Six hours. Diesel’s head was ringing. His skin felt like it was buckled on too tight. Everything smelled like smoke. His clothes were stiff with sweat and blood.
Most of it was his. He’d sliced open his arm when they fell from the second floor. The nurses at the hospital had cleaned it up and given him sixteen stitches. They’d been in the process of tracking down some extra-strength ibuprofen when the police grabbed him.
Jerks.
Not that he could blame them.
All they’d had to do was put his name through their database and they’d been able to connect him with Chase Phillips, a convicted felon with a history that included corruption, fraud, and—suspected but never proven—arson.
The police had spent four solid hours asking questions, how long had he known there was something wrong at the fire station? Why had he sabotaged the truck? Was he angry at the department? Was he still working with Chase?
Denying everything had been easy at first. He might have gone steady with a sociopath, but he wasn’t a criminal. The problems at the firehouse had started before he got there. He hadn’t sabotaged the truck. He wasn’t angry at anyone. If he never saw Chase again, it would be too soon.
Over and over again, they’d asked the questions until his voice was raw and he found it hard to believe his own words. Maybe it was loss of blood or maybe they were right. Maybe he was the reason everything had gone wrong.
When he wouldn’t confess, the cops decided to get creative.
They’d left him alone long enough to get nervous before sending in a detective in an off-the-rack suit who only had one question: did anyone at the fire department know about your history with Mr. Phillips? He’d asked the same question at least a dozen ways before finally settling on the right combination of words: did Jack Tracey know about his connection with Mr. Phillips?
Diesel hadn’t said a damn word, but the detective must have seen something in his expression because he leaned back in his seat. “If Mr. Tracey knew about any of this, his career will be over. Forget early retirement, any of that other crap the department usually trots out for troublemakers, they’ll toss him out on his ass and the union won’t be able to do anything. He’ll be lucky if he can get a job as a damn crossing guard in the Adirondacks.”
“Captain,” Diesel said.
“Excuse me?” The cop’s cheeks were gaunt. His suit hung off a narrow frame. Diesel didn’t meet many men who were taller than him, but he had a feeling that if they were standing side by side he’d be looking up.
“You said Mr. Tracey. He’s a Captain.”
“Not anymore. Not if he’s involved with you.”
Shit. Everything was spinning out of control. Diesel dropped his head and locked his gaze on the chipped linoleum. It wasn’t just his head ringing now. Sirens blared over and over again in his mind.
He needed to breathe.
He needed to focus.
He could practically hear his therapist’s voice now: “You’re going to panic. There’s nothing you can do about that. Maybe it’ll get better with time, but for now you need to be able to manage the symptoms. Concentrate on something that makes you feel good. Something that matters.”
Jack made him feel good. He mattered with his silver fox good looks and his square jaw. The bruises that he’d left on Diesel’s skin were real and the pleasure they’d shared.
That was something worth fighting for.
His hands clenched tight into fists. He raised his head to look the detective straight on. “Captain Tracey is a good man. I’m lucky to have him as a boss.” He’d be even more lucky to have him as a boyfriend. Jack was the kind of guy anyone would be happy to plan a life around. That wasn’t going to happen. “He doesn’t know anything about Chase.”
Because Diesel hadn’t had the balls to tell him. Damn. His gut lurched. It was too late now. If he got out of this mess, they were done. Jack would never forgive him for keeping it a secret, and—even if he did—Diesel’d never forgive himself for putting the rest of the crew in danger. Jack was a good captain. He went above and beyond for his men, and their relationship meant all that could change in the blink of an eye.
It was selfish of Diesel to want to keep it going.
Selfish and petty. Small and mean. A dozen horrible thoughts swirled around inside his brain, but none of that stopped the yearning in his heart.
Shit.
“Open the door.” The voice in the hallway wasn’t familiar. But it was loud. “Now. You’ve asked him your questions, you’re going to let him go or I’ll call his union. You might not have talked with their lawyers before. I have. If you boys have put one toe out of line, they’ll have you for lunch.”
Voices echoed and argued.
The cop sitting across the table from Diesel got halfway out of his chair, and the door swung open.
Jack.
Diesel swallowed hard. He’d never seen a more gorgeous sight in his entire life. Jack was big and tough. He was alive. Diesel had asked the cops if Jack was okay. They hadn’t answered. Asking again would have drawn too much attention to their relationship.
“You look like shit,” Jack said. It wasn’t exactly a love sonnet, but then he stepped forward and held out a hand. “Come on, we’re leaving.”
“Yes, please.” Diesel wasn’t about to grab Jack’s hand, not when the police officers were still lurking. Instead, he stood up and stumbled hard, catching himself against the edge of the table. “Is the world supposed to be spinning?”
“Shit.” Jack darted forward to put a hand on his arm. “You need to sit back down?”
“I’ll be fine.” Steadying himself was easier with Jack standing beside him. Maybe if he used him for support? But if he did that he might as well take out a neon sign advertising their relationship to the NYPD. One of the cops would write it down in one of their little notebooks and it’d go on the record. The fire department would find out next, and Jack would lose his job.
Diesel couldn’t let that happen. He forced himself to take a careful step in the opposite direction.
“You’re not going anywhere,” the detective said.
“Yes, he is.” That pronouncement came from the door, where two people were standing. Leisure wear Santa Claus and a heavyset woman in a pomegranate suit. The woman huffed. “You’ve been questioning him for hours and you haven’t gotten anywhere. Maybe it’s time you tried something else.”
She motioned Diesel out and through the door. Jack and Mr. Claus followed him. None of them said a word until they were out on the street. “I’m putting the two of you in a cab,” the white-haired man said. He looked like he should be belting out ho-ho-hos, but his voice was sharp and reedy. He’d been the one yelling in the hallway. “Take it to the damn hospital.”
“No,” Diesel said. “No hospital.” He wouldn’t say no to a few dozen painkillers, but bright lights and lots of people all telling him what to do? His breath was coming faster. The sun was shining out on the street, but it couldn’t chase the chill from his bones.
“What about you, Tracey?” The newcomer snorted when Jack shook his head. He raised up a hand and gestured toward the cars passing on the street. “The two of you deserve each other.”
“Thanks so much for coming.” Jack’s voice was dry, and then he was threading his arm around Diesel’s waist. His head dipped into the curve of his neck. “You can go now.”
“Uh-huh.” The white-haired man managed to wave down a taxi. He leaned through the front window to say something to the driver, then yanked the rear door open.
Jack and Diesel got into the cab’s back seat.
It shouldn’t have been that hard to bend that way, but when his butt hit the worn pleather he couldn’t help but let out a sigh of relief. He’d made it. That didn’t stop his heart from beating double time until Jack was nestled in beside him. Selfish. Small. All the thoughts he’d had in the police station came rushing back, but that didn’t stop him from taking comfort in the other man’s presence.
Leisure Santa nodded at the pair of them. “I’ll call you as soon as I know something.” He slammed the door shut.
Jack nodded at the cabby. “Staten Island.”
“Your buddy said... You know how much that’s going to cost?”
“I’ll pay it,” Jack responded automatically. “And a tip to cover you getting back.”
The cab’s engine rumbled to life. A neon light was flashing on the corner. He should probably say something now, tell the driver to stop and take him to his apartment. Fuck. By the time they got to Staten Island rush hour would be well over and it’d take forever to catch a ferry back to Manhattan.
Instead, he nestled his head in closer to Jack’s chest.
Casual, they’d said. Just a little fun.
Nothing serious. Either one of them could call it off at any time. He was going to call it off...in the morning.
Jack’s fingers tangled in his shirt. “Where are you hurt?”
Diesel didn’t want to lie and say he was fine, not on their last night together. Instead, he tugged his shirt up a few inches to show the ragged edge of his wound. It could be worse. They’d given him some stitches at the hospital before the police scooped him up, and somewhere along the line he’d stopped bleeding.
Callused fingers scraped against his side before Jack pulled his hand back. “Tomorrow we can both drag ass over to the hospital and turn ourselves in for examination.”
Interborough travel was expensive. By the time the cab pulled to a stop in front of Jack’s front door the meter was astronomical. Jack tipped the driver over fifty percent without saying a word.
Together, they stumbled up the cement walkway. It took Jack two different tries to get his keys out of his back pocket. When he finally opened the door, they both stumbled inside. Jack made it to the couch first. He plumped the cushions and settled Diesel down into place. “I don’t think either of us should be drinking, but—damn—I could use a beer right about now.”
Diesel shrugged. He needed to rinse his mouth out a few times before he had anything stronger than water. “You got any food?”
“You don’t want me to cook.” Jack chuckled. “Then we could add food poisoning to our troubles.” He sighed. “What about popcorn?”
“Air-popped?”
“Not unless that means it comes out of a bag. The kid down the street is in the scouts, he sells me a twenty pack every year. If there’s a worldwide shortage, I’ve got the secret stash in my pantry.”
“Popcorn’s good.” Diesel kept himself rigid and upright, determined not to fall asleep.
Jack walked into the kitchen. There was a thump of cabinets opening and then the rattle of pipes. Pop. Pop. Pop. Water was being poured into glasses. Pop-pop. Pop-pop. The buttery scent of seasoned kernels being exploded filled the small house. Poppity-pop-pop. Ding!
When he came back in he was holding a greasy bag full of popcorn and a bottle of over-the-counter painkillers. “Thanks.” Diesel swallowed hard. “It smells good.”
“You can have the first bite.” Jack handed over the bag.
It was hot and sticky. The buttery corn was freaking delicious. It had never been one of Diesel’s favorite foods, but now it tasted like pure sunlight and salty, fatty goodness. It’d keep him upright.
Jack fumbled with the bottle of medication. “Shit.” He flinched like he’d been hit. Weird. Diesel sat up a little straighter. Had he missed something? His eyelids were pulling downward. Maybe he’d fallen asleep for a few seconds without noticing? But then Jack tried to open the bottle again and the lines deepened on his face.
The fingertips on his right hand were white. The cuff of his shirt was unbuttoned. Black plastic was wrapped tight around his wrist. How come Diesel hadn’t noticed that before?
“You broke your arm?”
“Yeah, and—” Jack grunted. “Probably.”
Perfect. Just freaking perfect. Diesel grabbed the bottle and opened it with a flourish. He spilled small orange pills out into his hand. “How many do you want?”
“They were giving me eight hundreds at the hospital.”
Diesel did the math and handed over four pills. He dumped the same number out into his hand. They downed them together.
Jack leaned back against the pillows. “You know Troy swung off a ladder last year with a kid in his arm? He looked like freaking Tarzan. He was dragging his ass to work three days later.”
“Nice to know there’s a superhero at the station. He can pick up the slack while we’re recovering.” Diesel stretched his legs out in front of him until they knocked into the coffee table. If he concentrated all he could smell was popcorn, not smoke or sweat or whatever chemicals had made the restaurant fire burn hot enough to take down a building. “How’d you know I was at the police station?”
“Reese.” Jack said the name like that was supposed to mean something.
“He’s the one who looks like Old Saint Nick?”
“He’s the fire captain just north of us. The paper pushers sent him down to chew me out. He’s a hard-ass, but he does his homework. As soon as I said your name—” Jack swallowed. “I told him we were dating. He helped me find you.”
It was better than Diesel deserved. He drew in a ragged breath. “You probably shouldn’t have done that.”
“Told Reese we were dating? Or come get you?”
“Either one. Both.” This was it. The moment of truth. Would Jack throw him out on his ass? He placed his hands flat on his knees, pressing down hard. “You know why the police were holding me?”
“I don’t need to know.”
That was a load of bull. Diesel sighed. The ibuprofen was beginning to kick in. At least now he could think straight. “My ex never got physical with me, never hit me, never yelled. Our relationship was screwed up, but I might not have figured it out if he hadn’t been arrested.” That was the worst part. “He was a criminal, and I was completely oblivious.”
“And? I’m pretty sure Mona shoplifts lemon drops at the candy place in Grand Central.” Jack was the only one who laughed.
The popcorn bag slipped out of Diesel’s hand. The fake butter wasn’t enough to cover up the stench of smoke and blood. He just wanted to sleep, but first he needed to get the rest of it out. He needed Jack to understand why they couldn’t be together...why he wouldn’t be here in the morning. “You ever hear of Chase Phillips?”
“No,” Jack said.
Good. Air filled Diesel’s lungs. He swallowed hard.
“Wait.” There was a long pause. “Wasn’t he that builder who bribed half the Jersey Shore?”
“The New Jersey Devil might be a myth, but pay-to-play government isn’t.”
Jack’s hand moved across to cover Diesel’s. His touch was warm. “His picture was all over the newspaper back when it happened. He was a good-looking son of a bitch. I can see why you were attracted to him. There were pictures of the fire too.”
The fire that had happened because Chase’s building wasn’t up to code. The one that had taken out an entire city block and would have killed people except it had happened during the middle of the day. “It was a bad one. People got hurt. Two firefighters had to be rushed to the hospital. Maybe that’s why—” He swallowed, hard. He’d told the story a few times, to the cops who refused to investigate, the city prosecutor who didn’t push for more, and the advocate who’d gotten him into therapy. Peter had listened to him with a stony face. His therapist had offered him a box of tissues. “They came after me with a baseball bat.”
“Who came after you?”
“Guys from the department. Maybe guys who worked somewhere else in the city. Might have been guys I shared a locker room with. I couldn’t make out their faces.” Jack’s grip tightened. He ran his thumb against Diesel’s palm, but he didn’t say a word. “After they cleared me to return to duty, Peter wanted me to come back to the department. He swore he could keep me safe, but I figured a fresh start would make things easier.”
And now that fresh start was being ripped away from him a second time.
Along with a man who’d treated him better than Chase ever could.
Diesel pulled his hand away from Jack. He’d never be able to leave if they were touching. “Maybe it’d be easier if I left now.”
“Because your ex was an asshole or because your old department was full of rat bastards?” Jack didn’t wait for an answer. “How badly were you hurt?”
“What’s hurt?” Diesel shrugged. “I can handle a few bruises. They fractured a rib, but that’s what ribs are for...protecting the good stuff.” His shoulders hunched forward. “I was coming out of a club. Fuck. I haven’t been back to a club since.”
“You went to Smoke & Bullets.”
“Not that type of club.” He sighed. “Anyway, you asked me.”
“Right, you’re not going anywhere except bed. Come on. Now.” Jack stood up and grabbed Diesel’s arm and refused to let him pull away. He tugged him into the bedroom.
No flirty smiles or stripping to silent music. They just turned off the lights and crawled onto the mattress. The comforter was on the foot of the bed. He could reach down to pull it up.
Or, he could just snuggle back against Jack’s broad chest and try to get some sleep.
He didn’t know how long he’d been lying there—minutes or hours—when the bedroom light flicked on. Eric blinked twice when he saw the pair of them curled up together. Then he grinned. “You two are freaking adorable.”
“You’re my only son, and I love you,” Jack told Eric. Then he wrapped his arm tight around Diesel’s middle, like a kid with his favorite teddy bear. “Go away.”
Maybe Diesel wouldn’t leave first thing in the morning.
Maybe he could put it off a couple of days.
At least until they went back to work.
Maybe a little longer.