by A. R. Barley
“Captain?” Burbank’s lips twisted like he’d tasted something sour. “Not NYPD.”
“You figured that out from my joke?” Jack said. “You must have been top of your class in little detective’s school.”
Burbank looked like he was about to come out swinging, but then his head twisted in Dante’s direction. His eyes widened. His beer goggles didn’t give him any trouble focusing on Dante’s grim expression. His sneer dropped. He took a step back, refusing to turn away until he’d put more space between them. When the back of his knees finally knocked into a chair, he frowned. “I heard you were into hose jockeys.”
“Asshole.” Dante’s gaze slid past Jack to settle on Diesel. A tiny furrow appeared between his eyes. “You going to introduce your friend?”
“New firefighter,” Jack corrected. “Diesel Evers.”
“He’s Luke’s replacement?”
“You know Luke’s always got a job in my company, as long as he wants.” Damn. Jack shifted uncomfortably. He’d come out to make Diesel comfortable, not to talk about employee relations. “How’s he doing anyway?” He’d visited Luke in the hospital and sent flowers to the address they had on file, someplace up at the northern end of Manhattan.
Dante shrugged. His expression didn’t give away anything. “The timing was decent at least. He managed to load up on classes for the semester, might even be able to finish up his degree while he’s out on rehab.”
“If he needs any help—”
“Yeah, I’ll tell him you offered.” Unlike Lou Burbank, Dante didn’t hang around where he wasn’t wanted. He gave Diesel a nod and a “Nice to meet you,” and went back to whatever the hell he’d been doing before.
Good. Jack took a long breath and pasted a smile on his face before he turned to look at Diesel.
His newest firefighter had red cheeks and bright shiny eyes. His dark hair was plastered against his head like he’d dragged his fingers through it one too many times. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Pretty sure I did.”
Diesel hadn’t responded to a single one of Burbank’s barbs, but now he pulled himself up to his full height. “You don’t need to stick your neck out for me.” His olive-green eyes refusing to meet Jack’s, he sighed. “I’m not worth it.”
And then he headed for the door.
Damn. Jack’s throat was dry. He didn’t know what to say. If his son said anything like that, he’d take him out for ice cream and then force him into therapy, but Diesel wasn’t his kid. Diesel was strong and tall. He walked into fire and came out the other side unscathed. When he flexed his arms...yeah, the feeling Jack got when he looked at Diesel definitely wasn’t paternal.
That didn’t mean he was going to let Diesel drop his bomb and walk away.
Their drinks were paid for, but he dropped a couple of dollars on the table for a tip then headed toward the door. Diesel was a couple of steps ahead of him. On the full New York City street it took him a moment to pick out Diesel’s dark hair and broad shoulders. Muscles rolled interestingly under his pale gray Henley, and dark jeans clung to his sculpted ass. Damn.
Jack swallowed down a sudden burst of emotion. He was just going to check on a coworker, he wasn’t about to perv on a subordinate who was half his age. He put on an extra burst of speed, determined to reach Diesel before he turned the corner.
“I’m not worth it.” Diesel’s words echoed in the back of his head like some primal drumbeat. What had happened to ruin the man’s self-esteem?
Except when he finally caught up with Diesel, he couldn’t ask. Despite the time they’d just spent arguing about baseball, they weren’t friends. They were acquaintances. New ones. It wasn’t his place to intrude. He cleared his throat. “You didn’t have to take off like that. Smoke & Bullets’s a family place—”
“I didn’t see any kids.”
“Family.” He repeated the word, stressing every individual syllable. “It’s a fire department bar, police department too.”
“I don’t like police.” They turned the corner and they picked up speed. Their legs stretched out in front of them, eating up the pavement.
“Nobody likes them much. They’re assholes.” Dante was okay, and Jack had played poker in the back room with some detectives more times than he liked to think about. They weren’t bad guys, but he was willing to throw them all under the metaphorical bus if it meant making Diesel comfortable. And why the hell did he care so much? Jack refused to dwell on that question. “We can go back if you want. I won’t let anything happen.”
“Like I said, crowds aren’t my thing.”
“Then we won’t go back to the bar.” That didn’t mean they were going to separate. They’d had a good shift. Diesel’d done good work, and Jack wasn’t about to let him wander off when he’d had two panic attacks in less than twenty minutes. “You ever been to a radical bookstore?”
“What’s so radical about it?”
“It’s collectively owned and politically liberal.” Jack warmed to the subject. “They’ve got books on feminism, climate change, capitalism, radical education. The poetry section’s the best in the city.” He shrugged. “They’ve got a coffee shop too. It’s pretty good, even if the muffins are gluten free and vegan.”
“That’s a pretty radical sounding bookstore.”
“Yeah.” The first time he’d gone to Woolf & Raven he’d figured it was a den of anarchists. He’d been right, but the atmosphere was welcoming, the staff was knowledgeable, and it had a decent selection of books he’d never been able to find anywhere else. “You haven’t heard the best part yet.”
“I don’t know how much more I can handle.” Diesel’s voice was calm and even. It took Jack a full thirty seconds to realize he’d made a joke.
He laughed. “You’re funny.”
“Not everybody thinks so.” Diesel stopped walking. “What’s the best part?”
“We’re already going the right direction.”
Diesel took in an audible breath and swallowed hard. “You actually read about that sort of stuff? Like capitalism and current events?”
“Sometimes.” Not as much as he used to, but he was no longer married to a renowned professor of international economics. Jack shrugged. “It’s not like I’m some sort of news junkie. I just like to keep up to date on things.”
“I don’t really read nonfiction.”
“They’ve got novels too.” Jack gave it the hard sell, and then he finished with a reason he knew Diesel wouldn’t be able to ignore. “We can also talk about the spot check you ran.”
Diesel straightened up a little, suddenly paying attention. “Is that sort of thing standard around here?”
Jack grinned. The new guy might not be perfect, but he wasn’t an idiot. Maybe things would work out after all. “It’s really not.”
“Okay,” Diesel said. “Let’s go.”
They turned a corner, stepping into the street to avoid a group of men and women in tuxedos and suits. Maybe prom had come early or some charity benefit was getting out. Maybe they’d escaped from the live-action role-play version of The Great Gatsby. Either way, golden light chased them out onto the sidewalk. Bright music played in the distance. Sour water splashed up onto the hem of his pants.
They turned another corner and the music disappeared. The golden light vanished and was replaced by blue neon. That was the thing he loved about Manhattan: every block was its own tiny world. It made going home to Staten Island seem drab by comparison, but then he’d step off the ferry and the salt air would hit his face.
Two more blocks and the only illumination came from streetlights, the old kind that buzzed and popped, not the LED lights they were installing over most of the city. Woolf & Raven was on the right-hand side of the street. He put a hand on Diesel’s back as he opened the door and led him into the well-organized bookstore with its full shelves, sparkli
ng tables, and coffee counter.
Diesel sucked in a breath. He might not be much of a reader, but that didn’t make the sight any less impressive.
“Better than a bar?” Jack asked.
“Depends,” Diesel said quietly. “Are you still buying me that drink?”
Jack bought two lattes and found them a quiet table without anyone around to eavesdrop. When they were seated, Diesel stretched his legs out underneath the table. “So, tell me about the spot checks?”
“You start.” Jack sipped at his drink. It was good, just like he’d expected. “Did you find anything?”
“Not much.” Diesel quickly laid out three different issues. Two of them were small enough to be slipups, men getting sloppy putting away their gear. He’d been feeling pretty good about things, right up until he’d run into a loose equipment rack full of entry tools. An axe falling on someone’s head could cause serious damage...
Or worse.
Damn. Jack squeezed his eyes shut. “That sort of thing’s been happening a lot recently.”
“Screw-ups?” Diesel shrugged. “Accidents happen.”
“And if they’re not accidents?”
“Fucking with equipment’s a bad business. Sooner or later someone’s going to get seriously hurt.”
“Someone’s already been hurt.”
Luke, buried under a pile of rubble. If Jack hadn’t gone in to help him, he might not have made it out alive. A lot of things could kill a fireman in that situation—smoke inhalation, heat, fire. When Jack had just started, he’d listened to an older firefighter stuck under a pile of rubble. The starts and stammers that came over the radio as he was slowly crushed to death still haunted him sometimes on late nights when he’d had a little too much to drink.
“And you’re telling me this because...? I’m new. The only person I know in New York is Tito, and he’s not the bad guy.”
“You sure about that?” Jack could smell Diesel’s shampoo. It was delicious.
“Trust me. He’d break both his arms before fucking over another firefighter. What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to keep an eye out, like you did today at the scene. And, if you spot something, I want you to tell me. Quietly.”
Diesel nodded. “I can do that.” He glanced around the bookstore. “Were you serious about this place? It’s full of communists?”
“Sure. You want to buy a copy of The Little Red Songbook?”
“I was thinking I’d take a look around.”
They closed the place down, which was easy enough to do considering the bookstore only stayed open until ten thirty. When they left they both had a bag full of books—poetry for Jack and sci-fi novels with spaceships on the cover for Diesel—and a to-go cup full of the good stuff. They walked together for three blocks before Jack realized he was going in the wrong direction. He was going north but needed to head south to start the long trip home.
“This was fun.” He shoved his coffee cup up to his mouth and took a long gulp. As a general rule he didn’t socialize with the firefighters at his engine house. They might get a drink or two together at the bar after work, but they weren’t friends. He was their boss. It was a rule he’d learned the hard way, but that didn’t stop him from nudging Diesel in the arm. “We should do it again sometime.”
“Maybe.” Diesel grinned. The expression lit up his whole face. Damn, he had pretty lips. What would it feel like to put a hand on Diesel’s back and leave it there for more than the time it took to direct him into a bookstore? What would it be like to kiss him hard up against the wall? Those lips looked soft and plump, cushiony, but if they kissed he’d also be able to feel the roughness of Diesel’s five o’clock shadow like sandpaper on his chin.
Then Diesel’s head dipped slightly. Nerves practically rolled off of him in waves. “I don’t know how long it’ll take me to get through these books, but we could get coffee. Talk. Maybe I’ll tell you some of those things I noticed.”
Coffee, right. Jack nodded. Diesel might be gay, but that didn’t mean he was interested in a two-time loser twice his age. No way he was that lucky.
Chapter Six
The siren’s sharp squeals always sent a burst of adrenaline down Jack’s spine. His heart rate sped up and his stride lengthened. It was time to swing into action. When he’d first started on the job, he’d figured he’d get used to the nerves. Everything would settle down, and after a while he wouldn’t feel like he was about to charge into war anymore.
It took him a full two minutes to gather the necessary information. It was a big one, an office building near the river with an electrical failure. It had already jumped to multiple floors. They weren’t the only engine house being dispatched. At least a dozen different engines would be there, and Captain Nico Reese from Midtown would be in charge of organizing everything.
Good. Jack fell into line, pulling on bunker gear along with the rest of his men. These days he spent more time filling out paperwork than he wanted to admit, but he could still walk through fire when necessary. He buttoned his jacket tight, slid his feet into heavy boots, and picked up his helmet.
Right next to him Diesel Evers was doing the exact same thing, double-checking his equipment as he went with a quick carefulness that came from years of practice. Damn. They’d been lucky to get him as a transfer.
“Let’s go!” Jack ordered and bodies scrambled for the truck. Then they were moving.
The average end-to-end response time for a structural fire was under six minutes, but the office building was north of Times Square and the traffic was a bitch. When their truck finally fishtailed onto the right road they were stuck between two other trucks. He fiddled with his radio until Reese’s chatter cleared up. “Captain Tracey reporting in with the—”
“Your people are going in, Jack,” Reese snapped out the orders. “We’ve got most everything below the fire evacuated, but the university rents rooms on the top two floors for the economics department, and class was in session. Get them moving and then you can come over to command—”
“I’m going in with them.”
“You suited and booted?”
“I’m ready to rumble.”
“Good man.”
Jack started giving orders. It wasn’t the first time they’d been used for an insertion, most of his men had paired up already, but there were still a few stragglers whose normal partners had been caught at the station with their pants down or called out sick. “Juracek, you’re with Barnes,” he called out over the crowd. “Evers, you’re with me.” He started moving forward without checking to make sure Diesel had heard him, but a moment later there was the heavy thud of footsteps behind him as his newest firefighter fell into line.
Reese’s voice was slow and steady over the line, giving Jack all the information he needed to know. The electrical fire was on multiple floors, but they could still take one bank of usable elevators up to floor twenty-two. They’d have to walk the rest of the way.
Thank God for small favors. Jack ran the bleachers twice a week at the high school near his house as part of his training regime, but that didn’t mean he was looking forward to climbing a high rise without assistance.
The elevators had all been recalled to the ground when the fire alarm went off. Now, they could only be activated with an elevator key. Jack fumbled his key out of his pocket while he strode across the office building’s wide marble foyer. The team packed into two elevators near the back. He walked into the one on the right. Diesel was still one step behind them. When they were all crowded in, he stuck the key in the control bank, turned the elevator on and up they went.
On floor twenty-two the elevator dinged and the doors opened wide. They split up into smaller teams, heading to the eight different emergency stairwells spread throughout the building. The goal was to test all the entrances. Someone had to be able to get past the fire. That was the
theory anyway. It might even work if they’d been fast enough and if the people upstairs were lucky.
Jack and Diesel took the southwest corner. The emergency stairwells weren’t as well appointed as the foyer. The floors were still real stone, but they weren’t marble. On some levels they were slick and slippery from sprinklers going off. Jack concentrated on putting one foot solidly in front of the other, no matter how thick the smoke got. He wouldn’t be able to help anyone if he fell and twisted his ankle. One foot in front of the other until he couldn’t see his feet at all.
They must have made it through because the next time he looked up they were on the top floor, and he could hear people yelling. He alerted the rest of his team in case one of the other pairs had started up a blocked staircase. Then he checked in with his silent partner. “You doing okay, Diesel?”
“Fine, boss.”
“Uh-huh.” Tension gathered at the base of his neck. Technically speaking, Diesel had answered the question and fast. In the heat of the moment a two-word affirmation was better than nothing, but he’d still rather have all the information. Did his feet hurt? Was there a twinge in his spine or a pre-existing injury that was beginning to flare up all over again? If they got into a situation where Diesel was the only thing that stood between a crowd of college students and an angry fire, would he be able to take the heat?
No time to worry about that now. Jack braced his feet against the floor and shouldered open the door to the top level. The smoke was almost overpowering. The lights flickered before going off and the hallway was dark. “You got a flashlight?”
Click. No need for Diesel to give him a spoken answer when a clear stream of illumination appeared in front of them to guide their way. Jack glanced back and blinked at the oversize flashlight in Diesel’s hands. The thing could double as a battering ram.
