Chapter 23

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JOHN

JOHN RACED into his office, both to escape the blistering heat outside and because he still had so much work to do before he could go home. He dropped heavily into his chair, giving himself barely a second to enjoy the air conditioning. The middle of July meant two things: one, the dreaded Mid-State Fair was in town, bringing huge crowds and tons of traffic; and, two, the temperature was consistently in the triple digits. John swiped the back of his arm across his forehead, then snatched up his to-do list.

The thing was a mess. Wrinkled, stained with coffee, items scratched out and rewritten because they shouldn't have been scratched out in the first place.

Christ . He was exhausted. The past few weeks had been beyond hectic. Ward was more distracted than ever, to the point that John had seriously considered making the man take some time off to clear his head. It didn't help that John couldn't focus, either. Between getting himself ready to take a few days off for Adam's surgery, missing sleep every time he spent the night at Adam's place, struggling to find time and inspiration to write Adam's Song , and dealing with mounting problems at work, John felt ready to explode. His head was a churning mess of noise. Too many different things constantly demanded his attention. And with all the added traffic, his daily commute was a snarled mess. Each day, all he wanted to do was get home and escape into a long shower, Adam's body, and a bottle of wine, and not necessarily in that order.

Of course, the last two were impossible when he stayed at Adam's place.

Which Adam didn't even seem to need anymore. Still, John kept voluntarily packing an overnight bag and driving himself to the apartment instead of his own house most nights, though whether he was trying to prove something to Adam or to himself was getting hazier by the day. Yes, he was still determined to show Adam that he'd be there for him, but the boy never got that haunted look in his eyes anymore, the one that screamed his fear of abandonment.

So maybe John was still fighting a losing battle with his own guilt. Making himself lie in Adam's bed, night after night, so vividly aware of the urn on the nightstand that it made his hair stand on end, and all the while waiting for some kind of sign, clarity, or insight. Something to tell him what he needed to do in order to finally move on.

But he couldn't think about any of that right then. He needed to stay focused. Get himself organized and get his work done.

No matter how hard he tried to get back to his usual semblance of order, though, all structure seemed to elude him. He kept forgetting things. Kept getting distracted. Meanwhile, Adam had been responsible and industrious, all without John's help. It was like they'd suddenly switched roles. John muttered a curse. Somehow, he needed to get past this shit. Get himself back on even footing.

But first, he had to make sure everything at work was ready for his absence. He didn't want to come back to any more problems or things left incomplete. John spent the rest of the afternoon getting as many things off his to-do list as he possibly could, then wrote out a long set of instructions for Ward and the others, all the tasks he wanted completed and issues he wanted addressed while he was away.

John was about to get up and go do a final check on the vats and barrels when Ward walked into the office. The man's shirt was drenched with sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead. John looked at him in alarm. Ward had been working in the warehouse, helping to build pallets going to the distributor on Monday. Even working hard and fast, the man shouldn't have looked like that. "Don't tell me the air conditioning failed in the warehouse." That would be just what they needed. In this heat, they'd lose their entire stock.

"Huh?" Ward asked, then looked down at himself. "Oh. Ha!" He shook his head. "No, we finished the pallets, and then I went outside to make sure the trucks were all locked up for the night. Wound up chatting with the warehouse manager for a few minutes, out there in the heat. So I sprayed myself with the hose to cool off before I came in here."

"Oh." John heaved a sigh of relief. It was just water. Not sweat. At least, not entirely sweat. And there he'd been picturing his entire warehouse full of wine going bad because the space couldn't be kept cool. "Okay. Good."

"Everything's fine, John. You don't have to worry. We'll handle everything while you're out."

John slowly nodded even though he knew he'd spend a lot of the time, while taking care of Adam, waiting for inevitable phone calls from work. "You taking off?"

"Yeah." Ward gathered up his things. "Pretty much everyone else is already gone." He paused, swinging his keys around. Ward opened his mouth, closed it again, then breathed a laugh and shook his head. "Don't work too late."

John nodded absently again. He started to turn back to his desk, trying to remember what he'd been about to do, then stopped and blurted out, "Have a good weekend."

"You, too." Ward headed for the door.

"Oh, wait!" John gasped, stopping Ward in his tracks. "What was it you were trying to tell me?" he asked. When Ward only frowned and shook his head, John muttered a curse. "Shit. This was a few days ago. Hell, maybe even a few weeks ago now. You started to tell me something about a problem, but I never gave you a chance to finish."

Ward's frown deepened in thought. After a long moment, he slowly shook his head again. "Shit. Sorry. I've got nothing."

Christ . John waved a hand. "Okay. Thanks." Maybe it truly was nothing. Maybe it had already resolved itself, whatever it was. John muttered a goodnight to Ward, then watched the man walk out the door before he headed out himself, remembering that he'd wanted to survey the barrel room.

The sense of something forgotten still plagued John as he checked all the vats and barrels, making sure everything was intact, functioning properly, and accounted for.

At least the barrel room was blessedly cool and silent. John almost started to feel a sense of peace wash over him as he slowly moved about the space, unburdened by the heat, by other people and their noise.

Once he was satisfied with everything he saw, John went to the warehouse and double-checked the distributor's order, even though a voice in the back of his head told him it was probably fine. His staff all had great attention to detail. Still, he couldn't let it go, so he grabbed the paperwork and looked over the assembled pallets, making sure all the cases were accounted for and all the vintages were correct. With that done, he went outside and checked all the trucks again even though Ward had already done so.

A hint of an odd smell was on the air, but John couldn't pinpoint it. Of course, it didn't help that it was hotter than hell out there, even that late in the evening. He was probably just smelling warm rubber and metal and dirt from all the open ground and equipment surrounding him.

He went back inside to escape the heat, planning to spend another hour slogging through paperwork, wanting it all cleared from the pile before he left.

John felt like he'd barely made a dent when he heard the first siren.

The hell? John frowned as he tilted his head and strained to listen. The sound was faint but audible, piercing the silence of his office. John got up and peeked out a window, but of course he couldn't see the road from there. It was too far away.

The sound drew nearer. John gasped. That wasn't an ambulance. Nor the police. That was a firetruck, clear as day.

John's heartbeat sprang up to a gallop as he flew out the door, then lurched to a stop. The scent from earlier was now almost solid, it hit him so hard. Not just scorched earth, but fire. John panted as he ran, looking for any signs of smoke. Looking for any hint of alarm or commotion. But he was alone in the vineyard. Everyone else had gone home an hour ago.

He looked towards the west and saw thick, dark smoke blotting out the lowering sun.

"No!"

John flew over to his truck, cranked it on, slammed it into gear, and tore out onto the road that cut through the vineyard. Even over the rumble of his truck's engine, the sirens grew louder. He finally got close enough to the border fence to see the flash of lights in the distance, over on the neighbor's property.

A property that was choked with weeds, standing taller than him, bending over the fence as flames tore through them.

John slammed down on the gas pedal, heart racing as he chased the flames along the fence line. His truck started to fishtail on the dirt road. John had no choice but to back off his speed. He watched as the wind kicked up, the neighbor's weeds swaying and flailing directly towards the fence, bringing the fire along with them.

He slammed on the brakes and flew out of the truck, sprinting towards the fence, but he wasn't fast enough. John watched, helplessly, as though in slow-motion, as a single spark flew across the vineyard's firebreak, carried on the powerful wind, and landed in the short, dry weeds that grew between the riesling vines.

John ran for it and stomped it out, but when he turned around, he realized his efforts were in vain. Another spark flew over the fence, followed by another. And another. One landed in the dirt and fizzled out, but two more caught. Before he could reach them, the dry growth sprang into flame, licking at his precious vines. John got as close as he dared, kicking up dirt, trying to stomp out the flames, but it was no use.

The vines caught and began to burn.

Sweat poured down John's face and back as he ran about, gasping for breath, choking on smoke and dust, trying to contain the fire, trying to stop it from spreading. His vision started to go hazy. John tried to shake off the feeling, assuming it was just smoke in the air. His heart beat painfully in his chest, and his muscles grew weaker.

He heard more sirens. Closer this time. Growing louder. Suddenly there were shouting voices all around him. Hands grabbing at him, pulling him away. John struggled. He had to save his vines. Had to stop the fire from consuming the place that was his solace. His escape.

But then haze turned to darkness, and the last thing John saw, as shadowy figures pulled him away, was the blackened fence and his precious riesling vines seeming to melt away, the roaring fire sounding like their dying screams.

John found himself on his back, with something fitted over his face. He blinked slowly, flashes of light and shadow assaulting his vision as he was pushed into a confined space with hazy figures hovering over him. His entire body trembled, and he was so thirsty.

Something poked at the inside of his arm, but he barely felt it. John tried to lift his hand. To point and say that he needed to be let go. He needed to save his vines. To save that part of Adam in his heart.

John floated away, barely aware of the occasional odd bump or roll. Then a sudden stop, a clattering jolt, and a series of flashes of light overhead as a cool space surrounded him.

Faces came and went, muttering things that made no sense. He felt himself being poked and prodded and asked questions that felt so simple yet seemed oddly impossible to answer.

When his head finally cleared, he looked down to find himself in a hospital bed. His arms were bandaged, an IV was threaded into the back of his hand, and a plastic mask was on his face, feeding him oxygen. John slowly blinked, trying to get his thoughts to catch up.

A small commotion pulled his glance away, and then a nurse was leading a doctor towards him.

The doctor gave him a practiced smile and introduced himself. Somehow, he already knew John's name. The doctor told him that he'd collapsed from the heat, but the fire crew had gotten him away just in time. That he had minor burns on his hands and arms, but that the smoke inhalation wasn't severe enough to be a critical concern. John was informed that he would be kept overnight for observation nonetheless.

"Just rest," the doctor insisted.

John almost argued, except the sheer exhaustion all through his body stopped him cold. He started to nod instead. All he wanted to do was sleep. Just drift off in a way he hadn't managed to do in the weeks he'd been sleeping at Adam's apartment, haunted by the ghosts of his past.

He sucked in a ragged breath. Adam . John no sooner thought of the boy than he realized that resting wasn't an option.

Because that was when he finally registered the blood-curdling, desperate scream.

" JOHN!!! "

"Adam," John gasped. He fidgeted in bed, his movements sluggish, his muscles weak.

The doctor tried to hold him down. "Easy–"

"Adam," John insisted.

" JOHN!!! " Adam screamed again, that beautiful, precious voice ricocheting through every inch of the hospital.

Then Adam was there. The nurses tried to hold the boy back, but John waved them off. Adam flung himself at John, throwing his arms around John's neck while his tears instantly soaked John's skin.

"Are you okay?" Adam asked between choking sobs. "Tell me you're okay. You can't leave me, John. You can't!" He held John tighter. "I can't go through this again. I can't do it. John, please, tell me you're okay."

Through the mask over his mouth, John managed to get out, "I'm okay."

Adam let out a sobbing wail. He trembled in John's arms, clinging to him like the world might end if he loosened his hold even the tiniest bit.

And for Adam, it just might.

"They kept me in that damned waiting room," Adam rambled on. "And all I could think was I had to get to you. I had to see you. Because I knew I wouldn't survive if someone came to tell me that you were dead. I couldn't go through that again."

John squeezed his eyes shut as the guilt overpowered everything else. The pain and exhaustion were nothing. But this? This hit him square in the chest, making his stomach turn and his skin feel hot and cold all over.

For all the times he'd promised Adam that he'd never abandon him again, he'd damned near done so anyway. Putting his life in danger, just to save a few vines.

All because he couldn't let go.