On Duty

by A. R. Barley

  There was a brief moment of frozen insanity, and then a tiny moan sounded between them. Troy’s mouth opened. He was kissing back. Their tongues danced back and forth together between their mouths.

  It was Alex’s turn to take a step forward, urging Troy back against the brick wall of a Manhattan apartment building.

  Big hands splayed across Alex’s back before dipping down to palm his ass. Troy’s eyes were dark, with pupils like constellations in the night sky. A hard erection throbbed between them. Two erections.

  Alex’s hips rotated reflexively, but other than that he kept his efforts concentrated north of the border. It wasn’t difficult. The kiss was fantastic—top ten—but if they only got to have the one it needed to be perfect.

  He reached up to cup the back of Troy’s neck, directing him to a slightly better angle. His feet braced against the sidewalk. He scraped his teeth against Troy’s bottom lip, and fireworks exploded.

  Then he pulled away.

  He should say something, but his tongue felt frozen and numb. His hands were sweaty as he wiped them against the back of his jeans. His breath was ragged.

  Troy’s gaze never left his face. His cheeks were pink with pleasure and his body was limp except for the bulge in the front of his pants. He reached up to brush clumsy fingers against kiss-bruised lips. “You’d make a truly lousy soldier.”

  Alex huffed. “You keep saying that.”

  “It’s a good thing.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Clang. Weights collided. The exercise room went quiet, waiting for the scream. Instead, metal screeched its way back into position.

  It had been a week and a half since the fire at the dry-goods warehouse. The scent of burnt whiskey still clung to Troy’s hair—he didn’t think he’d ever be rid of it—but the throbbing pain in his side was almost entirely gone. Captain Tracey’d kept him off the schedule for as long as possible, but without a doctor’s note he didn’t have a ton of options.

  Troy leaned farther back against the fire station’s padded weight-lifting bench. The well-worn pleather was sticky against his back. He eyeballed the weights at the end of the bar. “Add another twenty pounds.”

  “Are you sure?” Luke waited a beat. When he didn’t get an answer, he did as he was told and put another weight on each end. The barbell wasn’t his favorite setup—Luke preferred free weights and Pilates—but he was graceful in his loose white tank and a pair of black yoga pants.

  It was a good look on him.

  Hell, Troy’d been admiring it ever since Luke joined the department.

  Today it didn’t even raise his pulse.

  Not when he could still feel Alex’s lips on his with every breath he took.

  The weights slid into place. Troy reached up, adjusted his grip and swung the long barbell into position. Muscles strained and gasped. Pain lanced through his left side and his lungs felt like they were burning. Stitches that had been itchy a few minutes earlier were suddenly fresh knife points. His arms shook but finally held.

  The kiss wasn’t just haunting his dreams. It was actively stalking his daytime hours too. Alex’s lips on his, the taste of whiskey and heat fresh in his mouth. Sky eyes staring up at him. They’d fit together like two pieces of a puzzle, and the way Alex had taken control of the situation?

  Yeah, it was sexy as hell.

  The past few days, on the other hand?

  Those had been pure torture. There wasn’t a lot of privacy in a New York City apartment. Even at night, with Alex tucked away safely in bed and Troy stretched out in the living room, the only thing between them was one thin wall. That hadn’t stopped him from taking himself in hand one night under the sheets, pretending it was Alex’s fingers playing his dick like a flute. Of course, Alex wouldn’t settle for a fumbling hand job in the dark, not when he could push Luke back against the mattress and thrust against him—

  “You working through anything in particular?” Luke asked.

  “Nope.” And then, because there wasn’t a chance Luke would give up that easy: “Alex and I went up to see Sammy before shift.”

  “I don’t know a Sammy.” Hoyt grunted from where he was working with the free weights on the other side of the room.

  “The kid from the warehouse fire,” Luke explained.

  “Why are you visiting some kid?”

  “Because I’m not an asshole.” Troy frowned. Why shouldn’t he visit Sammy? “He’s a nice kid. Alex and I have been stopping by the hospital when we can.” He’d gone every day since their first visit, even if it was only for twenty minutes at a time. “The fire did a real number on him, but he’s getting better.”

  “Huh. I thought the vic from the fire was a girl.”

  “Nope.”

  Hoyt put down his weights and picked up a rag. He wiped the sweat off his face. “He sure looked like a girl.”

  Luke jerked his head upward. “Shut up, Hoyt.”

  “Fuck off, Parsons.” Hoyt growled. “I don’t have a problem with it. She wants to be a boy, that’s no skin off my nose.”

  “Sammy’s getting better,” Troy interrupted. “The nurses say he’ll be ready for release soon.”

  Luke frowned. “You sound like that’s a problem.”

  “When he gets released, he’s going straight into the foster care system.”

  Luke tugged the knit cap further down on his head. “Foster care’s not the worst thing in the world.”

  “We met his social worker today. I’m pretty sure she’s a dragon.”

  “Fire breathing?”

  “Acid spitting.” Ms. Tanya Lee with her pink sweater set and her clipboard. “She’s going to send him to a girl’s group home in the Bronx.”

  Luke leaned back on his heels, considering. “If you want, I could talk to my dad.”

  The father in Long Island. Troy searched for any other information he had on the man. For a guy who was open about his sex life, Luke didn’t share about his family often.

  “Isn’t your dad a cop?”

  “He was. Now he’s retired. He was also a foster parent for close to twenty years.” He adjusted the weights on the end of the barbells. “There were all sorts of kids coming and going from our house. Most of them only stayed for a few nights before getting more permanent placements, but I had a foster brother who stuck around for like years. Dad was tight with all of his social workers. I bet he still knows someone over at the department.” Luke leaned forward. “Call it a favor. I rub your back and you put in a good word for me with your roommate.”

  “Don’t hit on Alex.”

  “Why not? He’s cute. Nice ass. Pretty eyes. Not my usual type, but—” Luke winked “—he got any ink?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Too bad. Tattoos are hot.” Luke snagged his water bottle from the pile of gear at the foot of the weight-lifting station. He unscrewed the lid and took a long swig. “I always thought Alex was kind of a tight ass, but he was fun the other day.”

  Fun. Mind-blowingly sexy. The two terms were practically interchangeable. Not.

  Troy frowned. “Alex isn’t uptight.”

  “He’s not exactly the social type.”

  “He’s a flirt.”

  “Sorry to burst your bubble, sweetie, but not every gay guy who says hello is flirting.” Luke wiggled his eyebrows. “That’s just me.”

  “Maybe he just doesn’t like you.” Troy sat up enough to grab his towel and a bottle of water, wiping his face clean before he took a quick gulp. “He’s definitely not uptight.” The apartment might look like something out of Better Homes and Tiny Living, but underneath the white furniture Alex was all bad sci-fi movies and homemade soup.

  Troy had been sitting on his ass, waiting for his wounds to scab over, but Alex had been hard at work. His last shift
had been a hard one. A kid fell off a piece of playground equipment at a little neighborhood park. He’d been unconscious when the ambulance arrived, and his eyes hadn’t opened by the time they got to the hospital. Alex’s voice had cracked while talking about it, the kid’s mother riding beside him, clutching at his arm and sobbing the entire time.

  A fire was a horrible thing. Troy knew that deep in his bones. It was a destructive force that tore at the fabric of the universe, but fires in the city were relatively rare. He’d never considered the multitude of more common disasters the paramedics had to deal with on a daily basis.

  It took something out of Alex, no matter how much he denied it. His skin was always pale after a long shift. Dark splotches colored the skin under his eyes. The night before it had been worse than usual. One look at his face and Troy had wanted to wrap him up in cotton batting. Instead, they’d ended up side by side on the daybed with a blanket pulled over their laps, eating popcorn and watching a superhero movie.

  Men in spandex were hot.

  Luke finished his water and held up the empty bottle. “Ten bucks says I make it in the trash can.”

  Hoyt grinned. “A hundred, but I’m not paying out for any rim shots.”

  “Deal.” Luke tossed the empty bottle toward the trash can in the corner. The plastic made a solid thunk as it landed among its compatriots. “He shoots. He scores.” He lifted his arms in a one-man imitation of the wave. “You can pay me anytime.” Then he grinned at Troy. “Alex has been flirting with you. Does that mean you’re interested?”

  Yes.

  “Not a chance,” Hoyt said.

  “I don’t know,” Troy said at the same time. “Maybe.”

  “No shit.” Hoyt paused in the middle of pulling out his wallet. “Wait. Since when are you gay?”

  “That I know of? High school.”

  “And you’re into Alex?” He considered for a long moment. “I get it, kind of. I mean, I’m not into dudes but he’s smart, funny.” He handed a crisp hundred-dollar bill to Luke. “No wonder you moved out of your old place. Must have been hard bringing guys home with Ian in the apartment.”

  Clang. Clang. This time the bells weren’t in his head. They screamed angrily, drawing everyone to attention. Fire. Time to move. No time for a shower. Troy swiped the towel over his body, added an extra layer of deodorant, and headed down the stairs with Luke tight on his ass.

  The citywide average response time to a structural fire was five minutes, but they made it in three and a half. Troy adjusted his helmet to get a better look as the engine swung around the last corner. Most fires were small. His gaze lifted, searching for puffs of smoke from a grease fire in an apartment kitchen or a cigarette illegally smoked in an office building.

  No such luck.

  Flames poured from a three-story warehouse.

  Again.

  But this time the sun was only beginning to set and the sidewalks were full of pedestrians on their way home from the office. Troy shoved down a bubble of anxiety and went to work.

  The warehouse wasn’t particularly large, but on the outskirts of the garment district it was packed to the ceiling with bolts of fabric. Silks, satins, and brocades competed for floor space with boxes of buttons. All of it was flammable.

  “Anyone inside?” Troy settled his visor down into position as he helped spool the hose off the end of the fire engine.

  His radio buzzed and fizzled. “We talked to the manager. All the workers are out of the building.”

  Workers. That still left a host of other possibilities: delivery men, coworkers or homeless teens finding a place to stay for the night. The hose flopped awkwardly in Troy’s arms, and he had to move double time to keep from falling over. “Anybody else?”

  “It’s clear.” Captain Tracey’s confidence was reassuring. “The owner’s very conscientious about safety—their yearly training was two weeks ago—and he did a sweep of the building after everyone else got out.”

  Good. Some of the tension eased from between Troy’s shoulders. If the warehouse was unoccupied then they could concentrate on fighting the fire from the outside. No search and rescue meant no harrowing escapes through upstairs windows.

  He found his position on the hose and braced himself. Someone shouted a warning from the engine. An order rattled over the radio. The hose stiffened. Water started spraying.

  They aimed for the windows first, breaking the glass so the water could reach the flames. The combination of cool water and hot fire created a haze over the building. Broken glass glittered in wooden frames. The stock inside was going to be a complete loss. Hopefully the owner had insurance.

  Ten minutes after the fire engine pulled up, the flames were gone. The last gasps of smoke were barely visible in the fading light. Everything had gone strictly according to protocol. A few more minutes and the entry team would go inside to make sure the last glowing embers were out.

  Then it’d be all over but the cleanup.

  Thud. Layers of masonry and insulation took the rough edges off the sound, but it was still loud enough to shake the sign hanging off a nearby storefront. Up and down the street car alarms went off. The warehouse held for a brief moment, then the bricks began to fall.

  Two plus two added together inside Troy’s mind to make five.

  Logic failed.

  Luckily, the radio was still working. “Explosion in the rear of the building.” Captain Tracey barked out a series of orders. He paused. “Barnes, are you with us?”

  The question cut through his confusion and demanded an answer. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good to know. Get your ass to work.”

  By the time the fire was over, Troy’s bones were more than aching—they were shattered into tiny pieces like smashed pottery. Maybe getting a doctor’s note wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Even if it meant going to the hospital. The idea made hair stand up on the back of his neck.

  In the distance, Troy could see flashing lights, the boxy shape of an ambulance, and blond curls like dandelion fluff under a streetlight. He turned in the opposite direction, searching through the crowd until he found the captain. His legs stretched to close the space between them. “This can’t be a coincidence.”

  Captain Tracey had been a member of the NYFD since roughly the beginning of time. At the moment, every one of those years showed on his craggy features. Deep furrows creased his tan skin. His pale eyes were bloodshot from the smoke. “You said something, Barnes?”

  “Two warehouse fires this close together can’t be a coincidence.”

  “This is New York City. There are warehouses all over the place. Now, you got any evidence to go with that attitude?” the captain growled. “Or, are you talking out your ass?”

  Troy fumbled for an answer. “They’re similar in size and material. The fires both spread quickly. There were explosions at the end.” His feet were sweating in his bunker boots. Without the adrenaline charging through his veins, his gear was heavy. “What did the fire investigator say about the last fire?”

  There was a long pause. Captain Tracey huffed. “He said suspicion of arson. With the whiskey and the flour, it might have been an accident. It’s not likely.”

  “The explosions happen after the fire’s been burning for a while. The way it goes off—it’s like the asshole’s waiting for us to get there and enter the building.” He frowned. “Maybe I’m being paranoid.”

  “You’re not paranoid. Someone out there wants us to bleed. They want us to hurt. Fuck them. The NYFD is the best in the business, and my guys are the best of the best.” He raised his voice loud enough for the milling firefighters to hear. “We’re not about to let some asshole firebug get the better of us.”

  Whoops and cheers from the crowd.

  The captain grinned. Then he looked back at Troy and his lips fell. He took a half step closer,
lowering his voice. “You moved recently.”

  Troy nodded. “I’ll fill out the paperwork sometime this week.”

  “The police department offered to send over some detectives to help with the arson investigation—a second fire means they’re going to insist. Ian Sinclair’s one of them. That’s not going to be a problem.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  Troy’s fingernails dug into his palms. The smoke from the fabric warehouse was thick with chemicals. The air in his lungs was harsh and acrid. “It’s not a problem,” he said, repeating the captain’s words woodenly. A few seconds later he even managed to smile. Working side by side to fight the bad guys. That was how they’d become friends in the first place.

  Depending on Ian’s behavior this could be their opportunity to rebuild that foundation.

  Or burn it to the ground.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Troy was sprawled across the paramedics’ little two-butt couch when the ambulance pulled in through the station’s rear door. It was déjà vu all over again, except this time Troy’s skin was scrubbed shiny clean and he was eating the peanut butter sandwich he’d packed in Alex’s kitchen the night before.

  The grin on his face when he spotted Alex was infectious.

  Alex almost felt bad about kicking him off the furniture. “You know that couch is for paramedics only,” he explained. “Firefighters hang out upstairs.”

  “But it’s so comfy,” Troy said. “Where’d you get it?”

  “My aunt redecorated her apartment. She gave me the couch.”

  “That explains the paisley.” A glop of peanut butter fell out the bottom of Troy’s sandwich and landed on his knee. He didn’t seem to notice. “The police are back. They came up with a new line of questioning.”

  “How many times is that?”

  “Four fires linked to the arsonist. I think Ian and his buddies are moving in for the duration.”