31. Dane

Burton was prepping lunch. Sami and I had finished running our daily checks. She'd doubled up, taking care of medical kits and expired drugs, while I knocked out equipment and O2 tanks. We'd just sat at the table next to the kitchen when Captain Zhang appeared, waved a newspaper in the air, then tossed it onto the table. Alex's badge photo stared up at us from the newsprint.

Zhang's face was stone. "Read the article. I'll be in my office if any of you want to talk."

Our captain had always been friendly, but never a man of many words. And yet, something in the way he spun and marched out made my heart seize. I reached for the paper, but Sami snatched it up before I could get ink on my fingers.

"What the ever-loving fuck?" she groused, loud enough for someone in the parking lot to hear. "They're already running stories about his arrest."

"You knew it wouldn't take long," Burton said, his voice far too rational and calm.

"Yeah, but they just nabbed him last night. There's no way some reporter … holy shit!" She bolted upright in her chair and held the paper out like it was an adder about to strike.

"What?" I asked.

"I just noticed who wrote this. You're not gonna fucking believe it."

"Who?" Burton and I asked in unison.

She tossed the paper at me, hurling it into my chest. What was that about?

I unfolded the paper and scanned the headline then glanced at the byline. My face fell.

"Who is it, Walkman?" Burton asked.

My mouth went dry; my tongue was thick up against the roof of my mouth. It felt like I'd shoved the whole newspaper in and was trying to chew it into bits.

"Patrick," I croaked out.

"Who? Patrick?" Burton 's kitchen ministrations stilled. "Your Patrick?"

"He's not my Patrick," I said, a little too defensively.

"Did you know he was doing this? That he was probably snooping around our station?" Sami was on her feet looking like she wanted to lunge at me. "What the fuck, Dane? Your boyfriend used you to get into our fucking station and throw one of our guys under the bus."

"Hey! Alex did that—"

"Don't you fucking say it." She speared a finger at me, banging into my shoulder with her hip as she brushed past me to fall onto the couch. "We don't know anything. For all we know, the PD got it wrong. I don't believe our Alex would do the shit they're saying he did."

I wanted to fight back, if for no other reason than she had picked a fight, but I couldn't. I was too disheartened by Alex's injury and subsequent arrest—and Patrick's … whatever the fuck Patrick had done. Was it a betrayal? It sure as hell felt that way.

"No, I didn't know," I finally said.

"You didn't know what? That your little boyfriend was a snitch? Or that he was using you to get his story? Or that he—"

"Sam." Burton 's warning tone turned both our heads. "Dane said he didn't know. Give him a break."

"Alex is in the hospital with two fucking cops standing outside his door so they can haul him to jail as soon as he's healthy. I'm not giving anybody a break."

Burton gave me a sympathetic glance.

I shrugged, unsure how to respond. "She's not wrong," I said, my voice barely a whisper.

"Thank you!" she said, as though she'd settled the argument in her favor.

"I mean, I didn't know. How could I? Patrick does fluff pieces, like how cats terrorize little old ladies in the suburbs. He's not a serious reporter."

"Apparently, he is," she said.

I grunted, the only amount of agreement my heart would allow.

Burton went back to working on lunch, while Sami glared at the television, despite it being turned off. I was pretty sure she wouldn't look my way even if I spoke to her.

This sucked. It felt like something inside me was cracking, and the creaking sound of it rang in my ears louder than the station's tone alarm. I couldn't believe Patrick would do something—

Actually, I could. He was a reporter. It was his job. A part of me was proud of him for getting his story on page one. We'd talked about that dream of his and how far away it was. He wondered if he'd ever get his shot.

And here he was on page one. He'd done it.

What I struggled to wrap my thick head around was how he'd kept it all secret. And why.

We hadn't said we were dating. We'd never used terms like "boyfriend" or come up with pet names. Hell, we'd only been on a handful of dates.

Still, for me, that was a big deal. I hadn't been on more than two dates with the same dude in years. If I was honest, the only reason I went out with those guys a second time was because I was horny and they were hot.

It's not that I wondered if a relationship would ever happen in the same way Patrick fretted over his career taking off. I never really thought about it. It wasn't something I wanted or aspired to, or whatever the fuck a shrink might say. I was happy being alone, working my job, and getting my rocks off when the mood struck. I didn't need a man to make me feel whole or happy or whatever. I had good friends. No, I had great friends, guys who would be there, no matter what. Guys who had my back in any situation.

And by guys, I meant Sami too. Shit, she'd be pissed if I didn't call her one of my guys. She had lower hangers than most of the men on my softball team, and she wasn't afraid to say it.

So why was all this tearing me up inside? I should be pissed. I was pissed. Fucking Patrick used me. He used my station, my friends. Hell, he used my cock.

Okay, I liked that part. I wasn't pissed about that.

But he'd used everything else without so much as a, "Hey, Dane, they asked me to write this article, and it's more than just a puff piece about firemen jerking off in the station bathroom."

Why hadn't he told me? We'd talked about a hell of a lot in the time we'd spent together. Shit, I told him about my dad. I never told anybody about that time. I never wanted to think about it.

Thinking about that finally got me good and riled. Patrick had wormed his skinny ass into my life and then stabbed me with his pen … or whatever a reporter stabbed someone with. I'd never been good with analogies or synonyms or … fuck it … words.

Fuck you, Patrick.

Without thinking, I grabbed my phone and pounded at the non-keyboard keys.

Me:Congratulations, asshole. You got on page one.

Me:Thanks for using me like an old cum rag.

Me:That's all I was, right? Just a ratty old piece of shit to help you get your story … and get your rocks off?

I stared at the screen. The dots didn't appear. My level of pissed-ness grew. He could at least reply. I knew he was probably working and not staring at his phone, but logic didn't matter. He screwed me and my friends, and I was pissed.

Me:All I want to know is why you couldn't tell me. Why would you stab me in the back like that without even a tiny hint? Didn't trust me? Think I would try to stop you or spill the beans? Was your precious story more important than us?

Shit, I hit send before reading that last one.

I hadn't meant to sound like a jilted lover. I wasn't fucking jilted. I was doing the jilting, dammit.

I was the jilter, not the jiltee. That was Patrick. Patrick, the jiltee.

Yeah, I was the good guy here. He was the asshole in the black hat.

Me:Nice fucking job, Patrick. How'd you manage it? How'd you get the cops to arrest one of our own while he's still in the hospital? That took some monster balls.

Me:Seriously. Alex is in the hospital with cops outside his door. Who does that? Is that the kind of "ethical reporter" you want to be? Sounds pretty shitty to me.

Me:Did you know he has a wife and kids? That they're already hurting, and now … I don't know how they're gonna make it. You didn't just ruin one life. You took out four with one shot.

My blood was pumping hot and fast. The screen was so sharp in my vision, like I was looking at it through binoculars or a microscope. I was so damn pissed. My rational brain understood what happened. I'd been raised to know right from wrong. I was a good guy that way, even when I didn't want to be.

But it was the way they did it that I couldn't square. The fucking cops came into the hospital room while Alex was lying there hooked up to a million machines. Doctors and nurses streamed in and out every few minutes, taking vitals and whatever other shit they did to keep him alive and getting better. Our whole team sat there with him most hours of every day, and we were badge-carrying first responders. Our eyes were all over the guy.

Why would they do that? It wasn't like he was going anywhere. What was he gonna do, hop up and run away with a fucking IV sticking out of his arm? He'd blend into Atlanta real well running down Peachtree Street in a sexy paper-thin gown that tied up in the back. Nobody would ever think that was weird or out of place.

I blew out a breath.

A part of me understood the arrest, at least in principle. If Alex was skimming and selling drugs, especially if he was lying about them being expired, he deserved to be punished. Whether that involved suspension or losing his badge, fine, but to be arrested in his hospital room?

Whatever people thought of Alex after all this came out, the guy had run into a collapsing building to save another firefighter. He ignored everything we'd ever been taught, blew through direct orders to stand down, and hurled himself into the flames to rescue one of our own.

Alex was a fucking hero. And he was my friend.

Me:I don't want to hear from you again. You got it? Not another word.

Me:Fucking leave me alone, alright?

Me:Except for telling me why. You can talk to me then, but only for that. I don't want to hear anything else. I'm done with you.

Me:Oh, one more thing. Don't even think about coming back to the station for the rest of your Day in the Life story, if that was ever even a thing. You're not welcome here, and I'll make sure every station in the city says the same thing. Firefighters are loyal, unlike fucking reporters.

I flicked off my phone so I couldn't see if he replied, then slumped back in my chair and stared out the window. Sami was still ignoring me, while Burton chopped carrots.

Then a tone sounded, and I had to fight the urge to hurl my cell phone through the damn window.