8. Dane

Irarely had trouble sleeping.

Anyone who worked with their hands understood what dreamless nights were truly like. Hard work was simple and honest. Callouses were badges of honor, won through battle with dirt and plow and hoe—or, more times than not, on the ass-breaking seat of a tractor. As hard as we drilled some days at the station, few compared to a full day working with my dad and brothers on our family farm. If the average American understood how much sweat went into putting food on their tables, they might treat farmers with a bit more reverence.

Coffee steamed in the mug on the table, rich and black, a smell that forever reminded me of my dad. Maybe that's what made me stare at my rough hands and daydream of farms and fields and plows. Some days, those fields felt a million miles away. Then, with one whiff of burned beans, I'd find myself trudging through chest-high stalks and shading my eyes from the blistering sun.

It was only nine o'clock—eight in the morning back home—and yet, my mom had already texted twice: first, just to say hello, then to ask if I had met anyone new yet. She asked that every Thursday morning about this time, and my answer was always the same: "I'm not really looking, Ma."

I tried to remember the first time she'd asked that question. Daniel and I had been apart for six, maybe seven months. I was curled into myself, walled off from everything and everyone who might make me feel or think. The last thing I wanted was my mom poking around and asking if I was happy—or if I was dating again.

She'd loved Daniel. With his pale blond hair, perfectly square jaw, and star quarterback's build, he was pretty perfect. She loved his easy smile and infectious laugh even more. Some days I wondered if she hadn't loved him more than I had, but I knew better. I was smitten the moment we met.

I'd always been serious, even at a young age, "thinking and stewing," as my dad would say, while other boys enjoyed a carefree youth. When I met Daniel, it was like seeing the sun for the first time and knowing, instantly, how dark and cold the world had been before. He was easy to love and impossible to not like.

He was also the only man I'd ever brought back to Kansas. I'd been so nervous bringing him home, wondering if my mom's words of support would translate into actions when she faced the reality of me with another man. I shouldn't have been nervous. Everyone adored him. Of course they did.

When he fixed one of the drawers in the kitchen that had been wonky since before Dad died, Daniel became Mom's fourth son. What a moron I'd been to doubt her. I can still feel her warmth as she lifted my hand from hers and placed it on Daniel's, then stroked the back of mine as if to bless our union and soothe my fears.

She was almost as devastated as I was when he left.

I never understood why things ended. I probably never will. That might've been the hardest part.

At least Mom got her drawer fixed. That was our recurring joke, the one where she pretended to laugh and I pretended not to ache over the loss of a man who I thought would be my forever.

I sipped my coffee and thumbed mindlessly through my phone, not really searching for anything but feeling the need to fidget. A local news alert popped up. Some politician had said something stupid and the newsies were circling like sharks. That sounded less like a banner news day and more like a day ending in Y in Atlanta, but the news guys had to keep their jobs, I supposed.

That made me think of Patrick. For the first time in forever, I caught myself smiling for no reason.

"What are you grinning at?" I asked myself. "He's a reporter working an angle. That's it."

And I'd worked him. Though I wasn't sure why.

I loved sex. I mean, really loved it. Feeling hard muscles and sweat, shoving my cock deep inside a guy's tight, wet hole … my usual hookups were guys from the gym. You couldn't swing a dead cat in Midtown without hitting a model-hot, super-horny gay man ready for action. So, who was I to deny myself in a sea full of possibilities?

But Patrick? His lean runner's build was almost too skinny to be healthy, and the glasses he wore were too wide for his face. And I was sure he had confidence somewhere inside his scrawny body, but it fled faster than it appeared. There wasn't much about him that fit my normal type, but still …

He had good hair.

No, he had glorious hair; wavy blondish-brown locks that flowed across his forehead and down to his collar.

And his eyes. Damn. If I hadn't seen them up close and personal, I would've thought he wore colored contacts. When he stared directly at me, into me, I could feel his gaze somewhere in the back of my chest.

Oh, and his lips were world class. The bottom one was full and needed to be bitten, while the top one formed the perfect pair of peaks.

I guess he was handsome … in his way.

And the dude was freakin' smart. Maybe that was the biggest turn-on of all. He didn't try to act smart or show off, he just was. Maybe that's where his quiet confidence hid, beneath that big brain of his. If we went out again, I'd have to test that, get him talking about something deep and see if his chin and shoulders lifted and that spark flared in his eyes.

Dude, why are you grinning again?

And damn, the sex.

Who would've thought a toothpick like Patrick could've revved my engines like that? I always enjoyed being strong and playing a little rough, but my usual guys could balance my aggression. It was more of a push–pull than either of us gaining an upper hand.

But Patrick submitted. He couldn't match my physical strength, so his options were to yield or run.

He definitely didn't run. He allowed me to be in charge and do what I wanted. That was new. And fuck, if it didn't get me hard just thinking about it.

I reached down and felt myself through my silky shorts; heat bloomed in my chest.

I could still picture him lying there on my bed, hard as a rock, his skinny body quivering as I drained him down to nothing. And I could practically hear his heart thud louder at the mention of fucking.

I'd never hurt or taken advantage of anyone. That wasn't how I was raised. But … a little dominance play never hurt anyone.

And Patrick seemed to enjoy it. No, he relished it. He wanted me to tell him what to do, to dominate him, to make him mine. He didn't struggle or fight. He begged me to tell him what we should do next. He gave himself to me, and I knew he would again if I asked.

What if I tied his wrists next time? Maybe blindfolded him and drizzled warm oil across his chest? I wanted him spread-eagled with my cock shoved so far up—

"Shit, dude. What the hell?" I shook myself free of whatever that had been and sipped cold coffee to try to tamp down the mood.

If I sat there any longer, daydreaming about naked men and the things I wanted to do to their bodies, I'd end up on Grindr or at the gym doing a lot more than lifting weights, and that was not how I'd planned to spend my day off.

I pushed back from the table, grabbed my nearly empty mug, and turned toward the kitchen. Before I could refill it, the phone rang. I glanced back, saw that it was my captain, and snatched my phone off the table.

"Walker."

"Jesus, Dane. You can answer ‘hello' like normal people."

Captain Damian Zhang was one of the nicest men in uniform. He'd risen through the ranks, a fireman's fireman, earning the respect of both the men he led and those up the chain. At forty-one, he was one of the youngest senior leaders in all of Atlanta's first responder organizations. He was also the first—and only—Chinese American to wear the bars.

"Sorry, Cap. Habit."

I could almost hear him shaking his head, a smile plastered across his face. "What's the deal with this reporter?"

"Sir?"

"Fredericks left me a note that some AJC guy was sniffing around, said you knew what it was all about."

"Oh, right," I breathed, trying to get images of a naked Patrick out of my head. "He wants to do one of those day-in-the-life things. I told him he needed your permission, would probably have to go through the press office."

I could hear guys chatting in the background as Zhang thought. "No angle? Just a day in the life of a fireman?"

I shrugged, as though he could see me through the phone. "That's what he said, sir."

"Alright. We could use some good press. I want you to be his chaperone though. He can go on the truck for a med call, but no fire calls. Keep him off the ambulance and out of their way. If you catch him sniffing around or think he's after something specific, let me know."

"Yes, sir. Will do."

"When did he want to do this?"

"He didn't say, but I think soon."

Zhang paused again. "Alright. You're back on tomorrow?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Why don't you reach out and arrange this thing? I'll text you his phone number."

I smiled at the thought of having Patrick's number. This might actually be a good thing.

"Consider it done, sir. And I'll keep him in line."

Zhang chuckled. "Just watch him. I don't want a call about a fireman beating a reporter."

"No, sir," I grunted, thinking of just how I'd like to beat Patrick and with which body part. "All good, sir."

The ever-present sound of a code rang in the background. "Gotta go. Thanks for handling this, Dane."

"Yes, sir. Any time."

I only stared at the blank screen for a few heartbeats before my fingers took over.

Me:I talked with my captain. He gave the green light for you to spend a day in the station. Call me.

Me:This is Dane.