I've just come off a long shift at the hospital when I finally sink into my normal table at Gracie's Place.

It's weird to look outside and see the sun already so high in the sky. Usually, I get here around half past seven, after ending my shift around the same time the nurses do. But Davis had trouble finding a babysitter for his sick kid today, so he wasn't able to come in until late, leaving me with an extra four hours of overtime.

I guess I don't mind it. These days, I don't have anything better to do. And when I was a cop, I used to stay on for sixteen, sometimes twenty hours or more at a time. That's just the way it is when there's a case that needs your attention.

But working security at Hamilton County Hospital isn't that kind of job. The most "action" I've ever gotten is that weird thing that happens during full moons, when everybody loses their goddamn minds and piles into the hospital for the weirdest reasons. They get rowdy, and I get to do something that isn’t just staring at security cameras.

Tonight was pretty standard, though. There was just one guy who wanted to pick a fight—an addict looking for pills. He started getting physical with one of the nurses when he was turned away, and I was called to get him out.

He's on the street now, still looking for relief. I wish I could do more than just escort him off the premises, but I've been told time and time again to just do my job and not try to make more of it than it is.

So I don't, and I didn't, and now I'm getting ready to enjoy the only hot, home-cooked meal I'll get today.

The server who usually handles this section, Dana, comes up to me with a smile. "The usual?"

"Yeah," I say, already handing her the unneeded menu that was on the table.

"We're short-staffed today, so it might be a longer wait than usual. That okay?"

"Got nowhere to be."

She scribbles down my order on her pad, then fetches me a carafe of coffee and a mug, along with a glass of ice water. Even if it's getting closer to lunch time than not, I'm not eager to break from the routine. Southwest omelet with hash browns and wheat toast. Coffee with two creamers and three packets of sugar. That's the routine; that's what it takes to make me feel like I can relax these days, before I go home and sleep all day like a fucking vampire.

It's predictable, the same way a gray-ass sky is predictable. And when Dana leaves, I open up my phone for even more predictability, scrolling through my Facebook timeline. Same old shit, different day. Bunch of people posting pics of their kids, their pets, and a whole slew of news stories that look like they're a shoe-in for Onion articles.

The world's a fucking trash fire right now, and when a notification pops up reminding me I haven't updated my profile in a million days, I snort.

Yeah, right. Like I'm going to tell people I'm working as a rent-a-cop for a small, county hospital. As far as the people I keep in touch with through Facebook are concerned, I still work as a police detective at one of the best precincts in the state.

And that's the way I'd prefer to keep it, even if I'm never going back there. They'll find out eventually. At a family reunion or maybe as part of my dying confession or something.

For now, I embrace the predictable, gray sky.

But every now and again a shaft of light pierces that sky. I'd say it doesn't happen very often in my life, but that's not true. This burst of color is almost predictable in its unpredictability, and it comes in the form of Eric Tillman, owner and executive chef of Gracie's Place.

He's always a bright spot in my otherwise dreary days. No matter what's going on, he greets me with a warm and usually teasing smile. He gives me a slow, deliberate once-over, looking at me like he could devour me whole. He has to know how that stare makes my body come alive; how the blood starts pumping hot and fast to my cock, forcing me to shift uncomfortably in my chair as I adjust myself.

He has to know, because it's been over six months now, and he's never once shied away from it. I've never discouraged him, either. In fact, when our eyes meet, I can practically feel the heat from the sparks that arc between us.

It's not hard to imagine myself with Eric. He's a good-looking guy. Exactly my type, too. Tall and lean, with hip bones that jut out from underneath his apron and the tightest ass I've ever seen. Sharply defined cheekbones accentuate his clear blue eyes, and his plump lips are almost always pulled into a crooked little smirk.

Hard not to think about those lips wrapped around my aching cock. Hard not to think about seeing the rest of his ink, because I know he must be covered in it. It peeks out from underneath his sleeves, just above the collar of his shirt, and even on his back when said shirt gets snagged on his apron strings and rides up a little. I'd love to trace my tongue over every line on his body, and maybe leave a few marks of my own. Because with Eric's attitude, I'm positive he'd be the best power bottom I ever had the pleasure of fucking. He'd whimper and moan as my hand connected with that firm ass of his, and still he'd buck against me till the very last.

Yeah, I've imagined it. I've imagined it in such vivid detail before that I've jacked off to it. But Eric's not the kind of guy you fuck once and then just go on being around with no sorts of ties. He's always struck me as somebody who craves attention—a diva who needs a steady boyfriend.

And that's definitely not what I bring to the table. Maybe before, but not now.

Still, there's nothing saying I can't look.

"You're late," he says, helping himself to the seat opposite me.

"Relief couldn't find a sitter for his kid." I lift my coffee cup to my lips, mainly because I know he'll watch me like a starving man watches the last bite of someone else’s steak.

"There’s something going around," he says, draping his arm over the back of the chair. "Two of my cooks called out this morning. It's been just me and Tony back there."

"Seem pretty relaxed for a guy who's short-staffed."

Eric flashes me a grin, threading his fingers through his hair. It's dyed a bright blue today, though it isn't styled into a mohawk or anything.

"What can I say. You bring it out in me."

There's a spark of mischief in his eyes, and I know exactly what he's thinking. Fuck if I'm not thinking it, too. His long body splayed out on my bed, so sated he's sinking down into my mattress. It'll be a good image to pull out later, when it’s just me and my hand.

But while Eric may look at me like he's seconds away from dropping to his knees underneath the table, he's never made a move beyond flirting. He's never even touched me.

Whatever he's getting from this, it stays firmly behind the line I've drawn between us. And just to illustrate that—as if he knows exactly what I'm thinking—he transitions smoothly to something way less sexually charged.

"Busy night?"

"Mm." I take a sip of coffee, my eyes never leaving his. "Real busy. Had to juggle five different security cameras to see if the walls ever moved."

"And did they?"

I let out a huff of air through my nose in answer. Eric makes a face, wrinkles forming along the bridge of his nose and his forehead.

"Yeah, that's a shitty story. How about…" His long, nimble fingers drum on the table as he thinks. Once he's come up with something, he snaps them. "I've got it. Okay. So you were working your regular shift, manning the security cameras, right? When suddenly you saw a masked figure sneaking through the maternity ward."

I give him a flat stare, but my lips quirk just a little bit. "A masked figure, huh?"

"Yeah. One of those creepy rubber horse masks. You know the one from all the memes?"

"So there's a guy walking through the maternity ward in a horse mask." I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms over my chest.

"Jogging."

My eyes widen in mock surprise. "Jogging. Huh. And nobody's stopped him?"

"They're too shocked. And you can't see it—you don't know it yet—but he's got a knife concealed in his coat."

"Not a stolen scalpel?" I prompt.

"What do you think this is, Grey's Anatomy?" I snort at that, and Eric continues. "So he's jogging to that place where they keep all the newborn babies. He pulls his knife—not a scalpel—on the nurse who's in there, and goes to grab one of the babies."

"What's a guy in a horse mask want with a baby?"

"Hey, it's your night, not mine," he says with a grin. "And you didn't ask any questions then. As soon as you saw the guy, you went sprinting up the stairwell. Five flights of stairs climbed without you breaking a sweat."

I'm not sure I could pull off five flights without breaking a sweat anymore. Maybe three. Still, my ego appreciates the stroke.

"You get to that room, and all the babies are crying and the nurses and doctors are panicking. This guy's got this poor baby tucked in one arm, and he's brandishing the knife at you, telling you to back the fuck off. But you just keep coming closer. And closer. And closer. And then your hand comes down on his arm and you force him to drop the knife." He makes a chopping motion with his hand, like we're in some kind of old kung-fu movie. "The force of it surprises him, though, and he starts to drop the baby…"

Eric trails off with a dramatic gasp, and I can't help it. I'm actually smiling now. At how ridiculous this all is, sure. But smiling just the same.

"Please tell me I at least caught the baby."

"Not only did you catch the baby—with one hand, right before it was about to hit the floor—but you used your other hand to trip the perp. He went down between two empty bassinets. You hand off the baby safe and sound to a nurse and go to apprehend the horse mask guy, pulling off the mask to reveal…"

"Old man Jenner?" I ask, doing my best impression of one of the kids from Scooby-Doo. The blond. Fuck if I remember his name.

"I was going to say the mayor, but she doesn't deserve that kind of slander," he says with a grin.

And by the time his crazy story's over, I'm grinning, too. That shaft of light has done more than pierce through the clouds—it's bathed the whole damn street in its brightness.

"Sounds like I earned that omelet."

"I'll say. You're the hero of the maternity ward. In fact…" He looks off toward the kitchen. "Let me go finish that up myself."

It's my turn to make a face. "You don't need to do that. Finish your break."

He's already pushing up from his chair before I even finish, and I know he's not going to listen. He never does.

"Nope. The Hero of Hamilton Hospital doesn't take breaks, so neither can I."

I roll my eyes, but there's still a smile on my face as Eric heads toward the kitchen; a smile that stays there as I sit and sip my coffee, wishing I'd picked another table for once so I could watch him work.

Just as my stomach starts to growl, protesting my late "dinner," my phone vibrates against the laminated table. I glance at the display and that smile drops instantly from my face. Reaching for the phone, I swipe and answer it without any ceremony.

"Hey."

"Hey, man." My old friend and partner's voice is hard to hear, even after so many months. "I know you don't really want me to call you, but… we’re cutting it real close to the trial on the Cortez case."

My breath stops and my blood runs cold. That name is one I hear every night when my apartment's too still. The one I see written on police reports whenever I close my eyes. The one that’s haunted my every waking hour for over a year now.

"I'll call you back. Fifteen minutes."

I end the call before he can say anything and stumble to my feet, already reaching for my wallet.

"Everything okay?" I hear Dana ask.

"Yeah. Just… more tired than I thought. Can I get that omelet to go?"

She gives me a bewildered look, but recovers with a smile. "Sure thing. I'll cash you out up front."

I stay just long enough to collect my food, but I know I'm not going to be able to eat it. My stomach's all tied up in knots, and as I toss the bag into the passenger seat of my car, all I can see is a young woman's terrified face, permanently burned into my memory.