41. Dane

What the fuck is happening to me? Am I losing it? Is this what going insane feels like?

I couldn't sleep. After a day filled with the best workout in years, the amazing softball championship won by the smack of my bat, and a celebration with the team that involved Jell-O shots I suspect were laced with pot, I should've been passed out. There shouldn't be any dreams or visions or whatever I kept seeing.

It was like someone had taken control of my mind and was determined to reprogram me by playing the same scene over and over. It reminded me of how a song would get stuck in my head, usually that kid singing about donating a car on TV, and I would end up humming the darn thing throughout the rest of the day. That's what was happening in my head—except with a home movie reel.

The ceiling fan laughed down at me, spinning and spinning and spinning with glee.

Burton's light snoring droned.

I sat up and crossed my legs, keeping them covered from the chill in the station bunkhouse. Rubbing my temples didn't help, but it felt like I was doing something.

I made the mistake of looking over to where the team asshole slept. His sheet was folded perfectly at his waist, exposing his perfectly sculpted chest. It rose and fell with his breathing in an almost erotic motion. I knew he wore nothing under that sheet. He pranced around naked more than he did clothed. If he'd been any other man, anyone with an ounce of personality or respect, I would've been turned on by the wake of his passing. Everything about the guy was perfect—except who he was inside.

I shook off the shadow of guilt for thinking shit about him while he slept. He couldn't defend himself while unconscious—not that he could while awake, but I was trying to be fair.

The sudden silence that fell over the long room was jarring. Glancing around, I found Burton propped up on one elbow, watching me.

I gave him a nod. He hooked a thumb toward the door that led to the kitchen. I nodded again, tossed back the covers, and reached for a department T-shirt.

"Coffee?" Burton asked as I settled onto a stool at the massive island where he prepared most of our meals.

"Guess so. I can't sleep anyway, may as well just wake up."

He eyed me a moment, then turned and began prepping the coffee maker.

I rubbed my bleary eyes again.

"What's keeping you awake? You haven't slept all night."

I grunted, the closest thing to a chuckle I could manage in my sleepy-but-not state.

He opened a cabinet and retrieved two mugs, sliding one across the smooth counter toward me. We both took our coffee black, so there was no need to reach for sweetener or cream. All we had to do now was wait for the machine to work her magic. He leaned against the cabinets and stared at me.

"What?"

He crossed his arms. I swear, the look on his face was the one he gave his teenage kids when they disappointed him. I suddenly felt smaller than the fireplug salt and pepper shakers on the bar between us.

"You didn't answer my question."

Great. Full Yoda mode. Just what I wanted when I was miserable.

I shrugged. "I don't know. Just can't sleep, I guess."

"Nothing on your mind?"

I shook my head.

"No one staring back at you from the darkness?"

My eyes widened, and I tried to shake my head, to deny his freakishly accurate insinuation, but I couldn't lie, not to Burton . He was the station's father or whatever; and besides, the fucker would know. He always knew.

"Thinking of Patrick?"

Holy Mother of Dionne the Diviner Warwick.

I grabbed the coffee mug, just to have something to hold, and sat back. The stool didn't have a back, and I had to catch myself from tumbling backward. Burton 's mouth held a tiny twinge of amusement when I looked up again.

"Fine. Yes. I was thinking about Patrick."

He waited. I stared into the empty mug, wishing it was deep enough to jump into.

"And?"

"What?" I said a little too defensively. "I just … I can't stop seeing him. It's driving me crazy."

"When's the last time you saw him?"

"Saw him? Or went out?"

"Interesting distinction." He pursed his lips. "Went out."

"Almost five months ago. Right before Monroe Place."

Monroe Place was no longer a place, it was a poignant moment in the lives of Station Fifty-Four, one of those seminal snapshots in time that changed the course of our lives. It was a little like knowing where you were when Kennedy was shot—not that I was alive back then or even knew much about the Kennedys. Maybe that was a bad comparison. Still—

"You haven't spoken to him since? Seen him?"

I looked up. His eyes were soft and kind, but in the way the marble countertop was soft. My gaze fell back to the mug's interior. My fingers traced the line of the curved handle over and over. "I saw him yesterday."

Burton's weight shifted. I felt it as much as heard it. It was as though the whole room had moved, and only I sat still.

"He showed up to my softball game. It was so out of the blue, Burton . I was getting ready to bat, and something tingled in the back of my mind. You know that feeling of being watched? That's what it felt like. I looked over my shoulder and there he was, sitting on the top row where he always sat."

"Did he acknowledge you?"

I nodded. "He waved."

"Did you wave back?"

I grunted again. "I was about to bat. It was the last inning and the game was about to be won or lost on my bat. Everyone was watching. I couldn't exactly yell, ‘Hey, Patrick,' and wave like Forrest Gump across the field."

His lips quirked. I think he wanted to laugh. Stupid Yoda.

"Okay, fine. I gave him a head bob."

He did smile at that.

The coffee maker whirred in the death throes of its brewing process, so Burton turned, filled his mug, and reached the pot across to fill mine. Reluctantly, I held my ceramic security blanket out to him.

"What about after the game?"

He really wasn't going to let this go.

"He disappeared." I took a sip, letting the blaze of liquid heat sear my throat. The station's coffee maker could've been a nuclear reactor for how hot it boiled water. "The team tackled me after we won. It took a few minutes to peel them off. By the time I could stand up again, he was gone."

"Huh. Interesting."

"What's interesting about that? The dude ran away."

"Would you have spoken to him?"

"Of course. I … I think … shit. I don't know."

"Think he felt that same unsureness?"

"Is unsureness a word?" I cocked a brow.

He sipped and shrugged with his eyes.

"I don't know, Burton . Maybe."

"Did you reach out afterward? Thank him for coming to the game?"

I didn't want to tell him about the texts, certainly not the funny one about Patrick's butt print. That would require far more detailed explanation on far thinner ice.

"I texted, told him thanks for coming. Short and sweet."

His fucking brow cocked again. Did he read through everything I said? Was he inside my head for real?

"Fine. Short, not sweet. I didn't send him hearts and kisses or anything."

Even if I did text about saving his butt print. Was that the same thing? I was counting on that not being sweet, but more sentimental or something.

He didn't ask anymore, just stood there, leaned against the counter, sipping his coffee. After a few minutes, his gaze shifted from me to somewhere beyond the dining area out the window.

I couldn't stop thinking about seeing Patrick in the bleachers, examining every tiny tick of his face. Had he smiled when he waved? Were his shoulders really bigger? Was he flexing or were his arms more muscular? Why did I want to feel his lips and grip his new muscles, to pull his hands above his head and—

"You really should resolve this," Burton said. His tone was one I'd heard the President use in a news conference when he was done answering a particular question. His words bore weight, and reporters could shove it if they didn't like his decision.

"How am I supposed to do that?" Heat flushed through me. "He fucking turned on us, Burton . He stabbed everyone in this station in the back. He lied to us and used us. Am I supposed to just forgive that and make a life with the guy?"

Burton turned away, refilled his mug, then held the pot out, offering to do the same for me. I waved him off.

"Last time I checked, he didn't stab all of us in the back or lie to all of us. He never represented anything to the rest of us about his presence here. We knew he was working on an article, but that didn't mean anything. The press is the press. They will print whatever they find. We can't control that."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "You think I should just ignore—""I don't think you should do anything you don't want to." He held up a palm. He sucked in a breath, then blew it out. "All I'm saying is that you were happier than I've ever seen you when you two were going out, and that's saying something. You know I love you, Dane, but you can be a real sour pill."

My whole body stiffened.

"Take it easy," he said. "I don't mean you're an ass or anything. You're just really serious and sober most of the time. When you were with Patrick, you actually smiled now and then. It was good to see."

"I wasn't with Patrick," I pouted.

He cocked that stupid, accusing brow again.

"What's going on in here?" Samantha's sleepy voice spun me around.

"Sam, what are you doing up?" I asked.

"I had trouble sleeping. Must be a storm coming through. Besides, I heard your voices all the way down the hall."

"Sorry." I ducked my head.

"Air ducts." She pointed to the ceiling. "I can hear everything in the kitchen from my bedroom."

"Oh," I said, then downed the last of my coffee.

"Can I have some of that?" She pointed to the pot. Burton nodded and turned to find another mug. "What were you two talking about? It sounded pretty intense."

Crap. I didn't want everyone in on this conversation. I hadn't really wanted Burton to know what kept me awake. This was freakin' embarrassing.

Burton filled a mug and handed it to Sami then opened the fridge to retrieve the cream. Over his shoulder, he said, "Dane's still hung up on Patrick, but he's afraid we'll kick his ass if he gives it another go."

"I never said—"

Sam's arms suddenly wrapping around my shoulders killed any protest on my lips.

"I would kick your ass for a lot of things, Dane Walker, and you'd deserve it. Don't think I can't too. You might be big and strong, but I'm wiry and fast … and my foot packs a punch. Your ass wouldn't stand a chance."

I patted her arm, wishing she'd release me so I could sulk in my own, un-intruded personal space.

"But I wouldn't kick your ass for this."

Her words slammed into my gut. "What? Seriously? Sam, you were as pissed as I was when that article came out. He ruined Alex's life. His family—"

"Alex fucked up. His family is suffering for it. Patrick just did his job. You know that, right?"

I was stunned. She said it all so matter-of-fact, like there was no other logical explanation. I'd expected her Puerto Rican blood to simmer and boil at the mention of my traitorous ex- … whatever the fuck he was.

She squeezed and released my shoulders, then lifted the mug with both hands to her lips. "Mmm. Good stuff, Burton ." She raised the mug in salute.

Burton dipped his head, like some vassal acknowledged by his lady.

Sam's eyes bore through me, then she said softly, "If you want to see Patrick again, none of us will be upset. Hell, you getting laid will improve the morale of this place tenfold. You're kind of a sour dick when you have blue balls."

I stammered, fumbling for words or a comeback or anything.

Burton spat a laugh, his eyes glittering with annoying understanding.

God, I hated them both. Stupid firehouse family.

"Will you think about it?" Burton asked. "At least talk to the guy? If there's nothing there, fine, but you can't keep on like this, not knowing, wondering, torturing yourself. It's not healthy—for you or us."

I put my head in my hands and squeezed, as though pressure might ease the memories marching through my skull.

"Amen to that," Sami muttered, and the pair clinked mugs.

They were ganging up on me … for what? To get me to try again with Patrick? They actually wanted me to talk to him? I'd expected resistance, anger even, but they were united in convincing me I should open up to him. What the hell?

I squeezed my temples harder and grumbled, "All I do is think about him, dammit."

"Good," Sami said.

Then she did something she'd never done before: she leaned over, kissed my cheek, and shuffled out of the kitchen.

The day dragged. Our team was pulling a double set, two twenty-four-hour shifts back-to-back, and we hadn't had a call since three o'clock the previous afternoon. While that would've ordinarily been welcome, giving us a full night of uninterrupted sleep, the only one of our team who could actually sleep was the guy we cared the least about. The rest of us blinked blankly at the television, trying to feign interest in daytime soap operas that threatened to burn my retinae and numb my brain cells.

"Dear God, would someone please shove an old lady down so we can leave this building?" Sami said into the ceiling.

"It's not wise to taunt the god of firehouses. He has a cruel sense of humor, and always gets the last word," Burton warned.

"I'd let him bend me over later if he'd just stop this boredom," she replied.

"I could help you with that," Drew snarked from where he sat at the kitchen table. We'd finished lunch twenty minutes earlier and had just finished cleaning the kitchen. His leer was at once sultry and utterly disgusting.

"I'm a woman, not a bottom. That's what your people call it, right?" she shot back. A heartbeat later, she turned to me. "No offense. Your people are fabulous."

I chuckled and shook my head.

"I'd totally trade you for Dane. Wanna relieve some boredom, big guy?"

I stood and headed toward the door. "I'm going to watch training videos, maybe call HR."

Burton shouted after me, "Tell them I'm complaining too. Nobody ever wants my old ass."

Sami and Drew's laughter followed me all the way to the office.

Drew might've been a prick, but he was a funny one sometimes. He let us pile on and deride him relentlessly, and I couldn't remember a single time he'd complained or fought back. It almost made me wonder if there was a good guy lurking beneath the surface.

"Nah. He's a first-class prick," I said, chuckling to myself as the ancient office PC beeped to life.

An hour later, my brain was even more numb than it had been watching The Young and the Restless, or whatever Kardashian-like dribble had been playing non-stop in the den. I pushed back from the desk and stretched. Tight, sore muscles protested.

I needed to work out. That always made me feel better.

Set on a new course, I made my way into the bunkhouse and changed into my workout clothes. By the time I entered the gym, one of the EMTs who worked on our ambulance was spotting Drew as he lifted a ridiculous number of plates on the bench press. His chest billowed with each lift, and art became life with every push.

God, I hated him and all his perfection.

It was leg day for me, so I padded over to the quad press machine and fell into position. It would take a solid hour for me to be able to walk without wobbling, and lactic acid was a painful bitch, but I loved that leg day made me feel like I'd really done something. The pain was affirmation—at least, that's what I told myself.

Midway through my fourth exercise, Sami appeared overhead.

"Hey," I grunted between calf raises. Sweat soaked my tank top and dripped from my face. "What's up?"

"You got a delivery," she said. There was something odd in her tone. It wasn't humor, but it wasn't annoyance. Curiosity? Anticipation? I couldn't tell, but she was acting weird. Her eyes had that "I know something you don't know" sparkle. That worried me.

I lifted the padded bar a few more times, then let the weights slam back into place. "Let me wipe down and I'll come check it out."

She winked and vanished down the hallway.

Sami winked. She only smiled when she was up to something, and she never winked.

What the fiery fuck?

I grabbed the bottle of sanitizer and squirted it over my sweaty imprint, then smeared it around with my towel. The rag was so soaked, I probably did more harm than good. At least I tried.

When I stepped into the kitchen, Burton and Sami were sitting at the table. A box sat between them like a plain brown centerpiece.

"This is some party for a bit of mail," I said, striding up to them and leaning over to eye the label.

"It's not every day one of our ghosts stops haunting us long enough to send a gift." Sami sounded absolutely giddy.

My Spidey sense was going berserk. The simple white label was marked "Walkman" in black marker.

"No shipping label? Did someone just drop this off?"

The two conspirators nodded without a word.

"You guys sure this isn't a bomb or anthrax? You know, there was that string—"

"Will you open the damn box already," Burton snapped. Shit, he was cursing a lot these days.

"Fine. No need to get all snippy about it."

I reached across and dragged the box toward me. It didn't weigh much, maybe as much as a small book or something. I couldn't imagine what might be inside, so I did what any self-respecting three-year-old boy would do in my situation: I lifted the box to my ear. Hearing nothing purr or bark, I shook it, getting nothing but the muffle of tissue or packing paper.

I glanced at Burton. His arms were crossed, and the fingers of one hand were strumming with impatience.

"Got a box cutter in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?"

Burton's scowl deepened.

Sam's hand shot out. "Here, I'll rip that bitch open."

I pulled the box against me. "I've got it, Mad Max. Cool your jets."

Grabbing the tiny pocketknife I always carried, I cut the box open. A folded sheet of paper lay atop something wrapped in crumpled white tissue paper.

"Ooh, a note. Read it to us," Sami said, like a little girl bouncing on her bed, asking for a story.

I tried to fight back a grin, but she was so freakin' adorable I couldn't stop my lips from curling.

I grabbed the note, unfolded it, and read aloud.