Firebugs
by Julia Talbot

"Do you get off on it?"

"Huh?" Fuck if I heard anyone coming and I'm still rubbing oily black residue off my thumb, hiding it in the folds of a rough piece of toweling.

"I saw what you did." It's Jamie, the part-time mechanic I only see two days a week. His hair is like straw, and I always wonder if his mama's goats try to eat it when he goes out to feed them.

Goats, for Christ's sake.

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about."

"Sure, whatever, but one of these days you're going to get caught."

"Yeah, whatever."

Three weeks later he's still appearing at odd moments, making my last fucking nerve ping like a gas can near a fireplace, and I'm wondering what he wants. Why he's watching me, if he's the one getting off on it. Asking him would just let him know I'm bothered, and I figure my restless feet and hunched shoulders when he's around tell him that enough.

Damned odd kid. Really.

And I'm craving it. Craving orange-red heat and the acrid scent of accelerant, wanting to let my eyes unfocus as I stare at the flames, letting my own personal fire gods dance and sing. The back of my neck itches with it, and I reach up to wipe the sweat off. I nod Jamie's way as he looks over from the engine of the '54 Chevy he's working on in his spare time, all of the time these days now summer's here and he's out of those worthless junior college classes.

"We should have a barbecue."

There's a flicker from him, like kindling catching. "Yeah? Like what?"

"Like ribs or brisket, you know?" No way am I starting anything but a charcoal grill with him around, but it might set the urge back a bit, satisfy the need.

"Oh." The tiny flame snuffs like it was never there, and Jamie shrugs. "Sure, whatever."

"Here. Here's twenty bucks. Go get charcoal and starter fluid."

There's a gap between his two front teeth when he smiles. I've never seen it before. He comes back with two bags of charcoal and a huge freaking can of starter, handing the latter over with a grin so wide I can see his gums, forget his teeth.

The truck needs a new front tire and an oil change, which is damned embarrassing for a mechanic, but it gets us there just fine. The little trailer I bought and stuck out in the middle of nowhere looks dilapidated as hell, but the yard is clean of weeds and overhanging trees, so it's all good.

"Lay out the fire. I'll get the food."

The grill is out on one side, plain enough to see, so I leave him to it. Before I even get the ribs salted and peppered I can smell it, grease and smoke, burning my nose as it drifts through the open kitchen window. He's out there, squirting liquid in a steady stream, watching it burn halfway back up, tempting an explosion.

The look on his face is like religion.

I put the ribs in sauce and put them back in the fridge, wandering out as casually as I can with my heart going zero to ninety in the short time it does, looking at Jamie in a whole new way.

"Thought you were all about warning me not to enjoy it."

Empty, the can falls to the ground as the fire flares high enough to shower sparks on our heads. He puts his hand over the flames as they subside, and his skin shrieks at me; I can smell the blisters rising.

"I said one day you were going to get caught. I was hoping it would be me who did."

"Why?"

There's sweat along the line between that straw hair and his pink forehead, beading and running into his left eye. He walks over and puts his hand on my cheek, and I feel it like a brand, burning me inside out.

"Because we're two of a kind."

The fire burns steadily, deep and red behind him, like stained glass in a church. Like need. I nod. "We might just be at that."

Julia Talbot is the author of three novels: Manners and Means, Jumping into Things, and Mysterious Ways. All are available in ebook format from Torquere Press.