On Duty

by A. R. Barley

  “That’s not what Troy is going to say.” It was a small thing, but he already missed the bright colors against his monochromatic apartment. They were proof that Troy had been here. That he lived here. Without the lamp, the apartment was pale and white. Even the blanket on top of the daybed was a soft cream color that didn’t match Troy’s rough and tumble exterior.

  His gut churned.

  If Troy ever came back he’d invest in a rainbow of house paint. The living room would look good in sky blue with coral stripes. He’d pay Jenny a small fortune to fill the apartment with greenery—and a slightly larger fortune for her to come around once a week and keep them alive. He’d do anything.

  They could paint a surfer dude mural in the bathroom.

  Hoyt was dressed in dark jeans and a Yankees T-shirt. His hair was messy. There were deep circles under his eyes. He looked so freaking normal.

  Tired, but normal.

  For a crazy bastard.

  Alex gave his head another rub. “You hit me for a reason?”

  Hoyt snorted. “You think this is the part where the bad guy tells the hero his plan? You get me talking, and when it’s all over you’ve figured out how to get away. Not likely.” He hunched down in front of Alex so they were eye to eye. “You’re no hero, and I’m not a fucking bad guy.”

  “Then what are you?”

  “An entrepreneur.” Hoyt straightened. His footsteps were heavy as he made his way back over to the kitchen counter. Something big was piled on top. Boxes. No, bags. He rummaged inside. “I want you to know I’m not doing this because I hate you or because I’m a bigot.” He actually laughed. “I wasn’t lying when I told Troy I liked you, and he’s one of my best friends. It’s going to be a shame to see him go.”

  “Troy’s not going anywhere,” Alex said. “He’s definitely not coming here.” The pounding in his head was getting faster. Concussion. He had a freaking concussion. “I need to go to the hospital.”

  He needed an MRI. There could be permanent damage. Everything was spinning. He clenched his hands into tight fists, digging his nails into his palms. It hurt, but it helped him concentrate.

  Hoyt placed his hand on the butt of his gun and stroked the harsh metal.

  Alex had seen guns before, in the holsters of off-duty police officers at Smoke & Bullets, but this one was bigger, shinier. Those other guns were tools, like hammers swinging off carpenter belts. This one was obscene.

  It could do real damage.

  To him or to Troy.

  Troy. Alex might not be able to save himself, but he could still save the man he loved. He hoped. “Troy’s not interested in me anymore. I threw him out on his ass this morning. He’s long gone.”

  “I called him before you woke up. He said he’d be right over.”

  “You touch him and I’ll kick your ass.”

  “Cute.” Hoyt pulled the gun from his waistband and placed it on the counter. The metal made a solid thunk when it hit the granite. “Troy said the exact same thing about you.” He grinned. “This is going to work out really well.”

  He went back to fiddling with his bags.

  Alex closed his eyes. Just for a little while. Except a little while turned into longer than he’d meant. The next thing he knew the apartment door opened.

  Crack. Solid wood collided with drywall loud enough he’d be hearing about it at the next homeowner’s association meeting. If he survived that long. He opened his eyes. A fresh crack in the wall ran all the way up to the ceiling, and Troy—

  Troy was an avenging angel.

  He was an antique god.

  He was a warrior.

  Troy had been in the army. It showed in the way he carried himself and the stories he told. It showed in the bravery braided deep into his soul. Alex knew it, but he’d never really seen it before, the pure focus and anger that was Troy descending on his enemy like a one-man battering ram.

  “I’d really hate to shoot you.” Hoyt’s feet were shoulder width apart. His arms steady, he was pointing the gun directly at Troy, safety off. “Not another step toward me.”

  It was nearly impossible to stop a full-speed locomotive, but Troy was more graceful than that. He managed to spin lightly and when momentum made him falter he stumbled backward not forward. His good hand clenched tight into a fist. His hair was splayed in every direction. Sweat darkened his shirt. Wherever he’d been when Hoyt called him, it looked like he’d run home from there.

  He took one step then another. Working off nervous energy? No, it had to be more purposeful than that because he’d started a few feet to Alex’s left and ended up right in front of him.

  Directly between him and Hoyt.

  It was protective and purposeful.

  Alex really hadn’t expected any less, but he couldn’t let Troy fight the dragon alone. Not when his arm was still in a cast and he’d only been released from the hospital the night before. Hell, between Troy’s arm and Alex’s head, they barely made a functioning individual.

  Troy said something about whiskey.

  Surely he’d heard that wrong, but then Troy repeated himself: “You did all this for counterfeit whiskey.”

  “For a million dollars a year,” Hoyt snarled. “How long do you think it’ll take you to earn a million dollars working at the fire department?”

  “If I wanted to get rich, I never would have been a damn firefighter,” Troy said. “I’d have been a doctor or lawyer—or some other idiot in a suit. I wanted to kick ass and save people.”

  Alex tried to feel offended and failed. He might have gone to med school, but the last time he’d worn a suit had been for his grandmother’s funeral.

  Hoyt motioned Troy back with his gun. “If that was your goal, this is your lucky day. You and your buddy are going to save me.”

  “Like hell,” Troy snarled. His weight shifted. He took a slight step to the right.

  “This is all your fault,” Hoyt said. “You think that was the first cache of whiskey I had to get rid of in the middle of the night? Some accelerant. A couple of matches. Fire’s really good at getting rid of mistakes.”

  “There’s no way you set those fires. You were on duty.” Troy took another step to the right. Alex could see Hoyt straight on now, but the asshole didn’t seem to notice. He was too focused on Troy to notice anything else.

  “That was Tully’s idea. He set the fires. I cleaned up the evidence. Why do you think the police never found anything?” Hoyt’s fingers squeezed around the butt of the gun. “We would have gotten away with it too, except the police actually did their job for once.”

  “Whatever Ian’s faults, he’s a good cop.”

  “So good, you and your boyfriend have to die. It makes perfect sense. That first fire everyone was calling you a hero. You liked it. You started the fires because you wanted more. When things went wrong at the apartment building, you went nuts and decided to take yourself out. Your boyfriend was collateral damage.”

  “You really think someone’s going to buy that?” Troy asked.

  He was still moving. Why was he moving? Alex frowned as his boyfriend edged slowly across the room. His steps weren’t even or regular. Sometimes he’d go ten seconds before shifting position. Other times it was longer. Either way, he was gradually drawing Hoyt’s attention away from something.

  Alex?

  No. Troy had been between him and the gun. If all he wanted to do was protect him then it didn’t make sense to keep moving. Every step was a risk as he circled Hoyt, trying to get him to look away from the still-open door?

  No, Troy wasn’t moving away from anything. He was moving toward something.

  The bags on the counter. It took every ounce of concentration Alex had not to look at the heavy carryalls.

  Troy took another step.

  Alex forced himself
to remain still. If there was a plan in motion he wanted to be ready to play his part. He wished he knew what was going on. Damn it.

  He drew his knees up tight against his chest, rocking forward slightly onto his toes. From Hoyt’s point of view he hadn’t moved much, but he’d be able to get on his feet fast.

  That was the theory at least.

  The way his head felt, he’d probably end up flat on his ass.

  “You’re moving,” Hoyt said.

  Shit. Which of them was he talking to?

  “Why are you moving?” He gestured his gun in Troy’s direction.

  Alex’s heart was beating like a hummingbird’s wings. He wanted to scream, but he needed to be smart. He had to distract Hoyt away from the man he loved. “Too dumb to get ahead honestly.”

  A flash of emotion crossed Troy’s face. Gratitude or worry? There was a slight pause and then a subtle nod of approval from his soldier turned firefighter.

  Mission: Distraction was a go. Alex smiled. He might not be a fighter, but he’d grown up with sisters. He could throw shade like the first cloud on a sunny day. “You had to take a freaking shortcut, and you couldn’t even be original about it. Bootleg whiskey? Who does that?”

  “Al Capone ran bootleg whiskey.”

  “Al Capone was taken down by tax accountants, and you’re no Al Capone. Who’s going to get you? A twelve-year-old with a calculator.”

  Hoyt’s eyes narrowed. A small furrow appeared between his eyes, like he wasn’t quite sure if he’d been insulted. Then he grinned. His eyes were bright. So much goddamn joy filled his face, if they were in a cartoon his smile would have been large enough for his teeth to fall out the sides.

  But this was real life and he looked so damn normal it was making Alex’s skin crawl.

  “I haven’t killed anyone yet,” Hoyt said. “I’m glad you’re going to be my first.”

  Troy took another step to the right and—

  Crack. The gunshot was like thunder in his ears. Alex didn’t wait to see if the bullet had landed. His muscles tensed. His legs strained. Troy landed hard on the ground with a groan and thud. If Alex didn’t do something soon they’d both be beyond saving. He catapulted himself forward.

  Bam. He hit Hoyt hard from the side. His head still hurt, but that didn’t stop him from shoving the asshole back into the wall. He threw a wild punch that connected like a rubber chicken at a clown fight.

  Hoyt’s elbow landed in his side.

  His hand yanked up.

  Metal glinted under the lights.

  “Police! On the ground.” That shout came from the doorway. Ian Sinclair. Thank freaking God. The police detective thundered through the door with his gun raised.

  Troy’s breath was like a ghost rattle.

  This wasn’t the time for following orders. Alex moved on instinct. He pulled back his fist. His jaw was clenched tight. A single bead of sweat rolled down his face. Muscles flexed under his shirt and he landed a punch like John Henry’s hammer.

  Hoyt swayed twice. It took two more hits before he crumpled. Thunk. His knees hit the ground less than three feet away from Alex. He wobbled once, twice, and went the rest of the way down.

  He didn’t get back up.

  Alex swayed. He could smell gunpowder and blood in the air. He was going to be sick. He—

  His legs were shaking, but that didn’t stop him from making his way over to Troy. There was so much blood. It took him a long moment to assess the damage. A single gunshot wound to the side. “Call a damn ambulance.” He slid down onto the ground and started putting pressure on the wound. “You’re going to be okay,” he told Troy. Blood coated his hands. He tasted bile in his mouth. “You’re going to be okay. That’s a damn order, soldier.”

  There was a long pause.

  Then Troy laughed. “You’re good at giving orders.”

  “I think I have a concussion.” Alex groaned but his fingers moved quickly, automatically, to bind the wound.

  “I think I get it,” Ian announced from overhead. “What you see in him. I mean, he looks like a creampuff but he’s got some steel.”

  “Yeah, I’m more than happy to stick to creampuff.” Every joint in his body hurt. It had been a rough couple of days. “You might not be the worst person in the world either,” he admitted. “You try to steal my boyfriend, and I’ll throw you in the East River.” He pressed hard against Troy’s side as he concentrated on the task at hand. Please, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d prayed. Please let Troy be all right. “Don’t arrest me for threatening a police officer.”

  Troy’s jaw was tight. There was a pale cast to his skin. Pain made his lips thin out and caused crevices to appear around his mouth. He smelled like sweat. Sweat pooled across his brow. He adjusted his grip, leaning forward onto his knees to maintain pressure while he put his free hand to Troy’s biceps. The skin under his fingers was cool to the touch. The touch was soft, but it seemed to calm Troy’s trembling. Troy reached up to cover his hand with his own. His fingers were rough and callused. His grip was so damn tight it hurt, but Alex wasn’t about to complain...not when he could still feel Troy’s pulse steady and strong.

  He swallowed hard, bringing moisture to his parched mouth. “You came for me.”

  “Of course I did.” Weights pulled at the sides of Troy’s mouth. They’d won, the bad guy was unconscious at their feet, but he didn’t look happy. “Ian’s really just a friend.”

  Alex swallowed. “I don’t care if he’s a friend, a flirt, or a fruit fly. You’re mine, and I’m not afraid to fight for you. I mean, I—”

  “I love you.”

  Birds sang, fireworks went off in the distance, and shouts sounded from the hallway—the police backup must have arrived—but all of it faded away compared to the words echoing in Alex’s head. Love. Troy loved him.

  “Damn it,” he growled. “I was going to say that.”

  “You can still say it.” Troy’s breath was ragged, but he was alive. Now he just needed to stay that way.

  Where was the damn ambulance?

  “I love you.” Alex leaned down to flutter his lips against Troy’s. When he was done, he didn’t move away. “I love you so much.” He kissed him again, harder this time. Warmth pooled deep in his belly. “You better not tell my sisters I’ve got a concussion.”

  “No promises, sweetheart.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The gunshot wound was clean, a through and through. According to the doctors it was the best possible scenario, if there was a best possible scenario for getting shot. It was almost three in the morning before they let him go home—not that the police were letting them back into the apartment anytime soon. Alex texted his sisters for a ride, and LeeAnne turned up to take them back to her house in Brooklyn. It made a certain amount of sense. The apartment was still a crime scene, and neither of them had the energy to check into a hotel.

  Troy didn’t expect it to be a slumber party, but when they got to the house there were Tates of every age and description waiting for them, eating pizza, and watching movies. He recognized Connie, but the others passed in a sea of blond hair and pretty faces.

  Having that many people around who cared? It felt damn good. He ran his fingers through Alex’s hair, leaning in close to murmur in his ear. “This is fun.”

  “Damn straight.” Alex’s legs were tangled with his. Their bodies were nestled together. “Tates know how to party.”

  He fidgeted with the fleece blanket LeeAnne had dropped on top of them during her last walk through. Onscreen Elsa was letting everything go, but all Troy could think about was the slim body pressed against his. “How are you doing?”

  “Good,” Alex said. “You?”

  “I’m fine. I—” Between his deep cuts, broken bones, pulled muscles, and the damn bullet wound,
he felt like a patchwork doll. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Better than fine.”

  They’d switched from princesses and frozen hearts to fratricidal lions by the time Sammy showed up for breakfast with Crystal and Roger in tow.

  Crystal was missing the signature Tate blond hair, but her carrot curls matched Alex’s for bounce. Troy didn’t know much about fashion, but her royal-blue suit skimmed her body just right. It had definitely been tailored for her, but the shark in a suit routine broke down when she blew a raspberry in Alex’s direction.

  “We were going to take him home, but he insisted on seeing you guys first.” She followed her husband into the kitchen to find pizza.

  Troy and Alex shifted around on the couch to make room for Sammy, who rolled his eyes in their direction and went to sit next to Connie. Crystal came back a few minutes later with enough pizza to feed an army. She passed Sammy a plate overflowing with pepperoni slices then crawled onto the couch next to her cousin. Alex elbowed her in the side. “Everything work out okay with Children’s Services?”

  “Please. I confused them with all my fancy lawyer talk and we skipped out the back door.”

  Troy frowned. “Is that what really happened?”

  “Nope.” Sammy turned in their direction, not caring when the other kids tried to shush him. “The police and Children’s Services were fighting over me when Luke’s brother showed up. Dude is like ice.” He chomped on his pizza. “Scary cold.”

  Onscreen another musical number had started. Connie bounced up onto her feet, dragging Sammy along with her. It was definitely a fan favorite in the Tate family because all the other kids were getting up too, lip-synching happily along.

  Two little girls near the front broke into a dance routine. At first it was a two-step, but then they added a booty shake. Two more kids fell into line, then two more after that until they were all dancing in a line. Sammy’s hand curled through Connie’s as he looked down at his feet, struggling to keep up with the others. When the lions made their last roar they didn’t pull apart.

  It was freaking adorable, and Troy knew Alex had seen it too when he nudged Crystal in the side. All the adults shared a smile. The gentle warmth of the Tates wrapped tight around him until he thought his heart might burst from treacly sweetness. It was every tender family moment he’d ever dreamed about as a kid, but better because it was real and because Alex was nestled in tight against his side. Fuck. They fit together just right, but it wasn’t just physical, it was—