Page 34 of On Fire

“I’m sorry,” he starts to say, standing, then buckles over again, hands on knees. I keep patting his back in a sloppy half-assed way because I don’t know what else to do. When he finally straightens all the way up, he fumbles in his pocket and pops a mint in his mouth.

“Thanks,” he says, eyes closed.

A quiver runs through his body before he squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath. His eyes open and those navy blues look right into my fucking soul. This guy is killing me.

“I don’t know why this has hit me so hard—this isn’t me. This isn’t who I am.”

“It’s a lot,” I say. “Just treat it like another job.”

“I thought I could. But Henry Holt’s body was found in Boston Harbor early this morning. He was killed.” He closed his eyes again. “It’s personal.”

“Oh Nic. I’m sorry. Was he distraught? Did—”

“No. There was an inept attempt to make it look like suicide though.”

“I am so sorry, Nic. You two were close?”

His eyes fly open. “A long time ago. Henry is…was with a lawyer named Stephan Dowling and yeah. No. A long time ago. Before I met Finn.” He glances at me and then makes a move to go back inside. “I’m sorry,” he says again.

And then, right there in the open back alley, he leans forward and kisses me on the cheek. I startle so badly he notices.

“Okay, now I’m really sorry.”

I take more than a step back. “You can’t ever do that again—got it? Ever,” I say, “I mean in public,” the words fly from my mouth, my thoughts unformed. I look around wildly to see if anyone saw—if anyone could have possibly witnessed this. “It’s playing with fire.”

Nic’s face is a cross between hurt and reproach. I have that effect on people. What I should be doing is consoling him. He just lost a friend.

“Maybe you need to trust the people close to you a little more,” he adds but seems surprised at his own words.

“That’s fine,” I say, “but those people aren’t here. There’s Turrow, Mr. Energy Ball, a guy I’ve known for twenty-five years and a bunch of skittish police out there with no fucking loyalty to me. No.” I spread my hands. “Not again.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t make that mistake a second time.”

I hear myself, see myself, and it’s fucking embarrassing. But he doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand how much I’m at risk of losing everything: my job, my standing in the community, my life. He’s nearly as closeted as me. Or so I thought.

Nic opens the door to step back inside.

“And what about you?” I say. “I could offer the same advice, you know. Trust those close to you.”

I’m expecting some big fight, right here, right now and I don’t trust myself to say the right thing.

It doesn’t happen. He pauses and in that quiet way he has, he merely says, “I know. We both have work to do,” then grips the edge of the door and steps inside.

Shit. Trying to figure him out is like trying to hold on to greased lightening. Impossible.

΅

Luke catches a ride with Mateus and Bryce, leaving Nic and I alone in the car. I try to apologize for my outburst in the back of the bar, but he just says, “We’re done talking about that. I got it,” Which does nothing for my nerves even when he adds with a smile, “We’re good, no worries.” I still jabber the entire fifteen-minute ride to the next site.

When we arrive at the street, it’s been sectioned off. A cop standing guard waves us through. But it’s the scene that greets us that finally shuts my mouth.

The second site, Oceanside, is worse. The outside is burnt, debris everywhere, and the roof is caved in or blown apart—hard to tell. This time, the placement was successful. The gas main ignited and blew out not only the bar but three other establishments linked together along the same storefront. A clothing store, a deli, and an insurance company are all in various states of chaos. Those, of course, were all closed the night of the attack.

Broken glass and brick stretched into the street. Two disembodied mannequins lay tossed on the sidewalk like bodies. Nic pats my leg before climbing out of the car. Turrow pulls up right after us and launches himself projectile-like from his fancy white truck.

I swear the gleaming white of the truck matches his hair.

Luke is already assembling his camera and Bryce and Mateus must be careful where they step, Mateus in particular. You’d never know he had a prosthetic lower leg. His gait is flawless and the guy’s an athlete, but scenes like this are tricky. Uneven ground, small bits that can turn under your feet—all are treacherous.