Burn for You (9 page)

The tilt of his head and the way he held his cheek against her hair made her think that expression had nothing to do with the sun.

“Vicki, is this him?” her mother whispered, reminding Victoria she wasn’t alone. “Is this the someone you were just about to tell me about?”

“I knew it!” Graham patted Victoria’s shoulder. “I knew you were hittin’ that!”

Victoria sent him a warning look.

“Oh, now don’t be crass, Graham,” her mother said, but then turned toward Victoria and added under her breath, “
Are
you hittin’ that?”

“Mom!”

“What?” Her mother grabbed the paper out of her hand, examining it more closely. “He’s very handsome.”

She took the newspaper back, unable to believe there was a photo of her on the front page of the
Tribune
. The caption read, “Police officer comforts paramedic after firefighter was brought to Evanston Hospital with life-threatening injuries. Full story on page 6.”

She flipped to page six where the details of the call were published. Kitchen fire. Three blasts, blah, blah, blah. The story was scant. Some speculation about what might’ve caused the explosions, a disclaimer that officials didn’t have any conclusive answers yet, and a quick update that the injured firefighter was in critical but stable condition.

Alongside the story was a series of photos. The remains of the daycare center. Fire trucks lined up, hoses rolled out, firefighters on scene, and then another small photo of Jason and Victoria.

In this photo, Victoria’s face was partially visible as Jason wiped the tears from her cheeks and she gripped his wrists. It was surreal to see that moment from the outside looking in.

Turns out it looked just as tender as it had felt.

“Who is he, honey?” her mother asked.

“He’s—”

“His name is Jason Meadows,” Graham answered. “He’s the new arson investigator
and
Vic’s date for the wedding.”

“No, he’s—”

“He is?” Her mother clasped her hands together excitedly. “Vicki, why didn’t you tell me you had a plus one?”

“No, Mom. You don’t understand—”

“Don’t understand what? Doesn’t he want to meet your family?” She glanced back at the paper Victoria still held in her hands. “He looks absolutely smitten with you.”

“We barely know each other.”

“Oh, that hardly matters. Three days after I met your father, I knew I was going to marry him.”

“Ma, enough with the marriage talk today. It’s not happening.”

“Can you believe it?” Graham asked, smiling at Loretta and throwing a brotherly arm over Victoria’s shoulder. “Our little Vickers is all grown up.”

Really?

Victoria rolled her eyes at Graham’s honorary big brother act. She wanted to slide out from under his arm, turn to him, and say,
Hey, remember that one time at summer camp when we totally did it? And all the times after that? How about you stop acting like you’re my brother? It’s gross.

But evidently, it wasn’t that way for Graham. And really, looking up into his kind eyes, seeing him so thrilled for her, it was kind of hard to be mad at the guy. He wanted her to find someone. He wanted her to be happy.

He just didn’t want…her.

It stung. But not in the way she would’ve expected. She didn’t ache for Graham so much as she ached for herself. Why didn’t he want her? What was so wrong with her? If she were really in love with him, would those be the questions she’d be asking? Shouldn’t she be asking what would she do without him? Or, how would she go on? But the truth was she didn’t
need
Graham. She didn’t rely on him. And she certainly didn’t depend on him for her happiness. She’d been telling the truth when she’d told her mother she was perfectly happy being single.

Maybe this was her final hint from the universe. This thing with Graham wasn’t happening. In fact, this thing with Graham wasn’t even a thing.

“I just can’t wait to meet him, Vicki.” Her mother’s voice snapped her back to reality.

“Mom, the thing is, he’s not…”

“Catholic? Well, don’t tell your grandmother. She’ll probably be dead by your wedding anyway, so if you don’t get married in the church, she won’t be here to guilt trip us all for it.”

“Mother!”

Graham chuckled.

“What? Your father’s mother is older than the crypt keeper. Like her impending death is news to you? I shouldn’t talk about it?”

“No, you shouldn’t. And I don’t know if he’s Catholic or not, Ma. Because I barely know him at all. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

“Well, I think it’s nice that he’d come to your brother’s wedding so early in the relationship. That shows he’s really serious about you.”

“Yeah,” Graham said. “He definitely wants to get in your pants.”

Resistance was futile. She was getting nowhere fast with this pair. And at this point, it might just be easier to find Jason and beg him to be her date for the wedding.

It sure beat going with Cassidy.

No offense to Cassidy, of course.

* * *

Walking up to Preston St. James’ house and juggling his case files with two bags of food from Al’s Deli, Jason felt his phone buzz in his pocket.

Again.

“Good Christ.” What the hell did everyone want with him today? He’d had at least half a dozen calls that morning. He’d recognized none of the numbers. And only one had left a message. A woman who’d claimed to be a reporter and wanted him to call her back at his earliest convenience.

Damn shame he was running low on convenience these days, couldn’t even get his hands free to reach in his pocket and answer his phone. Looked like he wouldn’t be calling her back. Wasn’t his job to talk to the press anyway. If she wanted information about the daycare incident, she’d have to wait for the chief’s press briefing like everybody else.

In the meantime, Jason would do what he always did when he was stumped by a case. Visit his former foster brother, Preston St. James.

Still gripping one of the white paper bags from the deli, he freed one finger to press the doorbell.

When Preston and Jason were kids, they’d both been fascinated with Preston’s dad, Luke St. James, and his job as a police officer. For Jason, that fascination led to a career in police work. For Preston, it had led to a life of studying crime.

As a true crime novelist, Preston was a wiz at research and a bona fide genius when it came to speculating motives. He often did consultation work with law enforcement agencies on cold cases. Exactly the person Jason needed to talk to right now.

But if he was going to tear Preston’s attention away from his writing, he’d have to bribe him. Hence the bags from Al’s Deli.

Jason had had Al’s on the brain since Victoria’s offhanded comment weeks ago about how she made the best sandwiches, but not quite as good as Al’s Deli. Okay, fine. He’d had Victoria on the brain more than her comment about the deli, but whatever. When he’d needed a good incentive for Preston to stop writing, Al’s had immediately come to mind.

Right after Victoria.

How was she today? Would it be weird if he called to check on her?

What was he thinking? Of course it’d be fucking weird. She’d wonder how the hell he’d gotten her number and he’d have to explain that he’d bucked all sorts of protocol and ethics to look her up in CLEAR, the law enforcement database. Yeah, not gonna happen.

But maybe…

He needed to do some chemical testing at the fire department anyway…He could just stop by, see how she was holding up after yesterday’s craziness.

Or then again, maybe not. All of this smacked of caring. And effort. And involvement. All things Jason made it a point to avoid.

Ringing the doorbell again, he pushed thoughts of Victoria aside. What the hell was keeping Preston?

His phone chimed from his pocket. Evidently, the caller had left a message this time. He’d get to it later, after he’d had a chance to pow wow with Preston.

He rang the bell again, knowing Preston was home. Preston was always home.

He hadn’t left his house in over four years.

It wasn’t uncommon for Preston to get so lost in his writing that he took a minute to open the door, but this was ridiculous.

Jason dropped the bags on the stoop of Preston’s lavish Lincoln Park brownstone. All the better to beat down his friggin’ door. He pounded on the door, trying to quell a rising sense of panic.

When was the last time he’d seen Preston? Two weeks ago? Three? If something had happened, who would know? Jason was the only person who visited him. Preston’s parents were dead. He had no siblings. The few friends he’d had dwindled to none after he’d stopped leaving the house. He could be dead on the floor, and no one would know until he wasn’t there to sign for his grocery delivery.

Jason backed up, assessing the door. It was a heavy oak and probably as old as the 1920’s brownstone. Built to last, it would not be easily kicked in. The window to the living room was a bit high off the sidewalk, but even if Jason could reach it, the ornate wrought-iron decorative bars on the front would make it difficult to break in.

Maybe he could try to pick the lock.

He pounded on the door one more time before heading back to his car. Surely he had something he could use to jimmy the lock. Half way down the front steps, the door opened.

“Jason?”

He rounded on Preston. “Dude. What the fuck?” He bent to retrieve the food and case files he’d dropped on the stoop on his way up the steps. “What took you so goddam long? I thought you were dead.”

Preston grinned, no doubt highly amused by Jason’s mother-like worrying. “Not dead. Just on a deadline.” He backed up, opening the door wide, wearing his requisite expensive suit and tie. He’d never leave this house, but he still dressed every day as if he was headed to the office.

Jason made his way into the house, dropping his wares on the glass coffee table. Preston grabbed the newspaper off the stoop then followed Jason inside. He dropped the paper on the square armrest of the modernly designed white leather sofa.

Preston had hit it big with his first true crime novel, and this professionally decorated, multi-million dollar brownstone, in the best neighborhood of Chicago, was the result. Good thing Preston was rich. At least he could live the life of a hermit in style.

“So, what brings you here today?” Preston asked, taking a seat in the matching white leather club chair.

“I brought lunch.” He handed Preston the bag with a roast beef and blue cheese on baguette sandwich. “From Al’s Deli.”

“That place by Northwestern?”

“Yep.” Jason went to the kitchen and grabbed a bottled water for each of them. Returning to the living room, he tossed Preston a drink. “I waited in line for-frickin’-ever. Place was packed as always. And I swear it’s not air-conditioned. Must’ve been 105 degrees in there. So, you better freaking enjoy that sandwich.”

“Ah, so this sandwich comes with a side of guilt-trip.” Preston grinned, sitting on the edge of the chair and unwrapping his lunch. “And what does my dear brother need in return for Chicagoland’s best sandwich?”

A small lump of guilt lodged itself in Jason’s chest. “Why do you assume I need something?”

Probably because Jason only ever stopped by when summoned—when Preston needed something that couldn’t be ordered online. Or when Jason needed another person’s perspective on a case.

Detectives did most of the casework, but occasionally Jason got to do follow-up on smaller cases, and he often bounced theories off Preston. And now that he was an AI, he imagined they might see even more of each other. “Can’t a guy just stop by for a visit?”

“With an armful of case files?” Preston glanced meaningfully at the pile of manila folders on the coffee table.

Averting his gaze to study his sandwich, Jason fought another wave of guilt. It had always been like this. Preston trying to keep ties and Jason trying to cut them. They’d only technically been foster brothers for a year. When they were both just eight years old.

One perfect year in a lifetime of shit.

When Luke St. James had been killed in that car wreck, Jason had thought nothing could be worse than that. Nothing could be worse than losing the only man who’d ever cared about him, who’d ever been any sort of father figure in his life. But then Jason had gone and fucked things up, sending Molly St. James into a nervous breakdown and making her believe she couldn’t raise two boys by herself. At which point, the temporary situation that had shown such promise of becoming permanent turned out to be just another tally mark in the total of places Jason would live. In the total of families that he would never actually become a part of. And he had no one to blame but himself. If he’d been able to control his anger a little better, maybe Molly wouldn’t have sent him away.

A tough lesson was learned that year. One that now helped Jason keep a tight rein on his rage.

He’d wanted to forget that year—the year he’d had a dad and a mom and a brother who worshiped him. It was too painful to dwell on what might’ve been. But Preston—Preston was one persistent motherfucker.

He somehow managed to track Jason down with his new foster family in a neighboring suburb. He mailed Jason letters and “books” he’d written. At eight years old, Preston was creating his own graphic novels before anyone even knew that graphic novels were a thing. The hero always looked suspiciously like Jason and the sidekick a spitting image of Preston.

In his letters, he wrote to Jason that he missed him and wished they still shared a room and could build bunk bed forts on rainy days. Jason didn’t answer any of the letters, but he kept them.

Every single one.

With his third foster family, Jason found himself back in the same school as Preston. They were sixth graders, and despite the fact that Jason hadn’t answered a single letter from Preston in over three years, his former foster brother attached himself to Jason’s side.

Jason tried to distance himself from the coke-bottle-glasses-wearing, socially awkward nerd that was Preston, but Preston was undeterred. And truthfully, Preston needed him. The other kids bullied him mercilessly, but one dark glance from Jason and those pimply-faced pricks scattered. And Jason would be lying if he said he hadn’t thoroughly enjoyed the hero worship Preston sent his way.