On Duty

by A. R. Barley

  “I’m the oldest of six.” Connie turned her computer so the screen was visible. It was an advertisement for a one-bedroom in one of the shiny new skyscrapers near the river. All appliances included. Astronomical rent. He shook his head and her fingers started moving again.

  Click-clack. Click-clack.

  “Oldest children are high achievers with excellent leadership skills.” She poked a finger in Alex’s direction. “Uncle Alex is the youngest of eight. That makes him an idiot.”

  “Youngest children have high social and emotional intelligence,” Alex corrected. His pronunciation was crisp, like he was quoting out of a book on the effect of birth order on personality traits.

  It was bizarre. Troy shifted the backpack onto the island and slumped down onto the barstool. Alex’s personality was as unpredictable as the weather, bickering with his niece one moment, flirting with Troy the next, and underneath it all was a mind like a steel trap.

  He didn’t know if he’d ever get used to it, no matter how long he stuck around. Not that he was sticking around. Alex’s one-bedroom apartment might be palatial by New York City standards, but that didn’t mean it was big enough for the two of them.

  Another advertisement popped up on the screen. It was a studio with an obstructed view. Still too expensive.

  Troy’s shoulders bowed inward. “Maybe you could try an older building? In a different neighborhood?”

  A bowl of chicken soup materialized on the counter directly in front of him. It smelled delicious. Pieces of sausage and multi-colored tortellini bobbed among the bits of chicken and fresh herbs.

  “You’re a god.” A bottle of ibuprofen appeared next to the soup. Troy popped the container open and spilled two pills out into his hand. In his bare feet and fuzzy pants, Alex’s movements were silent and graceful. Sneaky-ass god.

  Two hours later the daybed was almost done and Troy was sick of sorting through apartments he couldn’t afford. Of the half-dozen possibilities, two had been obvious scams, three had already been leased, and as for the last one...

  “Not there.” Alex was sitting cross-legged on the ground, assembling the drawers for the daybed’s built-in storage. “I went to a callout there last month. If the atom bomb ever gets dropped on New York City, that’s where the roaches are going to set up base camp while they rebuild civilization.”

  “Fuck.” Troy’s arms were pressed flat against the countertop. The stone was cool and solid. He could give himself a concussion banging his head against the surface and it wouldn’t even scratch.

  Not that he’d notice the pounding in his head with the pain arcing its way down his spine. Sitting in the same position for hours hadn’t done him any favors. Hell, he didn’t know if he’d ever be able to stand up straight again.

  He could get a new job at one of the sideshows on Coney Island, “The Incredible Bent Man.” His mouth opened wide and air forced its way into his lungs. One deep breath, then another. He tried to straighten up and failed.

  “It wasn’t this hard when Ian and I found our place. I mean, this is freaking impossible.” He groaned. “Do you know how much a studio apartment costs around here?”

  Alex shrugged. “To rent or buy?”

  “I’m not buying anytime soon.”

  “Two grand. Maybe more.”

  Definitely more. Troy glared at him. “You don’t have to sound so happy about it.”

  “It’s not my fault.” He sighed. “Trust me, if I could affect the complicated system of supply, demand, rent-controlled housing, and gentrification that make up the borough’s rental market I’d be using my powers for something a whole lot more important.”

  “World domination?”

  “Who needs the world? All I need is my own little island civilization.” Clever hands slid the drawer into place. The wheels rolled smoothly back and forth. “My first order of business? Mandatory Naked Tuesdays for all gay men between the age of twenty-two and thirty.”

  It felt like he’d been slapped. At least now he knew that Alex hadn’t been serious about his flirtation. He was too old for Naked Tuesdays.

  Connie didn’t look happy about the situation either. She’d abandoned any attempt at studying. “What’s wrong with straight guys?”

  “Nothing, except I’d lose half my population trying to protect your virtue.”

  Troy bit his lip to keep from grinning. Then he remembered screen after screen of apartments he couldn’t afford. He sighed. “You know what I made last year?”

  “More than me. Not enough to pay two grand for a studio.” Alex waved away his complaints. “You’ve got a problem with it, talk to the union, vote in the next city council election. Until things change, you’ll need to do what everyone else does.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Get a roommate,” Alex said. “That’s what I’m doing.”

  “I don’t know, dude. We looked at the roommates section,” Connie said. “Those people are weird. The last one was looking for a sex slave, and not the fun kind.”

  “Damn it.” Alex fumbled his Allen wrench. The bent piece of metal clanged and skittered across the floor. His cheeks were red. “Constance Agatha Laverne and Shirley Tate, you better not talk to your parents like that. Your mother really will kill me.”

  “Please, like she’s never done the dirty.”

  “Your mother’s a saint and a virgin. She’s had six kids and every single one of them was immaculate conception.” Alex’s head jerked from side to side looking for the tool he’d been using to put the daybed together. “That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.”

  “Seriously?” Connie said.

  “That’s enough.” He glared at his niece. “Pack your boots, take some soup, go home.”

  “You were supposed to help me study.”

  “I feel bad about that. Not.”

  It took Alex a full minute to get on his feet. His eyes were free of dark circles, but he was still creaking. He’d been at the tail end of a long shift when he’d decided to drag Troy home for the night. Had he gotten any sleep at all? Or, had he been too busy making soup and assembling furniture?

  Served him right for lying.

  Except, unlike Ian, there was no mask on Alex’s features. He winced unhappily. The jerk actually had the nerve to feel guilty about screwing up his niece’s plans.

  “I’ll send you my old notes,” he said. “Make up some flash cards and you’ll do fine. You’re taking high school anatomy, not the MCAT.”

  Connie’s features lit up like she’d been offered the keys to the kingdom. Alex’s notes must be pretty good because she hopped off her barstool and packed up her books, stealing half a case of seltzer water on the way out. “Hasta la vista, Uncle Alex. See you around, Uncle Alex’s friend.”

  The door slammed shut hard enough to rock the framed art hanging on the walls.

  There was a long moment before all the pieces snapped into place. “She doesn’t know my name?”

  “You didn’t offer.”

  “She didn’t ask.” Troy’s head dipped the last few inches to rest against the counter. “She’s definitely the evil twin.” His voice echoed off the stone, ringing loudly in his ears. “She’s really got five siblings?”

  “Two brothers, three sisters.”

  “I never want to meet them, ever.”

  “It’s not compulsory.”

  “Good. I think two Tates at a time is probably the most I can handle.” He lifted his head. “I didn’t mean that as an insult.”

  “Most of the time, I feel the same way.” Alex abandoned his search for the angle iron and made a beeline for the refrigerator. With the apartment free of impressionable teenagers, he wasn’t bothering with the seltzer water on the top shelf. Instead, his superhero pants pulled tight across his firm bubble butt as he reached down to ret
rieve two long-necked bottles.

  “None for me,” Troy said. “I’m not sure what pills they gave me at the hospital. Last time I mixed painkillers with alcohol, I ended up playing strip poker in the back of Smoke & Bullets. Surprised the hell out of everybody else when I pulled off my top. They were all playing for quarters.”

  Alex was breathing through his mouth like he was trying hard not to laugh. He put the second bottle of beer back in the fridge and slammed the door shut.

  No searching for the bottle opener in this place, not when there was one bolted to the end of the peninsula. The little piece of metal didn’t go with the rest of the decor, but it sure was functional. Alex snapped the bottle into place and levered it open. The cap hit the floor with a ding. It rolled two feet before finally stopping up against the dishwasher.

  Alex took a long sip.

  Then he snorted. Beer spilled across his chin. Giggles. He was giggling, the sounds sharp and bell-like.

  A few seconds later Troy was laughing too. His body shook with the effort. It hadn’t been his proudest moment, but it had been funny as hell. He wiped tears from his eyes. When he looked down, there were smears of soot and ash on his fingers.

  “Troy Barnes, stoned and shirtless, betting your pants against a table full of quarters,” Alex finally said around gasping breaths and bright laughter. “And I thought that place was boring.”

  “You don’t go to Smoke & Bullets?” Troy blinked in surprise.

  “Not my scene.”

  “Let me guess, you’re not a fan of slutty bartenders?”

  “I’m a huge fan of slutty bartenders, but I’m more club rat than bar fly.” He cocked his head to the side. “You ever been to a dance club?”

  The kick of spice in his voice made it clear he wasn’t talking about just any spot. He was talking about the nightclubs with the throbbing music and the bright neon where gay boys in tight pants danced with men, women, and those who had yet to make up their minds. The kind of place where men dropped to their knees in bathroom stalls and fire marshals emptied the place of writhing, sweating bodies.

  Troy shook his head. “I’ve been busy.”

  “Maybe it’s time that changed.”

  “And maybe it’s time you came to Smoke & Bullets.” The bar might not be conducive to late-night hookups—for anyone except Ian—but it was a place where firefighters and cops could let loose. Where they could bond with their coworkers and drink away their sorrows. He drummed his fingers against the counter. “Help me move my shit—tomorrow, maybe the next day—and I’ll buy you a round.”

  “Does that mean you’re sticking around?” There was a little hitch in his breath. “Or, are you thinking about going back to your ex’s for the next four and a half days?”

  “Probably closer to four days now, and we weren’t really dating. We were—” He stopped short. What were they exactly? Twenty-four hours earlier he would have called them roommates, and the word would have left a dry patch in his throat. It wasn’t anything near the truth. He’d met Ian as a kid, fresh faced and rosy cheeked, a kid off the damn farm from Indiana. They’d been joined at the hip. It hadn’t just been during their time in the army either. Their first few years in New York City, they’d spent every weekend at the shooting range or running by the river. They’d done the New York City Marathon together four times in a row before deciding they’d rather drink beer and watch it on TV. “—complicated.”

  “So complicated he only gave you five days to move.” Alex’s gaze narrowed slightly, like he could see deep down into Troy’s soul. He took a long pull on his beer, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he gulped down the cold liquid. “Let me guess. It took nine months to tell you, and the bun’s coming out of the oven next week?”

  “They need time to get things ready.” Troy probably should have accepted that beer. Alex probably wouldn’t mind a round of strip poker or three. Hell, he might even throw his own shirt into the pot. Instead, Troy was answering questions about his relationship with Ian. “Besides it’s only a one bedroom and neither of us were sleeping in the living room.”

  “How long did you live there?”

  “Six years.”

  “And you were together the whole time? Fuck complicated. Six years in a one bedroom. That’s committed.” Alex set the bottle down on the counter. His shoulders weren’t broad, but there was a strength to his body that wasn’t visible in his work uniform. His bare feet were square against the tile floor.

  Those damn lime-green toenails...

  “What I’m offering isn’t complicated,” Alex said. “You need a place to stay, and I know what it’s like to—” his posture remained calm, but his voice was cracking “—have your heart broken by someone you thought you trusted. If you want to leave, that’s fine, but, if you don’t, I really was serious about the whole roommate thing. I could use the extra money. I mean, I can’t work double shifts forever. Plus, I think Connie’s going to knife me in the back for my side gig.”

  There was no faking the hurt in Alex’s voice or the honesty of his offer.

  Troy didn’t bother denying his relationship with Ian. Again. “I’m not taking your bedroom,” he finally said. “The daybed looks comfortable enough, and I’m paying rent.”

  The number Alex mentioned was less than he’d been paying at his old apartment, but more than he’d ever thought of paying for a bunk on a couch with a fancy name.

  Sore muscles groaned as Troy pushed himself onto his feet. Some things a man couldn’t do sitting down. He held out a hand. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

  Alex’s fingers were callused and capable. His hand was cool from where he’d been holding the beer bottle. His grip was tight.

  He was still holding on when Troy tumbled to the ground.

  Chapter Five

  Hell. Alex stumbled forward, pulled down by the sudden weight. He tried to brace his legs underneath him and failed. Troy was a big fucker. He’d always thought of that as a positive—he liked a man with the weight to pin him down against the mattress.

  It was different when the man in question was all dead weight, holding on to him for dear life.

  Alex’s brain stuttered. His body faltered; for one long moment he didn’t know what to do. Then he remembered that he was a trained emergency responder in a city that never stopped coming up with new ways to surprise him. He allowed himself to be pulled forward. He might not be able to keep Troy from going down, but he could at least slow his fall.

  Troy’s shoulders thudded against the ground, but his head landed softly. Alex shifted quickly so he was bent at his new roommate’s side. His fingers went to the side of Troy’s neck, checking his pulse against the clock on his wall.

  All the acronyms he’d learned during training and questions he’d recited a hundred times raced through his mind, but most of them didn’t apply to the situation. He needed to focus on the basics. “What happened?”

  Troy wheezed, sucking air down into his lungs. His eyes glistened under the artificial light. His body twisted like he was trying to pull away.

  Not a chance. Alex shifted his weight forward and raised one leg. The move left him practically kneeling on Troy. It definitely wasn’t standard protocol, but it was the quickest way to secure his patient. “Answer the damn question: What happened?”

  “Think the pain medication they gave me wore off.”

  “Where does it hurt?”

  “Everywhere.” He grunted. “My back. My arms. My chest—fuck, I think I pulled my stitches. Did I get stitches?”

  Okay, he was conscious, responsive, and coherent. Time to check for higher brain functions. Not that Alex was convinced he’d had any to start with. “Name?”

  “Troy Barnes, I’m thirty-six years old.” Troy’d clearly heard the questions before. “This is New York City. I’m originally from Sweet Springs
, Indiana. Yes, really. No, I don’t go back to visit.”

  “Who’s the president?”

  “Fuck you.”

  That checked out. The sudden tightness in Alex’s chest eased a little bit. “Any medical history I need to know about?”

  “There was a building. It was on fire.”

  “And you had to jump out of it with a kid on your back. Freaking Tarzan of the urban jungle.” Alex sighed. “You said you didn’t know what medication they gave you at the hospital. Did they send you home with any prescriptions?”

  “The doctors don’t give you the good stuff when you’re AMA.”

  “You signed yourself out against medical advice?” He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He settled for jabbing Troy in the side. Hard. “You need to go back to the hospital.”

  “I hate hospitals.”

  “A building fell on you.”

  “I hate hospitals,” Troy repeated. Wrinkles surrounded his eyes. The blood seemed to have vanished from underneath his skin. The only color on his face came from soot, ash, and twelve-hour bruises.

  He really hated hospitals.

  Alex’s eyes squeezed shut. He needed to make a decision, fast. Every ounce of training and logic in his body was shouting at him to pack Troy up and dump him at the nearest emergency room for the duration. He might have a few years of med school under his belt, but he was never going to be a doctor. If there was something really wrong...

  But Troy had made it through two and a half hours of no-holds-barred contact with Connie and lived to laugh about it. He was talking. His responses were good, and he was staring up at Alex with an aching desperation usually found in condemned men.

  “I’m going to help you up,” he finally said. “We’re going to go slowly. You need to drink some water. I’m going to put you through the motions and make a quick assessment. If you’re okay to walk around, you’re getting in the shower.”

  The iron tang of blood filled the air. Blood. Troy was bleeding. Alex’s eyes popped open. It took him a moment to find the pool of red staining Troy’s shirt. He tugged the light cotton up.