“And you do?”
I nod, about to expand on my theories of media attention, causing too big a scene to be ignored, and friends whose fathers are barristers and who can be blackmailed by a single video link, even if the original footage has now been taken down.
But Esme doesn’t wait. She needs nothing more than my word.
Her thumb spins the wheel until a steady flame emerges. She tiptoes across the tiles, finding the edge of the petrol spill before turning back to me. “Everyone’s out of the house?”
“Everyone who doesn’t matter.”
That gorgeous smile again. The one that I would happily trash my future prospects for, the one I would let send me to jail a thousand times over.
“Guess we count in that number, too.”
She bends, touching the flame to the edge of the petrol in half a dozen places, then tossing it halfway across the room before stepping back, watching as the fire greedily eats across the floor, taking only a few seconds to reach the drapes of the large windows, the carpet, the furniture.
Esme steps farther back, taking my arm and letting me guide her to the open doorway.
“It’s beautiful,” she says as flames lick across the ceiling, the house far too modern to have asbestos to dampen down the fun. The fire takes a hungry gulp out of the shag rug near the massive faux fireplace, now getting its first official taste of the real thing.
It spreads and spreads, staking its claim to everything it wants, turning the air thick with smoke, choking the space with the taint of chemicals, flammable materials.
The scent of complete and utter destruction.
When the heat threatens to singe my hair, I pull her fully outside, turning towards the wooded area alongside the property, the place where she’d made a dirty old shed her second home.
A choice I never thought to question, but which now stands out as brightly as a warning light, telling me things I was too young at the time to know.
Metres past the treeline, we’re rocked by an explosion. A pulse of warm air pushes past us, burning hot even after going through the protective thicket of trees.
I feel turned around, blindly following Esme’s lead as she plunges through the tangle of undergrowth, dodging trunks that loom out of nowhere, skipping over falling branches, ducking under those still attached.
Finally, I recognise features, drawing near the road.
“My car’s up this way,” I tell her, taking the lead once I centre myself, placing our position in the map inside my head.
We scramble up the hillside, panting, covered from head to toe in the gently rotting mulch of dead foliage. When Esme’s foot slips, still bare, I swing her into my arms, her hands clasping around my neck as I fight through the last few metres of thick bush before emerging onto the road.
She gets the giggles as I let her find her footing, skipping ahead of me when I try to check if someone’s following, grabbing the car door before I find the fob to unlock them.
Once I fall into the driver’s seat, she leans over and plants an enormous kiss on my cheek. I turn into it, capturing her mouth, drowning in the taste of her, the swirl of crippling hunger that she excites in me.
The world recedes for a moment, coming back into focus with a thump when she draws away. “Can we drive up the hill to the lake view clearing?”
I nod, biting back a smile. “You want to go to the make out spot? Sure.”
She slaps my hand on the steering wheel, her eyes drifting to the view from the passenger window.
“I want a good vantage point to watch it all burn.”
It only takes a few minutes to drive there, parking as near to the edge as it’s possible to go. I get out of the car, spreading my coat across the bonnet as protection against the heat of the engine. Then I sit with my legs splayed, pulling her between them, leaning back against me as my arms encircle her, my chin tucked into the sweet curve of her shoulder, her butt wriggling against me in the most delightful way.
“Watch it go,” she says, the satisfaction warm in her voice. Part of the entry roof crashes down, the support pillars burnt through.
Firefighters attack the weak spots, trying to gain the advantage while the blaze continues to find pockets of fuel inside, the occasional pops of lesser explosions as attractive as the boom of fireworks.
The smoke wafts away over the rooftops. A few boats have ventured onto the lake, anchoring far away from shore, angled for the best view.
Voyeurs having a field day.
