9. Patrick

Igot back to my place around two in the morning. Dane's eyes followed me all the way from my car to my apartment door. His smile accompanied me when I stepped inside.

"This is ridiculous. I've known the guy less than twenty-four hours. Besides, he's a source—and the key to getting me into the station. I should never have gone on a date with him."

Or gotten naked … or taken his fat, throbbing cock down my throat.

The image of his veiny shaft slapping my cheek flashed into my mind, and I found myself frozen in the doorway, a fresh erection entering the room before the rest of me.

"Come on, Patrick. Think of something else. Anything else. That piece about old playground equipment and lead paint from a few months ago. That could kill any erection."

I kicked off my shoes and padded into my bedroom, thoughts of teeter-totters and whirly birds spinning in my mind. I breathed deeply, relieved the moment had passed, and with it, so would my hard-on.

Until I stepped into my bedroom and realized the wall opposite my bed was painted the same color as the one in Dane's bedroom, the wall he'd suggested might be my only support the next time we saw each other.

My butthole puckered.

Great, now even my ass is thinking about Dane.

Frustrated with my inability to control my thoughts—or body—and almost as hard as I'd been earlier in the night, I stripped off my clothes, flopped onto the bed, and stroked Dane out of my thoughts—and cock.

I shot all over my stomach.

That made me think of Dane coating my stomach. And that dream played on an endless loop until my iPhone alarm woke me with the sunrise.

And dammit, I woke up hard.

"You look like shit."

Emily's bun was precisely rolled, or curled, or whatever one does to a hair bun. Not a strand was out of place, and the rest of her silver was pulled back tight across her head, giving her an immaculate but severe look.

"And you look like an angry schoolteacher."

I flopped into my chair and wheeled it to her desk. The floor was already buzzing with the clatter of keyboards and voices of dozens of reporters hot on their various trails.

Emily reached up and pulled her glasses off her face. I couldn't remember her ever moving slower. Her eyes never left me, and her lips were pursed as though she'd sucked down a whole lemon.

"I will have you know, young man, I am neither angry, nor a schoolteacher. Although, most days, I feel the need to take a ruler to your knobby knuckles." Her glasses thudded onto her desk as she laced her fingers and rested her chin carefully in the digit-hammock she'd just created.

"They're not knobby," I pouted, glancing down to find they were a bit like the knots in an old tree. How has this happened?I'm not even thirty.

"So, precious, why so sleepy? I know you're not the brightest bulb in the mornings, but this might be a new dim, even for you."

"Wow. First my knuckles, now my aura. Should I just go home?"

"Now he's surrendering, not even fighting back?" She tsked. "This smells like man trouble."

"No need to go all third person on me," I said, crossing my arms. "There's no man and no trouble."

Her chair squealed as she sat back, a smug grin creeping across her lips.

"Fine. Maybe there is a man. Or was. He's too much trouble. At least, I would be in too much trouble. It can't … won't … ah fuck. He's a source."

Emily's eyes widened as she leaned forward, her chair practically wailing with sudden movement. "Patrick Mathias Ebony Walker Pierce."

"Only two of those are actually my names."

"Don't you correct me in the middle of a scolding." Her finger stabbed out. "There is no man worth your objectivity—or your career. What were you thinking?"

"I wasn't thinking, really."

"Clearly."

When I didn't say more, she crossed her arms, mirroring my posture. "Go on. Tell me about the mindless sex you now regret."

My gaze fell.

She sucked in a breath. "It wasn't just sex, was it?"

I shook my head.

"Patrick." Her voice was a low whisper, and she rolled her chair so close our knees almost banged together. "Look at me."

Slowly, I lifted my head.

"Tell me what happened, and don't you dare tell another soul in this place. Every last one of these snakes would sell their soul for a break."

"It's the fireman."

Her brow furrowed. "What fireman?"

"The one I met at the accident scene."

"Twenty-four hours ago? When you were ambulance chasing off your scanner?" I couldn't tell if there was more surprise, frustration, or incredulity in her voice, perhaps even a hint of being impressed?

I nodded. "He made spaghetti."

Her features smoothed into the unreadable face of a seasoned reporter. Her voice became less emotional than Siri reading an article about adult diapers. "A date, then. Go on."

"Em, he's really nice, and the spaghetti was awesome. I think … I think I might like him."

"What are you, eight? Did you pass notes at the table? Hold hands during the movie? Did he invite you to be on his team for kickball during recess?"

"Em—"

"And the sex? You have that ‘we got naked as fast as possible' look in your eyes. How was it?"

"Oh damn. So fucking hot."

Her brow cocked.

She was fishing. Crap. I walked right into that.

Her fingers tensed against her arms; I could see her knuckles whiten. This was bad. "Patrick—"

"He's not really a source. He's just a guy I met who's getting me the captain's phone number so I can arrange a ride-along thing."

"Mm-hmm." Her lips did that lemon-purse thing again.

"It's nothing. Really. A one-time—"

Ding.

Her eyes darted to my phone screen faster than a good poop after a bag full of White Castles.

I hadn't given Dane my number, had I? I didn't remember doing that. Then again, the night was a bit of a blur, especially after all the dreams involving firemen and their hoses that followed.

"You should see what ‘nothing' wants." Her voice dripped lemony citrus.

Reluctantly, I reached over and grabbed my phone.

Her fingers, no longer gripping, now tapped the rhythm of some executioner's tune across her arm. I could hear it in my head.

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

Unknown Number:This is Dane.

I couldn't suppress a chuckle. Only Dane would feel the need to tell me it was him. Who else would've arranged a fire station play date?

Wait. Dane arranged a fire station play date?

"Well?" Em's voice left no room for wiggling.

"I have the okay to spend a day in the station for my story. Dane got his captain to agree."

I hadn't asked him to do that. He'd just done it.

Deep down, I knew I should be excited about the next step in my story-getting effort, that my source had come through with something very source-y, but good English and deep thought eluded me.

Dane had done this … for me.

"Good. Now, keep it professional from here. You did what you had to do to get in—so to speak—but no more spaghetti. Definitely no more noodling."

She chuckled at her own pasta-sex reference as I wheeled back to my desk.

I sat there, staring at my phone, trying to decide how to respond. All I could think to do was to save his number under a new contact. I grinned, remembering the nickname he'd taught me as I punched it into his record. I didn't remember giving him my digits, but I wasn't losing his now that I had them.

Reporters needed contact numbers for sources, right? Of course we did. This was work related, plain and simple.

Walkman: You should still call Captain Zhang and introduce yourself. He's a great guy. You'll like him.

Me: Wow. Thank you. I was planning to call him today. You're great.

Walkman:I know. It's my curse.

I giggled so loudly that Em was glaring when I looked up. Her scowl deepened.

I mouthed, "Sorry," and spun my chair so I faced away from her.

Me:Gotta run. Reporter things. Newsy. You know, work. Talk later? Thanks again. Bye.

OMG. Had I just turned into a thirteen-year-old girl?

Em was right. This was such a bad idea.

I drew myself upright, nodded curtly, and vowed to keep things professional with Dane from that moment forward. There would be no more spaghetti, no noodling, and definitely no wall slamming. My career was more important than any one man, even if he was hotter than the fires he fought and clearly into me.

Dammit.

No. No more. Dane Walker was a source, and that was it. Period.

"Out with it."

Emily sat with her arms crossed, her glasses down around the tip of her nose and one leg draped over the other, with her foot twitching like it wanted to kick me from across the newsroom. We were sitting some twenty yards apart.

That she was staring, probably the entire time I'd been texting, freaked me out a little. That she called from across the room, demanding a play-by-play, was terrifying.

Unable to shake my mentor's steely gaze, and mortified by the glares of reporters seated between us whose ingrained curiosity had forced their heads to poke above their cube walls the moment Em's tone darkened, I wheeled my chair the length of two first downs until her foot stopped my forward progress.

One of her brows was practically melting into her hairline.

"I got my in," I muttered.

"And by ‘in,' you mean for your story, not your tight little butthole?"

"Em!" I hissed.

Her lip quirked upward, but her brow remained peaked at high noon.

"Yes, for my story. Dane arranged with his captain for me to do the ride-along thing."

Her other brow shot up, and her foot stilled.

"What?"

"Dane?"

"That's his name."

"He arranged your visit with his captain? He didn't get you the captain's name and number so you could call? Dane did this for you?"

Somehow, hearing his name on her tongue felt wrong, though I couldn't think fast enough to understand why. "Yeah, so? He's a source. Sources do things for reporters, don't they?"

She rolled her eyes. "You're not a CIA agent handling an asset."

"I know that." I sounded entirely too pouty but didn't care. "Besides, he didn't steal secrets or uranium or whatever. He just arranged a visit."

"To his work, which happens to be a public fire station."

I crossed my arms. We suddenly looked like an angry married couple at a restaurant waiting for our darn check that was taking forever.

"Yes. All that. You should be proud of me. I pulled this off with the minimum number of calls."

"Zero calls, unless you count the one involving your booty. Get it? Booty call? You definitely did that on your own." She cackled at her own joke. "Actually, you had Dane's help with that too."

Great. She's gone from pissed to joking. This just keeps getting better.

She unfurled her legs and leaned forward, placing a hand on my knee. "You did good, kid. I'm just giving you a hard time." The giggles that followed needed no explanation. She loved a double entendre almost as much as she loved a double gin and tonic. "Try to behave when you visit the firehouse. No sex on the truck, and no touching his dalmatian."

"Emily Grayson!" I tried the full name thing, but it clearly did nothing to slow her.

"Although, if he lets you slide down his pole—"

"I'm so done with you." I stood and wheeled my chair back to my desk. Her deep-throated laughter followed in my wake, along with stares from every other reporter nearby who'd no doubt heard the last of her jests.