by Austin Bates
"Don't, Tommy."
"How long? Six weeks? Two months? Three?" He slammed his fist down on the bed with energy he hadn't realized he had. "How long?"
She wiped her cheeks and took a shaky breath. "Twenty-one weeks, three days, sixteen hours until the casts came off."
Tommy's gut twisted, and only his determination not to puke in front of her kept the terrible hospital food in his stomach. "Still think I shouldn't have known better?"
"Yes," she said, staring at him with tears running down her cheeks. "You were both just kids, Tommy, and what happened was horrible, but it wasn't your fault." Digging in her purse, she pulled out a handful of tissue and mopped at her face.
"Funny," Tommy said, his voice distant, "how there are only two people whose opinions count, and they both think the same thing."
She snorted, blowing her nose. "Well, I know my brother is an idiot, so I guess that's something you have in common still." Dropping the tissue in the trash, she reached out and took his hand again. "I missed you, idiot."
"I missed you, too," Tommy said, squeezing her hand.
***
Getting checked out of the hospital was a royal pain in the ass. Getting a taxi back to the Fairlane was enough to set his head pounding. Getting to the Fairlane only to find his bike gone made him snap.
"Mrs. Fairlane," Tommy said, stalking into the diner in clothes with the tags still on them. His stomach grumbled at the scent of pancakes, but he didn't even slow down. "Where is my bike?"
She looked up slowly, one eyebrow ticking up at his irate expression. "You remember the Jakobsons? They were only in public school for their senior year, but they went to state with the debate team. They work for the fire department now."
"Is that so," he said, grinding his teeth.
"Oh yes. Nice boys. A bit serious. And Greg, Missy's husband, works for North Towing." She smiled broadly, and Tommy rubbed his temples.
"Mrs. Fairlane, that's fascinating, but where is my bike?"
"You know, I was surprised to see you still using that old thing. Thought for sure with how successful you are that you'd get a fancy new imported motorcycle." She turned to the old man seated at the bar stool nearest the register. "He has his own shop, you know," she said loudly. He nodded, taking a sip of his coffee.
Everyone in the diner was watching, their eyes glued to the spectacle, and Tommy growled. It was bad enough the Everett girl worked the day shift at the hospital, and he'd gotten to hear from Missy all about how 'everyone knew' he and Damien had been talking again. "I like my bike. I'd like it better if I knew where it was," he said, biting off every word in case anything else tried to escape. "Please."
"Well, since you asked so nicely," she said, wiping her hands on the rag at her hip. "Those nice boys at the fire station asked Greg to tow it over there so that it wouldn't be damaged when they took out all that garbage. There was so much dust and soot flying around that even the grass is black now."
Taking a deep breath, Tommy counted backward from twenty. It wasn't quite enough, so he ended up at negative twelve. "Thank you, Mrs. Fairlane."
"Anytime, dear," she said. The bell behind the counter rang, Joseph McDaniel shoving a takeout container through the service slot. "And there are your pancakes. Don't you have good timing? Tell the boys at the fire station I said hello. They're such good boys." She pressed the Styrofoam container into his hands and bustled off down the row of tables, snagging a coffee pot and pouring with a practiced hand.
Tommy glared, meeting the eyes that watched him one at a time. Around the room, newspapers rustled, and conversations started back up as he raked them with his gaze. No one had the good grace to look ashamed, but they stopped watching him so blatantly. Spinning on his heel, he stomped out of the diner. He could see heads turning out of the corner of his eye as he walked by the windows, and he tried to ignore the way his hair stood on end.
The Golden Firehouse was less than half a mile from downtown, and it felt good to walk in the sunshine of mid-morning. He would never have expected the nostalgia that crept over him as he passed the post office and the veterinarian's office, both in historic buildings that hadn't changed since before he was born.
The fire station was not historic, just old. In an ironic turn of events, it had been built in the seventies when the original building burned down. The bricks were faded, lighter where old graffiti had been scrubbed off over and over again. Tommy could remember afternoons across the street at the ice cream parlor, now a Vietnamese restaurant, listening to Damien talk about everything he'd learned about firefighting.
Shaking off the weight of memories, Tommy strode through the front door.
"Welcome to the Golden Fire Station, please have a seat, and someone will be with you shortly," the woman behind the counter said, her voice bored. She tapped a button and continued, "Thank you for holding. I'm afraid Captain Brant is out with his team, but I'll let him know you called. Yes, Mrs. Brant. Ballet, seven o'clock. Yes, ma'am. Of course." Smiling and nodding, the woman pulled her long blonde hair back into a ponytail. "I'll let him know right away, ma'am. Reservations. Nice shoes. Cologne. No smoke smell. Got it."
Tommy coughed to cover a laugh as the receptionist banged her head gently on the surface of her desk.
"Of course not, Mrs. Brant. I'm sure the captain will be right on time. Absolutely. Yes, it was great to talk to you, too. Always, ma'am. Goodbye." She reached out and hit a button with gusto, tapping it a few times. "Are you still there, ma'am?" she said, her professional smile still in place. Another heartbeat and it disappeared. "Thank you, Jesus. I thought that woman would never hang up."
"She sounds like a handful," Tommy said diplomatically.
"You have no idea," she said, glancing at him. "Oh." She paused, her eyes roaming his tattoos. "You must be the guy with the totally awesome motorcycle."
Tommy blinked. He was used to comments about his tattoos, but most people overlooked the bike because the frame was nothing special. "That's why I'm here, actually." The pounding behind his eyes was gradually subsiding, whether it was because of the clear example of someone having a worse day than him, or just the cheerful confidence that she exuded. Either way, he was grateful.
"Give me just a second, and I'll take you around back." She got to her feet, smoothing the fitted sweater she was wearing down carefully. She was the model of professionalism, her slacks pressed neatly and her heels dangerously tall as she strode over to another door.
It was so picture perfect that Tommy almost jumped out of his skin when she shoved the door open with an echoing crash.
"Captain Brant," she shouted, her voice reverberating through the room beyond. The sounds of people laughing and talking fell silent as her slightly accented words hung in the air. "Your wife would like to remind you that Lily has ballet at seven. You have reservations afterward for dinner, and if you show up stinking of smoke again, she's going to make you sleep on the couch. Next time, I am not covering for you, so pick up your office phone."
By the end of her speech, she sounded exactly like he'd always imagined a New York City taxi driver would, and Tommy clutched his stomach as he laughed so hard tears rolled down his cheeks.
"Dominic, the guy with the bike is here. Can you bring his stuff over, please," she added in a much more polite tone, letting the door slam shut before anyone could say anything else.
"I think I'm a little in love with you," Tommy said when she turned around, smoothing her sweater again.
She smiled. "Everybody is. My name is Olivia, and I am a little in love with your bike."
"Everybody is," he said, the smile sitting naturally on his face for the first time in days.
Dominic turned out to be a tall black man with a stern expression. He brought an unfamiliar duffel bag out across the back parking lot while Tommy was checking his girl over to make sure nothing had happened to her while he was gone.
"That's not mine," he said, glancing at the frayed bag. It had a rip on one side and a suspic
ious stain around the clasp.
"I know," he said, leaving it next to the bike. He saluted Olivia and walked away.
"Your bag was totally a loss," Olivia said. "Smoke never comes out of leather, and the water damage was heartbreaking." She leaned down and unzipped the duffel bag, using her long fingernails to avoid actually touching anything. "The stuff inside, though, was totally salvageable. These guys are experts at getting the smoke out of clothes, so we ran you a load of laundry and rinsed your metals in this solution that Elijah cooks up." She glanced at him. "You don't actually care, do you? Because he will talk about that stuff for hours. No joke."
"Not even a little bit," Tommy said, surprised to see his suit folded neatly on top of the pile in the duffel.
"Long story short," she said, lifting the bag up with surprisingly little effort, "no smoke smell."
Cautiously, Tommy leaned in to take a sniff, but she was right. He could barely smell smoke, and he was certain what he did smell was lingering on the duffel itself. "That's amazing," he said when she stared at him expectantly.
She grinned. "I know, huh? I'll tell Elijah his new batch works great. He likes to get outside data."
"Awesome," he said. "I should head out now. It was nice to meet you."
"Drive safe," Olivia said cheerfully.
Roaring out of the parking lot and pointing himself toward the highway, Tommy let the wind whipping around him and the rumble of the bike beneath him shake off the last of the tension clinging to him. He'd have to go back to take care of the house, but it wasn't going anywhere, and he couldn't handle another minute of all those people. He'd be glad to get back to work.
Three hours and fifteen minutes later, he rolled up in front of the shop, and his heart sank. Scrawled across the windows of Vivid Ink in black spray paint, the word “bitch” blocked most of his painstakingly applied window logo. He ran a hand through his hair, looking around. The neighborhood had been up and coming when he'd bought the shop, but with the economy in a slump, it hadn't improved the way people had hoped. There were two empty buildings on this block, both of them coated in threats and signatures.
Sighing to himself, he headed around back to get the soap and water.
Chapter Six
"I think he's lonely."
Damien leaned back in his chair and glared at the ceiling. "I didn't ask about Tommy, Maria."
"Can you honestly tell me that you don't want to know?"
"Don't be smug," he snapped. Leaning back further until the chair teetered on two legs. "I don't want to hear about him. I don't want to know what he's doing, what he looked like, or what he's been up to for ten years. I know everything I need to."
"If that was true, you would've hung up by now." There was the sound of paper flipping back and forth, and he grit his teeth.
"I still can, you know."
"I know," she said, her voice softer. "He opened a tattoo parlor, Damien. He's an artist just like you always told him he would be."
"Maria," he said, squeezing the phone so hard it creaked.
"He never even left the state. I checked. La Junta. He was only three hours away this whole time." Her voice cracked, and she had to pause to clear her throat.
"Using your position as a state prosecutor to dig into his life? I thought you never broke the rules, Maria. That's why they hired you." He picked up his beer bottle and tipped it back, frustrated when it ran dry after barely half a swallow.
She ignored him. "He's not married. Never even shared an address with anyone. There was no one in the hospital with him, Damien. He looked so small and alone... Can't you just hear him out? Just once?"
"Hanging up now," he said, clicking the off button. He held the phone to his face for a few seconds, just breathing. It went off a second later, buzzing in his hand, and he almost threw it.
“I love you. –M”
Shaking his head, he typed back a quick reply. “Luv U2. Most times.”
The phone buzzed again, and he growled, his hand flexing around it.
“going 4 beers, u coming? –Kieran”
He stared at the text for a long time, then glanced at the three bottles sitting on his table. “HELL YES”
There was no point in calling a cab when they all lived within a mile of each other and the station. Maybe he'd sober up some on the walk to Jerry's. Grabbing his jacket, he tossed his phone onto the couch and headed out, locking the door behind him.
Since it was Saturday, Jerry's was busy enough that Robbie was working the door. He gave Damien a stern look, but let him in when Damien crossed his heart that he wouldn't start, finish, or otherwise engage in any fighting that night. Damien clapped him on the shoulder and waded into the crowd.
The guys were at their usual table, a pitcher already on the table. Behind the bar, Sam was busy pouring drinks, but he nodded when Damien signaled for a round of shots. Mandy, the part time waitress, was a blur as she dashed from table to table, keeping glasses full and raking in the tips.
"There he is." Kieran raised his glass as Damien slid into a seat. "You look like you could use a drink, lad."
"Back at you, Irish. What'd you do to your knuckles?"
The redhead frowned at the dried blood smeared across the back of his hand. "The damned carburetor on my truck is going out again. I was checking the engine when the wrench slipped, the little bastard." He downed the rest of his beer. "Mandy, m'love, bring us another pitcher."
"Slow down, Kieran," Rafe said, spinning his half-full glass in his hands. "You get too many more of those in you, and none of us will be able to understand a word you say."
Kieran grinned. "Makes it easier to insult you then, don't it?"
Rolling his eyes, Mica sipped at his fruit daiquiri and groaned as Mandy set down a tray of shots. "Which of you lunatics ordered these?"
The whole table turned to look at Damien. He ignored them, passing Mandy a wad of bills. "Keep it coming."
She nodded, but her eyes slid away from him, glancing at Robbie. "I'll do my best," she said quietly. "Bill's still in Wyoming, so Jerry's on the warpath."
"We'll keep him out of trouble," Mica said. Damien opened his mouth to protest and flinched as heavy boot raked down his shin. Mica smiled with angelic purity even as he rose half out of his chair, all his weight on Damien's big toe.
"Right," Damien said, his voice strangled.
She narrowed her eyes at him, but the other tables were waiting, so she rushed away.
Yanking his foot out of Mica's reach, Damien rubbed his shin. "Not cool, man."
"Don't care," Mica said, grabbing one of the shots and shoving it into Damien's hand. The alcohol burned a little where it slopped over his dry and cracking skin.
Damien licked a drip off the back of his wrist and nodded. "I forgive you." The drink went down smooth and settled in his chest like a ray of sunshine. Batting Kieran's hand away from the last one, Damien downed it, too. "That'll do the trick."
He closed his eyes, leaning back in his chair and waiting for the pleasant numbness to spread from the tips of his fingers to his aching heart.
"Damien..."
One eye slitted open. Kieran and Rafe were exchanging concerned glances, which wouldn't be a big deal if it weren't for Mica's earnest expression. The little omega had a mother hen complex, and Damien couldn't deal with it right now.
"Be right back," he said, getting to his feet. He barely swayed as he walked up to the bar, and that wasn't nearly drunk enough for him. "Can I get a double, beautiful? Strongest you've got." He smiled at Sam, watching the way his jeans flexed against his thighs as he leaned over the counter.
"You sure you want to do that, hot stuff?" Sam was staring across the room, and Damien could see Mica in the mirror over the bar. Both omegas were chewing on their lips, a habit that was so stereotypically omega it wasn't even funny.
Watching the movies as a kid, Damien had never understood why that was such a reoccurring thing. Tommy had never chewed his lip. With the braces he'd worn for most of mi
ddle school, he'd have shredded his lips to pieces if he had. In fact, the one time Tommy had gotten hit with a dodgeball at recess, he'd needed stitches. He could still remember the bright red of the blood pouring down that freckled chin.
"Damien?"
Shaking himself, Damien tried to smile, his cheeks stiff and unyielding. "Better make it two."
Sam nodded slowly, turning to grab the bottles. Damien didn't mind when it meant he got a nice view of the bartender's pert backside.
"When are you going to quit this life and come be my kept man, Sam? My money's just crying out for a cutie like you to spend it on." Damien leaned against the bar, watching Sam lean up on his toes to grab a bottle of vodka. His shirt rode up showing a line of purple roses. Damien jerked upright, and the image vanished, leaving only smooth tan skin behind. "What the hell?"
Pausing, Sam glanced over his shoulder at Damien. "Everything okay?" In the mirrors, Damien could see Robbie watching them closely.
"Fine," he said, his eyes flicking around, unable to look at anything for too long. "I'm fine. Just need a drink, that's all."
Sam set the glasses on the bar, holding on to them when Damien reached for them. "You know," he said, meeting Damien's eye for a moment, "these aren't going to help."
Gut twisting, Damien stared at the scuffed surface of the bar. "I know," he said, reaching out to trace one finger over the skin of Sam's wrist. "I know what would help, though." He forced a flirtatious leer onto his lips and leaned in to steal a kiss. Sam didn't budge, but a thick hand hooked Damien's collar and dragged him back.
"Don't make me regret letting you in here tonight, King," Robbie said, glaring at him from inches away. "Keep it in your pants."
Damien looked at Robbie for a long time, but there wasn't even a spark of real anger in the kid's eyes. Slumping, he nodded. "Our love isn't meant to be, beautiful. I will forever pine for you from afar."
Robbie set him on his feet, pushing his drinks into his hands. "From very far. Very, very far," he said, his arms crossed. Sam watched them both with an amused smile.