Things Lost In The Fire Read Online Free PDF Page A

younger brother, Chase. Mr. Perfect. Brody’s opposite in nearly every way.
    Where Brody had the dark, sharp featured looks of their mother, Chase had the chestnut brown hair and bright blue eyes of their father. While Brody lived on his toes and let impulse rule his every move, Chase was a successful family man with a baby on the way. And where Brody had made every bad, rebellious decision in the book, Chase was as straight-laced as apple pie on a Sunday afternoon.
    The offer had always been open for Brody to join the family law firm, or to let his mother help pay rent, but he couldn’t lower himself to accept charity. He made his own way in the world, even if it wasn’t flashy or pretty. He’d seen bad times, but he’d seen some damn good times, too. At least it had always been on his terms, on his back, and with his own sweat dripping down his face. His life was his , and he’d live with the choices he made, good or bad.
    And boy, had there been a lot of bad ones.
    When his thoughts drifted to that godforsaken desert on the other side of the world, he grimaced. He forced the demons away as he snuffed out his cigarette in the car’s ashtray. He was paying the price, wasn’t he? Every goddamn day he was paying for that stupid, horrible, fatal mistake.
    After releasing a heavy breath to clear the guilt from his system, he swerved into a faster lane of traffic and gunned the engine. What he needed was some food and most definitely a cold beer. He dug into his pocket, only to discover a measly twenty dollar bill. Well, it’d be cheap take-out and even cheaper beer. Until he got his next check from one of the many tabloids he submitted to, he was strapped for cash.
    The irony of it never ceased to amaze him. There had once been a time when he’d had more money than he knew what to do with. Now he was lucky if he could afford a couple containers of second-rate Chinese food.
    Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

    BRODY HAD chosen the third floor apartment in the heart of Venice Beach not for the water stains on the ceiling or for the late night sounds of muffled Gangsta rap coming from his teenage neighbor’s bedroom, but for the fact that it had a month-to-month lease at a price he couldn’t afford to pass up.
    It may not have been a castle, but he was satisfied. The threadbare brown carpet could use replacing and the walls were more gray than white, giving the quaint one-bedroom an outdated look. He’d tossed up some 1980s movie posters to add splashes of color and let the rest of it be what it was.
    Brody perched on the edge of his sagging navy blue sofa, tapping away at the keyboard of his laptop. It rested on the maple-colored Ikea coffee table he’d dragged out of a dumpster a year or so before. A fresh cigarette hung from between his lips as he typed, not yet lit. In his distraction he’d forgotten all about it.
    In the corner of the living room an old box TV was set on the Dodgers game. Occasionally he’d glance up and grunt at the score. He scratched his head beneath his prized Dodger blue baseball cap, irritated to see his team losing. Ignoring the game, he turned back to the email he was writing to his contact at TMZ.
    Scattered around him were stacks of newspapers and magazines, many containing images he himself had captured. A Corona bottle now wet with condensation lay forgotten on the table, lost in the clutter of fast food napkins, month-old mail, and matchbooks.
    At the knock on his front door, he tossed the unlit cigarette aside and shot to his feet, digging deep into his pocket for what remained of the twenty dollars after he’d bought the beer. When he opened the door the delivery man grinned ear-to-ear.
    “What’s up, bro?” the man asked with a quick nod, hoisting a white plastic bag filled with Chinese takeout containers. He was in his mid-twenties and dressed more like a Latin hip-hop artist than a delivery man, but at least he was punctual.
    “ Nada mucho , Juan.” Brody handed over the