Tipping the Balance (51 page)

It made thoughts of filing for his disability insurance and dealing with creditors seem trivial, but that trivia need attention. He took a portfolio of documents related to his assault and hospitalization, things like the police report and newspaper stories and discharge papers from the hospital and rehab. It helped smooth things over when he went to pay past-due bills in person.

The city had frozen the Bayard House project not long after his assault, so he had a little time on that, although bills still came due. He just hoped the city would unfreeze the money so he could pay them.

When it came down to it, he could run errands and sell homes with a limp and a cane. But what really limped along was his heart.

He flipped half-heartedly through his thousands of e-mails, mostly business related at first, although his broker had set up an auto-reply to let people know. Later messages mostly consisted of good wishes.

He wondered if there were a support group for people who’d been in the hospital for a long time to help them re-adjust to life on the outside again. Group therapy for victims of violent crime? Check. Individual therapy to cope with that and adjusting to his physical status? Check. Not coping with rattling around his house as he tried to re-establish his old work habits? Not so much.

He gave up and stared out the window at his backyard. The flower beds looked good, and his raised vegetable beds appeared ready for the spring planting. The lawn was winter-browned but would come back well enough in a month or three as the weather warmed up. At least it was still well tended.

His lawn was well tended. He started out of his chair. What the—

He grabbed his cane and gimped to the window. Whoever’d been taking care of his yard had butchered his roses, but they thrived on abuse and would be back in a year or two. The rest?

Someone had been tending his yard. Someone. Who was he kidding? Nick and Morgan were just the sweetest men sometimes, even if they were motivated by guilt.

He hobbled back to his desk and called their landline. There was no need to disturb them at school. “You guys. Thank you
so much
. The yard looks amazing. We’ll get through this. Talk to you soon.” He made a few tired-sounding kissing noises and hung up.

Suddenly exhausted, he walked slowly to his room and sat on his bed before carefully swinging his legs up. Between a lack of endurance and the painkillers, Drew fell deeply asleep almost as soon has his head touched the pillow.

He roused with a start hours later. He was groggy, and it was dark in and out, but the phone’s insistent buzzing woke him.

He checked caller ID.
Sac City Fire
. He frowned and answered.

“Yes, this is Drew St. Charles.”

He listened as disbelief and horror raced each other to the pit of his stomach to see which would make him sick first.

“Yes, I see. Thank you.” He hung up. Then the crying started, and he threw the handset across the room.

“
Sorry
, sir, no one’s allowed into the construction zone,” the police officer said.

Brad held his driver’s license out. “But I’m the job foreman on the renovation. The fire department called me and told me to come down here.”

Red lights still flashed, but the sirens were silent, and the acrid smell of smoke permeated the air. Water soaked the ground around the burned wall of the Bayard House, and Brad could just imagine how much water was inside.

The officer guarding the open chain-link fence considered the matter, then flagged down a passing firefighter. “This man says you guys called him?” He sounded dubious at best.

“What’s your name?” the firefighter demanded.

“Brad Sundstrom.”

She spoke into her radio for a moment. “Come with me, sir,” she said, much less tersely. “The captain’s expecting you.”

Brad flipped his hardhat up onto his head and ducked under the yellow caution tape. He followed the firefighter to one of the engines where several people in turnouts huddled. “Captain Douglas? Brad Sundstrom’s here.”

A man who looked to be in early middle age looked up. Brad took one look at the man’s chiseled features, accented with soot, and the strong build apparent even beneath the bulky turnouts, and his jaw fell open. Drew’s appeal had been both physical and emotional, but this man, the fire captain, triggered raw, animal lust.

Brad shoved that aside. He hadn’t been called to the Bayard House to cruise firemen, even if he’d had the first idea how to do it.

“Mr. Sundstrom?” the captain asked, looking at him speculatively.

Shit. Caught looking. “Call me Brad. What happened?”

“I was hoping you could tell me,” Captain Douglas said, looking him up and down. “I thought this job had been put on hold.”

Brad nodded, suddenly warm. “Yes, after my boss was assaulted and spent a month in the hospital and more time in rehab.”

“So there was no active work going on here, then?” the captain asked, frowning.

“No. I doubt any of the crews were here, either, since the money was held up by the city even before the work stoppage,” Brad said.

“That confirms my first impressions, then,” the captain said. “This looks like arson.”

“Damn,” Brad muttered. “Is there any way I can see the damage?”

Captain Douglas thought about it for a moment, staring into Brad’s eyes. Then he nodded. “Yes, I think so. Since you’ve got a hardhat and the fire’s out. I’ll show you personally.”

Brad followed the captain around to one side of the mansion, mind spinning, wondering what exactly was going on. “We think they cut the fence on the far side of the lot and then snuck around to this side of the building, where they used a crude incendiary device—”

“And that is?” Brad said.

“Sorry, occupational hazard,” Captain Douglas said, smiling sheepishly. “A home-made bomb, probably gasoline or maybe lighter fluid, in a bottle with a gas-soaked rag for a wick. Break a window, light the rag, throw it inside and run around to the other side of the property and out the cut fence when security comes to check it out.”

Brad felt sick to his stomach. “Is that what happened?”

Captain Douglas shrugged. “The exact details will depend on the analysis of residues by the lab, but it’s probably pretty close and my—” he paused, giving Brad a loaded look, “—physical investigation. Neighbors reported seeing people loitering after hours, and knowing the project’s on hold, they called the police. Other people reported the sound of breaking glass just before seeing a flash. I’m told there might be physical descriptions, and I’ll follow that up with the police in the morning. Want to look around inside?”

“Yeah, sure, that’d be great. I need to know what we’re dealing with here,” Brad said. The captain’s attentions unnerved him in a way that made him need to adjust himself, but he didn’t think it’d be a good idea to reach into his pants right then. He also needed to check out the damage, even if what he wanted to check out was Captain Douglas.

“Watch your step. It’s wet in there,” the captain warned him. “Here’s where we think it started,” he said, pointing to a gaping hole where there had only been a wall the last time Brad was there.

Brad would have to check the plans, but he was pretty sure this had originally been the mansion’s parlor, and now he could step in from what would one day be part of the gardens. He was extremely aware of the man’s proximity to him, just as he was aware of not-quite-casual way Captain Douglas brushed his hand over his turnouts.

“Why would someone do something like that?” Brad asked. “It’s just an old building. It’s not like we’re building on sensitive habitat or sacred ground or something.”

The captain shrugged. “Who knows? Vandals don’t need a reason. It could even have been gang members trying to make a name for themselves.”

“Lovely,” Brad said, shaking his head. “So what happens now? What’s the procedure?”

“Given the historic nature of the building and the importance of the project to the city, I’ll get on the investigation first thing in the morning,” the captain said. “Honestly, it looks fairly cut and dried. Strictly amateur.”

“Can I go in?” Brad asked. He needed to move away from this man.

“Sure, like I said, just watch your step.” Captain Douglas took hold of Brad’s arm to steady him as he climbed awkwardly through the hole. Brad pretended not to notice the gleam in the other man’s eye, although his cock sure felt it.

The captain pulled a flashlight out of his turnout coat and shone it around. “As you can see, the damage doesn’t extend very far into the room, which tells me that they didn’t throw it far and possibly that they didn’t throw it with enough force for the bottle to shatter. So the gas would’ve leaked out and ignited, but not splattered everything with burning drops.” Standing close behind Brad, almost breathing in his ear, Captain Douglas pointed his flashlight to the ceiling. “But note how bad it is up there. I’d say most of the damage is to the ceiling and the floor above it. I shouldn’t take you up there in case the floor’s been weakened by the fire, but I might be able to make an exception.”

Brad swallowed, his throat gone dry. The smoke, it had to be the lingering smoke. “No, that’s okay. Safety first!” he squeaked, thinking about what he and Drew had done upstairs.

And then he remembered that Drew didn’t want him anymore, not for who he was, a man only just coming to terms with being gay. Like it or not, he was single, and they say the best way to get over someone was get under someone else. It’d always worked in college….

Taking a breath, Brad backed up against the captain. “Sorry,” he said, but he didn’t move.

“No worries,” the other man said, skimming his tongue over Brad’s ear. The captain moved his crotch into Brad’s ass and held it there.

Brad knew where this was heading. He had a choice. He could see where this led, see how it was with another guy, a man other than Drew. See if he was really gay. Or he could carry the torch for a man who wouldn’t take him as he was.

Not quite believing he was doing it, Brad ground his ass against the man standing behind him, sending him an unmistakable message. He knew what he’d do if Drew ground back into him like that. He’d have him bent over a table in seconds. Or would if they were still together. That cooled him a little.

Then he felt a hand, a stranger’s hand, another man’s hand, rubbing his own too-hard cock through the jeans he’d thrown on when the call had come in. Thanks to the beer diet he’d been on, the formerly loose jeans hugged his body, and there was nowhere for his arousal to hide. It felt unreal. It felt incredible.