The Square Peg (32 page)

rough idea, anyway. Fine, we’ll do it.”

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“Good.” Shane leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms over his head.

“Want to go back into the bar and have a nightcap?”

“Drinking up the profits?” Benedict frowned at him, mock-serious and sexy as

hell. “I’m not sure I approve of that.”

Shane held up his hand and mimicked a mouth opening and closing. “La-la-la,

can’t hear you. Or did you say
Make mine a double
?”

“You love pushing me, don’t you?” Benedict shook his head. “Our foreplay isn’t

like anyone else’s.”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “But we’re having fun, right?”

“Oh yes.” Benedict was staring at him, his eyes hard, intent, and Shane felt

anticipation build, slow and heavy, hardening his cock and making him feel alive. “Lots

of fun.”

They slipped back out into the bar, where the group of new guys from the week

before was still at it. New regulars, maybe. That was always good. Shane and Benedict

sat shoulder to shoulder at the bar and shared a beer between them—a compromise

Shane could live with, and as far as he knew, Benedict planned to go home for the

night, so it wouldn’t do to get him drunk.

“Work tomorrow?” he asked.

“Sadly, yes.” Benedict sighed and handed him the glass. “I wish I could just do

this every day. Number crunching is a valuable skill, but being at that office is starting

to feel like being locked in a cell.”

Shane frowned; he didn’t like to think of Benedict stuck behind a desk. “So quit.”

“I can’t.” Benedict took the glass back from him and drained it, then set it down

on the bar with a click. “We… I need the income, at least until it seems as if things here

are stable. Right now it’s looking good, though. Better than I expected.”

Vincent had already announced last call, and now he and Shelly were making the

rounds of the tables, clearing up empty glasses, scattered napkins, and other things left

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over after a night of drinking. The renovations had made the place nicer, but it was still

rather small as far as bars went, one benefit of which was that it didn’t take too long to

clean up for the night.

“Where’d the new guys go?” Benedict asked. “You know, the ones who were

sitting over there?”

“They left at last call,” Vincent said with a shrug as he followed the last two

customers to the door. “Night, guys.” He locked the door, then turned and added, “I

figured they had somewhere else to be. One of them had a couple of arguments with

someone on his cell.”

“Fight with the boyfriend?” Benedict suggested.

Vincent shook his head. “No way. He was straight. I figured it was a girlfriend,

and she was mad he went out with his friends.”

Coming back with a tray of dirty glasses, Shelly said, “I thought they were all

straight. The one with the blond hair was flirting with me off and on, and I think I must

have seen the short stocky one somewhere else because he looked really familiar.”

“Huh,” Benedict said. “Maybe they were just curious. You know, having a little

field trip to check out the queers.”

Shane started loading the dishwasher, taking care to put the older, more fragile

glassware on the middle rack where it hopefully wouldn’t get broken. At least the water

wouldn’t be aimed directly at it. Benedict piled a collection of empty bottles into a bin

to take back to the recycling. He looked tired; he shouldn’t stay so late at the bar, Shane

thought, when he’d have to get up early to be at the office. Selfishly, Shane liked having

him there.

Shelly was sweeping over near the front door when she gasped and dropped the

broom with a clatter. “Ben! Your car’s on fire!”

For a moment, Shane tried to process her words into something that made sense,

because clearly, obviously, Benedict’s car wasn’t on fire. Why would it be? Even after

years over here, when people spoke quickly or slurred their words, he sometimes had

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trouble understanding them. It worked both ways. He’d once left a restaurant, scarlet-

faced and furious, after trying to give his order to a woman who’d stared at him blankly

when she wasn’t asking him to repeat himself, speaking to him slowly, as if they were

using different languages. He could’ve pointed at the menu, but he’d been talking

English, just like her, for God’s sake.

The note of panic in Shelly’s voice didn’t need translating, though, and before

Shane realized he was moving, he was running toward the door, instinct and adrenaline

spurring him on.

“Shane! Be careful,” Benedict called out, doing the sensible thing and taking out

his phone.

“Careful my arse.” Anger rose in him as he reached the sidewalk, Shelly and

Vincent on his heels, and saw the group of straights from the bar standing a safe

distance away, grins on their faces, ready to scatter at the first siren, but wanting to

watch what they’d done. Then the crackle of the flames drew his attention to Benedict’s

car. They’d started the fire by shoving a rag into the gas tank and setting it alight, and

from the stink of gasoline in the air, they’d poured some over the car too. He tried to

remember how much gas was in the tank. Not much, because Benedict had been talking

about stopping to fill up on the way over, and Shane had protested, pointing out that it

was late and Benedict still had a quarter of a tank left. Yeah, a quarter of a tank; that

was it. Except that wasn’t good news. It gave the flames air as well as fuel, and that

could add up to a bang.

“The emergency services are on their way,” Benedict said, appearing at his side.

“They told us to stay away from it and not try to put it out. We should get back inside

in case it explodes. God, I can’t believe this! Who’d do something like this?”

“They would,” Shane said, nodding at the watching young men.

Benedict grimaced, grasping the situation at once, disappointment and hurt

showing briefly on his face before he rallied. “Well, they’re barred. For fucking life.”

“Too bloody right.”

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“So we know who it was, and I can remember their faces. Come back inside.”

Benedict turned to Shelly and Vincent. “You two. Inside. And stay away from the

windows. Shane, did you hear me?”

“Not yet,” Shane said and took out his phone. He knew he didn’t stand a chance

in hell of getting the culprits to stick around long enough to be arrested, but he could at

least capture them on video. He held up his phone and started to walk toward them,

zooming in as much as possible. They were standing under a streetlight, which helped,

though he wasn’t sure how useful the images would be. He knew they’d done it, but

they’d claim someone else had and they were just witnesses.

Grinning witnesses, nudging each other gleefully as if they’d done something

clever.

“It’s gonna set those trees on fire in a minute,” Vincent said grimly.

“Maybe we should get some water?” Shelly was hugging herself, and Benedict

was standing closer to Shane than he had been a few seconds before.

“Not with a gas fire; it’ll just spread,” Benedict said. “Shane…”

“Here.” Vincent had come back from inside with a fire extinguisher and was

offering it to Benedict, but Shane shoved the phone at Benedict and took the

extinguisher himself. Vincent was right—if the blazing car set on fire the medium-size

trees that lined the sidewalk, they were going to have an entirely new problem.

It took less than a minute to discharge the fire extinguisher. The powdery contents

blew all around them and did douse the flames somewhat, but didn’t come close to

putting the fire out. By the time Shane let the canister fall to the pavement, the guys had

disappeared, and Benedict was tugging at Shane’s shirt.

“Come on,” Benedict said. “You’re freaking me out. Please.”

Shane stifled the cough that inhaling the chemicals caused—hopefully they

weren’t toxic and he wouldn’t drop dead at any moment—and let Benedict lead him a

few feet from the car. He’d tried to aim the extinguisher at the gas cap. Maybe that

would be enough to keep the car from blowing up.

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“Shane.” Shelly came back outside and Shane opened his mouth to shout at her for

it when he saw her stricken face. “It’s inside—”

He had no idea what she was on about, but he pushed past her and ran inside,

heart pounding with adrenaline, to discover the bar was on fire as well. The air was

already thick with smoke, and the flames had spread along the back hallway and were

licking at the floor near the bar. Holy fucking Christ, they were going to lose the whole

place if the fire trucks didn’t arrive soon.

“Oh my God,” Benedict said behind him.

Shane whirled and grabbed on to Benedict’s upper arms. “Get out—do you hear

me? Don’t argue. Go.” He shoved Benedict toward the front door, where Vincent stood

framed in the doorway.

“And what about you? Where are you going?” Benedict was yelling now, his face

close enough that Shane should have been able to feel the warmth of his breath, but the

air was so hot that it would probably have felt cool. Shane opened his mouth to reply

and choked on smoke. “Need to do something. Save something. God, all tonight’s

takings—” He looked around him, bewildered. Ten minutes ago, it’d been a freshly

painted, comfortable room, every surface gleaming, a welcoming space. Now, it was

being consumed, tainted. Smoke was seeping into every crack. Flames and heat were

warping straight lines into twisted nightmarish shapes. In the few moments they’d

spent screaming at each other, the flames had leaped, eager as a lover, to caress the

ceiling, the new paint crackling as it blistered.

“It doesn’t matter! Jesus, Shane, we need to go. Listen, I hear the fire trucks

coming.”

Shane couldn’t hear anything but the fierce rumbling roar of the fire. He nodded,

though, and gestured at the door. “Well, go on then.”

Benedict’s eyes were running with tears. From the smoke, Shane guessed. His eyes

were streaming too, but not from grief. He hadn’t reached that stage yet.

He was stuck between shock and murderous fury.

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Benedict turned to leave, clearly expecting Shane to follow him, but he couldn’t,

not without saving something. Everything he owned was in this building, and he

doubted any of it would be salvageable, so it was up to him.

The bar was lit up, the bottles a glittering display. In a few minutes, the labels

would peel and char, and the glass would melt when the fire got hot enough. As a kid,

he’d tossed beer cans and bottles into bonfires lit on Guy Fawkes night and watched

them disappear as if by magic, sparks flying up into the cold November air, like tiny

fireworks. Those bonfires had been too hot to get close to, built on wasteland in the

week before the day itself, guarded closely because there was always someone who

wanted to spoil the fun and light them early.

A bottle. He’d rescue a bottle. It didn’t matter which one.

It wasn’t until he’d dashed behind the bar, grabbed on to a bottle and turned to

leave that he realized the risk he’d taken was too great. The heat was so intense it was

physically impossible to make himself take a step forward, the flames already too high

to pass through. Shane glanced toward the door and saw two shadowed figures—

Benedict and Vincent?—struggling with each other, one trying to hold the other back.

Bolting for the far end of the bar, Shane jumped up onto the granite and spun

around, then pushed himself off onto the floor. The fire was moving faster than seemed

possible, but he could still make it.

He’d barely reached the nearest table and chairs when the world exploded.

“Shane! Shane!” There was a hand on his face. Benedict, looming over him.

Everything was muffled. Shane’s ears felt stuffed full of cotton wool, and his head was

in a vise; that was the only explanation for the pressure. The ground beneath him was

cold and very hard. Benedict had tear tracks through the dark smudges on his face, and

above him the sky was dotted with stars.

Shane blinked and reached up clumsily to grab Benedict’s hand. Benedict caught

his hand between both of his and brought it to his mouth, kissed his knuckles.

“Ow,” Shane said.

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“Don’t try to move,” Benedict told him. Thank God his ears seemed to be clearing.

“Just stay where you are. I swear, if you move, I’m going to fucking kill you.”

He hurt too much to move. Felt as if he’d been stretched on a rack, put through a

wringer. Something like that. He coughed, and that hurt too.

“The paramedics are coming,” Benedict said. “Okay? God, what the fuck were you