by Jay Hogan
He had an athletic build, a swimmer’s body. Wide shoulders and narrow hips, not heavily muscled but tight and fit. A beautiful man, drop-dead, eye-on-the-prize, read-’em-and-weep gorgeous, and yes, Michael was man enough to admit he was even a touch intimidated. The guy belonged on a cover wearing Andrew Christians, not on a police team in overalls. And regardless of the man’s sneering sarcasm, Michael’s gaydar was pinging at full volume. He gathered his wits and made a valiant attempt at indifference.
“I don’t run after anyone, sunshine,” he replied evenly, his gaze raking over the dog handler. “Although I could possibly make an exception for you.” Ugh. Could he sound any more like a cheap romance novel?
The handler’s nostrils flared in either annoyance or attraction—pretty damned hard to tell in that otherwise irritatingly bland expression—and then just for a second, Michael thought the man might even smile. Then the officer’s shoulders tensed, his feet moved slightly apart, and his fists balled. Well, shit.
The shepherd’s ears pricked in nervous anticipation, a low growl rumbling in its throat. Double shit. Michael briefly wondered what Kiwi police cells were like, kicking himself that he hadn’t hightailed it minutes ago. Why he hadn’t didn’t bear scrutiny as the reasons started and ended with his dick.
“That’s assuming I would make one for you, which I wouldn’t, by the way,” the handler responded flatly.
Michael blinked. “Huh?”
“An exception, sir. I wouldn’t make an exception for you. Now, I need you off the premises, and I won’t be asking again.” The dog moved into the space between them, and Michael’s confused dick didn’t know whether to deflate at the pointed rejection or rise to the bossy tone, the latter option a surprise to all concerned.
The radio on the handler’s vest crackled. “Five minutes,” it spewed a disembodied warning. The handler acknowledged the call, keeping his eyes fixed on Michael.
A second, younger officer joined them from the bar, eyeing Michael curiously. “Problem, Josh?” he asked.
Josh. His cop had a name. His cop? Michael really needed to get his head in the game. Something serious was going down in the bar, and he was doing what, dicking around with a hot cop? What the fuck was wrong with him?
The handler raised a brow. “Is there a problem, sir?”
Michael finally freed himself of his stupor and raised both hands, palms out. “No problem whatsoever… Josh.”
The handler narrowed his gaze.
His colleague’s eyes flicked between the two of them. “You know this guy?”
“No.” Unmistakable irritation laced Josh’s tone. “You go enjoy your evening, sir. Perhaps you can find your young… friend. And we’ll need his name, just in case.”
The handler’s expression remained polite, but Michael wasn’t fooled. The man knew there was a good chance Michael couldn’t give a name, so Michael simply rolled his eyes, not about to give the jerk the pleasure of seeing just how royally he was pissing him off. “I don’t have that information.” He stared the other man down. “But if I do find him, I’ll make sure to get his number for you. It would appear you need it way more than I do.”
The handler’s—Josh’s lips twitched, and no way that wasn’t almost a fucking smile. Michael held the man’s gaze a second longer than necessary, and then with a nervous glance at the German shepherd who was only inches from his thigh and other related appendages, he turned and headed into the bar, sensing the heat of the man’s gaze on him every step of the way.
In the bar, Michael finally released the breath he’d been holding and blew out a sigh. The bar itself was damn near empty, the last of its patrons being herded through the door by a third officer. Michael caught the barman’s eye and raised his brows. The man shrugged. “Fucked if I know. Boss just said to do what they say.”
Michael veered to grab his coat.
“Hey, you,” the officer manning the front door called to him. “Sir, you need—”
A deafening crash thundered from the rear of the club. Michael instinctively ducked and spun into the bar front, cracking his head. Goddammit.
Risking a quick look, he couldn’t see Josh, only his dog. Frantic shouting and what sounded like a gunshot only added to the pandemonium and the shepherd went nuts, barking and pulling at his leash until Josh finally stepped into view, shouting into his radio.
More yelling and something slamming into the emergency exit door had Michael instinctively slide farther round the end of the bar and into a booth by the corner wall. Ducking down behind the table, he could still see the hallway but hoped he was better hidden. He should get out of there, but he wasn’t sure how to do that safely, and he couldn’t rip his eyes from Josh, and his dog. Yeah, call him stupid.
“Callum?” Josh shouted. “Secure that fucking back door.”
The third officer spun on his heels and headed into the kitchen. Josh waved the remaining officer to a covering position at his rear, his dog going crazy, front legs off the ground, every muscle bunched and straining for release. Resting a palm on the dog’s head, he murmured something too quiet for Michael to hear, and the dog immediately calmed. And for some bizarre reason, Michael’s dick found that sexy as fuck.
Glass shattered amid a loud tangle of shouts from the club’s rear parking lot. The dog went off again, and Josh’s radio crackled to life. He leaned over the animal as he listened, coveralls tight on his ass, his hand poised on the shepherd’s collar. The dog flicked up his gaze, awaiting instruction. Something unspoken passed between the two, and Michael’s chest tightened. It was bizarrely intimate.
Josh signalled the officer at his rear, and the man moved ahead toward the exit door, disappearing out of sight for a couple of seconds before scrambling back into position. Josh tapped the animal’s nose twice, and the shepherd’s body tensed.
Seconds later, all hell broke loose. A door slam echoed down the corridor, and a dark figure burst into view, smashing Josh head first into the wall. He grunted and slid to the floor as the intruder stumbled into the bar.
Michael sucked in a sharp breath. Shit. The newcomer now blocked Michael’s exit. He’d been such a fucking idiot not getting out of there sooner. He dipped his body deeper into the shadows and aimed for inconspicuous.
Two seconds later, freed from his lead, the shepherd lunged, teeth snapping right up in the intruder’s face. The guy froze, eyes wide, arms flailing at the attack. Something glinted in his right hand. A knife. Goddammit. Michael’s breath caught in his throat as the young officer covering Josh stepped behind the shepherd to block the man’s exit through the bar.
“Drop it,” the officer shouted, while behind him Josh stumbled to regain his feet.
The intruder ignored the warning and sliced the knife sharply through the air. The dog immediately launched itself, latching on to the man’s wrist and dragging him down. Finally on his feet, Josh was hot on the animal’s heels, cuffs at the ready, but before he could restrain the guy, a second man burst through the door and straight into the tangle on the floor, forcing the dog back into Josh’s chest and sending him once again crashing sideways.
The shepherd turned and locked on to this second intruder just as another officer rushed in from the car park to grapple him to the ground. But going after the second man had meant the dog could do nothing to stop the first as he scrambled to his feet and sliced the defensive arm of Josh’s young partner from wrist to shoulder, throwing the poor guy back against the wall with a sickening crack. He slid to the floor, a spray of bright red blood arcing up against the cream paint.
Arterial. Shit. Michael instinctively surged from under the table toward the injured young man but stopped short when he realised his movement had drawn the knifeman’s attention. They locked eyes, staring at each other for no more than a few seconds before the guy lurched toward him. Michael stumbled back against the wall just as the shepherd erupted from the corridor to his right and hurled himself at the knife once again. The guy’s arm spun in a wide arc toward th
e airborne animal, sending it careening into the bar, granting him just enough time to make it out the front door before the dog scrambled to its feet in pursuit.
“Paris!” Josh shouted as he got to his knees, but the dog was long gone. Then he caught sight of his colleague sprawled in a pool of blood on the floor. “Fuck.” He spoke urgently into his radio as he fell to his knees alongside the young officer. A commotion from the other side of the emergency exit broke in waves through the bar, but Josh ignored it, focused solely on his injured colleague and putting pressure on the pumping wound as he shook the man’s shoulder. “Jackson!”
In seconds, Michael was alongside Josh, dimly aware of the other man’s heat as their thighs pressed together. The wound was pumping big. “Move,” he ordered, realising his mistake too late.
Josh spun, latched his free hand on to Michael’s arm, and threw him sideways, pinning him to the floor. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Ouch. Goddammit. Michael at least had the common sense to freeze until recognition dawned in the other man’s scowl and the vicelike grip eased.
“Get the fuck away from him,” he said in a low growl, shoving Michael away. “And get out of here, now.”
The third officer appeared from the kitchen at a run, his expression turning to shock at the sight of the three men on the floor. “What the hell happened?” His gaze landed on Michael. “And what the fuck are you still doing here?”
“Get the paramedics and let the team in the back,” Josh barked. “Paris is after the little bastard who did this, and arsehole number two is being arrested back through there.” He gestured behind. “What a fucking cock-up.” He glared at Michael. “And get this dickhead out of here before I fucking arrest him.”
“No,” Michael protested. “I can help.”
“Shut the fuck up.” Josh eyeballed him. “You’re nothing but—”
“A doctor. I’m a fucking doctor, all right?” Michael snarled, their faces barely centimetres apart. The handler smelled of adrenaline, testosterone, and something maddeningly elusive. “A trauma doctor, to be precise. So how about you get the fuck out of here and go do whatever you need to and leave me to look after him?”
The man’s gaze slid over Michael’s shirtless frame in disbelief. “A doctor? You’re fucking kidding me.”
Two more officers entered through the front door, the first leading with his gun drawn. Both froze in place when they spotted Jackson on the floor. “What the fuck happened?”
Josh held up a hand. “In a sec.” He glared at Michael.
But Michael was having none of it. “He’s pumping blood. You really want to do this shit now?”
“You sober?”
“Stone cold.”
Josh’s gaze flicked to Jackson, then back up, and Michael saw the moment he caved.
“Fuck it,” he snapped. “He’s all yours.” He released Jackson’s arm, allowing Michael to take over. “One of you watch this guy like a hawk, and for fuck’s sake don’t let him leave. The other, go help Callum get that cuffed piece of shit outta here.” He threw Michael one last scowl before disappearing through the front doors, leaving him painfully aware of his fully invested dick trapped in his jeans. Christ almighty, it had a mind of its own.
Turning his attention to the injured man on the floor, he went to work, conscious of the remaining officer’s eyes on him and the rumbling voices in the hallway behind.
“I’m gonna need you down here,” he spoke without looking up.
The constable, a skinny guy, twentyish, about five-foot-seven with skittish eyes and dull brown hair held in tight curls, knelt beside him. “Right, shit, okay. What do you want me to do?”
Jackson was pale but breathing steady and beginning to rouse. His skull had taken enough of a whack on the wall to account for the brief time out. The blade had sliced a clean line up the man’s right arm, and although not too deep, it had nicked the radial artery on entry, hence the pumping blood.
“Put your fingers here and press hard.” He indicated a spot a few centimetres up from the wrist. The officer did as instructed while Michael probed the wound itself to try and stem the flow from the damaged vessel. He was dimly aware of police moving around the bar area with one or two stopping to check what was happening. A slower set of boots came to stop alongside just within sight and this time his helper offered a polite, “Sir,” by way of greeting.
“Who’s this, constable?” The owner of the boots had a deep, fluid voice laced with a comfortable authority.
“A doctor, sir,” the cop answered without taking his eyes from his fingers clamped down on the offending artery. “He was here, when it happened.” The answer was met with silence.
“Boots” remained another few seconds before leaving Michael to his work, and Michael appreciated both the space and the implied trust. The last thing he needed right then was a slew of questions.
More footsteps approached. “Hey, Michael. Fancy meeting you here.”
He glanced up, recognising the two paramedics heading his way. “Ah, the gruesome twosome.”
“Thought you were off this weekend, Doc?”
He snorted. “I am, can’t you tell? Hey, Peter.” He spoke to the other man. “Got any suture packs in that magic bag of yours, or is it full of all that scrapbooking shit you so love?”
“Hey, don’t knock my mad creative skills, man. And it happens to be graphic prints, not scrapbooking, dickhead,” the paramedic tossed back. “Besides, there are more than a few hot ladies that attend those damn classes. It’s the new Tinder, I tell you.”
Michael chuckled as the two medics knelt and began to set up their gear alongside.
Peter opened a suture kit and held it out. “Looks like you’ve got a spot of darning on your hands there.”
Peter’s partner, Rob, took over from the cop, allowing Peter to assist Michael to glove up and get the bleeder under control. He nodded approvingly. “Nice job. We’ll haul him back to the ER to finish up. He’s a bit groggy, yeah?”
Michael nodded. “Unconscious for a bit. Nothing major. Cracked his head on the way down.”
“Cool.” Peter set about repacking his kit while his partner put an IV in place and recorded vital signs. “Sorry it took a bit to get here. There’s another cop round back, two stab wounds to the belly. Carol’s on that one. Looks nasty. Same offender, probably. Then the other ambulance got caught at the viaduct in some damn traffic pileup it ran smack into.”
A second cop? Michael’s stomach coiled on itself remembering Josh heading out after his dog. “A dog handler?”
“Nah, regular, I think.”
An odd relief coursed through Michael for the well-being of a man he’d barely met and certainly didn’t like. Lust, maybe, but not like. Then, as he stood and watched Jackson being rolled onto a stretcher and prepped to leave, the skin on his neck prickled unexpectedly, and without even turning, he knew Josh was somewhere in the bar.
Seconds later, the man in question walked his way apparently uninjured, although the shepherd at his side sported a gauze bandage wrapped over his neck and shoulder. The dog was hyped, nervous energy rolling off him in waves, but he stayed close and attentive to his handler. Josh stopped alongside Michael, and it was all Michael could do not to lean into all that delicious body heat and simmering adrenaline, but the guy had eyes solely for his injured colleague.
“Your dog’s hurt?”
Josh turned those simmering eyes Michael’s way betraying a hint of surprise. “Just a nick. He’ll be fine.”
“Good.” Michael held his gaze for a moment before they both turned away. Fuck. The guy was beautiful.
“Is Jackson gonna be okay?” The worry was evident in Josh’s voice.
Michael opened his mouth to answer before realising Josh had, in fact, addressed the question to Peter and not him. It was hard not to take offence, and so he did.
“He should be,” the paramedic answered. “Your colleague outside is a different story, though. He’s stable with Ca
rol in the ambulance now, but he’s not out of the woods. Doc here did a bang-up job on this one. You’re damn lucky he was here. Kid lost a lot of blood.”
Michael made a mental note to send the paramedic a Christmas card.
Rob took a few steps back to take a call on his radio, then turned to catch his colleague’s eye. “Second ambulance is heading back to Auckland Med with three major traumas on board from that crash. We need to take both these guys in our rig and deal when we get there. The bad guy from the hall has some nasty bite wounds and a foul temper but not much else—he can cool his heels and wait until the next ride.”
Michael winced. Three patients at least from the bar, maybe more, and three traumas from the crash. “ER’s gonna be swamped,” he stated. “Mind if I tag along, if you’ve got the room? Not like I had better plans, right?” He slid a glance Josh’s way and thought he almost caught the hint of a grin, almost.
Peter grabbed his bag. “The more the merrier. Could do with another pair of eyes in back anyway.”
An older man approached, no uniform but carrying an air of authority. Boots, if he had to guess.
The guy stuck out his hand. “Detective Inspector Hanover.”
Michael accepted. “Doctor Michael Oliver.”
“Apparently you saw our knifeman, that right?”
Michael nodded. “Briefly. It happened pretty fast. Can’t tell you much.”
“I heard. Still, we’ll need a full statement at some point. If you’re heading for the hospital, we can catch you there for a brief chat tonight to start things rolling, but you’ll need to come in and make a formal one tomorrow.”
“No problem.” Michael stole a glance at Josh. “You catch him?”
The man flushed, his lips pressed together in a thin line. “Still looking.”
Hanover clapped Michael on the shoulder. “Thanks for your help, Doc. Just as well you were here by the looks.” He pulled Josh aside, but not out of hearing distance.
