The captain wasn’t half as funny as he thought he was, but Diesel wasn’t about to turn down a free drink, especially not after checking ten sets of gear by hand. He’d found three problems; two of them were nothing but the last one could have gotten its owner seriously injured. He made his report to Troy Barnes, then followed the rest of the crew down two blocks and over one to a scuzzy basement bar with no name over the door.
“Smoke & Bullets.” The lieutenant elbowed him inside with only a little less force than he’d used to shove Diesel into the chair in Jack’s office.
Diesel needed to thank him for that. It had helped him get a handle on his temper. If he’d kept talking, Jack might have found him something more tedious to do than the spot check, like polishing the damn fire truck with a toothbrush. Of course, it was still better than getting suspended. It didn’t hurt that the captain had delivered his dressing-down with a side of cheesy jokes and an invitation for drinks.
It was weird, but he kind of liked it.
Hell, he more than kind of liked it. He concentrated on that fact as bodies moved around him, pushing him up to the bar where a harried woman in a black tank top asked him what he wanted to drink. “Tonic and lime,” Troy answered for him when his response wasn’t immediate. “Two of them and a hard cider—”
“Your boyfriend’s already got a drink,” the bartender said in a bored voice.
Troy snorted. “Fine, two tonics and whatever you’ve got dark on tap.”
The bartender stared the bigger man down for a long moment before moving to fill their orders.
“I think she wants to get in your pants,” Diesel said.
Troy shook his head. “Not all tension is sexual.”
“I’m pretty sure she’s—”
“Married to my ex-boyfriend?”
“Ouch.” The thought was enough to send all Diesel’s small worries and petty anxieties straight out of his head. Then another thought hit him. The bartender hadn’t been joking earlier when she’d mentioned Troy’s boyfriend. Troy Barnes, big and tall and well respected by everyone in the firehouse, was gay.
He knew gay firefighters existed. Of course they did. The statistics were clear, but he’d only ever met one or two and they’d been so far in the closet it was almost impossible to tell.
Troy had a boyfriend. He had an ex. He was open about his sexuality.
Cool.
The tonic waters landed in front of them with a solid thunk. Despite what the captain had said earlier, there were chunks of fresh lime floating among the ice cubes.
Diesel grabbed the drinks and left Troy at the bar to settle the tab. The crowd was crushing in around him. Heat swirled around the place and his skin prickled. This wasn’t going to work. Maybe he’d have been happy to accept a free drink a few years earlier but that was before his relationship flamed out, before he’d been cornered in a dark alley.
Somebody jostled him from the back, and blood rushed past Diesel’s ears.
His cousin’s wife had steered him toward a therapist who wore oversize cardigans and listened to him from the other side of a teacup. She didn’t say much, but talking helped. When he’d told her that he was moving to Manhattan and going back to work, she’d given him some breathing exercises to do if things got too intense.
Which just went to show how little she knew about the inner workings of his psyche.
Everything was too intense.
All the time.
It took two turns around the building before he finally found the captain stretched out in a back booth, typing angrily on his phone.
“I don’t see you as a speed texter,” Diesel said, passing one of the drinks across the table.
“I’m not. My kid on the other hand...” The captain trailed off.
“Let me guess.” Diesel slid into the booth across from him. “You’ve got a little girl at home.” Someone cute and shiny with the captain’s two-tone hair and symmetrical features. Maybe they went swimming together down at the ocean, racing across the sand and plunging headlong into the surf. New York might not be Atlantic City, but it wasn’t without its beaches.
Diesel’d driven up for the Mermaid Parade the past three years running, and he was already working on his costume for next time. It involved sequins, seashells, and slippery spandex.
“Boy,” Jack interrupted. “Not so little anymore. He’s sixteen.” His lips twisted.
“And smarter than me?”
“Yup.” Jack’s phone buzzed. He looked at it and grimaced. “His teacher wants to talk to us about some shit. My ex-wife set up a parent-teacher conference but he’s trying to convince us it’s not necessary.”
“Are his arguments any good?”
“I’m pretty sure the kid’s a genius, but he’s still sixteen. Were your arguments any good at that age?”
At sixteen Diesel’d been captain of the swim team. Hell, he’d even been the prom king, even though he didn’t want it. His grades hadn’t been stellar, but none of his teachers had ever asked his parents to come in for a chat. He shrugged. “Some people found me convincing.”
“Your father one of them?”
Diesel shrugged. His father’s death wasn’t something he talked about often. Certainly not without a bottle of tequila on the table. He sipped his tonic water instead of saying anything.
The captain went back to texting.
It was okay. Diesel didn’t mind being ignored.
In fact, he kind of liked it. The captain’s indifference gave him time to relax, pressing his head back against the cracked vinyl backing the booth. The place was packed to the brim with firefighters in sweatpants and dark T-shirts shoulder to shoulder with police detectives in off-the-rack suits with their badges winking from their belts. It was mostly men but he could spot a few women too—a curvy brunette in a navy blazer was telling loud jokes to a group in the far corner while a blonde in a tight white tank top chalked her pool cue.
Fuck. There were a lot of them.
A tall man in a blue button-down glanced in Diesel’s direction. A badge was hanging on a chain around his neck. When he shifted forward, his shirt swung open to reveal the butt of his gun.
Diesel’s mouth went dry. The gun metal was matte black. It didn’t gleam or shine or wink, instead it drank up all the surrounding light like a black hole drawing his attention from across the room. He couldn’t look away.
Right until a hand swung up to rest purposefully on the weapon.
Diesel’s head jerked up. His breath was coming faster. Too fast. His gaze connected with the police officer’s steely gaze.
Not good. Not good. Not good. He shifted nervously in his seat. His palms were sweating. What if the cop recognized him? New York City might be the Big Apple, but in some ways it was like any other town. Everybody knew everybody else, and someone had to have connections in the next sandbox over.
Why hadn’t he moved farther away? He could have put in a transfer to San Francisco or Portland.
And then he saw something over the cop’s shoulder, shiny blond hair like sunlight or fool’s gold. Chase.
The earth was spinning. The booth pitched forward at an awkward angle.
Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck.
Diesel needed to get away, but his limbs weren’t working. His legs felt limp. He needed to get away. He needed to run—
Something hard jammed into his kneecap. He blinked. “Did you kick me in the shins?”
“I was talking.” The captain shrugged. “You didn’t look like you could hear me. Something you want to tell me about?”
“Not particularly.”
“Tell me anyway.”
There was another flash of pale hair, but it was wheat-colored this time. A cute twinkie blond in skinny jeans and electric blue tennis shoes threw his arms around Troy Barnes’s broad shoulders.
The vise around Diesel’s heart began to loosen. He drew in one deep breath after another, holding each one until the count of ten before letting go. It was one of the few things his therapist had suggested that actually worked.
His breath was coming easier now. He didn’t have to count in order to get oxygen into his lungs. His hands—his hands were still shaking. He stuffed them hurriedly into his pockets. “I get panic attacks. They’re not usually this bad.”
“How the hell did you make it through training?”
“The panic attacks are new. I didn’t used to get them.”
“You’re a firefighter. Your job is to run into burning buildings. It’s not to get you and your coworkers killed because you can’t handle the stress.”
“I’ve been fighting fires my entire life. They don’t stress me out.” It was real life that had him by the short and curlies. “It’s just crowds—” Crowds and the specter of his ex-boyfriend. Maybe he should just move to the country and get a dog, something big and scary to keep the nightmares at bay. Of course, a big dog would probably be loud too and he didn’t do well with noise either. He sighed. “I’ll be fine in a minute.” Hopefully.
“Did Alvarez know about this when he pushed your application to the top of the pile?”
Diesel blinked in surprise. “Tito did that?” He’d known someone was pulling for him to get the job in New York—no way his application would have gotten through the system without some kind of support—but he’d figured it was Peter calling in his chits. To hear that Tito had stuck his neck out for him...
Diesel wasn’t about to let him down.
Not if he could help it.
Having someone else believe in him felt good. Hell, it lifted some of the weight he’d been carrying around.
But, it didn’t fix things.
He still about jumped out of his skin when the captain nudged him with a booted foot. “Are you taking anything? Medication for the panic attacks?”
“My therapist offered to hook me up, but I don’t need that shit.”
“Uh-huh. You going to keep going to therapy now that you’re in the big city?”
That hadn’t been the plan, but the ominous wrinkle between the older man’s eyes made him think that Jack wouldn’t be too happy to hear he was letting his mental health go by the wayside. Fuck. Diesel straightened in his seat. “I’ll ask her if she can recommend someone in New York.”
Either that or he’d run down to Atlantic City for his appointments. He could stop in with Peter and have dinner, dandle the kids on his knee. Hell, he could even babysit while Peter and Missy had a night out on the town. The kids had never bothered him, no matter how far down the rabbit hole he’d fallen.
“Good,” Jack said. “If you can’t find someone then let me know. I’ll get you a referral.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Uh-huh.” The captain slipped his phone into his pocket. His body was relaxed. Anyone looking at them would think they were just shooting the shit, but when he spoke his voice was firm. “You know why you’re here, Diesel?”
Over the past year Diesel’d had half a dozen mental health assessments, maybe more. That wasn’t one of the standard questions. He made a stab in the dark. “To do the job?”
“You’re here because one of my best men fucked up and got his leg broken. Luke’s good, top of his game, but he wasn’t freaking good enough. If you get any of my guys hurt—if you get them killed—because you can’t take the stress, I’ll turn you into swiss cheese. Am I clear?”
“Crystal.”
The captain grunted, but he didn’t press the issue. “So, you’re from Atlantic City?”
Diesel grinned, grateful for the change in subject. He stretched his legs out under the table until his boots knocked against the other side. Music was playing in the background. It wasn’t good, some nineties song he could hum along to if he was willing to admit to a misspent youth locked up in his bedroom listening to boy bands. “That’s what it says on my transfer papers.”
“You still living down there?”
“It’d be one hell of a commute.”
“I know guys who’ve done it.” Broad shoulders rolled under crisp black cotton. “I know guys who’ve done worse. My captain when I first came up was getting ready for retirement. His family’d already moved from Brooklyn to Massachusetts. He’d come down a couple of nights a week, sleep on the couch in his office, and commute back every weekend.”
“Not possible.” Atlantic City was far. It would take someone with the patience of a saint and the bladder of an elephant to commute there and back from Manhattan, but it was only one state away. Massachusetts was...more than one state away? He tried to picture it on a map and got a hazy feeling of north. “No one commutes that far.”
“He’s not the only one.”
“Name one other person who commutes from Massachusetts to New York City.”
“Rachel Maddow.”
“The news lady? You watch her?”
“When I’ve got the time.”
“Cool.” Were they going to start talking about current events now? Because Diesel didn’t think he was up for that. Then again, if the captain wanted to be the one providing all the content then he was more than happy to sit back and listen to the rough edge of his voice as he droned on about political parties and the national debt. Hell, he’d listen to him read the phone book.
Maybe not, but the way the captain talked was calming. It was so freaking steady.
Diesel sipped his drink and watched the crowd for a little while longer, only this time he kept his eyes tilted down toward the sticky linoleum floor. The bar patrons might be a raggedy bunch, but what they lacked in style they made up for in sensible footwear. Hard worn tennis shoes, dress shoes scuffed and stained by the New York City streets, more than a few pairs of boots in black or brown. They might not be pristine, but they were all comfortable, and for men and women who spend most of the day on their feet that was the important part.
The captain frowned. “You don’t say a lot, do you?”
“Not anymore.” His words had gotten him in trouble in the past, but that had been before Chase taught him to keep his mouth shut. “Quiet, beautiful.” He could hear words echoing in the back of his skull. “A mouth as pretty as yours doesn’t need to spend so much time flapping.”
Fuck Chase.
Moving to New York, he’d promised himself he was going to stop thinking about his ex and all the things that had gone wrong in their relationship. His therapist had warned him it might not be as easy as he thought, but he didn’t give a damn. He was strong enough, sane enough, to put his past behind him and start over.
That didn’t stop the image of Chase’s smiling face from floating in front of him like some otherworldly mask.
He forced air down into his lungs and concentrated on his other senses. The clip-clop of footsteps and the click of the cue balls rattling against each other was barely audible over the beating of his heart. He took another breath in through his nose this time, and the scent of sour beer surrounded him. Both hands clenched tight around his glass, allowing the cold ice to bite at his fingertips.
It didn’t help.
His new captain wasn’t smiling. Based on the lines carved into his face, he didn’t smile much. That didn’t detract from his strong features or square jaw. Diesel took another breath and concentrated on his grim expression. His lips were pressed together in a firm line. His gaze was penetrating without being persecuting. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down under the thin skin at his throat like he was about to say something, but when he parted his lips it was impossible to form words. Dark lashes fluttered against his skin. His mouth closed and he nodded slowly.
Whatever had happened with Chase, it was over and done with. Diesel might not be the same man he’d been a few years earlier, but he wasn’t Chase’s pet anymore either. He had a new hometown and a new job. Eventually he’d make new friends. He’d be a whole new man.
Maybe. Hopefully. As long as he didn’t fuck it up.
“So, you’re not commuting from Atlantic City,” Jack finally said.
“I’m staying in a group apartment.”
“Nice place?”
“Not really.” He’d found the room on Craigslist, and it cost more than he wanted to think about. “The walls aren’t exactly thick, and with six guys in one apartment someone’s always got a girl over.”
“Six guys.” Jack’s eyes widened. “So it’s big?”
“I’m pretty sure it started out as a two bedroom.”
Jack winced. “Sorry.”
“There is one upside.” He flattened his palms out against the tabletop. “It’s a month-to-month lease. If things get too weird, I can always run like hell.”
“Good luck with that,” Jack said. “New York real estate is the worst. Finding a good place to live is like shooting a fish in a barrel from the top of the Empire State Building with a bow from a Robin Hood costume.”
“So, where’s your apartment?”
“I’ve got a house.”
“In Massachusetts?”
“Close. Staten Island.” The captain waited like he thought Diesel might laugh. When it didn’t happen, he sighed. “It’s not much: two bedroom, one bath, semifinished basement. The porch boards need to be replaced. My kid broke the back window last year and I haven’t gotten around to fixing it—maybe when I retire.”
Retire? Diesel frowned. Jack was definitely older than him, with silver threading through his dark hair and crinkling around his eyes, but hard muscle filled out his T-shirt. “You’re what? Thirty-five?”
“Marry me,” he said.
Now the captain smiled, sort of. His lips twitched, but didn’t turn up. Mostly, the smile was visible in the softening around his eyes. He really did have gorgeous lashes. They were long and thick. Lush. “I’m forty-six.” He tapped his fingers against the table. “You want another drink?” Jack changed the subject. “I did promise to buy you one. I don’t know if having Troy do it counts.”
“Pretty sure it’s free refills on tonic water.”
“Sure, but I could walk over and ask for it.”
Diesel relaxed. When the conversation turned from the cost of bar drinks and real estate to a discussion of the top ten Yankees players of all time he managed to contribute his share of the talking. The captain might be a bit of a hard-ass, calling his men on their mistakes no matter how small, but he also put Diesel at ease in a way he couldn’t quite understand.
For the first time since he’d left Atlantic City, he wasn’t overthinking every word that came out of his mouth. He was comfortable. He was keeping up. When he managed to drop in a Yogi Berra quote—“The future ain’t what it used to be.”—everything clicked and they were both doubled over laughing in the booth.
It was absolutely perfect, right up until a barrel-chested man in a pair of pipe jeans sidled up to their table. His bottom lip thrust out in a cruel sneer. “You look familiar.” He kept moving forward until his face was less than a foot from Diesel’s. “I know who you are.” He chuckled. “If you see your boyfriend, tell him we’re coming for his smarmy ass.”
Fuck.