by A. R. Barley
Number one rule for a firefighter: never take your eyes off the flame. Male/male author A.R. Barley is back with a new contemporary romance series.
Former marine and seasoned firefighter Troy Barnes has always kept his sex life on the down low, until he takes back-to-back hits: physically injured in a suspicious warehouse explosion and emotionally blindsided when he’s ditched by his boyfriend. When a flirty young paramedic offers him a place to crash, Troy’s not so willing to give in. He’s never needed help before. But if anyone can break through his tough-guy act, it’s Alex Tate.
Alex has crushed on Troy since the minute he saw him. Now here he is, stripped of his turnout gear and recuperating in Alex’s bed. The tattooed hero may be a fantasy-come-true, but Alex wants more than rebound sex—and he’s not sure Troy’s ex is gone or forgotten.
As each night brings them closer together, Troy realizes there’s more to Alex than he’d ever imagined. And with an arsonist loose in Manhattan, neither he nor Alex realizes just how combustible things are going to get.
This book is approximately 64,000 words
Carina Press acknowledges the editorial services of Deborah Nemeth
One-click with confidence. This title is part of the Carina Press Romance Promise: all the romance you’re looking for with an HEA/HFN. It’s a promise!
Dedication
To my stalwart editor (who’s better than I deserve),
my husband (who I really don’t deserve)
and my Labrador (who doesn’t deserve me).
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Excerpt from Outside the Lines by A.R. Barley
Also by A.R. Barley
About the Author
Chapter One
Crack. Crackle. Crunch.
Troy’s first day on the job, an old-timer with a burn on his arm the size of a Volkswagen had told him to never take his eyes off the flames, no matter how bright they got or how much the smoke made his eyes burn. It was the dark spots you had to watch out for, pockets of fire that were hotter than the surrounding bright spots and colorful burning chemicals.
Crack. Crash. It had taken him another two years to learn he had to listen as well. Not to the crackling roar of the fire but to the groaning of a two-hundred-year-old warehouse that knew its time was over.
He kept his head on a swivel as he eased farther into the building to check for workers. This time of night it could only be a skeleton crew, but that didn’t mean he was going to leave a man behind. They’d already pulled two men, babbling and incoherent, out of the office and now they were searching for any others. The fire was darkest toward the back of the building, but it was the metal staircase on the left-hand side that made the building sing.
Hell, he hoped there was nobody upstairs.
Crack. Pop. Like a gunshot, a loud and angry bang reverberated down his body and echoed in his teeth. Heads popped up all over the room. Men in the battered black helmets of the NYFD who knew better than to make themselves a target all looking around in confusion. “What was that?” Luke Parsons demanded.
“Maybe a support beam?” someone else suggested.
They’d never been to war. Hell, Parsons had probably never made it past 125th Street.
“It’s an IED,” Troy said. Except this wasn’t the sandbox, and the closest thing to an enemy was the cute paramedic determined to drag him kicking and flirting out of the closet. Not that he cared who knew he was gay, but there was something to be said for discretion in the workplace. “An explosion,” he explained. “Anyone know what’s in the boxes?”
“Fruits and vegetables?” Hoyt Brown guessed. “The sign on the door said Wholesaler.”
“You sure?” Over the acrid scent of burning wood and metal there was something sweeter. Honey?
The radio on his belt buzzed and stuttered. “We’ve got a problem.” Captain Tracey never radioed in with good news. “According to the security guard there’s been a street kid squatting on the second floor. He shooed him out the last two nights, but—”
“But he might have come back.” Troy really didn’t want to go up those rickety stairs, but it didn’t look like he had a choice. He drew in as much oxygen as he could while he threaded his way through the downstairs. Parsons, Hoyt, and the rest of the crew fell into line behind him. They might not be soldiers, but that didn’t mean they weren’t well trained.
Creak. His booted foot connected with the first tread. The damn thing held, but there was still no guarantee it wouldn’t give out while he was halfway up.
“The kid’s not still here,” Hoyt said. “It’s cold out. He probably went to one of the shelters.”
“It’s cold out. That’s why he’s here.” Troy lifted a hand to signal for silence. “We’re not leaving anyone behind.” For the first time since he’d entered the building, he took his gaze off the fire, closed his eyes and really listened.
Fizz. Crackle. Fizz. Pop. Another explosion near the back of the building, and then something quieter from not so far away—something between a scream and a whine. The muffled cries of a kid who’d only wanted a place to get out of the wind?
“He’s up there.” Troy’s eyes popped open and he headed up the stairs. Adrenaline surged and the fire kept coming. His turnout gear was heavy as shit and every step reminded him that he was on the wrong side of thirty-five, but he refused to slow down. Not with a kid’s life on the line.
The second floor was smokier than the first. The roof had come down near the back of the building, and he’d be damned if the sweet scent wasn’t thicker up here. “Find out what they’re storing in this heap!” he called out, but he didn’t wait to see if anyone had heard him.
The crying was louder up here. Sniffles and sobs punctuated by the occasional shriek of pain and confusion. He crouched down, giving his eyes a few seconds to adjust, and a pink backpack gleamed in the darkness beside a downed section of roof. He edged forward slowly. It was the sort of thing his sister had loved back in elementary school, but someone had tried to tone it down with permanent marker and oversized patches.
Pop. Bang. Crunch. Troy winced as he heard the stairs give way behind him. He’d known the steps weren’t stable, but he’d been hoping they’d last long enough to get the kid down. He prayed to God no one from his crew had been standing on them when they went.
“I’m going to need you to calm down,” he said, hoping the kid could hear him over the fire and his own panicked cries. “You need to take deep breaths. You got a blanket? Something like that?”
There was a soft whine and then a gulping sound like someone gasping for air. “I can’t reach it.”
“Use your T-shirt to cover your mouth. You want to keep th
e smoke out as much as possible.” He waited a beat for the kid to follow the order. “Bet you didn’t expect this when you bedded down for the night.” If he could keep him calm—keep him talking—then they might make it out of this mess alive. “You got a name?”
“Sammy.”
“Nice name. I had an old platoon leader named Sam. He was a bastard, but I can tell you’re the decent sort.” He was in the middle of the fire now, moving forward one inch at a time to make sure the floor would still hold him. He turned slightly and now he could see a shock of red hair and an ugly T-shirt in the rubble. “My name’s Troy. You from New York, Sammy?”
“Not originally.”
“Yup, pretty sure no one’s from here.” Troy checked over his shoulder but except for Parsons, he couldn’t make out anyone else from his crew. “I’m from Sweet Springs, Indiana.”
“Jesus.”
“Exactly.” Christ and corn and waking up every day knowing that he didn’t belong. “I left when I was seventeen.” He’d joined the army because there was a recruiter at the mall and at least with Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell he knew where he stood.
Sammy’s hair color was fake. The red color matched the flames almost exactly. He looked young. Thirteen or fourteen and delicately built.
Troy could make all that out now, but what really had him interested was the hunk of wood pinning him to the ground. He bent slowly to check the positioning, biting back an oath when the boy flinched away from his touch. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
“I know that, but I—” The wood shifted and he yelped. “I think my leg’s broken.”
Of course it was. Troy reached for his radio. “Captain, I’ve got someone up here with a broken leg, no way down, and I still don’t know what they’re storing in the damn boxes—”
“Whiskey.” Sammy coughed under his shirt. “They bring whiskey in at night, keep it stacked behind the flour.”
Shit. Troy didn’t know which was worse, whiskey or flour. Both of them exploded, but the whiskey was probably stored in glass jars and heavy boxes. The flour could have been left in bags on the floor waiting for a spark to go off.
His life started flashing across his eyes, all the way from Indiana, to a desert in the Middle East, to the one-bedroom apartment he shared with Ian in Hell’s Kitchen.
“Pull back!” Tracey’s voice over the radio let him know that he wasn’t the only one who’d heard. “Pull back!” There was yelling and chaos as orders were barked over the line and then—“Troy, what do you need?”
A miracle. He eyed the wood holding Sammy to the ground unhappily. It was big and awkward. His gloved hands felt clumsy as he gave it an experimental tug, and any answer he might have given was overpowered by the kid’s screams. He swallowed hard. They were only going to get one shot at this. “I need a ladder on the street.” He checked his internal compass and glanced to the left. “Three windows in from the north side.”
“You’ve got it.”
“Okay.” The ladder was their way out, but first they had to get there. He concentrated on working the problem. “Sammy, I’m not going to be able to lift this shit and grab you at the same time. You’re going to need to move, understand?”
“I—” Sammy stuttered. “Yes, sir.”
“Good boy.” He hunched down into a squat, easing his hands under the side of the roof section until he found a place to hold on to. His body was going to hate him in the morning. “Count of three. One, two—” muscles surged as he slammed up into the debris “—three.”
For one brief moment nothing happened and then—
Crack. Something broke underneath his feet. The entire floor shifted and Sammy pulled free.
Crack. Crack. Bang. Crack. Bang. The building was falling to pieces underneath them. Whatever they’d been doing with the hoses, it hadn’t been good enough. The fire had won.
He really hoped that ladder was in position.
“This is going to hurt.” He wrapped an arm around Sammy’s waist, hauling him across his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. One step, two, half a dozen more and they were halfway there. The time for slow, cautious movement was over. He charged the room like a football player heading for the end zone.
This was his Super Bowl.
And then they were there. He used his free hand to break the glass on the window, shards clinging to the thick material of his gloves as he brushed away the sharp edges. The ladder was—finally—swinging into position and someone was rushing up from the ground to meet him. He couldn’t wait for the assistance.
“Hang on tight.” He grabbed the big metal ladder with one arm and tightened his grip on Sammy with the other. Momentum swung him out through the open window. He’d lost his mask along the way and the smoke was thick in his throat. His left leg slammed into the sill and went numb. Whatever protection his gloves had given him wasn’t nearly enough. He couldn’t feel his hands.
And then his heart stopped beating entirely.
Two whole seconds went by.
Boom. Crunch. The entire building rattled and the ladder shook. He was plastered tight against the metal, Sammy held in place with one arm. Behind them the building was coming apart in a series of explosions that had him back in a war zone, shaking in his boots like a new recruit. How many recruits had he seen get hit by shrapnel over the years? The first explosion would go off. They’d be locked in place by a fear they couldn’t name. The second explosion would go off five seconds later and knock them on their ass. Most of them learned their lesson the first time. A few went home in caskets. He needed to move before something else happened.
The ladder was retracting, but it wasn’t fast enough.
Sammy whimpered.
Good. At least the kid was still alive.
Troy forced himself to take a deep breath. He took a step down. His left leg was still numb, but it worked. He took another step. One hand slid down the ladder. The other was wrapped tight around Sammy’s middle. Another step down.
The building stuttered behind him. Bricks and glass rained in every direction, rattling his bones and lancing the vulnerable skin at the base of his neck.
Two minutes later it was over. The warehouse was in ruins and the ladder was doing most of the work taking him down.
People fucking cheered when he got to the ground. Idiots.
Troy rolled his eyes. “I’ll be here all week.”
“You’re going to the hospital,” Captain Tracey corrected him. “And then you’re going home to bed—for a week.”
Damn. He hated hospitals. “I’m fine.”
“And I’m an astronaut,” one of the paramedics snorted.
It was the cute one. Mr. Flirtatious. Troy snarled, but he did relax his grip on his precious cargo. He’d seen the guy work before. He might be all mouth, but he knew what he was doing. “He’s got a broken leg. Probably some inhalation damage.”
“Lot of that going around. I heard you cough a minute earlier.” The paramedic’s motions were quick and efficient as he buckled Sammy into place on a stretcher. “I’m going to get him started, then it’s your turn.”
“I’m fine,” Troy insisted, but even he didn’t believe it this time. Now that the adrenaline rush was subsiding, every muscle in his body ached. The captain was probably right. He needed a week of sleep—at least—but that didn’t mean he was going to the hospital. “I want to go home.”
“Uh-huh.” The captain’s voice was doubtful. “Anyone I can call to meet you at the hospital? Your roommate?”
Troy made himself wait a beat before answering. “Nah, it’s okay.”
Ian would hate being dragged out for anything less than a full body cast, especially if it meant arriving under the speculative gaze of Troy’s fellow firefighters.
Sometimes Troy wished things were different.
A little dis
cretion had been necessary when they met in a war zone overseas with Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell still in full force, but neither of them were soldiers anymore. They’d been together in one way or another for over a decade. That didn’t make it any easier for Ian to come out of the closet. As a New York City police detective he thought he had a certain image to uphold. Macho bullshit.
Troy refused a stretcher, but the paramedics still packed him up and shipped him to the same hospital as Sammy. The doctors checked him over fast. They wanted him to stay overnight for observation, but he checked himself out against medical advice and packed his turnout in a big plastic bag provided by a nurse who kept calling him a hero.
He was probably supposed to check in at the firehouse to debrief, but his bed was calling. He had the nurse check on Sammy—the kid was out for the count—and grab him some scrub pants. Then he caught a cab back to his third-floor walk-up.
The firehouse alarm had sounded a few minutes after eight o’clock. It was close to one in the morning when Troy dragged himself through the door to his apartment, dropped his bag, and blinked—
“You’re late.” Ian was sitting at the dining room table in a pair of black slacks and the sweater his mother had sent him for Christmas two years earlier. A half-empty glass of red wine was waiting in front of him.
“There was a callout.” The couch looked so damn inviting, but Ian was particular about the furniture and he smelled like ass. He slumped back against the wall instead. “Did we have plans?”
It seemed unlikely, as cops and firefighters didn’t have the most dependable schedules. Troy couldn’t remember the last time they’d been able to make real plans for a night out on the town—dinner, a movie, maybe even a little dancing afterward, although Ian would insist they drive to New Jersey before letting Troy wrap his arms around his waist for a slow song.
Even that had been happening less and less often over the past few years. A lot of things had. Hell, Troy could barely remember the last time he’d tumbled the other man into bed. Fourth of July, his tired brain finally supplied. There’d been fireworks over the Hudson, and Ian had been begging for it like a schoolgirl on prom night.
