36. Dane

I'd barely tossed my phone on the couch when Captain Zhang appeared in the opening that led to his office from the den. There was a tall guy standing behind him in the hallway. I couldn't make out much more than his wavy blond hair.

"Listen up," he said, turning every head, even Burton 's as he juggled sizzling pans. "Engine Four has been working with subs for weeks. Unless a miracle happens, Alex Bennet won't be back, at least not anytime soon. You need a permanent replacement. This is Andrew Mills. He's a first-rate fighter and is certified to drive anything on wheels. We're lucky to have him. Don't be your normal asshole selves. Make him feel welcome."

A round of halfhearted laughs and jeers rippled through the depressed gathering. We knew the captain was trying to distract us, maybe even cheer us up a little, but we weren't in the mood. We were even less in the mood to welcome a new team member. We wanted Alex back.

Zhang stepped out of the way so Mills could pass.

"Damn," I muttered.

Sami kicked my foot.

"Sorry, that was supposed to be inside my head."

The closer the guy got, the more perfect he looked. He had to be six two or three, which made him an annoying inch or two taller than me, and from the bulging arms trying to escape the strained sleeves of his uniform shirt, every inch of him was covered in hard, perfectly rounded muscle. And his jaw … damn. I wasn't sure I'd ever seen a jaw quite so sharp or angular or whatever you'd call it. His face looked like one of those Roman statues where the chiseler or artist used the wrong tool and squared off the stone at some inhumanely perfect angle that redefined mortal beauty.

He reminded me briefly of Daniel, and something in my chest squeezed tight. I hadn't thought about my ex for a year or so. Patrick pulling his shit had made me think about him a little, but seeing a blond deity stride into the station brought memories of my buff, ridiculously hot former lover to mind. Great.

He was breathtaking. And I liked breathing. A lot.

"I'm Drew." The god of beauty extended his hand when he reached the couch. I sat there like a blind mute who couldn't sense the rippling forearm dusted with golden blond hair stretched before him. The way he held his arm out made his right pec flex and bulge through his shirt. I could almost make out the outline of a nipple poking through the fabric. His voice was rasp and grit and the smoothest yogurt, which sounded weird when I thought it, but fuck, I couldn't think. All I could do was stare.

Firefighters weren't supposed to work runways, were they? Or fly? Or save kittens in trees?

This guy probably could. He just needed the cape.

Sami hopped up from the couch and grabbed his palm. "I'm Samantha, the team's EMT. Call me Sam. That's Dane. He's an idiot, but we love him. He's kind of like the stupid golden retriever I grew up with that ran into walls but made us laugh. Over there's Burton . He's the best chef in the city."

My brain kicked in just in time for a tone to sound. I didn't get the chance to show Prince Charming that I knew how to speak.

"Engine Four, Medic One. Vehicle accident with car fire. Georgia four hundred just before exit seven B. Channel two."

"Time to show us what you got," Sami said, winking at Drew.

He flexed a bicep like a bodybuilder on display. "Oh, I've got it all, miss, and I don't mind showing you anything you like."

I couldn't decide if I was more shocked by the sudden pose or the innuendo dripping from his lips. I had to blink a few times.

Then he turned to me with a sly grin, and his tone turned to molten lava. "Show you too, if you want."

Sami and I gaped.

Burton 's voice shattered Drew's spell. "Let's go, people."

It only took the rest of that day, roughly half of one shift, for the three of us to realize two things.

First, Drew was an excellent driver with an impeccable sense of direction. He barely used the GPS or dispatch assist on any of the calls we ran that afternoon and night—and I'd never seen anyone, not even Alex, back that sucker up so fast and with such accuracy. He wasn't an EMT, but when he assisted Sam, he seemed to read her mind, knowing exactly what she would need before she asked for it. Several times, she would say the name of some med or gadget and the guy already had it waiting for her, like some supernatural nurse in celestial surgery.

The second thing that became blindingly apparent was that Drew was a giant, flatulating douchebag of the most epic proportions. Yeah, he was striking in a way that could turn the straightest man alive gay, if only for a moment alone with him. And he was a fantastic fireman, blah, blah, blah. The problem was that he knew it. He knew it all. And he wasn't afraid to tell anyone nearby just how amazing he was.

Alex would drone on about his own greatness, but it was all in jest. Most of the time, he praised his mustache or some nonsense he did with his kids to get them to laugh, eat, or sleep. He never stopped talking about his kids. Alex's stories were harmless. His barbs were never meant to prick. His jokes, usually lame, never landed a punch.

Drew seemed to delight in tearing everyone else down as he lifted himself up. Although, listening to him, it might've been impossible to lift him up. He was already the pinnacle of life and the universe in every respect.

He talked about his body and working out, which led to stories of him being an All-American in two sports in college while maintaining a 4.2 GPA, which I didn't even know was possible. When had 4.0 stopped being the ceiling in college? The fucker talked about playing multiple instruments and speaking four languages, which, of course, he had to demonstrate by pointing to every piece of equipment he could see from the driver's seat and declaring, "That's a blah-blah in French."

By our fourth run, the tone for which sounded right as Burton was setting dinner on the table, Sami lost it, slamming the side door of the engine shut while shouting, "Shut the fuck up and drive."

I gave her a nod and grin. "Thatta girl."

She flicked me a bird.

That night, after the kitchen was squared away and our evening chores were done, we settled onto the couches to watch Survivor, our team's favorite guilty pleasure. Burton , as usual, was the last to join us, setting a pitcher of some fruit concoction he'd "just whipped up" on the table. The couches were arranged in an L shape. I sat on the one facing the TV, and Sami sat on the other one, the long side of the L.

Drew sauntered into the room from the restroom or shower or wherever the fuck assholes went when no one was praising them. He flopped onto the cushion next to me, so close our legs smushed together despite there being plenty of room next to the other arm of the couch.

One of Sam's brows shot up.

Then the fucker placed a palm on my leg and dragged it slowly up. He was staring at the TV, not even looking at me, like we were boyfriends who loved to watch the boob tube together.

"What the fuck, dude?" I slapped his hand away.

His head turned. His eyes couldn't have held anymore shock if he'd stuck his dick in a socket.

"Thought you liked guys—blond guys with muscles." His voice was a low rasp, all sexy and swarthy. God, I hated this guy without even knowing him.

"How? Who told you—"

He held up a palm and grinned in his most self-satisfied "gotcha" way. "You let Daniel get away. That wasn't smart, dude. He's fucking hot."

I stared, unable to move, unsure whether I should suck in air or blow it out. Breathing felt like a foreign language I couldn't speak. I know my eyes blinked, I could feel them. But nothing else would respond. I think my fingers curled into fists because Sami launched herself between us, almost sitting in my lap as she shoved the prick away.

"You're out of line, asshole," she said.

"Get off that couch," Burton 's voice boomed. I'd never heard him angry. He was so … zen. "Next time I see Zhang, your ass is getting reassigned. You're done with this team."

Drew rose from the couch. I'd never seen anyone stand so slowly. It looked as though someone had pressed the slow-motion button on the remote control and he couldn't go any faster. When he turned to face Burton , his smile was wider than ever, freakin' perfectly straight, pearly white teeth sparkling like he was the star of some ridiculous toothpaste commercial. He flicked back his hair, and I swear it fluttered in the A/C breeze.

"Good luck with that, Burton . Your team isn't exactly on Santa's good list this year." He stepped over the coffee table and plopped down where Sami had been a moment earlier. Then he reached down, poured himself a glass of Burton 's juice, sat back, and crossed his booted feet on the tabletop. He took a sip, raised the glass, and said, "Survivor's starting."

No one spoke until Tribal Council ended. I tried not to even glance over at Drew. I was somewhere between seething and utterly numb. It was a weird place emotionally, and it felt even stranger, like having an icy flame inside my chest. I knew that didn't make sense, but it's how it felt.

"I need to do some continuing ed," I said, referring to the endless stream of videos we were required to watch. Some were interesting, new medical or firefighting techniques, but most were HR-related films on treating each other with respect or playing nice in the corporate sandbox. That never made sense to me. We weren't a company. Why did we have to watch videos about corporate life? Of course we should treat each other with respect. I'd beat the shit out of anyone who talked crap about Burton or Sam, and I knew they'd stand up for me if I needed it. We didn't need some bullshit video to tell us to do the right thing; but I guessed some people did. Some people just weren't good people.

I caught Drew refilling his glass and realized why the videos were important. There were far too many Drews out there, insulting and swaggering and sweating and looking hot and sexy and … shit. I needed an ice bath.

I stalked out like a lion scenting prey, though the only thing I was truly hunting was silence and peace.

Halfway through my second video, the office door creaked, waking me from my near-sleeping daze as I stared blankly into the screen. I turned, surprised to find Burton pulling up a chair beside me.

"Yoda, what's up?"

He grinned at his nickname, something he hated for about thirty seconds before adopting it as his all-time favorite moniker. He even had a jeweler make him a tiny pendant of the big-eared green dude to hang around his neck. They didn't make them like Burton anymore.

"You doing okay?" he asked, leaning forward and squinting at the screen. "Equity versus Equality? Really? At ten o'clock at night?"

I shrugged. "It's more enlightening than listening to His High Holiness go on about how wonderful he is."

I didn't have to use Drew's name. In only a few hours, he'd become a painfully well-known commodity.

"He's not that bad," Burton said.

"Don't be fair to him, Burton ," I protested. "He doesn't deserve you being all nice and fatherly. He's a prick."

Burton harrumphed and sat back. "Maybe you're right."

I froze. Burton never admitted defeat when it came to being good or kind or some other Buddha-like shit. I paused the video and turned my spinny chair to face him.

His arms were crossed, and his gaze was fixed. I was about to get a Burton talking-to. "You didn't answer the question," he said, surprising me for the second time in as many minutes.

"What question?"

"How are you doing, Dane? Really? Don't give me some line about being fine and strong. Talk to me."

I blinked. Where had this come from? I was fine. I was strong. Whatever!

He raised a palm. "Don't deny it. I know you. You've not been yourself for weeks, not since Alex … since his arrest."

I sucked in air and stared past him. "What do you want me to say, Burton ? Alex was one of my best friends. Hell, he still is." I reached up and scratched my head with both hands. "He's got a wife and little kids. What are they supposed to do? They were barely making it before all this. Now, they won't have insurance or a salary or—"

"He's on admin leave. They still have insurance," Burton said, his voice placid and calm.

"You know what I mean." I rolled my eyes. "He'll never wear a badge again, not here, and probably not anywhere else. If everything they're saying is true, he might have to spend a couple of years in jail. Shit. Jail, Burton ."

Burton nodded. "Yeah, I know, and with that mustache."

The absurdity of him bringing up the 'stache made me laugh.

Then Burton leaned forward and put a hand on my shoulder. His eyes brimmed with kindness and empathy, yet they bore into me with unflinching awareness. "What about you, Dane. How are you?"

I cocked my head. "I'm fine, Burton . What's this all about?"

He sat back. His chair wailed, an ear-splitting cry shattering the silence of the office. Neither of us flinched. "You haven't been yourself, Walkman. We all see it. Even Sam, and she's not the most emotionally aware person in the world." His eyes shrugged, and a tight smile curled one corner of his mouth. "We're worried about you, bud."

I was stunned. I hadn't missed a day of work or been grouchy or angry or anything. What was there to be worried about?

Burton cut off my questions. "Have you talked to him?"

My head cocked in the opposite direction. I was gonna need a chiropractor after this conversation. "Who?"

"Your reporter."

Heat blazed behind my eyes. "He's not my reporter. He's not my anything."

Burton sat there, staring silently, giving nothing away. He just fucking sat there.

"He's not, Burton . Seriously. Patrick stabbed all of us in the back. He lied and cheated his way into this station, and Alex's family is suffering for it. If anything, I blame myself for letting him in. That was my mistake." My voice fell, my head lowered. "I did that to Alex."

Burton shot forward, his hand back on my shoulder faster than I thought the guy could move. "You didn't do that, Dane. Alex did that to himself. We've spent so much time being pissed off at everyone else that we haven't listened to the facts. Alex was stealing from this station. He was stealing from you and me. Alex put you and Sami and me in a terrible position. He put his family, those kids, in an impossible place. Alex did that, not Patrick. If anything, we should be pissed at him, not everyone else."

Burton's words were a slap across my face that stung far worse than if he'd actually hit me. I reeled back. "Burton—"

"If you want to stay mad at Patrick for keeping secrets, fine. If you think he lied to you, fine. If you don't ever want to be with him because you can't trust him, that's fine too. But don't you dare put Alex's shit on anyone else's shoulders, especially not yours. He had his reasons for doing what he did, but none of them had anything to do with you or your fucked-up love life. You hear me?"

My eyes were wide. I could feel them burning, like someone had tossed cayenne or lemon juice in them. The office felt hot. Had someone turned off the A/C?

Burton stood, patted my shoulder, then vanished.

I'd wanted to argue or shout, to scream that he was blaming the wrong guy, but I couldn't. I couldn't move. I just sat there like an idiot, staring into the wall, seeing a reflection of a guy in black-rimmed glasses and sandy hair falling across one bright gray eye.