Jack didn’t recognize the idiot with the motor mouth, but he could practically feel the tension rolling off his newest firefighter. He gave Diesel a few seconds to laugh off the confusion, call the police officer on being an asshole, and introduce himself with a hearty handshake. Instead, Diesel’s full lips pressed together in a thin line. All the color disappeared from his face, and his handsome features twisted unhappily.
Panic attacks.
Right.
Jack didn’t know if the intruder really recognized Diesel from somewhere—it could all be a misunderstanding—and he didn’t care. He didn’t like bullies, and he didn’t like having his evening interrupted. That was two strikes against the intruder. Scaring the hell out of Diesel was a third. The man was out, and he’d only said a couple of words. He shifted forward. “He’s none of your business, asshole.”
“It’s Detective Asshole to you,” the man said, but he didn’t pay Jack much attention. He was too busy looking at Diesel like he’d just spotted a bug in his soup.
“You must have had a horrible childhood with a name like that.”
“My name’s Lou Burbank.” The more time that went by without a response from Diesel, the bigger Lou’s sneer got. “You should go back to Atlantic City. You’re not welcome here.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not your decision.” Jack pushed himself to his feet, straightening his shoulders in a way that let him loom over Detective Lou “Asshole” Burbank.
He wasn’t twenty years old anymore. He didn’t need to fight any time another guy looked at him crooked, but he didn’t back down from the occasional brawl either. A couple of months earlier, he’d broken two knuckles taking on an asshole who’d accused Tito of cheating at pool even though there was no reason for him to think it wasn’t true.
It was the least he could do for a man under his command, and he wasn’t about to do any less for Diesel just because they’d known each other less than a month.
So, he kept his limbs loose as he took another half step forward. His hands weren’t balled up in fists, but the threat was implicit in the way he held himself.
Across the room a flash of copper hair caught his attention. Dante Green, who was dating Luke Parsons, was one scary son of a bitch even for an NYPD detective, with his tight shaved copper hair and dark tattoos curling out from under his T-shirt. When he was sure he had Jack’s attention, he jerked a hand in Burbank’s direction.
Jack didn’t even nod. He could handle one wet-behind-the-ears detective, even if Burbank’s red cheeks and flaring nostrils made him look like a cartoon bomb about to go off.
“You know what they call a man who can’t pass the test to be a firefighter,” Jack said, keeping his tone light and conversational. “NYPD.”
That managed to capture Burbank’s attention. He switched his glare from Diesel to Jack, crossing his arms in a way that was probably supposed to be intimidating. “That’s not the way I heard it.”
“Then you heard it wrong.”
“Pretty sure I didn’t.” The way he spat out his lame comeback, he probably wasn’t used to anyone talking back. It made sense. He was a big guy with a badge. Most guys probably crossed the street to avoid him. They definitely didn’t start verbal fights.
Jack almost felt sorry for the man, and then the air moved as Diesel shifted at his back. Diesel’s breath was sharp and desperate, like no matter how much air he took in he’d never be able to fill his lungs. Like a panic attack. Never mind. “You want to go back to what you were doing, Detective?”
Burbank must have had a drink or five before coming over to harass them because his eyes were glazed over. It took him a moment to refocus on Jack. “Who the hell are you again?”
“That’s who the hell are you, sir,” Dante corrected before Jack could put the idiot in his place. Apparently he’d decided not to wait for Jack’s signal before intervening in the situation. He slapped Burbank on the back hard enough to make him stumble. “Lou Burbank, meet Captain Jack Tracey.”
“Captain?” Burbank’s lips twisted like he’d tasted something sour. “Not NYPD.”
“You figured that out from my joke?” Jack said. “You must have been top of your class in little detective’s school.”
Burbank looked like he was about to come out swinging, but then his head twisted in Dante’s direction. His eyes widened. His beer goggles didn’t give him any trouble focusing on Dante’s grim expression. His sneer dropped. He took a step back, refusing to turn away until he’d put more space between them. When the back of his knees finally knocked into a chair, he frowned. “I heard you were into hose jockeys.”
“Asshole.” Dante’s gaze slid past Jack to settle on Diesel. A tiny furrow appeared between his eyes. “You going to introduce your friend?”
“New firefighter,” Jack corrected. “Diesel Evers.”
“He’s Luke’s replacement?”
“You know Luke’s always got a job in my company, as long as he wants.” Damn. Jack shifted uncomfortably. He’d come out to make Diesel comfortable, not to talk about employee relations. “How’s he doing anyway?” He’d visited Luke in the hospital and sent flowers to the address they had on file, someplace up at the northern end of Manhattan.
Dante shrugged. His expression didn’t give away anything. “The timing was decent at least. He managed to load up on classes for the semester, might even be able to finish up his degree while he’s out on rehab.”
“If he needs any help—”
“Yeah, I’ll tell him you offered.” Unlike Lou Burbank, Dante didn’t hang around where he wasn’t wanted. He gave Diesel a nod and a “Nice to meet you,” and went back to whatever the hell he’d been doing before.
Good. Jack took a long breath and pasted a smile on his face before he turned to look at Diesel.
His newest firefighter had red cheeks and bright shiny eyes. His dark hair was plastered against his head like he’d dragged his fingers through it one too many times. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Pretty sure I did.”
Diesel hadn’t responded to a single one of Burbank’s barbs, but now he pulled himself up to his full height. “You don’t need to stick your neck out for me.” His olive-green eyes refusing to meet Jack’s, he sighed. “I’m not worth it.”
And then he headed for the door.
Damn. Jack’s throat was dry. He didn’t know what to say. If his son said anything like that, he’d take him out for ice cream and then force him into therapy, but Diesel wasn’t his kid. Diesel was strong and tall. He walked into fire and came out the other side unscathed. When he flexed his arms...yeah, the feeling Jack got when he looked at Diesel definitely wasn’t paternal.
That didn’t mean he was going to let Diesel drop his bomb and walk away.
Their drinks were paid for, but he dropped a couple of dollars on the table for a tip then headed toward the door. Diesel was a couple of steps ahead of him. On the full New York City street it took him a moment to pick out Diesel’s dark hair and broad shoulders. Muscles rolled interestingly under his pale gray Henley, and dark jeans clung to his sculpted ass. Damn.
Jack swallowed down a sudden burst of emotion. He was just going to check on a coworker, he wasn’t about to perv on a subordinate who was half his age. He put on an extra burst of speed, determined to reach Diesel before he turned the corner.
“I’m not worth it.” Diesel’s words echoed in the back of his head like some primal drumbeat. What had happened to ruin the man’s self-esteem?
Except when he finally caught up with Diesel, he couldn’t ask. Despite the time they’d just spent arguing about baseball, they weren’t friends. They were acquaintances. New ones. It wasn’t his place to intrude. He cleared his throat. “You didn’t have to take off like that. Smoke & Bullets’s a family place—”
“I didn’t see any kids.”
“Family.” He repeated the word, stressing every individual syllable. “It’s a fire department bar, police department too.”
“I don’t like police.” They turned the corner and they picked up speed. Their legs stretched out in front of them, eating up the pavement.
“Nobody likes them much. They’re assholes.” Dante was okay, and Jack had played poker in the back room with some detectives more times than he liked to think about. They weren’t bad guys, but he was willing to throw them all under the metaphorical bus if it meant making Diesel comfortable. And why the hell did he care so much? Jack refused to dwell on that question. “We can go back if you want. I won’t let anything happen.”
“Like I said, crowds aren’t my thing.”
“Then we won’t go back to the bar.” That didn’t mean they were going to separate. They’d had a good shift. Diesel’d done good work, and Jack wasn’t about to let him wander off when he’d had two panic attacks in less than twenty minutes. “You ever been to a radical bookstore?”
“What’s so radical about it?”
“It’s collectively owned and politically liberal.” Jack warmed to the subject. “They’ve got books on feminism, climate change, capitalism, radical education. The poetry section’s the best in the city.” He shrugged. “They’ve got a coffee shop too. It’s pretty good, even if the muffins are gluten free and vegan.”
“That’s a pretty radical sounding bookstore.”
“Yeah.” The first time he’d gone to Woolf & Raven he’d figured it was a den of anarchists. He’d been right, but the atmosphere was welcoming, the staff was knowledgeable, and it had a decent selection of books he’d never been able to find anywhere else. “You haven’t heard the best part yet.”
“I don’t know how much more I can handle.” Diesel’s voice was calm and even. It took Jack a full thirty seconds to realize he’d made a joke.
He laughed. “You’re funny.”
“Not everybody thinks so.” Diesel stopped walking. “What’s the best part?”
“We’re already going the right direction.”
Diesel took in an audible breath and swallowed hard. “You actually read about that sort of stuff? Like capitalism and current events?”
“Sometimes.” Not as much as he used to, but he was no longer married to a renowned professor of international economics. Jack shrugged. “It’s not like I’m some sort of news junkie. I just like to keep up to date on things.”
“I don’t really read nonfiction.”
“They’ve got novels too.” Jack gave it the hard sell, and then he finished with a reason he knew Diesel wouldn’t be able to ignore. “We can also talk about the spot check you ran.”
Diesel straightened up a little, suddenly paying attention. “Is that sort of thing standard around here?”
Jack grinned. The new guy might not be perfect, but he wasn’t an idiot. Maybe things would work out after all. “It’s really not.”
“Okay,” Diesel said. “Let’s go.”
They turned a corner, stepping into the street to avoid a group of men and women in tuxedos and suits. Maybe prom had come early or some charity benefit was getting out. Maybe they’d escaped from the live-action role-play version of The Great Gatsby. Either way, golden light chased them out onto the sidewalk. Bright music played in the distance. Sour water splashed up onto the hem of his pants.
They turned another corner and the music disappeared. The golden light vanished and was replaced by blue neon. That was the thing he loved about Manhattan: every block was its own tiny world. It made going home to Staten Island seem drab by comparison, but then he’d step off the ferry and the salt air would hit his face.
Two more blocks and the only illumination came from streetlights, the old kind that buzzed and popped, not the LED lights they were installing over most of the city. Woolf & Raven was on the right-hand side of the street. He put a hand on Diesel’s back as he opened the door and led him into the well-organized bookstore with its full shelves, sparkling tables, and coffee counter.
Diesel sucked in a breath. He might not be much of a reader, but that didn’t make the sight any less impressive.
“Better than a bar?” Jack asked.
“Depends,” Diesel said quietly. “Are you still buying me that drink?”
Jack bought two lattes and found them a quiet table without anyone around to eavesdrop. When they were seated, Diesel stretched his legs out underneath the table. “So, tell me about the spot checks?”
“You start.” Jack sipped at his drink. It was good, just like he’d expected. “Did you find anything?”
“Not much.” Diesel quickly laid out three different issues. Two of them were small enough to be slipups, men getting sloppy putting away their gear. He’d been feeling pretty good about things, right up until he’d run into a loose equipment rack full of entry tools. An axe falling on someone’s head could cause serious damage...
Or worse.
Damn. Jack squeezed his eyes shut. “That sort of thing’s been happening a lot recently.”
“Screw-ups?” Diesel shrugged. “Accidents happen.”
“And if they’re not accidents?”
“Fucking with equipment’s a bad business. Sooner or later someone’s going to get seriously hurt.”
“Someone’s already been hurt.”
Luke, buried under a pile of rubble. If Jack hadn’t gone in to help him, he might not have made it out alive. A lot of things could kill a fireman in that situation—smoke inhalation, heat, fire. When Jack had just started, he’d listened to an older firefighter stuck under a pile of rubble. The starts and stammers that came over the radio as he was slowly crushed to death still haunted him sometimes on late nights when he’d had a little too much to drink.
“And you’re telling me this because...? I’m new. The only person I know in New York is Tito, and he’s not the bad guy.”
“You sure about that?” Jack could smell Diesel’s shampoo. It was delicious.
“Trust me. He’d break both his arms before fucking over another firefighter. What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to keep an eye out, like you did today at the scene. And, if you spot something, I want you to tell me. Quietly.”
Diesel nodded. “I can do that.” He glanced around the bookstore. “Were you serious about this place? It’s full of communists?”
“Sure. You want to buy a copy of The Little Red Songbook?”
“I was thinking I’d take a look around.”
They closed the place down, which was easy enough to do considering the bookstore only stayed open until ten thirty. When they left they both had a bag full of books—poetry for Jack and sci-fi novels with spaceships on the cover for Diesel—and a to-go cup full of the good stuff. They walked together for three blocks before Jack realized he was going in the wrong direction. He was going north but needed to head south to start the long trip home.
“This was fun.” He shoved his coffee cup up to his mouth and took a long gulp. As a general rule he didn’t socialize with the firefighters at his engine house. They might get a drink or two together at the bar after work, but they weren’t friends. He was their boss. It was a rule he’d learned the hard way, but that didn’t stop him from nudging Diesel in the arm. “We should do it again sometime.”
“Maybe.” Diesel grinned. The expression lit up his whole face. Damn, he had pretty lips. What would it feel like to put a hand on Diesel’s back and leave it there for more than the time it took to direct him into a bookstore? What would it be like to kiss him hard up against the wall? Those lips looked soft and plump, cushiony, but if they kissed he’d also be able to feel the roughness of Diesel’s five o’clock shadow like sandpaper on his chin.
Then Diesel’s head dipped slightly. Nerves practically rolled off of him in waves. “I don’t know how long it’ll take me to get through these books, but we could get coffee. Talk. Maybe I’ll tell you some of those things I noticed.”
Coffee, right. Jack nodded. Diesel might be gay, but that didn’t mean he was interested in a two-time loser twice his age. No way he was that lucky.