by A. R. Barley
And he wanted them to be roommates.
Hell, he wanted to be friends.
He wasn’t sure when that had happened. During the night sometime? Or, while Alex was redoing the stitches in his arm with all the patience of a surgeon? Maybe it had been the chicken soup with its flotilla of sausage and tortellini. It was a kindness, really, one he hadn’t seen in a long time.
Troy sighed. He couldn’t pay Alex back with homemade soup or pretty words. He’d stuck his foot in his mouth trying to give the man a compliment. Breakfast would have to do. “I’m buying.”
It took a few minutes for Alex to find a sweatshirt large enough to fit over Troy’s shoulders. It wasn’t thick, but there was a red scarf in a chunky knit and a navy blue beanie that slid down over his ears. Alex didn’t bother with a hat for himself, but he pocketed a pair of thin black gloves along with his wallet and his keys.
“Let’s go.”
Troy hadn’t gotten a real look at the neighborhood on arrival, but with his eyes open and his mind clear, he didn’t know if he’d ever be able to forget it. Alex’s building was large and stately, a converted mansion with a sweeping front porch and gingerbread trim. It squatted in a well-tended garden at the top of the cobblestone street like a grand lady presiding over a court of small storefronts and red brick townhouses.
Skyscrapers rose up around them like ancient mountains.
It took him a minute to judge his bearings. Lower Manhattan, definitely. Somewhere between the East Village and Battery Park.
A hidden gem.
A fairy-tale version of New York City like the one Troy had dreamed about on long nights back in Sweet Springs, Indiana.
And Alex Tate walked through the middle of that fairy tale like he had no other place in the world.
Like he belonged.
Troy was a good six inches taller than the paramedic, but he still had to stretch his legs to keep up. Fabric pulled tight against a dozen small cuts, scrapes, and bruises. His lungs seized in his chest. He refused to slow Alex down.
The businesses were the usual mix that could be found on any Manhattan street. On one side was a liquor store with I NY shirts hanging in the window, a coffee cart, the bakery, and a Chinese carryout. Used books spilled out of a storefront next to a clothes boutique with brightly colored dresses in the window. The other side had a cramped art gallery and a second boutique, this one catering to men.
There was a royal-blue peacoat in the window. The shape was identical to a hundred others on every street, but the cut was stylish and the color magnificent.
Troy’s fingers twitched hungrily. Would the wool be lightweight or heavy? Scratchy or pleasantly soft? Ian would hate it. He’d say it was too bold, too attention gathering, too colorful.
It definitely wasn’t discreet.
How long had it been since Troy’d had some color in his life?
Would Alex object to a roommate in a colorful coat? Probably not. Alex might be professional in his uniform, but there wasn’t a discreet bone in his body.
Lime-green toes. Alex had lime-green toenails and delicate arches. He wore what he liked, and he smiled while he did it.
Troy didn’t know if he’d ever want to put on nail polish, but his life could use some color.
Sammy’d been colorful with his dyed red hair and pink backpack. He was a kid trying to make his way in the world, and what did he have to show for it? No belongings. No place to crash. A nasty case of inhalation damage and a broken leg.
Had someone checked on him while Troy was out? It wasn’t his job—the fire marshal dealt with arson attempts, and Children’s Services was in charge of runaways—but no one had ordered Alex to take him home the day before.
Orders hadn’t made him soup or redone the stitching in his arm.
Some things just needed to be done.
Alex was still one step ahead of him, pushing his way through a heavy security door into a nameless narrow diner. “This place does the best breakfast in the city.” The place was a hole. The tables were only big enough for two. The lights flickered overhead.
But the guy standing in front of the grill had to be a wizard because the smells wafting through the air were pure magic.
Saliva pooled in the back of Troy’s mouth. Damn, he wanted some of that. Eggs. Sausage. Biscuits. Were they homemade? Were they fresh? They smelled fresh, like buttermilk mixed with cracked peppercorn. His stomach rumbled.
Thank God he hadn’t ended up in the hospital.
Hospital food sucked.
And Sammy was stuck there, probably without any friends to entertain him or family to make sure he was being treated right. Damn. Troy leaned across the counter to wave down the server, biting back a curse when his elbow connected with a napkin holder. His lungs seized. Pain radiated down his arm and buried itself in the base of his spine. “Goddamn it.”
“Scale of one to ten,” Alex said.
“How annoying is that question?” Haloes of light danced in front of his eyes. Sweat gathered at the base of his neck. He leaned forward. “Definitely a ten.”
In the mirror at the back of the diner Troy’s reflection loomed large and ugly. His skin was pale. Dark circles were growing under his eyes. The borrowed sweatshirt was dull and gray. It concealed most of his body, but if he pulled it up, he knew what he’d see.
Bruises, scrapes, and a hundred tiny cuts too small for stitches. Then there were the gashes. One across his upper abdominals. Two on his arm sewn shut with white thread from the hospital. The last row of stitches was done in the black suturing from Alex’s first aid kit, a dark stain across his skin.
He took another breath, counting to ten before letting the air out through his mouth.
Everyone was staring in his direction. At least now he had the server’s attention. “You make breakfast sandwiches?” Of course they did. “I need three breakfast sandwiches with sausage to go.”
There was a stack of paper cups by the register. Blue with a familiar Greek design and words he’d memorized his first night in the city: We Are Happy To Serve You.
“Two coffees,” he added. “Regular.”
Alex was staring up at him, mouth open and eyes wide. “You survived a building collapse, and now you’re inviting a heart attack? You’re not Captain America. You’re definitely not Superman. Your arteries aren’t made of steel.”
“Yeah, well, only one of them’s for me.” His hands were shaking, and this time it wasn’t from the pain. “We’re going to the hospital.”
Chapter Seven
For a brief shining moment sanity reigned. They were going to the hospital. Troy was going to get checked out by proper doctors, not a dropout with delusions of competence.
Troy paid for the food and shoved a cup of coffee and a bag of breakfast sandwiches into his hand. He sipped his own coffee, then led the way back outside. “How long does it usually take to get a cab around here?”
“Not long.”
“Good. We want to get there while the food’s still hot.” He pulled his cell phone out and thumbed it on. Typing and walking was a useful skill, even if he did have to be redirected around a parking sign. “The captain says Sammy’s on the fifth floor.”
“Sammy’s a doctor?”
“What?” Troy blinked in surprise. “Of course not.”
Alex was having trouble keeping up.
The wind was biting its way through his sweatshirt. The sun was beaming away overhead, but the sky was still gray. If Alex had known they were going on an adventure, he’d have insisted on finding warmer jackets. Then again, between his closet space and Troy’s bulk there wasn’t much he could do. Finding the pants had been a miracle. Or a nightmare. What the hell were his ex’s pants doing in his closet?
A taxi turned down the street and Troy tried to lift his right arm.
“Fuck.” He lifted his left hand instead.
The taxi stopped and they got in. The mid-morning traffic was light. It only took them twenty minutes to get to St. Vincent’s. Inside, Troy ignored the nurse’s station and hustled him into the elevator. Loud pop music played on the ride up to the fifth floor.
The yummy, yummy scent of breakfast sandwiches filled the elevator. If they waited much longer the sandwiches would get cold and greasy. Alex really didn’t want that to happen.
The doors opened and Troy double-checked the directions on his phone. “This way.” They walked past half a dozen doors before finally dipping into a two-bed hospital room.
The first slot had a gray-haired woman. Her name was scrawled on the whiteboard next to her bed: Mary Elizabeth Patton. Half a dozen flower vases crowded her little side table. Her husband was sitting beside her with a newspaper open on his lap, reading the opinion section.
The second slot was empty except for a lump in the middle of the bed. The name on the whiteboard was written in big block letters: Sammy.
Alex gave the old lady a three-fingered wave as they trooped past. She waved back.
“Hiyah, Sammy,” Troy’s voice was loud, booming, and a little rough from where he’d inhaled too much smoke.
The sheet pulled back to reveal a mess of red hair. Sammy. Sammy was the kid from the fire. Alex had done the initial intake, checked him for immediate damage, and taken him to the hospital. If he’d bothered to get the boy’s name, he hadn’t committed it to memory.
And now Troy was greeting him like a long-lost relative.
“I hope you like sausage.” Troy snagged the bag of food from Alex and handed out the breakfast sandwiches. “My friend says this place does the best breakfast in the city. I’m going to need your opinion.”
The kid’s eyes were big and dark. His skin was sallow. When he sat up, his sheet caught awkwardly on the cast holding his broken leg together. “Troy,” he said slowly, like he wasn’t sure if the man in front of him was a mirage. His voice was gasping, wheezing. Whatever small damage had been done to Troy’s lungs was nothing compared to what Sammy had experienced. “Troy from Sweet Springs, Indiana. The firefighter.”
“Got it in one.” Troy extended a hand for the world’s least enthusiastic fist bump.
Alex couldn’t pretend to understand the interaction. At least now he had permission to start eating. He unwrapped his sandwich and took a bite. Organic eggs, pork and apple sausage, and homemade buttermilk biscuits combined in his mouth to create tiny explosions of flavor.
“It’s not the best in the city,” Sammy said.
Snot-nosed brat. Alex frowned. “It’s perfect.”
“There are black spots in the biscuit.”
“That’s cracked pepper.”
“The sausage is sweet.”
“That’s from the apples.”
“I like bacon.”
“You’re a philistine.”
Sammy’s gaze darted back and forth between Alex and Troy. His nose wrinkled up unhappily. “I don’t know what that means.”
“Don’t worry.” Troy’s laughter was warm and friendly. “I don’t either.” He took a big bite of his breakfast sandwich. A happy groan filled the air. Juices squirted out and flowed over his chin. He licked his lips, twice, extending his tongue as far as possible. Then he licked his fingers.
It was ridiculous.
“That’s good,” he said.
“It’s delicious,” Alex corrected around a second bite. He swallowed. “A philistine is someone who doesn’t appreciate art and culture.”
Sammy’s cheeks were the same red as his hair. “The best breakfast sandwich in the city comes from Ma Belle’s up in Harlem. They use roast vegetables and spicy sauce—they call it remoulade, but it’s really just fancy mayo—and it’s freaking amazing.”
Okay, so maybe the kid wasn’t completely unappreciative of the culinary arts.
Alex grinned. “We’ll have to do a taste test after you get out.”
Sammy stopped eating. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “I’m not getting out. I’m being released into the custody of the New York City foster system.” He put the sandwich down on the bedside table. A paper napkin was placed over the food to save it for later. “A woman came by earlier and asked me questions.”
The social workers from Children’s Services weren’t always the nicest people in the world. There were too many cases and too few people on the job for them to wear kid gloves. That didn’t explain the look of fear on Sammy’s face.
His skin was so pale his freckles could be seen from outer space. He stared at the half-finished sandwich, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes.
That kind of fear had to be treated carefully. Alex took another bite. The taste wasn’t quite as joyful this time around. He swallowed hard, giving Troy the opportunity to take the lead. The two seemed to have some kind of rapport, but Troy didn’t say anything.
Alex cleared his throat. “What kind of questions did she ask?”
“She wanted to know my name, where I’m from.” Sammy looked so small on the bed. His clothes must not have been salvageable after the fire. He was dressed in a rumpled blue hospital gown. “She kept calling me Samantha.”
His grip tightened on his sheets. “My name is not Samantha. Not anymore. I’m Sammy.” His jaw clenched. His head jerked upward. Unspent tears shone in the corners of his eyes. “I’m not a girl.” He was positive about that fact. “I’m a boy.”
That changed things a little.
Alex took a step forward, careful not to make any sudden motions. “There are people I can put you in touch with.” He kept lists in the back of the ambulance for emergency callouts: domestic violence hotlines, food pantries, and LGBT support groups. “They can help you—”
“I don’t need help,” Sammy said. “I need to be left alone. I was fine—”
“I don’t think so,” Troy scoffed.
Shit. Alex’s eyes squeezed shut. Ice churned through his veins. He felt sick. If Troy said the wrong thing, the kid would clam up. They could stay all afternoon, but Sammy wouldn’t say a thing.
Troy was a good man. He wouldn’t say anything wrong on purpose, but he was from Indiana. The Bible Belt. They weren’t known for being kind.
“You were sleeping rough,” Troy said. “You’ve been in the hospital two days, but you don’t have any visitors, not even other kids off the streets. Children’s Services came to see you, but you didn’t call your parents. That’s not fine.”
The room was completely quiet. Alex opened his eyes, suddenly aware that the elderly couple next door had stopped talking. He tossed the remains of his sandwich into the trash can and closed the divider between the two beds. A moment later he could hear murmuring. Feet hit the ground with a quiet thud.
“It’s a beautiful morning for a walk,” Mary announced a little too loudly. “There’s a garden on the roof.”
The old lady was sharp as a tack. Her husband was a little slower on the uptake. “You’re supposed to be resting.”
“There’s a bench, Harold. It’ll be fine.”
The door closed with a click.
Thank goodness. Alex gave a little prayer for Mary Elizabeth Patton.
This wasn’t a conversation that needed an audience.
Sammy’s head was in his hands. His fingers were twisted awkwardly in his dyed red locks. Tiny gasps filled the air. Sobs.
Alex sighed. “Thanks a lot, Mr. Sensitivity.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.” Troy took a step forward. The lumbering ape. He reached out to touch Sammy’s arm, cringing when the kid flinched away. “I didn’t mean it.” He looked at Alex for help.
Nope. Not a chance. Not going to happen.
The building was burning. The firefighter was on the to
p floor. The flames were getting closer, and this time the ladder wasn’t going to reach him in time.
“There aren’t any trans people in Sweet Springs,” Troy said softly. “There aren’t any gay guys either. When I was a kid, they said the school librarian was a lesbian because she wore those thick glasses. You know? Then she married Mr. Miggins, the PE teacher.”
Sammy wasn’t crying anymore. He was listening.
There weren’t any visitor’s chairs in Sammy’s half of the room. Troy leaned against the wall. He didn’t stop talking: “Being gay in a town like that is hard. Not that anyone knew.” There was a pause. “Everything I did, everything I wore, I thought about what people would think. I joined the freaking football team because it was what a straight guy would do—even though I was lusting after the captain, Skip Lewis.” He snorted. “Turns out I’m pretty good at football.”
Sammy frowned. “I was never good at sports.”
“You don’t have to be,” Troy said. “When I was seventeen, I joined the army to get away. My parents were so proud, my mother cried, and all I could think about was getting on the damn bus. Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell was still a thing, but pretending to be straight in the army was a hell of a lot easier than pretending to be straight in Sweet Springs. After a while I made friends.”
Like the detective with the baby on the way? Some friend. Alex shifted uneasily.
Sammy hadn’t noticed. Thank goodness.
Unfortunately, Troy’s senses were a little sharper. “Some friends are better than others.”
Troy was a good-looking man. Shirtless and gleaming with water running down his back? Yeah, he’d been a sight to behold. Beautiful, even when Alex thought he was straight.
This man was better.
In his borrowed sweatpants and angry vulnerability, he was absolutely stunning.
“You really waited until you left the army before you came out?” Sammy’s voice was thick with disbelief.
He’d edged closer while Troy was talking, and the ridge of his collarbone was visible over the edge of his hospital gown.
