On Duty

by A. R. Barley

  Abs. Abs and biceps and all kinds of sexy muscles. Alex forced himself to focus.

  Troy’s chest was a study in contrasts. His left side was absolutely, devastatingly, perfect, worthy of a Times Square underwear ad. His right looked like hamburger meat. He could see a hundred thousand cuts and scratches from where Troy’d gone through the window, and then there were the thick bandages taped across his chest.

  There were also bruises in a dozen shades of black, blue, and purple. Damn. The bleeding was coming from his right pectoral. No pulled stitches, just an ugly scrape that was still seeping painfully.

  Not too bad. Alex pulled the shirt back down and swallowed, hard.

  “I’m going to clean you up. That means iodine, it means new bandages, and—since you didn’t wait for the nice doctor to write you a prescription—it means pain. When that’s over, then you can get into bed with some hot tea and my Netflix remote.”

  It was a halfway decent plan, but there were a few things he needed to make clear before they got started. “If you fall over again, you’re going to the hospital. If you argue, you’re going to the hospital. If a butterfly farts in the jungle and I change my mind, you’re going to the hospital. Do you understand? Or, should we go to the hospital now.”

  “I understand,” Troy said.

  Stubborn asshole. Alex nodded slowly before adjusting his legs. He took his time standing up, shaking out the sore muscles in his shoulders. Sleep deprivation was a pain in his ass, but at least it wasn’t an unfamiliar companion. Hell, between med school and his job at the fire department, it was practically the only constant in his life.

  “Deep breaths,” he recommended as he reached down to wrap his hands around Troy’s wrists.

  This was the first test.

  If Troy couldn’t stand under his own power, then they were going to the hospital.

  He pulled back, hard. For a moment, nothing happened. Then Troy’s muscles flexed and strained under his clothes. It took him a few seconds to get moving, but when it was all over he was standing only a few inches away.

  Close enough to feel the heat rolling off his body.

  Close enough to touch.

  Alex acknowledged the information—and the effect it had on his own physiology—before filing it away. Troy wasn’t the first hottie he’d treated. No reason for him to be anything but professional. He had him go through a few quick motions to test his coordination, holding his hands out straight in front of him, touching his fingers to his nose, closing and opening one eye at a time.

  “So far so good.” He directed Troy over to the easy chair in the corner. “Sit down while I get you a glass of water.”

  “I can stand.”

  “Dude, if you were in the hospital, you’d be wearing orange socks.”

  “I don’t even know what that means.”

  “It means you’re at risk for falling. Until I’m convinced it’s not going to happen, you’re sitting down when I’m not next to you. You want to argue about it, I can call a cab to take us to the hospital right now.”

  Troy’s chest heaved. “It’s white.”

  “Buttermilk,” Alex corrected. This wasn’t the first time Troy’d mentioned the apartment’s color scheme. “You’re worried about getting it dirty?”

  “I’m kind of a mess,” Troy explained.

  Alex added another mental strike against Troy’s ex-roommate—clearly someone had taught him that sitting on the furniture dirty was unacceptable. Unless it was a leftover from his childhood. Sweet Springs, Indiana, wasn’t a name he recognized, but it didn’t take much to picture a small farming town full of trucks in primary colors, sprawling cornfields, and God-fearing, gun-toting citizens of the U-S-of-A.

  Big and handsome, Troy probably fit right in. The man had quarterback and prom king written all over him.

  Except for the homosexuality.

  This wasn’t the time to take a deep dive into Troy’s psyche. Not when Alex was more concerned with his physical health.

  “Sit on the chair,” he ordered.

  For once, Troy did as he was told. Alex waited until he was settled back in the easy chair before zipping into the kitchen for a glass of cold water and a cup of hours-old coffee. He handed the glass over to Troy. “Drink.” Then downed his own drink.

  The roast was cheap and acidic. Time hadn’t improved the flavor, and lukewarm was never going to be his favorite temperature. He swallowed it down in three large gulps. “Damn.” Then went back to evaluating his patient.

  The water was disappearing at a slower—but still steady—rate. Color was returning to Troy’s cheeks. In another few minutes he might even look human.

  “I’ve seen your chest,” he said. “Any other surprises?”

  “Cuts in my arm. I definitely have stitches there.” Troy considered for a long moment. “I don’t know about my back. I wasn’t really paying attention.”

  “Your hands seem fine.”

  “My gloves took most of the damage. My jacket should have protected me from the rest, but the glass got inside. Cut me all to hell.”

  The water was gone. It was time for the next item on his action list. “Time for your shower. The hot water’s going to loosen up your muscles, get some of the dirt off of you.” He wasn’t going to lie. “It’s also going to hurt like a son-of-a-bitch when it hits you.”

  “Army strong.” Troy thumped his chest then winced. An angry grunt filled the air as he pushed his way onto his feet, but at least this time he managed to get up without a helping hand. “Let’s do this thing.”

  He was breathing hard by the time he hit the bathroom. Alex slid a hand around his middle to steady him as he climbed into the shower. The shirt came off without any objections—just a strangled gasp when Troy had to lift his right arm over his head—and Alex had to swallow back a curse. His back might not have as many cuts, but the bruising was pitch dark. Their arcane patterns made them look more like tribal tattoos than any self-inflicted damage caused by a man who was too stubborn to know when he was beaten.

  Next were the borrowed scrub pants. He reached for the elastic waistband, blinking in surprise when Troy batted his hand away.

  “You’ve made it this far,” Alex snarled. “Don’t start arguing now.”

  “I’m not wearing anything underneath.”

  “Good. That’s one less layer to take off.” This wasn’t the time for tender sensibilities. Alex waited a long moment, but Troy wouldn’t even meet his gaze. He was too busy staring at their reflection in the bathroom mirror. Two male bodies locked together in the shower. Tiny details added unexpected intimacy to the image: Alex’s bare feet, Troy’s solid grip on his arm.

  “I’m not going to jump your bones.” Alex gentled his voice. “I promise.”

  “Not interested in flirting with me now that I’m not pretty?”

  “Two things, Hero: you’ll always be pretty, and I don’t flirt with you. I’m friendly.”

  “There’s a difference?”

  “A big one. Trust me, if I decide to flirt with you, then you’ll know it. Not that it’s going to happen anytime soon. I barely do relationships and I definitely don’t do guys on the rebound. They’re only interested in fucking around until they get over their broken hearts or go back to their old boyfriends.”

  Troy nodded slowly. His gaze finally slipped away from the mirror. His grip tightened on Alex’s arm as his free hand dropped to shove the green pants down to the ground.

  “I’ve got to look,” Alex explained. “I need to make sure there isn’t more damage.”

  “I know.”

  “Right.” There were more trailing bruises and half a dozen small cuts marring Troy’s long legs and shapely posterior, but Alex couldn’t pick out any deep wounds. Troy’s hand was splayed out to protect his privates from view, but that did
n’t make him any less vulnerable.

  It took him more effort than he’d care to admit to drag his gaze back up to a respectable level. He was a professional, not a saint. “You must really hate hospitals.”

  “Soldiers get injured bad enough to see a doctor, some of them don’t come back. It’s the same way for firefighters.”

  “That’s a scary way to think about it.” Alex reached out and turned the water on, steeling his nerves against the pained rattle in Troy’s lungs. This had to be done—the proof was in the blood and soot running down the other man’s golden skin—but at least working together they could get through it quickly.

  He broke his bar of soap in two and passed half to Troy. “You make a frontal attack; I’ll pick off the stragglers to the rear.”

  Troy’s laughter was sharp and disconcerting given the circumstances. “You’d make a lousy soldier.” He edged to one side as Alex maneuvered around to wash his back.

  Professional, Alex reminded himself. He was a professional, and Troy was another wounded body like the hundreds of men and women he dealt with on the street every day. Except none of those bodies ended up naked in his shower. His grip tightened on the remaining soap. He kept going through the motions until the water spilling across Troy’s broad shoulder blades finally ran clean.

  He turned the water off and grabbed a white towel from the rack by the door. There were no objections about the color now. He gave Troy a quick—professional—rubdown and wrapped the towel around his waist in quick, jerky motions.

  “Almost done.” He didn’t let go of Troy’s arm for an instant as he maneuvered him out of the bathroom and into a sitting position on the daybed. It took a moment for those long fingers to relax their grip on his arm, but then Alex was racing across the apartment to his bedroom.

  His T-shirt was soaking. His pajama bottoms were heavy with water. He changed quickly and grabbed an extra pair of pants for Troy. Next out of his closet was a clean set of sheets for the daybed and the heavy-duty first aid kit he’d bought a few years earlier.

  It was covered in stickers courtesy of his nieces and nephews, but when he popped open the lid the contents were all neatly organized. Painkillers. Band-Aids. Elastic bandages. Even a damn suture kit. Everything he’d need to get Troy back in fighting condition.

  Time to get to work.

  But when he got back out to the body of the apartment, Troy had repositioned himself on the new mattress. His legs were splayed out in opposite directions. His arms were curled up under his head.

  The towel was positioned awkwardly across his waist. The gentle rise and fall of his chest meant air was still moving through his body. All his autonomic functions were a go.

  A foghorn-style snore filled the apartment.

  Troy was clean and comfortable. Everything else could wait until morning. Alex put the first aid kit down on the kitchen counter and collected one of the blankets off his bed. Troy might object to the pale color, but the creamy knit was one of his favorites.

  So damn soft.

  Like angel wings.

  Chapter Six

  Goddamn it. Troy’s teeth ground tight against the dagger-sharp pain in his biceps. He had pulled more than a few stitches during the night, and now Alex was insisting on redoing an entire row.

  Without painkillers.

  Vicious little shit. He didn’t even have the decency to look sorry about it. Nope, he was too busy concentrating on his work. His tongue darted out to skim his bottom lip as a series of neat stitches appeared under his hand. At least he was fast.

  Troy might not have minded the idiots at the hospital if they worked with Alex’s speed or precision. His stitches were small and even enough to rival any plastic surgeon. His touch was gentle but still purposeful, and he took the time to explain everything in the same no-nonsense tones he’d used the night before.

  Tumbling back onto the floor hadn’t been Troy’s proudest moment. He’d thought for sure he’d earned a quick trip to the emergency room—or the morgue—but Alex hadn’t missed a beat.

  “Make a fist,” Alex ordered before cutting the tail off the sutures. He leaned back in his seat to get a better view.

  Troy probably should have grabbed for his shirt, turning away quickly, but it had taken longer than he expected for those clever fingers to clean and bandage every wound. Alex deserved the chance to admire his work.

  “You ever think about doing this sort of thing professionally?” Troy asked.

  Alex huffed. “Because the paramedic thing is such a fun hobby?”

  “We both know you’re good at your job.” Alex’s gaze might be clinical, even compassionate, but that didn’t stop Troy from flexing awkwardly in his seat. He needed to say something. He swallowed hard, but no words came tumbling out to fill the silence between them. He tried again. “You’d make a hell of a doctor.”

  “My grandmother used to say the same thing.”

  His niece too. Something clicked in the back of Troy’s head. The night before was still a little hazy. He’d gotten the important parts—decent apartments in New York City were rarer than hen’s teeth and Alex’s niece had way too much energy—but some of the details escaped him.

  Medical school. “Connie said you went to medical school.”

  “Yeah, but going’s not the same as finishing.” There was a hard edge to Alex’s voice. Med school wasn’t something he liked talking about. “Turns out, I don’t have the temperament.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Doctors are assholes, and I like being able to look at myself in the mirror.” He sighed. “I’d rather do my side gig full time—and that’s helping my cousin Jenny sell house plants at the Brooklyn Flea.”

  “Really?” Troy frowned. The apartment was nice with its monochromatic color scheme and designer details, but he hadn’t noticed any plants. “Is there a fern in the bathroom I missed?”

  “I’ve got a black thumb, but I can tote, carry, and flirt with customers like a rock star.”

  Troy nodded. He could understand that. Maybe. He reached over to grab his borrowed T-shirt off the kitchen counter and pulled it down over his head. Fabric that had been purchased for Alex’s lean frame stretched awkwardly to accommodate his bulk. They’d tried out three pairs of pants before Alex finally found a pair of old sweats in the back of his closet. From the unhappy look on his face when he’d handed them over, he hadn’t been the one to leave them there.

  For his day off, Alex was dressed in a pair of slim-cut blue jeans and a sweatshirt advertising a high school in Queens. The clothes made him look young. The tangled mess of his pale curls didn’t help matters much. If Troy hadn’t seen him on the job he would have thought he was a college kid away from home for the first time, but he had to be in his mid-twenties at least.

  Old enough to know that some acts could stain a man’s soul and make it hard for him to look at himself afterward. Young enough to still think he had a choice in the matter.

  Troy didn’t know if he’d ever been that young, even before he’d topped the age range for Naked Tuesdays. He stood up and gave an experimental stretch. His arms hurt. His borrowed shirt slid up over his belly.

  “That really doesn’t fit. Sorry, I don’t live at the gym.”

  Troy did. If he thought about it, things at home had been awkward for a while and the gym was easy. He knew what was expected of him there. He shrugged his shoulders. How had Alex phrased it the night before? “It’s not compulsory.”

  “Yeah, well, that shirt’s about to come apart at the seams. We need to get your stuff.” There was a slight pause. “If you’re feeling up for it. How much pain are you feeling? On a scale of one to ten?”

  “It’s fine,” Troy lied. The pain was mostly a dull thud—except for the brief moments when it was a lightning bolt in his side that made him want to double ove
r. “I’m fine.”

  Alex’s expression was dubious.

  Troy sighed. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t know Ian’s schedule for the day.” Running into his ex-roommate shouldn’t be the end of the world, but he didn’t know how he’d feel if he walked into his apartment and saw Ian’s new girlfriend cuddled up on their couch.

  “I probably need to give him some advance warning. Fuck.” He rubbed at his jaw. “I’ll need boxes. Tape. The whole nine yards.”

  The borrowed clothes would have to do for now. He’d have to be careful not to do anything too athletic, but that wouldn’t be hard. The way he felt, he’d probably split in two along with the T-shirt.

  He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Breakfast, we need breakfast.”

  “There’s a bakery at the end of the block. I can go bring back some pastries if you like.” Alex’s gaze flicked across Troy’s body for what felt like the hundredth time.

  It was just professional concern, Troy reminded himself. He wasn’t being flirtatious.

  “Trust me,” he’d said, “if I decide to flirt with you, then you’ll know it.”

  Alex cleared his throat. “I don’t know if you should move around too much.”

  “I’ve got to start somewhere.” Troy forced himself to smile. “Besides you’re going to be with me the whole time. If I overexert myself, you’ll drag me off to the hospital.” That had been made clear the night before. “It’s not like we’re going clubbing. We’re getting some eggs.”

  “Eggs, not pastry?”

  “Nah.” He shook his head. “I can’t do sweets in the morning. They give me a headache.”

  There was a long pause before Alex finally nodded. “I could use some eggs.”

  Good. Troy needed to get out of the apartment before he brought up another touchy subject like medical school. Exchanging bright hellos and quick words at emergency scenes had created a certain familiarity, but they weren’t pals. He didn’t know how to avoid traps, and he couldn’t go sticking his nose in where he didn’t belong. Not if they were going to be roommates.