4. Dane

At seven o'clock, our relief arrived and began their shift handoff procedures. We'd had a relatively quiet twenty-four hours, so our briefing was, well, brief.

Sami shoved her heavy gear into her locker beside me, while the others finished cleaning the kitchen.

"Any good plans for your day off?" she asked.

"A good workout, catching up on sleep, the usual."

Her ponytail swished as she shook her head. "You need to get laid."

"Excuse me?

Such locker room talk was common in the station, but I hadn't seen it coming from Sam. She usually kept her head low when dicks started swinging, though most knew hers was bigger than any man's in our house and avoided lobbing jokes her way for fear of getting slapped so hard they might never get back up.

She grinned, that wolfish smile that told me I was about to get Sam-slapped. "You're a grumpy bastard. You know that, right?"

"I'd call it reserved."

She snorted. "Reserved is what a priest is during communion. You're a block of ice—if ice had feelings."

"Ouch."

"Ever since you and what's-his-name broke up, you've been a whiney little bitch."

Great. She's invoked Daniel. I'd been in a good mood before all this "cheering me up" stuff started.Now I'm back to feeling miserable.

"Yes, Daniel. I can hear you thinking." Her head lowered and she stared out of the tops of her eyes like a disappointed schoolteacher. "We all liked him. He was a good guy with a great job and a cute dog. You loved him dearly. You had two great years together, but he left. Blah, blah, blah."

I opened my mouth to argue, but the words stuck in my throat. It had been eight months since Daniel had called things off, and I still struggled to say his name out loud, much less move on.

She stepped forward, put a hand on my arm, and lowered her voice. "Dane Walker, you are a pain in my ass, but I love you like the little brother I never had. I know you think Daniel was out of your league, that he had this fancy job and big house and whatever. And yeah, he was hot enough for me to notice, and you know I like dick about as much as I like herpes."

I couldn't hold back a chuckle at that.

"Look at me." She held my gaze. "Daniel wasn't all that. You are a good man. You care. You work your ass off and you would do anything for your friends. You'd die for any one of us, and we know it. You deserve someone who won't leave. Daniel wasn't good enough."

My eyes closed, all on their own, and I felt a well bubbling deep inside. Everything in me screamed to run out of the station before something erupted, before I couldn't contain whatever threatened to spill out, but I couldn't move.

"See. I can tell that got under your skin, but your face barely moved. If I didn't know better, I'd think someone shot enough Botox into your face to turn it into plastic or some unmovable shit."

There was nothing like a good ribbing to snap me out of my funk. I opened my eyes and cocked one brow, just to prove I could.

"Holy shit, he can move," she teased, poking my chest with a finger like testing the firmness of a cake. "Please, for the love of your team, get some dick tomorrow. Or ass. Let someone rim you or tie you up or beat you with spaghetti. Suck some face, swap spit, whatever, gets your rocks off. I miss the lovable brute I knew in the academy."

I crossed my arms and glared. "I've never been a brute."

"You've never been lovable either, but I don't have much to work with here and the phrase seemed appropriate." She stepped to the door of the locker room then turned back. "What about that reporter?"

I scrunched my brow, now self-conscious of every movement of my face. "What reporter?"

"The one at the scene earlier. Long blond hair, thick glasses, dimples. You know, the one making googly eyes at you. You were staring pretty hard at him too."

I chuckled. "I wasn't—"

"Yes, you were. I could see it from the truck. If he'd dropped his pants, you probably would've sucked him off right there."

"Has anyone ever told you you're vulgar? You're worse than the guys. Maybe you should wash your mouth out with soap. I could get you some."

She flicked me a bird. "You need to get vulgar with that reporter. I'd bet good money he'd be down for it. Hell, the guys would probably take up a collection just to pay him for his time."

With that lovely thought, she blew me a kiss and walked out.

I am not grumpy, I thought … grumpily … as I gathered my things, skulked out of the station, and climbed into my car, slamming the door behind me like it had offended me somehow. I don't need a reporter, or to get laid, or to have somebody whip me with spaghetti.

Ooh. Spaghetti does sound good. I think I'll make some for dinner. Thanks, Sam.

The reporter's face popped into my mind, sans noodles.

My gaydar had squealed the moment he'd stepped out of his car, and the way he looked me up and down confirmed that alarm. Straight men might glance to check out the competition, but they did not do the up and down eye lick. That was a gay man thing if there ever was one.

He was definitely on Team Manhunt.

When we met, he'd practically tripped over his words. It was cute.

Had he told me his name? I was pretty sure he had. I was never very good with names, especially of people I doubted I'd see again. I shrugged off the frustration of forgetting another one and threw my car into gear.

Ten minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of my gym. I didn't feel like working out, but knew if I drove home and sat down, it wouldn't happen, not after a twenty-four-hour shift. I'd made it through twenty minutes of warm-up cardio, four sets of flat bench, and two sets of incline flies when my phone rang with the tone I only used for the station. Calls from work meant one of two things: several people had called out sick and they were desperate, or there was an emergency so disastrously large that anyone within cell range was needed. Either way, this wasn't good.

"Walker," I answered.

"Dane Walker?" the voice asked, sounding as happy about the call as I was.

"Yeah, who's this?"

"Captain Fredericks."

"Sir, sorry. I didn't—"

"It's fine," the captain said. "You received a call about twenty minutes ago. I have a message for you."

A call at the station? That was weird.

"Okay, thanks, I think."

The captain chuckled. "Don't thank me. Some reporter wants to talk. Said his name is … shit, I can't read this. Patrick something. Pierce, I think. He said he's with the AJC."

Some reporter … was that the reporter?

"Uh, okay. Did he say what he wants?"

"No—" A one-beep code sounded in the background, cutting off whatever the captain was about to say. "Duty calls. Walker, do we need to go over policy related to media relations?"

"No, sir. We don't comment. I'm good."

"Great. Good luck with that."

As the mechanical voice began announcing whatever the code was about, the line went dead.

Shit. A reporter from the AJC. It had to be him. I doubted this Patrick was calling because he liked my hair. There must be something going on, something he wanted, and that made my stomach turn. How was I supposed to call him back and not comment on whatever he asked? And why me? I wasn't a spokesman for the Department or even a prominent fireman. The whole thing sounded like a giant waste of time.

I grabbed the dumbbells and tried pushing through another set, but any hope of a solid pump had died with that conversation.

I headed to the locker room, grabbed my change of clothes and stuffed them in my bag, and dropped onto the bench.

Great. A long shift, a call from a reporter, and now a blown workout. This day just keeps getting better.

My phone screen lit up with some CNN alert.

Guess I'd better get this over with.

"Hey, Siri. Call the Atlanta Journal-Constitution."

A moment later, dramatic orchestral music I was pretty sure was from Braveheart kept me company while the system routed my call.

"Patrick Pierce."

"Uh, hi. This is—"

"Dane. Thanks for calling."

Shit, that was fast.

Patrick didn't wait. "Thanks for calling me back. Sorry I missed you at the station."

"You went to my station?" I couldn't decide whether that annoyed or intrigued me more.

"No, I called. I didn't realize your shift had ended. You really work twenty-four hours at a time?"

"Yeah."

"Huh. That's a long day."

He paused like he was taking notes. He'd been so flustered when I'd seen him at the accident scene, but now, on the phone, he had all the confidence in the world. There was nothing like a little control to put wind in one's sails.

Tiny caterpillars in sharp stilettos danced across my arms.

"So, I'm sure you're wondering why I called." Again, he didn't wait for an answer. "The AJC is running a piece on what it's like to be a fireman. Think of it as a ‘day in the life' sort of thing. I was thinking, this could be a great opportunity to highlight all the good work you men do."

"And women."

"What?"

"We have female firefighters too. They're some of our best. I'm pretty sure they'd be pissed if you left them out."

There was a heartbeat of silence, then a sheepish voice said, "Right. Sorry. I didn't mean—"

"It's okay. Everybody assumes the same thing. I just expected a reporter … forget it. I don't know what I expected."

I hadn't meant to grill the poor guy or come across as angry, but my default tone was already pretty flat. I had to work to turn it into a smile.

"Shit," he huffed out, then fell silent again. I was pretty sure he started to talk again, then caught himself. The image of a nerdy dude struggling for words almost had me grinning.

Almost.

"So, um, right. Women. I'd like to meet them."

"The women?"

"Well, yeah. And you."

I did grin at that. "You already met me."

"Right. I mean, again. I'd like to meet you again."

"That wouldn't exactly be a meeting then, would it?He probably didn't deserve to have his chops busted, but this was fun.

"I just meant it might be nice to see your hair again."

"My hair?"

"Dammit. You. Not your hair. See you again. I mean, your hair is nice too, but—"

I lost my battle with an ingrown chuckle and laughed into the receiver. I knew I was treading on thin ice. The captain hadn't been subtle, and Department rules were clear about speaking with media.

I'd always stuck to the letter of the law. I had a badge, for goodness' sake. Staying outside the bounds of, well, any bounds, was not something I did. Ever. Other firefighters knew they could count on me because I was a rock: always steady, ever dependable. I couldn't let a little blond hair and dimples throw me from my path, could I?

Patrick's smile popped into my head, and a flutter tickled my ribs.

Fuck the rules.Maybe Sami was right.

"I thought you were handsome too."

The sound of his phone flying out of his hand, banging onto his desk, then bounding to the floor nearly jarred my senses. "You okay over there?"

"Hey, sorry. I, uh, dropped the phone." He was well and truly flustered, and I couldn't stop smiling. "So, you'll do the thing? With me? The article, do the article, not the thing … not that thing. Oh god."

I could barely stand it. This was the best conversation I'd had in forever.

"That thing?" I couldn't resist myself.

"Jesus, Dane, please. I didn't mean anything more than the article. Really. I don't want you to think I was coming on to you or trying to get into your pants."

"So, you don't want to get in my pants? Am I not your type?"

"No! I mean, yes. I mean … fuck. You are my type, yes, but no, I wasn't trying to get into your pants."

"But you'd like to?"

"I hate you."

"You don't know me … yet." My cheeks hurt from grinning so hard.

He ignored the dangling participle, or whatever the word "yet" was in that sentence.

"All I was asking … I was just confirming that you were willing to participate in the piece I'm doing to highlight the life of a firefighter. That's all. No getting into pants or any other article of clothing."

"I knew what you meant. Unfortunately, I can only commit to a date. Talking to reporters about anything work related requires approval from higher-ups."

There was another long pause.

"A date? Really? You're serious, aren't you?"

He'd completely relinquished the purpose for his call and honed in on the extracurricular portion of my answer. Interesting.

"Yeah. I'm making spaghetti tonight, and I suck at portion control. There will probably be enough to feed a small nation." I remembered the captain's admonition and added, "I can't talk about the station or be on the record or anything. This is just two guys having dinner. Okay?"

He was quiet long enough for me to wonder if my gaydar had misread the situation. God, that would be embarrassing.

"Can I bring anything? Do you like wine?"

My smile redoubled. "Red, please. Only pussies drink white."

He snorted into the phone. "Color me pink, then."

"Eww … on both counts. Are all reporters disgusting?"

He giggled. The boy actually giggled into the phone, and I swear I heard him push his ridiculously thick glasses up his nose.

"Only me."

"See you around six. Wear something slinky."

"Slinky? Like silk?"

"I was joking."

"Oh, okay. Have you seen your face? It doesn't move very much and you're kind of intimidating. It's hard to tell when you're joking."

Alright. The cub has claws and wants to play. This is good.

"We're on the phone. You can't see my face."

"Yeah, well, whatever. You're still scary."

"Well, that was a joke. Wear whatever you want. Or not. Come naked, if that's your thing. But if you do, you'll need to be careful not to spill sauce on your naughty bits. It'll be hot and that might hurt."

"Duly noted." He giggled again. "It's a date."