“You fucked up, Harvey.”

Sitting in his lieutenant’s office at S.O.D generally meant one of two things: either someone was getting a promotion or someone was about to get their ass chewed out.

Considering the events of the evening, Gage had no doubt in his mind that his ass was about to get reamed—and that Lieutenant Brauchard was going to enjoy every minute of it.

“I know,” Gage muttered.

“No,” Brauchard snapped. “You. Fucked. Up.” Icy blue eyes narrowed into slits. “The only reason you aren’t getting launched to a different department right now is because this shit isn’t you. Timms? I can see him freezing under a hostage situation. Not you, Harvey. It’s not like you.”

Gage forced himself to sit tall in the seat, despite the fact that he desperately wanted to sink down and avoid the disappointment in his lieutenant’s eyes. He’d known Brauchard for years. Hell, Gage had been in S.O.D. before the guy had even come onto the NOPD. Eight years. He’d worked with the guy for eight years, and this was the first time his ass had ever come under fire.

One thing he knew about L-T, though, was that he didn’t deal with excuses.

Whether or not Gage had suffered a panic attack—the first one he’d ever experienced on the job—was not his problem. Following protocol, ensuring the safety of his officers and also the general public—that was his problem.

“How many days?” If Gage wasn’t getting launched, that meant a guaranteed suspension.

“Twenty-one.”

Gage blanched. Curled his hands around the seat’s armrests.

Stay seated, stay calm.

“P.I.B. voted for four weeks,” Brauchard added stiffly. “I was able to narrow it down.”

Normally, Gage was of the opinion that the Public Integrity Bureau only deserved a fat middle finger. Not today. He deserved every single day without pay that he was hand-delivered. He’d screwed up. He’d put his boys and the victim at risk.

His only saving grace was the fact that no one had been critically injured.

Johnson, their target, had mistakenly pulled the trigger—a problem for those untrained with shooting a Glock—and had shot up at the ceiling. Cardeaux had been the one to return fire at the sound of the gun kicking off, but he’d aimed at Johnson’s leg, clipping him in the thigh.

Gage knew firsthand that it must have hurt the guy like a bitch, but better a leg than a blow to the stomach or the heart, as they were all trained to do during police academy.

It could have been worse.

The woman could be dead or even one of Gage’s coworkers.

“I’ll take the month if that’s what they want.”

“You’ll take the twenty-one and shut your trap, Harvey. Pull a stunt like this again, and I’ll personally ensure that you’re transferred out of S.O.D.; I don’t even care if you babysit my dogs every summer.”

It probably wasn’t the time to let Brauchard know that he hated those two Weiner dogs with a passion. Instead, he only dipped his head, accepted his fate, and climbed to his feet.

“Get your shit out of the lockers. See you in twenty-one days, Harvey. Don’t forget to turn in your badge on the way out.”

Twenty-one days.

It’d almost feel like a vacation if he weren’t so damn ticked off with himself.

This is what you get for opening up the gates.

Yeah, sometimes it was best to leave the past where it belonged, in the past.

The Special Operations Division was located in an old warehouse along the Mississippi River. As he stalked back to the lockers, the brick walls seemed to close in, ramping up his anxiety and turning his mood even more foul.

The guys were all in there when he stepped in, and a collective silence took hold.

It wasn’t disappointment he saw in their eyes but pity.

Gage had been in S.O.D the longest; he’d seen and done shit half of them never would. He’d worked during Hurricane Katrina with no sleep, determined to do his job for his city and to make his father proud. He’d handled hostage situations, snipers, drug busts, natural disasters.

And now this.

Fourteen years of working for the NOPD, and he’d crashed and burned and nearly took his entire unit down with him.

“Yo, Harvey,” said Cardeaux, seated on one of the metal benches, “how many days until I can see your ugly mug again?”

“Twenty-one.” Twenty-one-motherfucking-days, and it might not even be enough. His head wasn’t screwed on right.

Gage unclipped his badge from his BDU, and then slipped his police identification card from his wallet. He stared down at the photo he’d taken years earlier. Same black eyes, black hair, same jaded sneer. He yanked out his duffel bag from his assigned locker, and dropped the badge and I.D. inside. Grabbed his extra uniforms off their hangers and shoved those inside, too.

“Your spot will be here when you get back,” O’Connor said, approaching him. He rested his shoulder against the locker next to Gage’s. “It’s yours.”

There’d be a replacement for twenty-one days. That’s how the department worked. Supply and demand. If Gage had any luck on his side, the filler would be an idiot who shit his pants every time they filed into the bearcat.

And what if Brauchard found someone good?

There was a decent chance Gage wouldn’t have a place in the unit when his twenty-one days were up.

“Hooah, brother.” Gage clapped O’Connor on the back, then zipped up his duffel and folded the strap across his chest.

“Hooah.” Luke’s green eyes narrowed. “You know you’re welcome over to my house, right? I don’t give a shit if you’re suspended.”

Yeah, he knew, but it was one thing to hang out with your buddy when you talked work, swapping crazy stories about the days on the job, and another thing entirely when one was on the outs through no one’s fault but his own.

He gave another clap to his boy’s back, because he didn’t have much else to say, and then waved to the rest of the unit. They all assured him he’d be back. They didn’t sound convinced, and neither did Gage.

Badge and I.D. were left at the front desk, as was his gun and the keys to his take-home vehicle.

Looked like he’d be calling a cab, because there was no way in hell he’d walk the five-mile trek to his house in this damn heat.

He pulled out his phone when he stepped outside, intending to call the cab service, but stopped when he saw two text messages. He opened the first, from Owen: Dude, you’re late to you’re own shit. EOCC meeting tonight, remember? The one your sponsoring for the evening?

Fuck, was it Tuesday?

He ignored Owen’s misspellings, squinting his eyes at the date on this phone. Shit, shit, shit, it was Tuesday. He’d been preparing for tonight’s meeting for months, ever since he’d jumped on Owen’s case to let him approach the Entrepreneurs of the Crescent City about supporting CBR. His speech—hell, his ride—was all at his house, but there wasn’t any time.

It was six now, and he was due on stage to talk to the city’s upper crusts in exactly an hour.

Cab. ASAP.

He called the first service on Google, trekked it across the parking lot, and waited.

Glanced down at his phone and saw he still had one unanswered text. He tapped it open, feeling a fissure of warmth slide through him when he saw Lizzie’s name.

So, crazy thought about an adventure idea . . . I’m going to this event tonight, and I know it’s not going to be all fancy, but I’m still excited. Any interest in going as my date?

The message had been time-stamped for two-twenty-seven. In other words, hours ago. Might as well feel guilty all the way around, then, because he didn’t even have enough time to get home and change, never mind meeting her for a night out.

Can’t, he typed back, shit went down at work, and I’m running late to a meeting. Rain check?

Gage stared at his phone, watching the little bubble icons forming and then receding as she typed out her response.

Sure. Text me later if you want xoxo :-)

Tires squealed as the yellow cab pulled up in front of him.

As he settled in the back seat, it occurred to him that he’d be giving a speech about supporting first responders’ mental health tonight . . . and that for the next twenty-one days, he wasn’t a police officer. No badge. No. I.D. No gun.

A civilian for the first time in fourteen years, and he sure as hell wasn’t ignorant about the irony.