On Duty

by A. R. Barley

  No wonder he’d stopped halfway through the sandwich. His stomach couldn’t handle it. He probably hadn’t eaten more than a few bites in weeks.

  Cranks and gears started moving in Alex’s brain. The kid would have to go to Children’s Services eventually, but the nurses at St. Vincent’s liked Alex. He’d been dropping off patients there for years. If he called in the right favor—whispered in the right ear—they might be able to extend Sammy’s stay a little longer.

  It wasn’t much, but it might help.

  Sammy didn’t even have to ask.

  Chapter Eight

  They took the subway back to Alex’s neighborhood. The train rattled Troy’s bones and made him feel like his stomach was on a yo-yo. The plastic seats were uncomfortable. The unending sour smell of the New York City underground was oppressive, but at least the ride gave him time to think.

  “Sammy’s a good kid,” he said. “You think he’s going to be all right?”

  “I think he’s going to be a firefighter when he grows up.” Alex was standing in the aisle, one hand on the pole. “He thinks you walk on water.”

  “Huh.” Troy frowned. Firefighting might be a macho career choice, but the guys at the firehouse were pretty damn accepting. It was NYC, not Indiana. They might not know about his sexuality, but none of them gave Luke a hard time even when he showed up at company dinners with a pretty guy on his arm instead of a woman.

  Would they be accepting of a trans firefighter?

  Probably.

  Eventually.

  By the time Sammy got old enough to join the department.

  And if not? Troy would kick their ass to kingdom come. Shit. Just thinking about it was exhausting. “I’m pretty sure he’s braver than me.”

  “Because he’s out about being trans and you’re still in the closet?”

  “Just because I don’t have a rainbow flag tattooed on my forehead doesn’t mean I’m in the closet. I’m discreet.”

  “It is the better part of valor.”

  “It’s really not.” He leaned back against the ugly orange plastic seat.

  “Was it true?” Alex asked. “What you told Sammy back in the hospital?”

  It took Troy a minute to figure out what he was talking about. They’d stuck around the hospital for most of the day, trading restaurant reviews with Sammy. The conversation had touched on a dozen different topics.

  He could obfuscate.

  Better, he could lie.

  “Yeah,” he said. “It’s true. It was funny, you know? High school. My mom used to tell me to slow down, stop pushing, make the most of it. They were the best days of my life.”

  “Do they know you’re gay?”

  “Like I said, I’m not in the closet.” He sighed. “I told them after I graduated basic training. I haven’t been home since.” He tugged at his hair. “It’s not that unusual a story.” There were at least a dozen guys who’d come up with him in the army who could say something similar. “What about you? Things all gay hearts, stars, and rainbows when you came out?”

  How many siblings did Alex have again? A hundred. One of them had to be an asshole.

  “My grandmother.” Alex’s smile was soft and fleeting. It didn’t reach his eyes. “She was always my biggest supporter growing up. A family as big as mine, it’s always loud, noisy. It’s easy to get lost in the chaos.”

  Troy could imagine.

  Hell, he only had one sibling, and there’d been enough hustle and bustle at home for his parents to overlook any odd behaviors. Cady was younger, but she’d always been the loud one.

  The train hit a screaming bend and Alex stumbled against the pole. He smiled sheepishly then let go. His legs braced. He took two quick steps, graceful as a dancer, before settling into the seat beside Troy.

  Fabric rustled close enough to hear. Alex’s breath was audible. His body was warm.

  His voice was so soft, Troy had to strain to hear: “Granny Tate, she used to take a bunch of us to Central Park every Saturday. We’d go to the zoo, get some ice cream. In the winter we’d go to the museums. After a while all my siblings aged out. They had better things to do, but I kept going every Saturday.”

  It was a cute story.

  There was a slight hiccup. “I was eleven when I told my older sisters I was gay. Fuck, I didn’t even say it like that. It’s not like I came out. We were watching a movie—some shoot-’em-up flick—and they were all admiring the actor. I agreed.”

  Alex’s body shifted. His knee pressed against Troy’s, the action at once reassuring and invasive.

  He smelled like berries, wildness, and something else that must have come in a bottle. Forget jumping in mud puddles and climbing trees. The jungle he’d grown up in was decidedly urban.

  Those Saturdays at the park must have felt like freedom.

  “The next Saturday I took the subway to Central Park by myself. We always met by the Balto statue: Endurance. Fidelity. Intelligence.” The gentle pressure against his knee increased as Alex drew closer. “I waited for two hours, but she never came. It was a sunny day, no harm, no foul, but it was before cell phones. I thought something was wrong with her. By the time I got home, I was a nervous wreck.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing.” There was a blurry reflection off the train window: two men sitting next to each other, one silent, the other stony. “She’d called my mom to cancel the night before. Mom told LeeAnne, who told Tasha, who told Eric, who forgot to tell me. Mom was pissed. She wouldn’t let Granny in the house for almost six months—somebody else had to go with me to the park—and when she came back? It wasn’t something we talked about.”

  The train car rattled around them. The engineer announcing the stops had a deep rumbling voice. His inflection was a little off. Years in New York City had stolen parts of his accent, but not the whole thing.

  Alex swallowed hard, like he wasn’t quite sure if he should keep talking. “It wasn’t the end of the world. She got over it. I mean, she marched in the parade the year before she died. But it hurt at the time. You know?”

  Yeah, Troy knew. It was a quiet little story, private, not the kind of thing that got written down in history books or talked about in pride marches. Alex hadn’t been attacked. He’d been hurt by someone he trusted.

  If it hadn’t been about his sexuality, it would have been something else, someone else.

  People were assholes.

  Troy’s hand landed on Alex’s knee. He gave it a reassuring squeeze before remembering that they’d been friends for less than forty-eight hours. Fuck. He pulled his hand back.

  Time to change the subject. “You knew a lot of people at the hospital.”

  “Nurses love a paramedic who makes their jobs easier—not harder.”

  It wasn’t just the nurses. There’d been at least a dozen doctors who all greeted Alex by name. Charming son-of-a-bitch.

  “Want to tell me what you were doing with them?”

  “You were right. Sammy’s a good kid. Children’s Services is going to have to take him eventually, it’s their job, but I figured he’d be happier at the hospital.”

  No one was more comfortable in a hospital, but Sammy hadn’t looked upset when the nurse told him he was staying at least one more week to ensure his recovery.

  Troy blinked. “You arranged that?”

  “I tried. The charge nurse wasn’t even paying attention. The decision was already made. He’s too skinny, and they need to keep an eye on the lung damage.” Alex leaned back in his seat and stretched out his legs. “All I did was raid the gift shop to make him more comfortable.”

  The loot from the hospital’s store included two pairs of sweatpants, a blue-and-red plaid robe, half a dozen fantasy paperbacks, some chocolate, and a deck of cards. They’d played poker, using M
&M’s as chips. When it was all over, Sammy was riding high on a rainbow-colored sugar rush.

  Troy dug his wallet out of his back pocket. “What do I owe you for his stuff?”

  “Nothing.”

  “It was my idea to go to the hospital and check in with Sammy.”

  “And I’m the one who thought he needed the entire Harry Potter series. Besides, you’re already paying rent.”

  “That’s not going to your pocket. It’s going to the landlord.”

  “Not really.” Alex didn’t take the money. He did lean forward and drop his voice like he was about to reveal a state secret. “There is no landlord. I own my place.”

  If Alex had announced his membership in heaven’s holy choir, Troy couldn’t be more surprised. Everybody rented. Cops. Firefighters. His close friends and his vague acquaintances. Some of them were lucky enough to have found subsidies for city employees. Luke Parsons lived in his father’s basement. Maybe Captain Tracey owned his place—maybe—but the captain lived in a bungalow on Staten Island, not a shiny one-bedroom apartment in Manhattan with a view.

  “Who’d you have to kill?”

  “No one.” Alex shrugged. “Yet, but if the homeowner’s association keeps raising the fees I might need help disappearing Mrs. Rogers on the first floor. Freaking neighbors.” He sighed. “You can pay for dinner. I don’t feel like cooking.”

  The speaker flickered overhead. The engineer’s voice came back on. The train’s brakes screeched.

  They’d reached their stop.

  Pain flared in Troy’s joints as he stood up. The burst of energy he’d been riding for the past few hours dissolved. They stepped through the train’s sliding doors and into the station.

  Dinner sounded like a good idea. He could use some hot food, cold water, and a warm bed.

  Not necessarily in that order.

  “Is there something we can get on the way back?”

  “They got Chinese food back in Indiana?”

  “There’s a Thai restaurant the next town over. It’s not authentic.”

  “I’m pretty sure the guy who owns Meiwah’s is Chechnyan, but the dumplings are incredible.”

  “Dumplings sound good.”

  Strong fingers wrapped tight around Troy’s arm. Another step and the grip tightened. When Alex steered him toward the elevator, Troy didn’t waste any energy on objections. Alex wouldn’t listen to him anyway.

  He sighed. “You’d make a really lousy soldier.”

  Chapter Nine

  Eight boxes and four garbage bags. That’s all it took to pack up Troy’s life. Then again, he’d taken one look at the furniture and groaned. “None of this is going to fit in your place, is it?”

  “Not unless you’ve got a shrink ray hidden in your pants.”

  “Trust me. If I had a shrink ray, I wouldn’t keep it anywhere near my pants.”

  It was funny at the time.

  Four and a half hours later the humor was beginning to wear thin. Thankfully, Ian Sinclair had some kind of appointment uptown, so they didn’t have to worry about Troy’s old boyfriend looking over their shoulders or, worse, trying to be helpful.

  It was a thoughtful gesture, even if his presence was still felt in the paint on the wall and the pictures on the bureau.

  The tape made a screeching, soul-sucking noise as Alex pulled it free of the roll and closed up the last box. They’d taken something from every room in the apartment, but it hadn’t amounted to much. None of the bland artwork belonged to Troy. The odd assortment of pots and pans were staying in the kitchen.

  But the books had taken up four boxes on their own and Troy had packed a set of delicate wineglasses in bubble wrap. The hall closet had been raided and he’d come out with a black peacoat. There was one more box of odds and ends. Troy’s college diploma and discharge papers were leaning up against the world’s ugliest lamp, and the rest was all clothes.

  “That’s it?” Alex asked. “You don’t have anything else?”

  “Not really.” Troy’s broad shoulders bowed under a borrowed white T-shirt. It had been two days since the hospital, four days since the fire, and he was recovering nicely. The bruising on his back was yellow with age. The smaller cuts wouldn’t even leave a scar.

  He was moving easier now. The pain had decreased, or he’d gotten better at dealing with it. Either way, he was steadier on his feet. There’d been no grunting when he moved the boxes full of books, no flinching and no groaning.

  In another few days he’d be back on the job.

  Right now, his gaze was locked on the pile of belongings in the center of the room. His smile was rueful. “I’ve been told I have the interior-design skills of a manic squirrel with a penchant for plaid. Ian always liked things a little more—”

  “Beige. The word you’re looking for is beige.”

  “It was always easier to let him pick things out. I never realized how little of it actually belonged to me.”

  “What about the electronics? The video game equipment? The TV?”

  Troy’s head bobbed up, like a drowning man who’d caught sight of land. His hands were grasping. His gaze was bright. “The television’s mine.”

  Damn it. Alex should have kept his mouth shut. The monstrous flat screen was going to fill his only freaking wall, displacing the art he’d bought at the Brooklyn Flea the year before.

  Still, Troy should have more than a daybed and a navy-blue bedspread to mark out his territory.

  A horrible thought struck him. His gaze narrowed. He ran his fingers through his hair. If he kept his mouth shut then maybe it wouldn’t be true, but—he couldn’t stop looking at the lamp.

  The thing wasn’t just ugly.

  It was tacky.

  The base featured a man with a surfboard. It had been molded out of plastic on a production line that didn’t care about irregularities and painted by an overactive preschooler who’d traded his hand-eye coordination in for an overdeveloped sense of irony. The peach color of his skin would have done Georgia proud, even if the orange undertones made him look more space alien than studly. And he was supposed to be studly, otherwise there would have been more to his outfit than a pair of electric-blue briefs that clashed with the bold pink and green stripes on the surfboard.

  It must have been picked up during Troy’s time in the service because there was a sign planted in the lemon-yellow sand at the man’s feet that read: Soldiers Welcome.

  The lamp needed to be put in a box to protect it from vulnerable eyes, maybe even a custom case wrapped in chains and lined in lead.

  “What about Mr. Happy Fun Times?” He gestured. “Is he yours?”

  Heat tinted Troy’s cheeks a delicate pink. “I know it doesn’t match your decor. It’s gone as soon as I rent a storage locker. Like I said, Ian’s the one who’s good at picking shit out.”

  “The man’s not a genius. All he did was knock over a Crate & Barrel.” Alex sighed. Whatever good deeds he’d done in his life, all that was about to go out the window. God was going to strike him dead for lying, and he was going straight to the devil.

  Still, he wasn’t about to let Troy think that Ian was better than him...at anything.

  “Tell me about the lamp.”

  “I was stationed in the Philippines for a couple of months. It was shit work, guard duty, and Ian was off on some super-secret field trip in one of the ’stans. After shift, all the soldiers would go into town, have a couple of drinks, flirt with the pretty girls—” he grinned “—flirt with the pretty boys. I met a waiter at a local café, he was gorgeous and sweet like you wouldn’t believe. There was a spark. Maybe. Definitely. We flirted, but I didn’t take it any further.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. My last week there, Ian showed up on my doorstep looking like he’d been dragged through a meat grinder. I wasn’t
expecting him. Before that we were just friends, but afterward—we pretty much stayed in bed the entire time. I bought the lamp in the airport on the way out.”

  “It’s not that bad. It’ll look cute next to the daybed. We can get you a side table, a place to put your books.”

  They weren’t planning a future together. Alex didn’t do rebound relationships and Troy—he hadn’t so much as looked at another man on the walk over to his old apartment.

  For a gay man, he sure acted straight.

  Or oblivious.

  He wasn’t looking for anything.

  Alex added an extra layer of tape to the box. “We got a car coming, or are we rounding up the guys from the firehouse and forming a bucket brigade all the way back to my place?”

  “No bucket brigade.” Troy ran a hand through his shaggy hair. “Luke Parsons borrowed his dad’s van.” He checked the time on his phone. “He should be here in five minutes. We load up. Drop it all at your place. We’ll be sucking down beers at Smoke & Bullets by eight o’clock. I owe you a round.”

  “You owe me more than one round.”

  “Even if I make it top-shelf whiskey?”

  “They got Lagavulin?”

  Skin crinkled at the corners of Troy’s eyes, and the muscles around his mouth flexed as he grinned. “You know your whiskey.”

  “One of my brothers is a liquor distributor in Brooklyn. I’m more a craft beer guy myself but I know what to order if I ever have a date in a whiskey bar.”

  “Is that a thing? Whiskey bars?”

  “It is on the Upper East Side—there’s a couple down near Wall Street too. The finance bros only buy the best, even if they can’t appreciate it.” He winked.

  Troy’s gaze flickered. “Is that the kind of guy you’re into?”

  Alex was into firefighters. Big ones with solid muscles and god-awful taste in lamps, but in a pinch... “I don’t really have a type, but the finance bros can be fun for a night on the town.”

  What was the last one’s name? Mickey from a hedge fund with offices in the Battery. They’d gotten drunk on fancy whiskey and wandered down to the Battery to shout at passing ships. “They work hard, they play hard, and I do like messing up a fancy suit.”