by A. R. Barley
They were getting in the taxi when his phone buzzed in reply. I thought we were meeting at a coffee shop.
You’re going to have to do without your caffeine fix, he texted while he gave the driver directions. Pick up the stuff for tortellini soup? The sausage from Bertellis, not the supermarket stuff.
You sick?
A friend.
There was a short pause. Anything else you need? A kidney maybe?
In the taxi cab’s cavernous interior Alex was fully aware of every rustling motion coming from Troy’s side of the bench seat. When they got home, he’d put him to bed and crash for an hour or two on the couch. His back ached thinking about it. If they were going to be sharing the apartment for any real amount of time then he needed another bed.
He sighed and thumbed the phone back on. You know if the Brooklyn IKEA delivers?
And then the cab ride was over. He paid quickly and grabbed Troy’s arm to help support him as he led him inside. When it had been built, a single family had occupied the old townhouse. Since then it had been broken up into six separate apartments. Alex’s place was on the second floor facing the street. Originally it had been the master bedroom. Now—
“This place looks like a meat locker. You do know there are other colors besides white?”
“It makes the space look bigger.”
“Uh-huh.” Troy pulled his arms in tight against his body. “This isn’t going to work. I smell like something died. I’m pretty sure there’s something greasy in my hair. My boots—”
“It’s just furniture.”
“It’s white—”
“Not all of it is white.” Some of it was a rich buttercream. Alex didn’t wait to hear the rest of his objections. “Come on.” He grabbed Troy’s arm and steered him through the apartment to the small bedroom. In here there were dirty clothes on the floor and clutter on the bureau. He waited a beat to see if Troy noticed, but the firefighter was dead on his feet.
Troy fell asleep before his head hit the pillow.
And Alex’s phone started to go off.
Chapter Three
Ogres were bowling in Troy’s head, and the fuckers were good. Every ball was a strike that sent pins flying straight into his central nervous system. He sucked air down into his lungs, rolled slowly over onto his side, and opened his eyes.
A boldly colored painting hung on the wall a few feet from him. It was impressionistic, oversized, and oddly pretty. It was also completely unfamiliar.
He tugged the comforter closer.
It was fluffy.
The cotton cover under his hands was crisp and clean. The sheets wrapped around him were a high thread count. Everything was white or cream or—he glared at the throw blanket sliding off the side of the bed—a warm golden tan.
The sheets on Troy’s bed were dark blue. He’d bought them on sale, and Ian had never gotten around to replacing them. They didn’t have a comforter—making do with a stack of thinner blankets instead—and the only throw blanket in the apartment had the Giants logo plastered on the side. It wasn’t a buttery knit that felt like angel wings.
This wasn’t his apartment. He blinked twice and tried to sit upright. The entire world shifted and he found himself flat on his back staring up at a high plastered ceiling with a freaking chandelier dripping off it. A moment later synapses fired and his entire body convulsed as he remembered the wooden mask pasted to Ian’s face the night before. After Ian had kicked him to the curb, Troy had gone to the firehouse. It was the only place he could think of, but that hadn’t meant he could face the stairs to the second floor bunk room. Instead, he’d ended up in the little downstairs locker room off the ambulance bay. The little floral couch might be ugly as sin but it had been comfortable enough.
Or it had been until the flirty paramedic with the mop of blond curls and long lashes woke him up.
Tate. It took him a moment to summon the name, and he only knew that because it was embroidered on the front of his uniform. Troy groaned. Damn it. He should have gone to a hotel, but Tate had been bright and friendly and insistent on feeding him soup.
So, he’d gone back to his apartment, but how had he ended up in the master bedroom?
He lifted his head to get a better view of the dirty jeans on the ground, the box of condoms next to the watch box on the bureau, and the half-read paperback on the bedside table.
It was definitely the master bedroom.
Had something happened between them after Alex dragged him home?
No, he had been in no condition to have sex, and when he finally fought his way out of the sheets he was still dressed in his clothes from the night before.
Besides, he might not be Tate’s friend—the guy never came out with the rest of the firehouse after work—but he’d seen him in the ambulance, working on burn victims, old ladies with heart problems, and the occasional domestic abuse victim. They all loved him.
Most of the other paramedics kept to themselves, referring to people by their addresses and case histories instead of their names. Tate wasn’t like that. He walked a fine line, making every single person who got into his ambulance feel like an individual worth caring about while still maintaining his professional standards.
He wouldn’t take advantage of anyone.
That didn’t make Troy’s decision to follow him home any less of a mistake. He didn’t need to hang around some chatterbox paramedic’s place when he was still smarting from his last encounter with Ian.
He needed someplace quiet where he could recover from the fire. He needed whiskey—lots of it—and a newspaper with a good classified section.
The anger he’d been holding back hit him like a tidal wave, swamping his other emotions and leaving him dizzy from the pain. He’d trusted the wrong person. Time after time. Year after year.
He’d been with Ian for twelve years, and the asshole hadn’t even given him thirty days’ notice.
Troy’s cell phone was on the bedside table next to the paperback. He picked it up and found the last group text message between his friends. They’d been arranging the potluck for Taylor’s birthday. He’d brought an apple pie. Hoyt had brought the whiskey. He pulled up the keyboard and typed in quickly: Need a place to stay. Anyone got a spare room?
Twenty seconds later he had his first answer from Hoyt: LOL.
What the hell was that supposed to mean? He shoved the phone in his pants pocket and tried to think out his next move.
People were talking in the other room. He could hear mumbling and laughing even if he couldn’t make out the words.
Bang. Wood slammed against wood, and his entire body jerked upright. It took him two steps to get to the door of the room. He charged through the door and—
A matched set of heads turned in his direction.
Had the damage from the explosion been worse than he thought?
He double-checked to be sure, but they were still there. Two mops of wheat-colored curls. Two sets of sharp blue eyes. Two stubborn chins.
It took him a moment to pick out the softer features on the person to his right. Fuller cheeks, smaller ears, and hair that was half a shade darker than Tate’s. She waved in his direction and her T-shirt pulled tight against rounded curves.
“Damn,” he swore. “I thought I was seeing double.”
“And we weren’t even trying.” The woman elbowed Tate in the side. “I told you we should have done matching costumes last Halloween. You could have been my evil twin.”
“You’re the evil one.” Tate was on the left. Closer inspection revealed the masculine set to his jaw, sharper cheekbones, and lushly bowed lips.
They both looked angelic, but Troy didn’t trust them for a minute.
There was blood dripping down Tate’s hand. Troy couldn’t see any sharp objects, but it probably had something
to do with whatever the Doublemint Twins were building.
The IKEA boxes in the corner meant it was supposed to be furniture—eventually. At the moment it looked more like a Jenga tower. That must have been where the banging noise came from.
Drip. The blood was forming a small puddle on the ground. Drip. If they didn’t do something about it then it’d stain the hardwood. Drip. Drop. The wound needed to be cleaned before it got infected.
Tate was a paramedic, he knew that, but he didn’t seem inclined to move. He was too busy staring at Troy like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Come here.” It took eight steps for Troy to reach the kitchen sink, dragging the lean blond along with him. He turned the tap on and rinsed Tate’s hand off. It wasn’t a cut after all, just a god-awful scrape.
“It’s fine.” Tate shifted nervously on his bare feet. “You’ve probably got a matching one somewhere. That fire—” His voice was soft and nervous. “I’ve seen some stuff. I mean, I got a call last year you wouldn’t believe. Some rich idiot was base diving off a skyscraper down on Wall Street. He wore a tuxedo with his parachute. It was pretty impressive.” Sky-blue eyes stared up at him through long blond lashes. “What you did last night? That was pretty damn heroic. Captain America’s got nothing on you. Of course, he’s blond and he has superpowers. Did they give you superpowers in the army?”
“Nope.” Troy grabbed a paper towel from the roll on the marble peninsula that formed the apartment’s only dining area and slapped it down on Tate’s hand. “What are you guys building?”
“Nothing.” Tate flushed, then glanced away. Bright spots colored his cheeks.
Poker was never going to be his game. He couldn’t bluff worth a shit. Troy couldn’t bring himself to care. Whatever he wanted to build was his business. Still... “You read the instructions?”
“Read the instructions? Why didn’t we think of that?” The girl rolled her eyes and threw her hand against her forehead.
He revised her age downward. A teenager, maybe. Not Tate’s twin but definitely a relation of some kind.
“You need antiseptic,” she said. “Your friend looks like he’s got an infection—or twelve.”
“I’m not contagious.”
“You look like you are.” Her nose wrinkled up ever so slightly. “You smell worse.”
The ogres in Troy’s head were back, and they’d brought along some tap-dancing goblins. He almost choked on his next breath. The girl was right. He smelled like blood and sweat and ash and antiseptic. “I screwed up your sheets.”
“They’ll wash.”
“They’re nice sheets. White. They’re probably stained.” Troy might not be staying long, but he could still be polite. “If your spare bed wasn’t made up, I could have bunked on the couch.”
“Yeah, Uncle Alex,” the teenager snickered. “He could have slept on the couch.”
Alex. It was a nice name. Now that he’d heard it, Troy could remember Alex introducing himself back when he’d first started at the fire station. “Nice to meet you.” He’d been too nervous to meet anyone’s eyes. “My name’s Alex, but you can call me anything you want, Hero.”
Troy’d laughed.
It had seemed like a good idea at the time.
Troy’s phone buzzed in his pants. He dragged it out and checked the screen.
You can stay at my house! It was Luke Parsons with the save.
Tension eased in Troy’s shoulders. He grinned.
Another buzz. The follow-up text wasn’t quite as encouraging: The basement’s all mine, but my dad’s been meaning to rent out a room upstairs. There was a ten-second pause between texts. The commute from Long Island will go a lot faster with someone to talk to.
No freaking way. Luke might be one of Troy’s best friends in the department, but that didn’t mean he was ready to live with an old man in Long Island. He’d rather rent Alex Tate’s spare room—even if it meant spending a fortune on Scotchgard and bleach for the furniture.
This is New York City. Captain Tracey must have been following the exchange over the group text. Anyone with an extra bedroom is already renting it on Airbnb.
Nobody has an extra bedroom. Hoyt followed up a moment later.
It took a moment for the words to sink in. Troy’s gaze swept the small apartment. His breath came a little faster. No matter how many times he counted, he only came up with three doors: one to the bedroom he’d come out of, one to a cramped bathroom with a claw-foot tub and sparkling tile—white, of course—and one to the outside.
The glow coming off Alex Tate’s face was practically radioactive, but he refused to meet Troy’s eyes.
“You don’t have a spare bedroom.”
Chapter Four
The teenager’s smile was smug. “Two minutes and fifty-six seconds.” She elbowed Alex in the side. “You owe me a beer.”
“Thanks, but I like my head attached to my body.” Alex narrowed his eyes. He didn’t bother denying Troy’s accusation. Of course, he didn’t look like he felt bad about it either. He was too busy not settling up whatever bet he’d made with his niece.
The pair chattered back and forth like a couple of songbirds.
Connie. Troy caught the name in passing. It was probably short for Constance.
The world was spinning again. He should probably do something about that. Of course, if he had the choice, he’d deal with the pain first. The stinging sensation against his skin and the aching deep in his bones. Damn, he felt like he’d been run over by a fire truck.
Connie’s next words were sharp and caustic. Whatever she’d said, it was a beat too far and she knew it. Pink stained her cheeks. Her eyes were a little too bright.
Alex’s gaze was frosty. Black cotton pulled across his biceps as he crossed his arms. “You can collect when you turn twenty-one.”
It really shouldn’t have been possible for blue eyes to roll that dramatically without getting stuck. “Jerk.”
“You want to be treated like an adult, you need to act like it.” His long lashes were almost invisible against his skin. “Behave or you can go home.”
Alex’s words probably would have had more impact if he wasn’t barefoot in a black T-shirt and a pair of pajama bottoms with cartoon shields printed on them.
With that matter settled, his entire focus turned toward Troy. “I have a spare bedroom. You were in it.”
“That’s your bedroom.” Blond hair bounced as Alex shook his head. Troy didn’t know whether to admire his dedication to the lie or throttle him. “Your stuff was in it. Your clothes, your blankets.” He refused to look at Alex’s niece. “Your prophylactics.”
The girl’s smile was knowing. Clearly, she wasn’t confused by a twenty-dollar vocabulary word. She’d probably aced her SATs. “Why do you have condoms, Uncle Alex? You haven’t had a boyfriend since the Stone Age.”
“You want the love, you gotta wear the glove. I don’t need a boyfriend to get laid—don’t tell your mother I said that.” Alex nudged the pile of boards with a bare foot. Lime green. His long toes were painted a delicate lime green, the color as out of place as Troy felt in the gleaming apartment. “Anyway, that was my bedroom. I haven’t gotten around to moving out yet. That’s why I bought the daybed. It’s even got storage.”
“Uh-huh.” Uncertainty clawed at Troy’s insides. He frowned. “Maybe I should go back to my place. It can’t be that hard to find a new apartment. I’ve got five days.”
His cell phone was cold. He turned it over to look at the brightly colored screen. Numbers danced in front of him.
It took him a moment to concentrate.
He’d been asleep for a while.
“Four and a half days.” It had taken four months last time, and that had been a different economy. “You got a newspaper? I can check the classifieds.”<
br />
“Sweet baby Bae.” The girl sniffed. “How old are you? Like a hundred? Because I’m pretty sure they haven’t used classified ads since the Dark Ages.”
Shit. People searched for apartments online these days. Troy knew that, he wasn’t a complete Luddite, but he’d always thought there was something reassuring about paper. He probably should have asked for the Wi-Fi password.
Connie pushed past him to climb up on one of the old wooden barstools tucked against the kitchen counter. The blue backpack on the other barstool had to belong to her because she didn’t hesitate before dragging out her laptop. A moment later the machine was open, indie rock music filled the air, and long capable fingers were flying across the keyboard.
“Get me a drink,” she ordered Troy. “Uncle Alex keeps the beer on the bottom shelf.”
“You can have a seltzer water,” Alex interjected.
The click-clack of the laptop’s keys didn’t slow down for an instant. “Aren’t you supposed to be building the daybed?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be studying for your anatomy midterm?”
“Yeah, but you said you were going to help.”
“Are you two always like this?” Troy demanded a little too loudly.
He swayed twice before taking a step forward. Two more steps and he was opening the refrigerator. The cans of seltzer water were stacked neatly on the top shelf. Two different flavors, lemon-lime and grapefruit. He picked up one of each and walked them over to the peninsula. Behind him, the fridge door swung shut under its own weight.
Two sets of sapphire eyes were pointed in his direction, one wide and one wary.
“Sorry.” He slid the cans onto the counter next to Connie. “I’m not used to the bickering.”
“Only child,” Connie and Alex said at the same time. Had they practiced that knowing smile with their heads cocked slightly to the left? Or were the Tate genes that strong?
He didn’t bother correcting them about his sibling status. It had been how many years since he’d talked to his sister? Eight? Nine? And that had only been a five-minute call to let him know their Uncle Jack died. The funeral was going to be in a few days, and it was probably best if he didn’t show up.
