by A. R. Barley
“I don’t think I own a suit.”
“You do.” It was in one of the garbage bags on the left hand side. It was polyester. Alex preferred the lamp. “It’s not worth messing up.”
“The gray one? That’s Ian’s.”
“Good.” Alex jammed his hands in his pockets. “We can burn it later.”
“Bloodthirsty,” Troy said. “What about the rest of my wardrobe? Can I keep it? Or is it going in the fire too?”
As far as Alex could tell, the rest of Troy’s wardrobe consisted of battered jeans, FDNY sweatpants, and solid-colored T-shirts, the kind that came in six-packs. None of the clothes were particularly inspired, but they didn’t deserve the flame. “You can keep them. Although you might want to get some better-fitting jeans if you want to start dating.”
“Tight jeans? Is that what guys are into?” Troy’s gaze was thoughtful, like he was actually taking the joking advice under advisement. “I can do that.”
Troy Barnes in tight jeans. The thought was enough to bring strong men to their knees. Then again, Alex had seen him naked even if it was only for a few seconds. Sculpted perfection was one way to describe Troy’s ass. Dimpled was another.
Troy was damaged goods, Alex struggled to remind himself. He might be nice to look at, but that was as far as it was ever going to go.
A phone jangled. They both turned and rummaged through their coat pockets. Alex found his first. It wasn’t ringing. He grimaced and tucked the device into his back pocket.
Troy lifted his phone to his ear. “Hello.” There were a few quick words and a rich full-bodied laugh. “See you in a minute.” He put the phone away. “Luke’s here. He says he’s double-parked out front.”
“Let’s get moving.” Alex grabbed the closest box then put it back down again. “You can carry the books.” He snagged two big bags of clothes instead, leading the way back through the body of the one-bedroom apartment.
No matter how they did things, the stairs were going to be a bitch. If they went too quickly on the way down, they’d trip on the narrow treads and tall risers. If they moved too fast on the way up, their legs would give out.
Shit. No wonder Troy had a great ass.
A Volkswagen van was double-parked in the middle of the street with the windows down. The salmon color had probably been cool when it was bought in the sixties. The white walls of the tires gleamed. A beaded seat cover was visible on the passenger side.
Luke’s head was moving in time to pounding music. His fingers drummed against the steering wheel. A mint-green beanie was pulled down over his cropped mahogany hair. When he saw the two of them, he leaned toward the passenger side. “That looks heavy.”
“Damn straight,” Troy said. “Are you going to help?”
“Nope.” White teeth gleamed against teak-colored skin. “If I get another ticket, my dad’ll toss me out the living room window. Again.” He gestured toward the back. “It’s open.”
Alex opened the van’s winged doors and tossed the bags he was carrying inside. Somehow he’d expected the vehicle to smell like patchouli, not old carpet and fresh-cut wood. “Your dad throw you through living room windows often?”
“It only happened the one time and it was an accident.” Luke shifted in the driver’s seat to watch Troy place the box in the back of his van. His voice dropped as he leaned toward Alex. “He okay?”
“He can hear you,” Troy said.
Luke rolled his eyes. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“And you’d tell me if you weren’t?” Luke shook his head. “Big bad Troy Barnes always has to be the one in control. I’m surprised you even let them take you to the hospital.”
“He checked himself out against medical advice,” Alex said.
“He’s a dumbass.”
Troy grimaced. “He can still hear you.”
The van wasn’t going to load itself. Troy and Alex trooped back upstairs for a fresh load. By the time it was over, Alex’s feet ached. His thighs were screaming as he climbed into the passenger seat.
Troy sat in the back, his long body folded awkwardly across the van’s bench seat.
Alex directed Luke out into traffic and told him to drive south. They’d worked right into the middle of rush hour. People lined the streets, waiting for buses, waving down yellow cabs, and hailing Ubers. The subway entrances were crowded. Traffic snarled across the city. Horns honked.
It took them half an hour to go two blocks.
The damn bucket brigade would have been faster.
Luke glanced in the rearview mirror and grinned. “Really though, is he doing okay?”
Alex looked back.
Sleep softened Troy’s features. It made him look younger, happier, like he wasn’t walking around with the weight of the damn world on his shoulders.
“The smoke damage wasn’t bad.” Alex tried to keep his assessment short and sweet, “There were a lot of bruises and some cuts, but he’s going to be fine eventually.”
“Good to know,” Luke said. “I was worried about him after the fire. Did you see it?”
“Yeah.”
Luke was grinning like an idiot. Alex couldn’t see his own reflection, but he assumed he was wearing a similar expression. His cheeks hurt.
“Swinging out of a building with the kid like that?” Luke said. “It was pretty cool.”
“Pretty hot.”
“Sexy,” they said at the same time.
“And I can still hear you,” Troy announced from behind closed eyes.
Chapter Ten
Located in a dark basement on the wrong street corner in Hell’s Kitchen, Smoke & Bullets wasn’t the kind of bar anyone wandered into by accident. Then again, it wasn’t marketing to walk-ins or passersby, not with the combined efforts of the New York City Police and Fire Departments keeping it in business.
The first time Troy’d walked through the hallowed doors, he’d been smoke drunk and giddy from his first callout, otherwise he never would have gotten past the threshold. The windows were dark even in the middle of the day. The floor was sticky. The tables were all different vintages squeezed together like stoners at a rave.
But the beer was cold, the pool table on the left-hand side was level, and the poker game in the back room was honest, or as honest as a game between New York’s Finest and New York’s Bravest could get.
Standing inside the doorway, Alex didn’t seem to appreciate the charm. His shoulders were tense. A frown was pasted firmly on his face.
The door opened to admit a detective in a rumpled sports coat. Alex half turned like he was about to bolt.
Not a chance.
“Stop acting like an asshole.” There was a twinge of pain between his shoulder blades, but he refused to let it show on his face. Not when he’d finally convinced Alex to come to the bar. “I’m not torturing you. I’m buying you a beer.”
“I have beer at home,” Alex said. “And you shouldn’t be drinking.”
“I’m pretty sure the narcotics have worked their way out of my system.”
“That doesn’t mean you get to replace them with alcohol.”
For fuck’s sake. “I’m not here to get drunk. I want a drink with my friends.” Troy didn’t stop moving until they were standing in front of the bar. He waved down one of the bartenders—not Nicki, for once the gods were smiling on him and it didn’t look like she was on shift—and ordered two whiskeys.
“What about me?” Luke attempted to grab one of the drinks off the bar but was foiled by an elbow to the gut. His bottom lip stuck out in a serious pout. “I thought you were buying me a round.”
“You’re driving back to Long Island tonight.”
The pout deepened. “I can’t stay with you for the night?”
“Sure, if you�
�re okay sleeping on the floor.”
“We could share.” Luke considered his own dumb-ass idea. He pulled a face. “You’re the kind of dude who’d kick a guy out for getting too close. I like to snuggle.” He winked at Alex. “What about it? We can be blanket buddies.”
“Don’t flirt with my roommate,” Troy ordered.
“Why not? He’s cute. Anyway, I can always leave the van in the lot for the night and take the train home.” He ordered a beer.
Alex was cute. Troy was sexy. If he didn’t know better, he’d think Luke was trying to get the pair of them into bed.
Not likely. The other firefighter might be sex on a stick, but Troy wasn’t interested in jumping in the sack for the night. His next relationship wasn’t going to be based on sex. He was going to have at least one real conversation first.
“Troy! Luke!” Someone called out his name from the crowd. Troy frowned as he tried to track down the noise. The place was packed for a Thursday night, and most of the tables near the bar were already taken. Balls click-clacked on the pool table, and a familiar broad frame moved into view.
Hoyt straightened, cue in hand. His eyes widened slightly when he saw Alex standing next to them, but that didn’t stop him from motioning them over. They walked over.
“’Bout time you showed up.” He gave Luke a welcoming fist bump. “If I have to play one of these NYPD assholes one more time, I’m going to lose my fricking mind. Idiots couldn’t find their own ass in a paper bag. No wonder the crime rate’s so high.”
“Fuck you, Brown.” The man standing across from Hoyt had an ugly suit, short hair, and a bad attitude. Cop. He leaned over and took a shot. The cue ball knocked into its intended target, but the ball didn’t make it all the way to the pocket.
Hoyt promptly took control of the table. From the glaze on his eyes and the dragon-killing breath coming out of his mouth, the whiskey on the table in front of him wasn’t his first. It didn’t matter. Not when there were only half a dozen balls left in the game. He made one quick shot after another until all the stripes were put away.
“Damn it, were you hustling me?” the cop demanded.
The pool cue spun in a practiced motion and Hoyt settled into the final position. “Eight ball, corner pocket.” His pupils were dilated. His mouth was half open, all the better to inhale deeply as he pulled the stick back. He brought it forward on the exhale and—
Crack. The cue ball collided with the eight ball.
Alex’s body brushed against Troy’s as he leaned forward to get a better view.
The balls spun like rotating planets or shooting stars. Absolute perfection. Right up until the eight ball stopped an inch short of its destination and the cue ball landed in the side pocket.
“Goddamn it.” Hoyt dug into his pocket and pulled out a stack of bills. He peeled off two twenties and handed them over to his opponent. “I’ll get you next time.”
“Asshole.” The cop grabbed the bills and retreated to the other side of the bar.
Hoyt started resetting the table. “Who wants to play?” He didn’t wait for an answer, handing a pool cue to Alex instead. “It’s Alex, right? You a betting man?”
“Sorry.” Alex laughed. “I’m not good enough.”
“That’s what makes it interesting.” The pair’s mismatched skills were obvious after five minutes. Hoyt beat Alex in five minutes and they switched over to playing teams, Alex and Luke versus Troy and Hoyt. They finished the first game quickly and got another round of drinks from the bar.
The additional lubrication didn’t make Alex’s game any better. Troy winced when he choked and missed the cue ball entirely. The end of his stick bounced against the bumper. He overbalanced himself, tipping forward like a cartoon character tumbling over in slow motion.
Not on Troy’s watch. He reached out and gripped his friend’s arm, yanking him in close before he could kiss the felt.
“Hoo boy.” Alex nestled instinctively against his chest. “Thanks for that.”
The rescue left them pressed tight together. The scent of his shower gel had been wiped away by the day’s work. Sweat and dust clung to his skin in its place.
Blood flowed downward, plumping Troy’s cock. He took a half step back. It was just a physical reaction to the friction and his long dry spell, but he didn’t want Alex to get the wrong idea. “You weren’t kidding. You’re really not a drinker.”
“I’m better when I’ve had some food in my belly.” Alex steadied himself against the pool table. His feet scuffed the old linoleum floor. “Usually I have something better to do with balls than hit them.”
Troy’s lungs tightened, and his dick didn’t know whether to harden the rest of the way or crawl up inside his body to hide. He dropped Alex’s arm like it was made out of hot lead and backed away. “Do you have to be that loud?”
“Please,” Hoyt said. “Like we weren’t all thinking it.”
It could have been an insult—someone else might have taken it that way—but everyone was smiling and laughing.
Troy’s friends liked Alex. The light teasing was their way of accepting him, treating him like another one of the guys. The only one uncomfortable about the situation was Troy. Damn it.
Maybe Alex was right. Maybe he wasn’t as far out of the closet as he wanted, but it wasn’t like he was hiding things. He was gay. He knew it in his bones. If he wanted to be discreet about it, then why did it matter?
Because being discreet meant twelve years sleeping next to a guy who only saw him as the other half of a rent check.
He swallowed hard and took a small step forward, close enough to jostle Alex with his hip. Heat flared inside him. “Pool is like sex,” he said as Luke circled the table to line up his shot. “We can talk about the different aspects all night—positioning, timing, follow-through—but when it comes time to get things done, it’s all about the angles.”
“I’ve never had any complaints in the bedroom.”
The guys had probably been too distracted by the plush blankets and overabundance of pillows. Troy snorted. “I don’t see some guy knocking on the apartment door every night.”
“Trust me, honey, I can get laid anytime I want.” Alex’s pool cue might not be worth much as sports equipment, but that didn’t stop him from leaning on it like a stripper curling up to the pole. “That’s what online dating is for. I turn on my phone, I bet I could find five guys ready to party on this block alone.”
“I’d swipe right,” Luke said.
“Thank you.” Alex’s grin was open and genuine. Could he really be interested in someone like Luke Parsons?
Troy shifted uncomfortably. They hadn’t talked about the rules for bringing someone else back to the apartment. If the two ended up making a connection, then Luke really could end up using the other half of Alex’s bed. Would the wall between the living room and the bedroom keep out the sound of their moans?
But, Alex wasn’t looking at Luke. Those sharp sapphire eyes were locked on Troy, like he was searching for some kind of a response.
Troy reached for the drink resting on the nearby table, but he’d switched over to water after his second glass of whiskey. Good old-fashioned H2O wasn’t about to save him from prying eyes. “Sounds like a lot of work. Wouldn’t a boyfriend be easier?”
“I’m not good with boyfriends.” Alex shrugged. “At least with one-night stands everybody knows the score. No one ends up disappointed.”
No one got attached.
“It sounds lonely.”
“Better than ending up with the wrong guy.”
Fuck. He was right. Troy finished off his water and put the cup back down. It was his turn. Luke had dropped one ball into the pocket before hitting the second one a little too hard.
The door to the bar opened and Ian stomped inside. His ex-roommate was a mess. His hair wa
s pushed to one side of his head. His jacket gaped awkwardly where he’d forgotten to do up one button.
“The man of the hour,” a ginger-haired woman shouted from behind the bar. “Congratulations.”
“Speech.” Spoons clinked against glasses. “Speech.” Voices lifted all over the room. Chairs scraped against the floor as they were pushed away from tables. Bodies lifted upward. Hands raised. “Speech, speech, speech!”
Ian’s hand hovered near his belt, half an inch from the holster hidden underneath his jacket pocket. Was that panic in his eyes or excitement? The dim lights from the bar gleamed against his bobbing Adam’s apple. His gaze finally landed on Troy. His jaw hardened.
“Thanks, everybody.” Long strides took him into the middle of the room. “Nicki wishes she could be here, but her friends threw her a baby shower.” There were whoops and cheers from the bartenders.
“Tell them the news,” the redhead shouted.
For a moment Ian’s mask cracked. His cheeks flushed and he seemed genuinely happy. “We had an ultrasound yesterday. It’s a boy.”
Claps, cheers, and hoots exploded from the audience.
“And the rest of the news?” the bartender prompted.
“We’re getting married!” Ian shouted.
This time the cheers were almost loud enough to overpower the sound of blood rushing past Troy’s ears. Married. Ian was getting married. It didn’t sound real, but he was glad-handing his way around the bar like a politician during an election year.
Un-freaking-believable.
Alex’s hand was warm against Troy’s biceps, the heat bringing his attention back to the cramped area around the pool table.
“You want to go?” Alex murmured, too quiet for Luke or Hoyt to hear. This he was discreet about.
Troy exhaled slowly. “I’m not done with my drink.”
Ian might have won the apartment, but Troy wasn’t going to give up Smoke & Bullets so easily. The bar was big enough for firefighters and cops. It had to be big enough for two men who used to live together. Besides, they’d been friends before they were ever anything else. Troy should congratulate him, even if he couldn’t bring himself to push through the crowd.
