“Fucking sloppy” I mutter. She can’t possibly expect Tristian to remain focused when she’s flouncing around her bedroom looking all cute and sexy and flustered. “Now’s not the time.”
Tristian rolls his eyes, but they return right to the screen. “Well, you hogged her all night. Always keeping her all closed up in your room.”
“You could have come in,” I point out, unable to help myself from watching Story carefully step into her green dress.
“Could I?” He gives me a skeptical look.
“Well, yeah.” I reach up to scratch my jaw, nails rasping over a day’s worth of stubble. “I don’t keep her in there because I’m a controlling douchebag, you know. She just really likes sleeping in my room.” After a beat, I muse, “She’d probably like it more if you and Killer were in it. You know, if the two of you could get over it not being a sterile icebox.”
Tristian’s eyebrows hike up. “I’ll consider that an open invitation, then.”
“Okay.” I stare at him. “Good?”
We share an uncertain look, but it’s Tristian who calls it out for what it is. “Sharing a chick is kind of weird.”
“But,” I add, head tilting as I watch her methodically remove the rollers from her hair, “also strangely not weird?”
“Yeah, that about sums it up,” he agrees, frowning. “Just, like, fucking logistics, man.”
I give a series of fast blinks, trying to remain focused. “Okay, that’s enough,” I say, swiping the phone back and shutting it down. “We can’t afford to make any mistakes tonight. Work now, logistics later.”
He won’t admit it, but he knows I’m right, which is why he stuffs his phone in his pocket and visibly writhes into his second skin. Like me, he’s already wearing the uniform. Black jeans, black shirts, black gloves, and black ski masks pushed up to our foreheads—for now.
“My dad bought this shithole a few years back,” he says, jerking his chin at the strip of empty shops. “He mostly uses it for storage—something off the books.”
We leave our rental car parked, but still running, as Tristian leads me to the back door of the end-cap shop. If memory serves, this used to be a trashy hookah joint. Before my time, though.
It’s dark inside, but Tristian immediately finds a switch illuminating a squat store room. The air smells like stale tobacco, rat poison, and diesel fuel. My nose wrinkles as he crosses to the far wall, rifling through a deep shelf I recognize the contents of.
“Jesus,” I mutter, getting a good look at the stockpile of weird pyro shit. “How long have you been hoarding all this stuff?”
“You mean my fire-starter kit?” I try to hand him the list, but he ignores it, deftly plucking things from the shelves. “Since that night with Perez’s truck. Daniel wasn’t pleased I used his materials, so I said fuck it. Started collecting my own.”
“What are those for?” I ask, nodding to a pile of weird fabric-looking scraps.
“Fabric softener strips.” He picks up a container next. “I’ve also got smokeless gunpowder, newspaper, a bag of dryer lint, and three types of accelerant. Just depends on conditions.”
“Is all this shit really necessary?” I ask, glancing at the list he’d made me write on the way over. “How hard can it be to set a fire? Douse it in gasoline and light the match.”
Tristian turns to me with a disbelieving look. “We have approximately thirty minutes to send a four-story brick office building up in flames. That means rigging an ignition point in a vulnerable location, analyzing the air flow, and hoping like hell it can catch the asbestos-riddled, 1960s-era, toxic insulation before someone can call the dispatchers.” Without breaking my gaze, he pushes a canister into my chest, ranting, “I don’t question how you play Mozart, do I? No. Because when it comes to music, you know your shit. But when it comes to fires?” He shoves a box of scrap fabric at me next, flashing a wicked grin. “Brother, this is my symphony.”
I sigh, “Fair enough,” and let him load me up like a pack mule.
Just then, my burner phone rings.
Cursing, I balance the box of fabric and a jug of something wet and pungent to pull it from my pocket. I instantly recognize the number, answering it with a low, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Killian says, muttering under his breath. “About to leave for this fucking bullshit award ceremony.” There’s a loud, hard huff, and then, “Are you guys set?”