

He’d lost the only father figure he’d ever known and been rejected by a woman he’d tried so hard to impress with his good behavior. And then he’d been separated from the closest thing he had to a brother. All at the tender age of eight. Her heart broke for him.

“Things changed for Jason after that,” Preston said. “He stopped trying to ingratiate himself to the foster families that took him in and instead did whatever he could to push them away. To make them send him away. When his mother died in prison and some distant relatives adopted him, they immediately sent him to boarding school. If you believe anything some of my many past therapists have said, I’d say it’s easier for him to reject people before he
gets
rejected.”

Victoria nodded. “Preston…” She groped for the right words. The words to express her gratitude for this gift of understanding he’d given her. “Thank you…for telling me this.” She understood so much now. Why Jason needed his rules, why he didn’t want anything long-term, why keeping his independence was so important to him. “You’re a good friend to him, Preston. You can pretend you told me this for the tiramisu all you want. But I know better.”

“Well, I don’t know about the good friend part. But I’m certainly the perfect friend for him.”

“And how’s that?” She smiled, knowing he’d say something conceited and outrageous.

Her smile vanished, however, at the honesty of his answer. “Don’t you see? I’m the only one who can’t leave him. Where the hell am I going to go?”

* * *

With the key Preston had given him long ago, Jason let himself back into the townhome. The house was quiet when he entered. A quick glance upstairs showed Preston’s office door ajar and light coming from the room, proof he was still furiously working to finish his manuscript on time.

Victoria lay curled up on the couch, sound asleep and still in her rumpled bridesmaid dress.

He put the keys in his pocket, careful not to let them jingle and wake Victoria, and tiptoed across the hardwood to where she slept. He shrugged out of his suit jacket and carefully draped it over her, then tucked it around her bare shoulders.

In the hours he’d been gone, he’d thought of little else but her. She’d acted distant when he left—probably because he hadn’t been able to keep his hands off her again. She’d done the same thing after their tryst at the hotel. His conscience told him she was having cold feet about their arrangement, but he shut that voice up right quick, because all he could think about was picking up where they’d left off in Preston’s kitchen.

Despite his desire, part of him—the less horny and more cerebral side of him—was glad she was finally sleeping. Sleeping and snoring. And not cute, adorable little feminine snores either, but robust, sleeping-the-sleep-of-the-dead snores that made him smile.

Good. She needed the rest.

Moving to the kitchen, he went to check and see what still needed to be done. She probably hadn’t had the time or energy to finish all the meal prep Preston had bamboozled them into doing.

He opened the fridge and stood, stunned. In an organized fashion that only someone truly OCD like Preston could appreciate, Victoria had lined up an entire week’s worth of meals. The bottom shelf contained the tri-sectioned Tupperware containers, which held Preston’s pre-cut bell peppers. The middle shelf had a number of plates wrapped in plastic wrap with sticky notes on top. Each one had precise all-caps handwriting with the name of the dish and instructions for re-heating. One read, STUFFED PORK CHOP WITH ASPARAGUS AND BROWN RICE: RE-HEAT STUFFED PORK CHOP ON SEPARATE PLATE TWO MINUTES. THEN ADD RICE AND VEGGIES. HEAT ONE MORE MINUTE.

On the top shelf were Preston’s lunches for the week. A grilled chicken salad and a selection of subs and sandwiches. Even one that was labeled BEST SANDWICH YOU’LL EVER EAT: ROAST BEEF AND CHEESE ON RYE.

And finally, a selection of desserts that appeared to have come from a restaurant as they were in clear to-go containers. Tiramisu, a slice of chocolate cake, lemon torte. Had she had them delivered?

He closed the fridge, overwhelmed by the effort Victoria had gone to for someone she’d only met that day. She could’ve phoned it in, could’ve slapped together some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and made a lasagna big enough to last Preston for a week of dinners. But no, she’d taken what must’ve been hours to prepare meals that were distinct from one another and—from the looks of it—hella appetizing. And she’d done all of that after being up all night, volunteering her time to help others when no one would’ve thought twice if she’d left the hotel and gone home to be with her family.

He’d known very few honestly good people in his life. People who were truly altruistic in all that they did. His foster father, Luke St. James, was one.

And Victoria Russo was the other.

Jesus, she’d even done all the dishes and erased any trace that someone had been working away all day in this immaculate kitchen.

He seriously owed her one.

On his way to check in with Preston, he passed by the sofa again, unable to resist combing his fingers through her hair and sweeping it off her face.

In sleep, some might mistake her for plain. Without her big brown eyes visible or her easy smile, her face was fairly unremarkable, and yet…he knew what those lips tasted like, knew what they felt like against his.

Victoria deconstructed and examined by her features individually seemed common, but taken all together, no other woman could match her level of extraordinary. She made him laugh with her unexpected humor and surprised him with her shy sensuality.

He’d just have to make sure he didn’t hurt her. If he stuck to the rules they’d established, if he made sure they didn’t cross over into something more, then maybe he could protect her from his own incurable flaws.

With one last touch to her cheek with the back of his finger, Jason headed up the stairs to see how Preston was doing.

“Hey,” Preston said, not even looking away from the computer or pausing in his typing.

“Hey, man.” Jason sat on the armrest of the office’s corner chair.

Coming to the end of a paragraph, Preston tapped the period key and finally turned his swivel chair to face Jason. He took off his glasses and tossed them on his desk, then yawned and rubbed a hand over his eyes. “So, what’s the news?” he asked on the tail end of his yawn. “What’d you find out at the hotel?”

“The carpet in a room on the sixth floor has a pour pattern, indicating some kind of accelerant was used. Gasoline is the most common, but we won’t know for sure until the carpet samples I collected get back from the lab. The fire originated in that room—the room right next door to Victoria’s aunt’s room. Aunt Sophie has emphysema and is on oxygen.”

“Oh, shit,” Preston said.

“Yeah. One of her portable oxygen tanks was also found in the room where the fire originated, but it hadn’t exploded. My current working theory is the arsonist stole her tank, released the valve and emptied the oxygen into the room, then ignited the accelerant.”

“Do you suppose he—or she—did that remotely? The oxygen would’ve fueled the chemical reaction between the accelerant and the fire, making it burn pretty fucking fast. Doubt he would’ve wanted to stand there holding the match.”

“Exactly. I haven’t figured that part out yet, but I do think it was ignited remotely. That room went up so fast, the fire was already out of control before the smoke alarms went off. And it would explain why that particular tank didn’t blow. It was fairly empty. But when the fire spread to Sophie’s room, her other tanks did explode.”

“Shit. That must have been some fireball.”

“It was.” He fought against the memory of the largest explosion. When he thought Victoria was in harm’s way. She’d been on the opposite side of the building, thank God, but the minutes where he hadn’t known that had taken years off his life. And now he had to worry about where she would be on September twenty-seventh.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Preston.” Jason told him his other theory about police and firefighters being the primary target. “I don’t know what he has planned for September twenty-seventh, but each incident is bigger than the one before. If I don’t stop this person…”

He didn’t have to finish the sentence. Preston was smart. He knew. If Jason didn’t stop this arsonist, next time, more people would die.

“You’ll figure it out. I know you will.”

“I’ve been an arson investigator for approximately two months. That’s not much experience.”

“Yeah, but you’ve a lifetime of experience at not giving up.” Preston grinned. “And hey, maybe that fancy degree in chemical engineering will finally pay off.”

“Doubt it. There’s far less overlap than you or Lieutenant McCann seem to think.”

Preston’s grin vanished. “How is old McCann?”

As Preston’s dad’s best friend, McCann had been an honorary uncle to the boys—well, mainly to Preston, but he’d treated Jason as family too for the year he’d lived with the St. James family. After he went to his next foster family, Jason never saw McCann again until he tried out for the Evanston Police Department, but he thought Preston had stayed in touch with him.

“He’s good, I guess. The same really. When’s the last time you saw him?”

“Not for a while.”

Not for four years if Jason had to guess. “Does he know what you’re up to these days?”
Translation, does he know you haven’t left your house in four years?

Preston shrugged and swiveled his chair back toward his desk. “Don’t know. Like I said, it’s been a while.” He put his glasses back on and—with a lack of social graces that was signature Preston—started typing at his computer again.

“Preston, you ever think about going to talk to someone again?”

Still typing, he answered in a monotone voice. “I talk to people all the time. My editor called just today to hound me about this book.”

“You know what I mean. Like a therapist.”

“I don’t need therapy. I’m a writer. This is a lifestyle choice. It works for me.”

“Is it working for you?” Because he couldn’t resist provoking Preston, and because he wanted to say something that would get him to stop clacking away at that damn keyboard, he added, “When’s the last time you got laid?”

In a completely unsatisfying response, Preston continued pecking. “Women are a complication I don’t need. Besides, getting laid doesn’t making you a functioning adult.”

He ignored the possibility that Preston might be implying
Jason
was not a functioning adult. Instead, he puzzled over how the hell Preston could type and talk at the same time. He leaned to the side, trying to see over Preston’s shoulder. Maybe it was all just random letters on the screen. But no, it appeared his savant friend could actually type and talk at the same time.

“All right, man. I gotta get some shut-eye. Victoria’s still sleeping. Do you mind if I crash in your guest bedroom and we leave in the morning?”

“Yeah, no problem. Just don’t touch my toothbrush and shit. Use the basket of soaps and stuff that’s for guests under the cabinet.”

“Roger that.” He saluted Preston’s back and started for the guest bedroom.

“Oh, and Jason?”

“Yeah?” He turned back to find Preston had stopped typing his precious story and swiveled his chair back around.

“I like Victoria.”

“Yeah, man. I like her too.”

“I think she’s good for you.”

“We’re just hanging out—”

“Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?”

“Act like it’s nothing. You’ve never brought a woman here before.”

“Well, she didn’t really give me a choice—”

“Don’t kid yourself. No one has ever made you do a damn thing you didn’t want to do. You brought her here. You let her into this part of your fucked up life—”

“
Your
fucked up life.”

“My fucked up isn’t fucked up. It’s a choice to live outside societal norms. Your fucked up is an inability to stretch a relationship past the four-month mark.” He took off his glasses again, and in a rare moment of true eye contact, leveled his gaze with Jason’s. “My point is, don’t mess around with her. She’s already half in love with you.”

“That’s—” Words stuck in his throat and he swallowed. “That’s not true, and even if it was, how could you know that?”

“I’m observant, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember.” But Preston had this one wrong. Victoria couldn’t possibly have feelings that ran that deep. They’d only known each other for a couple of months and had only really spent a significant amount of time together in the last couple days. Maybe Victoria had a
crush
on him, but she wasn’t
in love
with him. She just couldn’t be.

“It’s not what you think it is, Preston.”

Preston turned back to his computer, but as Jason walked out of the office, he caught his friend’s mumbled response. “No, my friend, it’s not what
you
think it is.”

* * *

In the shower, Jason let the hot water beat down on his shoulders. Forearm against the tile, he rested his head on his arm, surprised that he didn’t just fall asleep standing up. But, as exhausted as he was, sleep would be elusive. He had too much on his mind.

The hot spray did little to ease the tension coiled in his shoulders and neck. When McCann had offered him this position, he’d been pissed. He’d wanted to be on vice. He’d wanted to take drugs and prostitution off the streets. Two things that left a huge number of victims in their wake. Young women in desperate situations. Kids whose parents were strung out. Teens who were addicted themselves.

He hadn’t seen arson investigation as important enough.

But here he was. Tasked with the protection of first responders all over town. If he didn’t figure this shit out before September twenty-seventh, their lives would be in danger. Victoria’s life would be in danger. She’d already been too close to one blast. What would happen next time?

Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, trying to exhale his growing anxiety.