L A Witt Cover Me

Carnal Passions Presents

Cover Me

L. A. Witt

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and
dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are

not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events
or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including

photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and
retrieval system, without permission in writing from the
publisher.

Carnal Passions
A Division of Champagne Books

www.carnalpassions.com

Produced in Canada

Carnal Passions

#35069-4604 37 ST SW Calgary,

AB T3E 7C7

Canada

Dedication

To everyone who helped make this book happen,

whether by beta reading or letting me pick their brains over
factual stuff:

Eddie, Mike, Kelley, Sue, Ruth, Dionne, Carleta, & Kyle.

And of course, my loyal—and rather demanding at

times— writing partner, Scarlett Parrish.

One

"You know, if you keep sitting like that, you’re going to

break your damned legs one of these days." Leon took his hand
off the steering wheel and gestured at my feet, which were on
the passenger side dashboard.

"Only if you crash." I glanced up from the clipboard on

my lap. "Though with the way you drive, that wouldn’t surprise
me."

"Hey, back off my driving. And if you’re that worried I’m

going to crash, put your goddamned feet down."

"I’m not worried." I signed the bottom of a report and

flipped it to the next page. "Besides, if you do crash, and I do
break my legs, you have everything you need to put them back
together." I gestured with my pen toward the back of the
ambulance.

"You keep your feet up like that, I’m going to let you

suffer when your legs break."

"Keep staring at my legs instead of the road, and I might

have to tell Zoe I’ve turned you to my side."

He shot me a horrified look. "Oh, don’t you even think

about it, you son of a bitch."

"Then quit staring at my—hey! The road! Watch the

fucking road!"

Leon looked up and swerved just in time to avoid hitting

the curb. "Now see? See? If I’d crashed just then—"

"My legs would have been fine and I’d have used them to

kick your ass." I glared at him, then went back to filling out the

report.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." He slowed the ambulance to a stop at

an intersection and stretched his arms while we waited for the

light to turn green. "Man, it’s getting to be dinner thirty."

"Dinner thirty?" I laughed. "It’s not even five o’clock.

Besides, weren’t you just eating before we left the station?"

He let out a huff of breath. "Yeah, and I didn’t get to

finish it because we left the station."

"Damn those inconsiderate people." I sighed dramatically

and put the back of my hand against my forehead. "Getting hurt
and keeping you away from your food."

He started to come back with something snide, but the

radio crackled to life.

"Code one, code one, shooting at Jackson and Fourteenth,

multiple casualties. All units respond."

Leon and I exchanged glances. We were just blocks away

from the location. Leon gave a sharp nod and I picked up the
radio.

"Dispatch, this is Twenty-seven Alpha," I said. "On our

way to Jackson and Fourteenth, over."

Leon accelerated through the intersection as he flipped on

the lights and siren. I dropped clipboard and feet to the floor.

God only knew what the scene would be like, but I had little
doubt there would be blood and lots of it, so I went ahead and
pulled on a pair of rubber gloves.

"Busy night in Masontown tonight, isn’t it?" he said.

I didn’t reply. We’d already been to that neighborhood

once tonight. It wasn’t terribly unusual to get multiple calls to

that area. Between the people so wasted they couldn’t
remember how to care for themselves and those who were too
poor to do so, Masontown was no stranger to flashing red lights.

Sex and substances were the staple crops of that place. This
wasn’t the first shooting we’d attended there, and I doubted it
would be the last.

As signs, cars, and buildings blurred past us, I shifted into

autopilot. Training kicked in, pushing emotions to the back of my
mind along with any thoughts I didn’t need for the task at hand.
It wasn’t apathy per se, but it was close—something to keep me

calm and focused on the clinical so I could do my job.

In minutes, we’d arrived at the scene. A small crowd had

gathered, but there were no flashing lights in sight except for

our own reflecting off cars and windows.

"Think it’s safe?" Leon asked. "Or do we wait for the

cops?"

I surveyed the scene. With no police on-scene, it was our

discretion to move in or wait. In this case, there didn’t appear to
be anyone brandishing a weapon, so it was probably safe for us

to attend. That, and shootings usually meant serious injuries
that couldn’t wait long.

"Safe as it’s going to be." I unbuckled my seatbelt. "Let’s

go." I went into the back, grabbed the jump kit, and stepped
outside. There was blood on the pavement, panic in the air and

four people on the ground. No one else looked to be injured, but
the wounded still outnumbered us for the time being. Triaging
the scene, I silently cursed the budget cuts that had only two

people manning the ambulance instead of three or four. I could
use a few more pairs of hands right about now, you fucking bean
counters.

I went from patient to patient, assessing wounds and

vitals as quickly as I could. Triaging a situation like this always
did weird things to the passage of time, or at least my
perception of it. I moved in slow motion while everyone around

me was in fast forward, and even they couldn’t keep up with the
rapidfire ticking of the clock.

One male was in obvious pain, gripping his upper arm

while blood seeped between his fingers. He was conscious with
stable vitals, though, and not in immediate danger.

The other male was on the ground, semi-conscious and

bloody. His vitals were fairly stable, but the bleeding was
significant and his condition could quickly deteriorate at the drop
of a hat. A few paces away, a woman writhed and moaned in a

blood-soaked shirt, clinging to the hand of a bystander, who
pressed a wadded rag against her chest. She was bleeding
profusely and her breathing was labored.

The second woman lay motionless in a huge and rapidly

expanding pool of blood. The man kneeling beside her
alternately screamed at her to wake up and shouted at me to

help her. Her vitals were bad and worsening by the second, and
had she been the only victim, I’d have helped her immediately.
With more wounded than medics, though, she was too far gone.
I had a better chance of saving the other three, so difficult

decisions had to be made.

Glancing at Leon, I gestured at the unconscious woman

and the bleeding, cursing male. "She’s a black tag. He’s green."

Then I pointed at the semi-conscious man and the moaning
woman. "The other two are red. You see to him, I’ll take care of
her."

Leon nodded and we went to work.

"Hey! Hey!" The man beside the dying woman screamed

as we both walked past her. "She needs help!"

"We’re doing everything we can," I said. "Backup is on its

way."

"She’s going to die!" he shouted. "You gonna let her die

just ‘cause she’s black?"

I gritted my teeth. There wasn’t time to explain to him

what ‘black tag’ meant, or that it had nothing to do with race.
Though I felt for him, and I certainly felt for the woman on the
ground beside him, there simply wasn’t time. With her

plummeting vitals and that much blood loss, there probably
wasn’t much that could be done for her even if I had the
manpower to try.

Kneeling beside the other woman, I looked at the man by

her side. Her husband, I assumed, judging by the gold ring on
one blood-stained hand and the way he held her hand with his
other.

"What’s her name?" I asked.

He opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated.

"Her name?" I said. Maybe my assumption was incorrect.

Maybe he wasn’t her—

"Chelsea. Chelsea Wayland."

"Chelsea? Can you hear me?" I touched her shoulder.

"Chelsea, my name is Nick, I’m here to help you. Can you hear
me?" She moaned, which could as easily have been in response
to the pain as to the sound of my voice.

Her husband looked over his shoulder, then at me. "Tell

me they’ve got backup coming."

"On their way." Come on, guys, where are you? Getting

to Masontown was a nightmare in heavy traffic, and as luck
would have it, we were right in the middle of rush hour. Every
unit in town was probably stuck on that fucking two-lane bridge.

Chelsea tried to take a breath, wincing and wheezing with

the effort. The color in her lips faded rapidly.

"Her breathing has been getting worse," he said. "When

she could still talk, she said her chest hurt, but I assumed she

meant where she was stabbed."

"Stabbed?" I looked up. "I thought this was a shooting."

"It was." He nodded toward the other woman. "She had a

knife, though."

A comment about bringing a knife to a gunfight stopped

at the tip of my tongue. Gallows humor may have kept me sane

in these situations, but the same usually couldn’t be said for a
husband applying pressure to his wife’s bleeding chest.

"We need to get her shirt off," I said. With her husband’s

help, I cut it away. To my surprise, removing her shirt revealed
a bulletproof vest underneath. Definitely a stabbing, as her

husband had said. Kevlar would stop a bullet, but it didn’t do a
thing to stop a knife.

In a less urgent situation, I might have questioned just

what I’d walked into, but the vest was stained with too much
blood to wonder why she wore it in the first place. We quickly
unfastened the straps on the side and got rid of it.

With the vest out of the way, I looked at the wound. It

was a deep laceration with substantial bleeding, but it was more
or less under control. It was her breathing that concerned me.
Removing the vest didn’t make it any easier for her to breathe,

and the color of her lips continued to fade.

"Chelsea, can you hear me?" I said. Again, I couldn’t tell

if the response was to the pain or my voice. I held her free

hand. "If you can hear me, squeeze my hand twice."

She responded with two squeezes, the second more

feeble than the first. I pressed the stethoscope against her chest

and she flinched weakly.

"Chelsea, can you take a deep breath?"

She tried, but immediately grimaced. Her chest barely

rose. The more I took her vitals, the more pieces fell into place,
and it didn’t look good. Her heart was racing, her blood pressure
was dropping, and the shallow, rapid breathing was getting

worse.

"I’ll be right back." I sprinted to the ambulance, ignoring

the furious, panicked shouts of the man beside the black-tagged

woman. Cursing the traffic that kept backup dangerously far
away, I grabbed a few items out of the ambulance and hurried
back to Chelsea’s side. There, I slipped an oxygen mask over

her face and opened the valve on the tank.

Her husband raised his eyebrows. "How bad is it?"

"Her lung’s collapsed."

"Jesus," he whispered.

It wasn’t quite so simple, but I had no time to explain in

detail that she had a tension pneumothorax and needed a
thoracentesis to release the air building up in her chest cavity.

This wasn’t the first time I’d treated something like this in the
field, and I anticipated the barrage of questions about how bad it
was and if she was going to die. He said nothing though. In fact,

he was quite calm given the circumstances.

Kneeling beside her again, I gestured to two bystanders.

To them and Chelsea’s husband, I said, "Hold on to her. Keep

her as still as you can."

"I don’t think she’s going anywhere," her husband said

through gritted teeth.

"No, but she isn’t going to like this." When I pulled the

large needle out of its packaging, his breath caught. "Don’t

watch. Look at something else. Trust me." I pressed the needle
against a groove between her ribs, and her husband cleared his
throat and looked away. At least he didn’t insist on watching.

Leon and I had enough to worry about without a passed out
husband on our hands.

Just before I pushed the needle into her skin, something

cold and solid dug into the base of my skull. My hands and

breath froze. Moving only my eyes, I looked at Chelsea’s
husband. He stared past me, lips parted and eyes wide.

"Get away from her," an unsteady voice commanded from

behind me. Something creaked, and even with my limited
experience with guns, I recognized the menacing sound of a
hammer being drawn back. "Get the fuck away from her."

"Jesse, stop," Chelsea’s husband said. Though his tone

was still surprisingly calm, the faintest note of uncertainty sent
ice through my veins. "Listen to me, Jesse. Put the gun down."

"No, no, he’s hurting her." The voice bordered on

hysterical now, and the gun’s muzzle twitched against my skin. I
swallowed hard. It wasn’t just the metal against my skin that

concerned me. It was the way that metal shook. A shaking hand
on a loaded gun against my head wasn’t what I’d call a
comfortable combination.

Chelsea moaned and gasped for air. Every breath was

more difficult than the last, and her lips were beginning to turn
blue beneath the mask’s clear plastic. Gun to my head or not,

she needed this tube in her chest. Willing my hands to stay
steady, I pressed the needle against her, but the muzzle of the
gun dug in even harder. The shaking was more violent, and my
mind’s eye showed me a trembling finger on a trigger. One

twitch. One twitch was all it would take. Oh, fuck.

"Jesse," Chelsea’s husband said, looking at him even as

he tried to hold her still. "He’s trying to help her."

"He’s hurting her, Mark," the one called Jesse said, his

voice getting shriller. "Mark, Mark, he’s hurting her, make him
stop hurting her."

"No, he’s not," the husband—Mark, apparently—said.

"He’s helping her. Put the gun down."

Chelsea tried to suck in a breath, wheezing hard and

writhing on the pavement. The cyanosis worsened by the
second, and she couldn’t wait any longer. Hoping to God I hadn’t

just signed my own death warrant or hers, I leaned against the
needle and forced it between her ribs. She released a feeble cry,
thrashing as much as the three men holding her down would

allow, and a split second later, a rush of air hissed out of the
needle.

For a moment, I held my breath, fully expecting a bullet

through my head after my sudden movement and Chelsea’s
struggles.

When that bullet didn’t come, I tried to continue

concentrating on Chelsea. I gestured toward the kit.

"Hand me that plastic tubing," I said to Mark. My voice

shook more than I thought it would, and I shuddered. I could
almost ignore this heart-stopping terror until I heard it in my

own voice . I’m going to die. I’m going to die. Pushing those
thoughts away, I forced myself to focus. He handed me the
plastic tube I’d indicated, and as he reached over her, his eyes

darted over my shoulder to the unhinged lunatic.

I worked as quickly as I could to get the tube into her

chest. The faster I moved, the sooner I could get her on the

ambulance and out of here. I could also pretend my hands were
steady and maybe, just maybe, ignore the gun that was still
pressed against my head. The gun that twitched every time

Chelsea moved or made a sound.

"He’s hurting her," Jesse said. "Make him stop hurting

her."

"Jesse, he’s helping her." Mark’s voice got progressively

calmer and gentler as if to counter Jesse’s hysteria. "If you kill
him, you’re going to kill her too."

The gun twitched. Then again. After a second, it moved

away from my head and I released my breath. As I finished
getting the tube in and the needle out, some of Chelsea’s color
returned. She murmured, then moaned, weakly trying to get

away from the pain I undoubtedly inflicted.

Clenching my teeth to keep them from chattering, I

struggled to focus on Chelsea. With the tube releasing the air

from her chest cavity, her lung would have room to reinflate, but
she needed to get to the hospital. I needed to get her out of
here. I needed to get myself the hell out of here. Away from this

armed idiot.

With Chelsea’s condition improving slightly and the gun

down, I became aware of my surroundings again. A crowd had

gathered. The black-tagged woman’s companion was beyond
hysterical now. In the distance, sirens filled the air, coming at us

from all directions. Backup at last. Still, I prayed there were no
blue lights among them. Though the gun was down, I didn’t
know how crazy Jesse really was. Something told me if he saw

cops and panicked, I was done.

While I adjusted the tube in her chest, Chelsea

whimpered and tried to pull away from me, but the three men

held her still. The whimper became a cry and feet shuffled
behind me. I cringed, expecting the muzzle of the gun against
my head at any second.

Mark moved suddenly, and the shuffling halted. Several

bystanders gasped and the air around me flexed as they all took
a collective step back.

"Put it down," he snarled. My eyes flicked up and I sucked

in a breath. He had his own gun now, drawn and aimed past me.
His hands were alarmingly steady, and there was nothing but
cold, murderous rage in his eyes. Slowly, he rose, eyes and

weapon still trained on my unseen assailant. "Jesse, raise that
gun again and you won’t live long enough to put it to his head.
Put. It. Down."

Then, feet shuffled again. More gasping, more movement,

more, oh God, where is that gun?

"Jesse, you son of a bitch!" Mark darted past me.

All around us, emergency vehicles pulled up with sirens

screaming and engines roaring. My senses focused only on the
fading footsteps. I expected gunfire, but there came none, and

eventually the footsteps faded away, leaving only the rumble of
diesel engines and the murmur of panic and confusion in the air.
A violent shudder rippled down my spine, relief knocking the

breath out of me.

A hand touched my arm and I jumped, nearly falling back

before I looked up to see Leon.

"What the hell happened over here?" he said.

I just gestured at Chelsea. "Let’s get her out of here."

He cocked his head, but didn’t argue. With police on-

scene and other firefighters and medics attending the rest of the

victims, Leon and I got Chelsea onto the stretcher and wheeled
her across the sidewalk to the ambulance.

Just before we reached it, a hand flew out of the crowd

and seized my arm, nearly hauling me off my feet. I regained
my balance and found myself face to face with the distraught
companion of the woman I’d black-tagged.

"You racist son of a bitch," he snarled. "Why didn’t you

help her?" Behind him, the woman lay between two kneeling

firefighters, one of whom drew a sheet over her face.

"You killed her. You fucking killed her!" He grabbed for

my neck, but I deflected his hand with my elbow. Two officers

pried him off me and I stumbled back, staring at him in stunned
silence. I jumped when another hand touched my shoulder, even
though I knew before I looked that it was Leon again.

"Come on," he said. "We need to get her out of here." I

turned and followed him and the stretcher to the ambulance.

"You fucking racist!" The man called after me. "I will kill

you! Do you hear me? I will fucking kill you!" I glanced over my

shoulder at him, and the icy hatred in his eyes sent a chill down
my spine.

He continued screaming at me, warning me over and over

that he was going to hunt me down and kill me. The officers led
him out of sight and I turned my attention back to my patient,
trying to focus on the threats to her life instead of my own. Leon

closed the doors behind Chelsea and me.

A moment later, he climbed into the cab. The tires

beneath us squealed and we left he scene. As Masontown and its

flashing lights faded behind us, I’d never in my life been so
thankful for Leon’s habit of driving too fast.

Two

At the hospital, we turned Chelsea over to the emergency

room staff. After giving a brief rundown of her condition, I held
my breath and watched them wheel her away. Panic slowly rose
in my throat, a chorus of "No, no, come back," echoing in my

brain as if the ER staff was reeling in my lifeline and pulling it
out of my grasp. I no longer had her injuries to occupy my mind
and hands. Without needing to monitor and treat her, without

the on-scene adrenaline that comes with having a patient under
my care, I had nothing to hold on to.

Then the double doors slammed. Chelsea was gone. My

lifeline snapped. Autopilot mode switched off and the world
dropped out from under me. I heard myself groan as my knees
buckled. A second later, a hand between my shoulders sent
panic surging through my veins. I jerked away, stumbling before

someone grabbed my arm.

"Hey, hey, easy." Leon’s voice sounded miles away. He

guided me to a chair and I sank into it. I rested my elbows on

my knees, letting my face fall into my shaking hands. Breathing
as slowly and evenly as I could, I closed my eyes and willed
myself not to throw up. Or pass out. Or both. Easier said than

done with the vague throb at the base of my skull reminding me
with every heartbeat exactly where that gun had been.

"You okay, man?" Leon asked.

"I don’t know." My voice shook as badly as my hands.

"Fuck, I don’t…" I swallowed hard, ordering myself not to get
sick. The more I heard the panic in my voice, the more I

panicked. It was over, but in my head, it had just started.

"Breathe, kid." He squeezed my shoulder. "Jesus, what

happened out there?"

I shivered. "I don’t even fucking know." Everything that

had happened fell across my consciousness like burning
shrapnel, landing in unpredictable patterns with no reason or

order. Cold metal making contact with my head. Screamed
threats. The hint of blue around Chelsea’s lips. Rising hysteria in
Jesse’s voice. The gun trembling in hands that lacked the control

to hold it steady or to keep from squeezing the trigger, even
accidentally. Second after second of anticipating a bullet and
darkness. The more I tried to make sense of it all, the more it

became an overwhelming kaleidoscope of chaos and fear. The
more I analyzed it all in the safety of hindsight, the less I could
believe I’d survived. It may have been a delayed reaction, but
the fear burning its way through my veins now was as raw as if I

was still on my knees on that pavement awaiting imminent
execution.

"Nick?" Leon’s voice dragged me into the present that I

had no business being alive to experience.

"Fuck," I muttered, running a hand through my hair.

Leon squeezed my shoulder again. "Listen, you stay right

here. I’m gonna go park the bus and call dispatch to let them
know you’re off for the rest of the night."

The workaholic in me wanted to protest, but there was no

point. I knew as well as Leon that I was in no condition to
respond to any more calls tonight, so I simply nodded and
listened to his footsteps as he walked away.

Alone with my thoughts, I continued reliving every second

over and over. All the panic and terror I’d managed to ignore at
the scene came back with a vengeance. My stomach turned and

my hands trembled, my heart pounding as every memory
replayed again and again. Over and over. Again and again.

"You all right?"

I might have written him off as a concerned passerby and

waved him away with a dismissive gesture, but the voice was
just familiar enough to give me pause. I looked up, blinking a
few times as the room whirled around me.

After a second, Mark came into focus. Under his half-

zipped leather jacket, he now wore a clean shirt instead of the
blood-stained one he’d had on at the scene. The lack of blood on

his clothes made me acutely aware of the copious amounts on
my own. Ignoring the way my skin crawled beneath the still
damp fabric, I nodded slowly. "Yeah, I’m okay."

He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes just slightly

like he saw right through me. Gesturing at the chair beside me,
he said, "May I?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure."

He took a seat. "How is she?"

"She was fairly stable when we got here." I rubbed my

forehead. "The emergency room staff should know something
soon."

"Thank God." He looked around the waiting room.

"Doesn’t look like her husband is here yet—"

"Wait. Her husband?" I said. "I thought you were her

husband."

"No, I’m her partner." He paused. "I guess we weren’t

properly introduced, were we?" He extended his hand. "Andrew
Carmichael."

I shook his hand. "Nick Swain."

"I have to say, Macy is lucky as hell you showed up

today."

"Macy?"

He gestured apologetically. "Sorry. Chelsea was her name

during our undercover operation. Her real name is Macy.

Detective Macy Lombardi. Anyway, she’s damned lucky you were
there."

I said nothing for a long moment and just stared at the

well-worn white linoleum between my feet. Any one of us, any
member of my crew, could have been the one at Macy’s side. It
could have been Leon. The thought of anyone else in the

department being on the receiving end of that gun made my
stomach turn a little harder. I’d already attended funerals for
two firefighters killed this year. With a little bad luck and worse

timing, one of my friends could have been next. I could have
been next. I should have been—

I rubbed my forehead. "Tell me you caught him."

"I would, except I don’t make a habit of lying."

"Fuck," I muttered.

"I tried." He laughed bitterly. "Guess I’m getting too old

chase suspects down anymore." He said nothing for a

moment, then went on. "I have to be honest with you, Nick. I’ve
been doing this a long time, I’ve seen a lot of crazy shit out

there. I have never seen anyone do what you did today.
Especially not while keeping such a cool head."

"You kept a pretty cool head yourself."

"Yeah." He shot me another glance. "But I didn’t have a

gun to mine."

I tried for a dismissive shrug, but it came out as a

shudder.

"You sure you’re okay?" he asked.

Nodding, I said, "I’ll be fine. It’s just been a hell of a

day."

Though he didn’t look completely convinced, he didn’t

press. He simply said, "Good."

I chewed my lip. "So who was he?"

"His name is Jesse Kendall."

"I get the impression he’s not the most stable individual?"

Andrew released a cough of laughter. "Yeah, you could

say that."

The memory of the gun twitching against my skin made

me shiver again. "Just how unstable are we talking about?"

"Jesse is a crazy motherfucker. No two ways about it."

Andrew paused. "When he’s high, he’s one delusional, paranoid

son of a bitch. When he’s lucid, he’s one delusional, paranoid
fucking genius. I don’t think they’ve invented a security system
that can keep him out, and if it hadn’t meant blowing my cover

sooner, I could have arrested him a dozen times over just from
watching him break into cars."

"Any idea why he wanted to kill me?"

"I don’t think he did."

I looked at Andrew. "So the gun to my head was…?"

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Look, Jesse’s

a crackhead. Like I said, he’s paranoid. He’s delusional," Andrew
paused. "And he’s more than a little obsessed with Macy."

"None of those things make me feel any better."

"The thing is, he thought you were hurting Macy. He

thought, in his crazy, cracked out mind, he was protecting
her."

"Do you think he really would have killed me?"

It was Andrew’s turn to look at the floor, and his lengthy

silence sent invisible scorpions creeping down the length of my
spine.

"Fucking hell." I closed my eyes. Without thinking about

it, I rubbed the back of my neck, immediately directing my
attention to the place where Jesse had held the gun. I moved

my hands to my temples and tried not to puke.

"You sure you’re going to be okay?"

For reasons I couldn’t understand, I half-expected him to

put his hand on my shoulder as Leon had done. For reasons I did
fully understand, I caught myself wishing he would. Jesus, Nick,
you don’t even know the guy. This had nothing to do with

Andrew, though. I needed to relieve some tension and
decompress after everything that had happened and, healthy or

not, I had one nearly foolproof way of doing so.

Andrew was the nearest warm body. And a good-looking

one, for that matter.

Good-looking, but married if the ring on his hand was

anything to go by. And heterosexual. Not to mention a complete
stranger.

"Nick?"

I looked up. "Sorry, what?"

"I asked if you wanted a cup of coffee."

"No, no, thanks." I shook enough without adding caffeine

to the equation.

"I’m going to go get one. I’ll be right back."

After he left, taking my breath with him—for Christ’s

sake, Nick, stop it—I closed my eyes and kept rubbing my
temples. I tried not to think about Jesse. Or Andrew. Or the sick
feeling coiling in my gut. Or Andrew.

On the surface, it was crass and insensitive to be horny

after a bad call, but it really wasn’t. It wasn’t that the suffering
and chaos and stress turned me on. I just needed something to

get it out of my system, and fucking the night away seemed a
bit healthier than drinking myself numb.

Everyone in this line of work needed an outlet. They

preached and preached about finding healthy outlets that didn’t
involve substances or pain, but even those who preached had
their vices. Some of the guys drank. Some chain-smoked.

Others just drove too fast. I fucked. I knew I wasn’t the only
one, not after two of the firefighters’ wives had babies a day
apart almost exactly nine months after we’d responded to an

overturned school bus.

Pity my ex had moved out just a few weeks ago. Though

the effects of the stress of my job had ultimately driven us
apart, even David would have been the first to admit that stress

was part of what kept us together. The best sex we ever had
was always after I came home from a particularly stressful shift.
After a night like this, the sex would probably be—

"You all right?" This time it was Leon’s voice.

I looked up. "Yeah. I’ll be fine." Eventually.

"Chief says you’ve got the rest of the night and tomorrow

off," he said. "He’ll probably be calling you sometime tomorrow,
though."

"Of that, I have no doubt."

"He also said for you to wait here until a few officers

come by to ask about what happened. They’re on their way

now."

I groaned. In this line of work, I was certainly

accustomed to the endless stream of paperwork, statements,

signatures, and press-hard-you’re-making-five-copies bull- shit.
Tonight, though, I just wanted to go home. There was blood on
my uniform that I needed to get as far away from as possible

and there were images in my mind that needed to drown in a
glass or seven of Crown Royal. The last thing I wanted to do was
stay here and rehash every minute detail to a patrol officer with
a legal pad.

"Great," I said. "Just what I fucking need."

Andrew reappeared, Styrofoam cup in hand. His eyes

darted back and forth between the two of us. I gestured at Leon.

"This is Leon Fuller, my partner," I said. "Leon, Andrew

Carmichael."

As they shook hands, Andrew said, "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise." Leon looked at me. "I need to get the bus

back to the station. Want me to come back and take you home?"

"I can give you a lift home if you need it," Andrew said.

"You don’t mind?" I said.

He smiled. "Nick, you saved my partner’s skin when most

people would have fallen to pieces. Consider this the least I can

do."

I offered the closest thing to a smile I could muster.

"Well, if it’s not too much trouble, yeah. Thanks."

"Not in the least."

To Leon, I said, "Let me at least get my clothes out of

there. I need to get this uniform off." I glanced at Andrew just

as something flickered across his expression. Amusement? A
smartass retort that stopped at the tip of his tongue? Whatever
it was, he quickly cleared his throat and dropped his gaze, but
not before his cheeks flushed with just a hint of color.

Wishful thinking, I told myself.

Without waiting to see if Andrew would chance another

look at me, I followed Leon out to the ambulance. We both kept

extra clothes on hand for these occasions. Though neither of us
was particularly squeamish, I couldn’t think of anyone who liked
walking around covered in the myriad substances that were part

of this job.

Leon clapped my shoulder. "Take care of yourself, man.

You give me a call if you need anything, you hear me?"

"Will do." I offered what I hoped was a reassuring smile,

then turned and headed back into the emergency room. I

ducked into the restroom beside the waiting area, figuring that
was as good a place to change as any. That, and it minimized
the number of already frazzled, worried people who would see

me wandering around with blood all over my shirt.

As I changed clothes, my mind wandered back to Andrew.

Whether I should have been looking at him or not, I had been,

and he was gorgeous. There were cops who stayed fit and hot,
and there were cops with large bellies protruding over their belts
or from between strained suspenders. Andrew was definitely
among the former, and it wouldn’t have surprised me in the

least if those flat abs and broad shoulders were solid and well-
defined. He wasn’t a meathead, he wasn’t built like a brick
shithouse the way some of the guys at the station were, but

from what I could see, he was fit and beautifully so.

The lines on his face, coupled with the hint of silver in his

dark hair and five o’clock shadow, suggested he was in his late

thirties. Maybe early forties. A few years older than me, anyway,
and he wore it well. His wife was one lucky, lucky woman.

I shook my head as I stuffed my uniform into a plastic

bag. I knew why I’d looked at him, why I couldn’t stop thinking
about him. Good-looking or not, he was there. He was there,
and I was in the mood to set my sights on the nearest more or

less attractive man or woman. I wasn’t one to jump into bed
with someone the second I met them, but my veins were still
cold with waning adrenaline, my chest still tight and my stomach

tied in knots, and I needed to decompress.

I stepped out of the bathroom stall, dropped the bag at

my feet, and ran the water as hot as the tap would allow. Steam

rose and tickled the lower edge of the mirror with fog, but the
water was tepid compared to the scalding temperature my
nearly numb skin craved. As it ran over my hands, I looked in
the mirror and hoped it was only the fluorescent lighting that

made me look that pale.

I met my reflection’s gaze without flinching. I’d long since

accepted my need for physical release after something like this,

so I found no shame in my own eyes. Sex made my pulse race,
which meant my heart was still beating, which meant I was still
alive. The day I’d had was a myocardial infarction and sex was

the defibrillator.

Had Andrew been single, gay, and willing, I’d have

jumped at the opportunity. He wasn’t, though, so I’d just have

to let Crown Royal take over where a night of primal, sweaty sex
was needed.

I scowled at my reflection. Crown would be about as

effective as using ibuprofen in place of general anesthetic.
Unless I found a willing, unquestioning partner for the night, it

would just have to do.

"Well," I whispered to my reflection, "guess I’ll have to

figure this one out on my own."

The restroom door opened, making me jump, and I

sucked in a breath. Someone I’d never seen before, dressed in
street clothes and looking about as frazzled as I felt, came in. He
stepped into one of the stalls without giving me a second look.

That could be Jesse.

What if it’s him?

How could he have found me?

How would I know if he did find me?

I took a deep breath. Wherever Jesse was, I doubted he

was here. Andrew was nearby and would have read the little

fucker his rights before he’d gotten his hand on the restroom
door. No, it wasn’t Jesse. Was it?

My God, I’m losing my mind.

I gave myself one last look and wondered for the

thousandth time how I was going to get my head around all of
this. Then I left the restroom to find Andrew and wait for the

other officers to arrive.

Three

The emergency room was nearly empty, so when the

officers arrived, we found a deserted corner of the vast waiting
area. After I’d given a statement, signed it, and answered the
same questions a dozen times over, they were done with me.

Andrew waited outside the main entrance. He spun his

key ring on his finger. "Ready to go?"

"I’ve been ready for hours. How’s Chelsea—er, Macy

doing?"

Andrew gestured back inside. "She’ll pull through. Her

husband’s with her now."

"Good. Let’s get the hell out of here, then."

We walked out to the parking lot in silence. The crisp

night air was, as always, tainted with the omnipresent essence
of cars and garbage, but it was the freshest air I’d breathed in

hours. It didn’t smell of blood or sweat or fear. It cooled the
burn of rubbing alcohol fumes in my nose and carried away the
stubborn, if faint, suggestion of gun oil.

Getting out of the familiar confines of the ambulance and

hospital also cleared my mind. As I buckled my seatbelt and
dropped the plastic bag at my feet, the rest of the world came

back into existence. The planet was spinning again, the city had
moved on, and as I got back on time’s treadmill, life picked up
where it had left off when my feet were still on the ambulance’s

dashboard.

The bloodstains would come out of my uniform to make

room for the next person’s. More meals would get cold in the

station’s kitchen and I’d be back to this hospital time and again
with other patients. There would be reports to fill out and my
short but tedious commute to endure. I still had dry-cleaning to

pick up. The bills beside my aging laptop still needed to be paid.

And my damned car was still parked at the station, which

was a U-turn and a few miles from where I’d just told Andrew to

turn as he took me back to my apartment.

I thought about correcting myself and having him take

me to the station, then decided the car could wait. It would still

be there in the morning, and I could hop a bus or get a lift from
one of the guys. My mind probably wasn’t clear enough to drive
anyway, so I said nothing as Andrew turned down the main drag

that would take us to my building.

Not that bringing him anywhere near my apartment was a

good idea. It was probably just as well he was married. In the
mood I was in, I was likely to tear someone to pieces.

"How are you holding up?" he asked out of the blue. He

glanced at me, eyebrows raised in the flicker of passing
streetlights.

I’ll be better once I’ve had a good hard fuck. I cleared my

throat, thankful he couldn’t hear my thoughts. "I’ve had better
days. I think I’ll make it, though."

A hint of amusement curled the corner of his mouth, but

he didn’t let his next breath bring the laughter to life before his
expression again turned serious. "So, I’m curious," he said

quietly. "What exactly happened to Macy? I mean, how bad was
she?"

"She had what’s called a tension pneumothorax. Basically,

the knife punctured her lung and let the air flow out of it into her
chest cavity. As her chest cavity was filling with air, it collapsed
her lung and didn’t give it room to reinflate."

Andrew grimaced. "So the needle in her chest was…?"

"To release that air."

"Lovely," he said, and I thought he shuddered. "How long

did she have before that would have done permanent damage?
Or, you know—" He swallowed hard. "Killed her?"

"In her case, it’s hard to say for sure. Not long, I can tell

you that. Otherwise I never would have taken the chance of

doing it in the street. If I thought I had time to get her to the
hospital, I’d have just given her oxygen until then and let

the ER staff take care of it."

"Fuck," he breathed.

"You two are close, I take it?"

He nodded. "We’ve been partners for years." Barely

whispering, he added, "You cover someone that much, and they
cover you that much, you get pretty close."

We were quiet for a few minutes. As the cross streets

counted down to my address, I thought about our conversation
at the hospital.

"So, tell me more about Jesse," I said. "You said he’s

insane, a druggy, and a genius?"

Nodding, Andrew released a long breath. "Honestly, if he

wasn’t a crackhead, he’d be a serious pain in my ass. He’s like
Houdini when it comes to breaching security measures. Can’t
keep him in, can’t keep him out. Fortunately, he’s usually too

strung out and fucked up to tie his own shoes."

"Great." I groaned. "I should be worried about him, then?

Like, do you think he’d come after me?"

Andrew shook his head. "No, I don’t think he’d do

anything like that. He’s a crook, but not a killer. That, and he’s
nuts. He’ll be lucky if he even remembers today ever happened."

"Good to know." I rubbed the back of my neck and

sighed. "One less person who’ll want me dead."

Andrew eyed me. "What do you mean, one less person?"

"The girl that died at the scene," I said. "Her boyfriend or

husband or whatever was none too happy when I black-tagged
her."

His brow furrowed and he was quiet for a moment. Then

he pulled in a breath and gave a single, slow nod of
enlightenment. "Right. Shawn Foster."

"You know him?"

Andrew nodded again. "He was part of the ring we were

investigating."

"In what capacity?"

"He and several of the other fine residents of that

neighborhood work for one particular dealer, and that’s who
we’ve been investigating. Shawn’s boss is particularly good at

covering his tracks, so we’ve been trying to bust both the drug
and prostitution rings for months. Shawn himself is a

dealer who moonlights as a pimp."

"A pimp and a drug dealer. Lovely."

"Yeah." Andrew scowled. "He’s a hothead with a tendency

to indulge in both of the products he’s supposed to be pushing."

"So is—" I gestured to the left. "Turn here."

"This parking lot?"

"Yeah."

He signaled, turned, and parked in a guest spot.

I took off my seatbelt, but didn’t get out of the car just

yet. Swallowing hard, I continued, "So, is he…dangerous?"

Though he no longer had the road to hold his attention,

Andrew neither spoke nor looked at me. I thumbed my chin and
searched his face for anything he couldn’t hide in the shadows

between streetlights. Whether there simply wasn’t anything to
find or Andrew just had a spectacular poker face, his expression
offered nothing.

"Look, if you know something about this guy…"

Andrew’s gaze was fixed on the steering wheel. Then

something outside the driver’s side window. After a moment, he

focused hard on brushing away a phantom piece of dust on the
dash.
"Andrew?"

Taking a breath, he turned to me. "Listen, he could end

up being completely harmless. Like I said, the man’s a hothead.
It’s entirely possible he was just running his mouth because he
was upset about Jennifer."

I closed my eyes and cringed. Jennifer. A name to go with

the face under the sheet. Black-tagging was a necessary evil in
this job, but it was never easy, and sometimes the only way to

stay sane was to detach myself. Convince myself that the person
was simply a nameless face. An unfortunate casualty. A number
and a tag on a slab in the morgue.

But her name was Jennifer.

"Nick? You okay?"

I never thought I’d be so sick of hearing that question.

Rubbing the bridge of my nose with two fingers, I said, "Yeah.
Tell me honestly, though…" I looked at him, scrutinizing every
detail of his expression. "Since I shouldn’t be worried about

Jesse the crackhead, should I be worried about Shawn the
hothead?"

Andrew’s gaze returned to the dashboard. "I don’t know,

honestly." He looked at me. "I won’t lie to you. The man is
volatile, he’s unpredictable and he’s been known to get violent.
He’s done time for assault and battery, most recently for beating
Jennifer. We’ve been after him for a while, but he only gets close

enough in situations like today where we can’t risk blowing our
cover. He’s got warrants out for assault with a deadly,
attempted murder, and God only knows what else."

My stomach turned. I was suddenly aware of all the

shadowy nooks and crannies of this familiar parking lot. Of dark
spaces between cars and the places streetlights couldn’t quite

reach. Of vast expanses of pavement where one could be
watched by unseen eyes. Sitting out here in Andrew’s car,
weighing the sanity of someone who’d earlier threatened to kill

me, I was also more aware than ever of my own vulnerability.

Though I wasn’t normally one for inviting strangers into

my apartment, I didn’t relish the idea of being out here a
moment longer. That, and Andrew was a cop. He’d given me no
reason not to trust him, and had he not calmly talked Jesse

down, I’d probably be dead. If I couldn’t trust him, then I was
pretty well fucked when it came to trusting the human race at
large.

And even if I was desperate for someone to help me

release this maddening tension, the fact remained that I was
nervous being alone and he was here. Being sexually frustrated
was a price I was willing to pay for a little security.

I paused as I reached for the door handle. "Listen, um, do

you want a cup of coffee?"

He hesitated for a second, then shrugged and unbuckled

his seatbelt. "Why not?"

Relief and a whole different brand of nervousness washed

over me. Get it together, Swain.

I tried to ignore my nerves on the way across the parking

lot. Our dull rubber-soled footfalls echoed not once, but twice off
the building, creating a strange double echo that implied another

pair of feet walking just slightly out of step with us. I’d lived
here long enough to be well aware of those bizarre acoustics.
Tonight, though, I couldn’t help glancing over my shoulder a few

times. It didn’t help that

Andrew kept doing the same.

He’s just not used to the way this parking lot sounds, I

told myself. There’s no one else here. For that matter, I knew
full well that if there was someone, their steps would echo as
well. Three people wandering through this lot sounded like a

whole damned mob.

Still, I couldn’t release my breath until I opened the door

and stepped into the building, leaving the eerie echo outside. On
the way up the stairs, Andrew fell in behind me. The hairs on the

back of my neck stood on end and my senses constantly kept
tabs on exactly where he was, exactly how close he was. It had
never bothered me before, but now, I didn’t like the idea of

someone behind me. Someone nearby, but out of my sight.

It’s Andrew, not Shawn. I took a deep breath. Get a

fucking grip, Swain. As we neared my front door, I pulled my

keys out and busied my unsteady hands with finding the right
one. At the door, we both stopped. Though I didn’t look at him, I
knew exactly where he was, exactly how far behind me and to

my right he stood. Never in my life had I been so acutely aware
of the proximity of someone else.

I wondered, as I put the key in the lock and turned it, just

how long this maddening hyperawareness would last.

Inside, I flicked on the light and stepped aside, gesturing

for Andrew to come in. I closed the door and slid the chain into
place, an action that was as much out of habit as it was an
excuse to let him get ahead of me. Away from me.

A puzzling pang of guilt nudged its way into my stomach

amidst the existing mix of discomfort and uneasiness. The man
had saved my hide, I’d invited him into my apartment, and had
no reason to think he was a threat, yet I wanted him farther

away? Especially when I also wanted him closer than he’d be
comfortable knowing?

Jesse Kendall’s mind was a saner place than mine tonight.

In the living room, Andrew took his jacket off, revealing a

shoulder holster. Though I wasn’t a huge fan of guns, and had
gotten a bit too closely acquainted with one just hours ago,

knowing Andrew was armed was strangely comforting. It wasn’t
like I expected Shawn or Jesse to show up on my doorstep. Still,
the weapon calmed some of my irrational jumpiness.

Before I could spend too long looking at Andrew’s broad

shoulders, I gestured for him to follow me into the kitchen. "You
don’t mind just run of the mill, store-bought coffee, do you?" I

asked.

He chuckled. "As long as it’s not the crap they pour down

at the precinct."

I laughed. "That bad?"

"Worse."

"Well, hopefully this isn’t quite as bad, but I’m not making

any promises." I put the coffee on, convincing myself I wanted
him here just to keep the empty silence at bay, then picked up
the plastic bag I’d brought in with me. "Would you excuse me
for a second? I’m just going to go throw my uniform in the

wash."

"Sure, go ahead." He smiled. "I’m not in a hurry to get

anywhere."

Thank God for that, I thought on my way out of the

kitchen. While I was at that end of the hall, I realized it was a bit
warm in the house for a sweatshirt, so I ducked into the

bedroom to change. With the washing machine running and a T-
shirt on, I went back into the kitchen.

As soon as I was in the same room with him, the T-shirt

didn’t do a damned bit of good keeping me cool. This is going to
be a long evening.

"Sorry about that," I said. "Just wanted to get it washed

before it stained."

"Don’t worry about—" He stopped when he turned

around. Though I only caught his reflection in the kitchen
window, I swore he did a double take.

"What?" I said.

He cleared his throat and made a dismissive gesture.

"Nothing."

As I poured coffee, I kept glancing at him in the window,

trying to read him, but his reflection wouldn’t be read. Certain

I’d been imagining it, I turned around and handed him one of
the coffee cups.

We leaned against opposite counters, silently sipping our

coffee for a long moment.

"Tell me more about Shawn," I said.

Andrew chewed his lip. "What do you want to know?"

"Mostly I want to know if I need to be watching my back."

He set his cup on the counter. "It probably wouldn’t hurt

to be extra careful for a while."

I put both hands around my coffee cup, seeking warmth

but not finding nearly enough to melt the deep chill settling in
my chest. Maybe I should have left the sweatshirt on after all.

"Define ‘extra careful’ and ‘a while’."

"Keep an eye out for anything unusual," he said. "Don’t

hesitate to call me if anyone so much as looks at you the wrong

way. Vary your routes to and from work. Things like that."

"Great." I exhaled. "Do you seriously think he’ll come

after me?"

"It’s hard to say." He picked up his cup, wrapping his

hands around it the same way I had. "It might be wise not to
respond to any calls in that area for a while."

I shivered. "I can’t exactly ignore calls."

"No, that’s true." He gave me a pointed look. "But you’re

not going to do a patient any good if you’re dead."

My stomach turned violently and I grabbed the counter

with one hand as my knees tried to buckle.

"Nick, are—"

I put a hand up. "I’m fine. More coffee?"

He looked into the cup in his hand, then nodded and slid

it across the counter. After I’d poured us each a second cup, we
let the conversation wander away from Shawn and Jesse and

Macy and Jennifer. They were never far from my mind, but I was
relieved to move on and shoot the breeze about whatever came

to mind. Though it seemed strange to talk about cars, jobs, and
whether the first or second season of Rome was better, I ran
with it. It was just easier that way.

In the comfortable light of my apartment, away from the

insanity of the day, I also allowed myself a few more
surreptitious looks at him. And the more I did, the more I

silently cursed that band of gold around his ring finger.

Even if I hadn’t been desperate tonight, I’d have been

attracted to him. The man was simply too sexy to ignore. The
smile that was always just asymmetrical enough to add a hint of

mischievousness to his face. Long fingers running across the
edge of his stubbled jaw when he was thinking. The occasional
exchanged look that he held just long enough to make me

wonder—

Stop it, Swain.

I tried to remind myself that he was a cop. He wasn’t

here for personal reasons, he was here because of everything
that had happened earlier. Strictly professional. Probably making
sure I was okay.

Still, even though I knew that intellectually, I kept

forgetting it because I needed something I couldn’t do myself,
and Andrew Carmichael was gorgeous.

Stop it. Just fucking stop it.

On the other hand, while focusing on the sexy cop in my

kitchen was an exercise in futility, it beat the hell out of dwelling

on the phantom gun still pressed against my head.

"You know, I need something a bit stronger than coffee."

I set my cup in the sink. "You drink Crown Royal?"

"I love Crown," he said. "But, if I do, you’re stuck with me

for a couple of hours."

Oh, I could think of worse things. I laughed as I grabbed

a bottle of Coke out of the refrigerator. "You’re that much of a

lightweight?"

He smiled and gave a half shrug. "Just like to play it

safe."

I pulled the bottle of Crown out and unscrewed the cap.

"So is that a yes or a no?"

"Depends on how long you want me to stick around."

I looked at him. He held my gaze longer than I expected.

Then the corner of his mouth lifted into a devilish grin, and I
wondered if I’d been the one to hold his gaze.

No. No. I’m imagining things.

"So," I said, glancing over my shoulder as I dropped ice

cubes into two glasses. "Coke, or Crown and Coke?"

"Your call. Coke? You can kick me out whenever you

want. Crown?" His eyes narrowed a little, just enough to imply

an unspoken challenge. "Well, you’re stuck with me for an hour
or two."

Before I could question my own intentions, I poured two

Crown and Cokes.

When I handed him one of the drinks, his finger brushed

the side of mine as he wrapped his hand around the glass. The
narrowness of his eyes told me it was deliberate. The sudden

clearing of his throat and dropping of his gaze suggested
otherwise.

Or maybe I had been the one to brush his hand, moving

just right to make contact with his without even realizing I was
doing it. Easy, Nick. He’s not on the menu.

I picked up my own drink, which I could have sworn was

colder, and gestured toward the living room. He went ahead of
me, taking a seat on the couch while I opted for the recliner. We
left the awkwardness in the kitchen and in no time at all, had

lost ourselves in conversation again.

Occasionally, I remembered the knot in my gut, why it

was there, and what I needed to do to get rid of it, but between

Andrew and the whisky, I wasn’t constantly thinking about the
day’s events.

As the evening went on, he must have thought I was a

lightweight from the way I stumbled over my words. I wasn’t
drunk, though, not off a glass or two of whisky. Every time he
absently licked his lips, my mind went blank. Whenever his

fingertips made idle circles on the side of his glass or the
armrest on the sofa, my thoughts abandoned me in favor of
wondering what those idle circles would feel like on my skin.

Pity he was taken, I reminded myself for the millionth

time when his ring caught the light while he took a drink. Taken
and straight, most likely. Oh well. After he’d gone for the
evening, I could occupy my mind with another version of him

that most certainly wasn’t straight. One who intentionally held
my gaze like that whenever the conversation paused. One who
had a reason to look me in the eye longer than any uninterested

person would. One who grinned like that and meant it.

He sat up, twisting a crick out of his back, and I did the

same. It was only then that I realized we’d shifted during the

course of the conversation. I’d turned so both arms rested on
the recliner’s armrest, and he’d moved closer to the end of the

couch. Closer to me.

"Damn, I hope I haven’t overstayed my welcome." He

picked up his glass, which was long since empty for the second

time.

I shrugged. "Hardly. After all the bullshit today, I wasn’t

about to throw you out." Throw you down, maybe,

but—

"What time is it, anyway?"

I looked at my watch. "A little after eleven."

"Wow. Time flies, I guess."

"Your wife doesn’t mind you coming home so late?"

He furrowed his brow. "What?"

"Your wife," I said. "She doesn’t mind?"

"Wife? I’m not married."

My eyes darted to his left hand and the ring on his third

finger. When he looked at it, enlightenment brought a smile to

his lips.

"Just part of my cover. Macy and I have been posing as a

married couple as part of our investigation." He thumbed the

ring and chuckled. "I’ve gotten so used to wearing the damned
thing, I forgot I had it on."

"So, how does that work, then? Do you two just go out

together for the investigation?"

"Oh no," he said. "We’ve been putting on the whole show.

Living together, the works."

"How does her husband feel about that?" I picked up my

drink. "I mean, if she’s effectively living with you, that has to be
a bit awkward for him."

Andrew laughed. "If it was anyone else, maybe." Our

eyes met. Beat. He didn’t break eye contact. Still didn’t, even as
he dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper and added,
"He’s not exactly worried about his wife living with a gay man."

My glass stopped just shy of my lips.

He gave me a knowing grin. I drained my glass, neither

the Coke nor the Crown registering on my tongue as anything

but warm, flavorless liquid. Rolling it around in my mouth for a
moment, I gave up trying to taste it and just swallowed it. Blood
pounded in my ears. Distracting myself with a few fantasies

about a straight, married man was one thing. Andrew had just
changed the rules to this little game.

I gestured with my empty glass. "I need another drink."

"After the crazy day you’ve had," he said, the grin almost

fading. "I don’t blame you."

And this day just keeps getting crazier.

He followed me into the kitchen. His presence behind

me was unnerving, and for very different reasons than

earlier. In fact, it was less unnerving than facing him. Than
looking at him and wondering what was going through his mind.

Did he know? Had I let on? Would he?

I picked up the bottle and looked at him. "More?"

He set his glass on the counter, keeping it almost exactly

halfway between us, neither pulling it back nor pushing it toward
me.

I spun the cap between my fingers. "Is that a yes or a

no?"

He kept his hand on the glass, but didn’t move it. "If I

didn’t know any better," he said, the corner of his mouth lifting
slightly. "I’d think you wanted me to stay for a while."

Oh, you have no idea, Andrew. "Are you trying to hurry

out?"

"Not at all."

I poured myself some Crown, not bothering to add any

Coke this time, and set the bottle in the neutral territory near
his glass. "It’s your call." My eyes never left his as I took a
drink.

"In that case…" He reached across the narrow void and

took my glass, watching me for a moment as if he expected me
to object. When I didn’t, he raised it in a mock toast and, eyes

still locked on mine, finished it. He rolled it around in his mouth
for a second, mesmerizing me with the slow motion of his jaw
before I followed the subtle ripple down the front of his throat.

I swallowed hard when the empty glass clinked on the

counter beside the bottle.

He took his hand off the glass, but didn’t pull it back.

Instead, he rested it midway between us on the edge of the

counter. The look in his eyes was caught somewhere between
confident and cocky, especially when he said in a low voice,
"Looks like you’re stuck with me for a while."

I glanced at his hand, then met his eyes again. "Looks

like you’re right."

Neither of us spoke, nor did we look away from each

other. Something in his expression had changed. Or maybe I
just hadn’t noticed it until now. There was hunger in his eyes, a
primal need that mirrored my own, and I knew: If we went any

farther with this, we were both going to tear each other to
pieces.

When one of us finally moved, it was Andrew. He took a

step toward me, coming close enough to eliminate any neutral
ground between us. Standing this close, any advance or retreat

was an answer. A declaration.

It was with that in mind that I reached up and, with only

a second’s hesitation, put my hand over his beside the glass.

The bob of his Adam’s apple betrayed his confidence-

bordering-on-cockiness, but he recovered quickly. His other
hand came to rest on my side. With a devilish grin beneath
cautious eyes, he said, "Are you sure you’re okay with this?"

My mouth was dry. "Yes."

Our voices were quiet, nearly whispering, almost quiet

enough to mask everything that burned beneath the surface.

"You’ve had a hell of a day," he said.

"So have you." I put my free hand on his arm, curling my

fingers around his elbow and gently forbidding him from pulling

away.

"I have." His arm snaked around my waist, his palm

resting on my lower back as the space between us shrank.

Every move we made was slow and controlled, like the

last few smooth strides of a wildcat just before it pounces. Who
was the hunter and who was the hunted, I couldn’t be sure, but

I had no doubt the thrill was mutual.

"We’ve both had a hell of a day." He inched closer. "Still,

it probably wouldn’t be right to take advantage of you."

My gaze shifted back and forth from his eyes to his lips.

"And if we both want the same thing?"

"Then no one’s taking advantage of anyone, are they?"

His breath warmed my lips more than the Crown Royal had.

I slid my hand around the back of his neck. "So what’s

the problem?"

"There isn’t one."

Four

Our first kiss was slow and controlled, as gentle as it was

deep. The way he ran his fingers through my hair was almost
tender, as was the way my tongue met his. Only the raggedness
of his breath across my face told me he was as close to losing it

as I was.

Still, we held back. Whether it was a moment of

uncertainty, a need to savor the first kiss, or a little fear about

just what we were turning loose, I couldn’t be sure. All I knew in
that moment was that Crown Royal had never tasted as
incredible as it did in Andrew’s mouth.

Eventually, he broke the kiss, but our lips were all that

separated. Breathing hard, he grinned. "You do want me to stay
a while, don’t you?"

"What was your first clue?" I kissed him, and the instant

our lips touched again, there was no doubt in my mind that I’d
truly met my match. The desperation was uncaged now. Every
breath was a battle for the same air, every touch a demand, a

plea, and a promise.

Everything he did was contradictory, as if he was as

confused and overwhelmed as I was. His fingers dug almost

painfully into the back of my neck. From time to time, though,
his fingertips brushed my skin so gently, it was nothing if not a
caress. His kiss bordered on violent, but once in a while, he

slowed down, his lips and tongue barely moving with mine, as if
he just needed a taste to believe this was real.

It was real, though I couldn’t quite believe it myself, and I

needed more. I needed everything he was willing to give me,
and I needed to get him into my bedroom.

Talking meant breaking the kiss, but there were other

ways of telling him to follow me. I doubted he’d have reacted

well if I’d given in to temptation and grabbed the straps of his
shoulder holster, so I settled for his belt. Taking a step back, I

pulled him with me, and he followed without hesitation. Relief
gave me permission to exhale, as if I’d expected him to resist
even if nothing about his kiss or his sharp, hot breaths

suggested he would.

Together we took another step. Then another. My foot

brushed the inside of his, and something solid on his ankle

vaguely registered in my senses, but I was too busy needing
him to care what it was.

My next step was from linoleum to soft carpet. Like

clumsy dancers, we stumbled across the living room, and my hip

grazed the back of the sofa. Still holding onto him with one arm,
I reached behind me with the other, searching blindly for the
corner of the wall so we wouldn’t collide with it. When my

fingers found the corner, I steered us around it and, still
stumbling, still kissing, we continued down the hall.

On our way to my bedroom.

On our way to my bed.

I broke the kiss and looked at him, watching my own

breathless reflection in his eyes. My hands were flat on the front

of his shirt now, undecided between pulling him closer or
pushing him away.

I shouldn’t do this.

This was crazy. I hadn’t had a one night stand since

college.

What am I doing?

My heart pounded as I tried to make sense of the fact I

had every intention of fucking this man I’d only known for a
matter of hours.

This is insane. I can’t do this.

He touched my face and swept the tip of his tongue

across the inside of his lower lip. Whatever that little voice in my
head tried to say next was lost in the unsteadiness of my own

breath and the whisper of his across my skin. Of everything that
had happened today, this was the only thing in the same
ballpark as sane. And if he kissed me like that again, breathed

on my skin like that again, pressed his cock against mine like
that again…

I need to do this.

His shirt bunched in my curling fingers and I pulled him to

me. We continued down the hall, moving faster now and with
less control. We stumbled, tripped, wavered, bumped the wall,

hit the doorframe, but both our breathing and kissing deepened
with every step. Somewhere along the way, we dropped my

shirt to the floor. The cool leather of his shoulder holster
emphasized the heat of his body through his shirt, and as soon
as his hands were on my bare skin, I wanted him to touch me

everywhere.

In the bedroom, he dipped his head to kiss my neck. "I’m

sure there’s some reason why this is wrong," he said. "But I

really don’t care."

"Does it feel wrong?"

"No." His voice dropped to a low growl, vibrating against

my throat. "I just want you."

If there was anything wrong with this, the simplicity of

Andrew’s words and the hunger in his voice made it right.

With trembling hands, he unclipped his holster from his

belt. Stepping back, he shrugged out of it and set it aside, the
weight of the pistol thumping on top of the dresser like my heart
against my ribcage. Then he put his foot up on the bed frame

and rolled up his pant leg. The distinctive rip of separating
Velcro broke the near silence as he took off his ankle holster.
After he’d laid it on the dresser, he put his arms around me and

kissed me again.

I unbuttoned his shirt as best I could with nervous,

excited fingers. He must have felt the way my hands shook, or

maybe he just wanted to get these damned clothes out of the
way faster, because he helped. His hands weren’t much steadier
than mine, but between the two of us, we got enough buttons

open for him to pull his shirt and the T-shirt under it over his
head.

Once it was gone, so was my breath.

For a moment, I simply stared. Without his shirt, he was

fucking incredible. His pronounced collarbones demanded my
attention, then distributed that attention to the shoulders above,
the arms beside, the chest and abs below. He wasn’t ripped like

a bodybuilder, but every inch of him was solid and powerful.

Solid, powerful, and irresistible to the touch, so I

touched him, putting my hands on his collarbones and

letting them follow the same paths my eyes had taken. He
sucked in a breath as my fingertips trailed over his shoulders
and down his arms. Leaning forward, he kissed me lightly,

almost delicately, and it was with that same feather lightness
that his hands drifted up my back. We were back to slow and
controlled, every muscle fraught with the barely contained

energy of coiled springs as gentle hands ran over skin that
would undoubtedly be bruised by sunrise.

Without speaking, he unzipped my jeans and I unbuckled

his belt. Our hands were, somehow, steady, but we may as well
have been stripping away layers of restraint. The rattle of his

belt buckle made my knees shake. My hands sliding beneath his
waistband made him gasp. By the time our bodies touched
without a stitch of clothing between his feverish skin and mine,

we’d abandoned anything resembling slow and controlled.

I backed him up against the bed and kissed his neck,

inhaling the vague hint of aftershave and the heady scent of
him. He ran his fingers through my hair as my lips touched the

underside of his jaw and trailed down the side of his neck. When
I reached between us and wrapped my fingers around his cock, I
shivered as a deep groan rolled like thunder against my lips. I

couldn’t decide what turned me on more—his Crown Royal kiss
or the hot saltiness of his skin—but I hadn’t had enough of
either.

I raised my head and Andrew met my lips with a kiss

made of delirious lust and waning control. Yes, yes, a thousand
times yes, you are exactly what I need right now.

Holding his hips in both hands— don’t move, don’t you

dare move—I knelt in front of him. He took in a hiss of breath
and our eyes met as I trailed kisses along his hipbone.

I watched him watch me draw a slow circle around the

head of his cock with my tongue. When I stroked him just as
slowly, his lips parted to make way for words that didn’t come

and breath that didn’t move. With both hand and mouth, I
picked up speed, flicking my tongue along the underside of his
cock and adding a subtle twist to the motion of my hand.

"God, yes, just like that." He groaned and let his head

fall back. His hips rocked back and forth, mirroring my

own movements, trying to fuck my mouth just a little harder,
just a little deeper.

I added my other hand and his knees trembled. His

fingers twitched in my hair, as if he couldn’t decide whether to
pull me closer or push me away.

"Nick…" His voice wavered between a growl and a moan.

"Oh God, come up here, come up here…" The desperation in his
voice made my mouth water. I wanted to taste it, so I did as he

asked and stood.

Our lips had only just met when Andrew suddenly turned

the tables and took control. I didn’t even have a chance to

comprehend what he was doing before he had me flat on my
back, breathless and begging for more. His kiss was deep and

demanding, rewarding and punishing: I’m going out of my mind
because of you.

I was sure I’d come from his kiss alone. Then he wrapped

his fingers around my cock. It took only one stroke to make me
gasp and break contact with his mouth. In an instant, his lips
were on my neck.

"Like that?" he murmured, his warm breath raising goose

bumps all the way down my back and arms. I moaned, hoping it
sounded like the affirmative it was. And it must have because he
didn’t stop. I bit my lip, trying to hold back, but the way he

touched me just felt too good.

"Wait," I said between gasps for air. "Don’t make me

come yet."

"Why not?" He kissed just above my collarbone. "What if I

want you to come?"

"Because I still want to—oh, God…"

"Tell me, Nick."

"I still want—" My teeth chattered with the force of the

shiver that rippled through me. "I still want to fuck you."

He released a hiss of breath against my neck as he

shuddered and, whether intentionally or not, his hand tightened
around my cock.

I moaned again. Everything he did ignited invisible fuses

beneath my skin. Some burned slowly, some burned quickly,
and every last one conspired to send me closer to losing what

little control I had left. I’d never been so aroused, so responsive,
like he’d found my body’s flashpoint. Like he was my body’s
flashpoint. And another kiss, another touch, another breath…

"Andrew, I want…"

"You will. We’ve got plenty of time, and I want you to

fuck me, but first…" His lips met my skin and lingered there,
barely moving. "First I want you to come."

There was no arguing with him, not when his hand

echoed the desire in his voice. Not when he stroked me just
right to promise me the very release I so desperately craved.

Not when my vision clouded over, my back arched off the bed,
and his lips silenced my helpless cry of surrender.

Gasping for breath, I savored every tingle and tremor,

hoping to God this wouldn’t be the last time tonight. Even as
intense as it was, the first orgasm was just the beginning. It
always was. I silently prayed Andrew wasn’t just talk, that he

really had the stamina to take me to the next and the one after.
The first always shook the foundation of whatever had me so

wound up, and every one thereafter would bring me closer to
catharsis.

When I could finally open my eyes, the look in his told me

those prayers had been answered. Oh yes, I’d met my match.

We both went for the tissues beside the bed. Then,

without a word, I pulled some condoms out of the drawer,

dropping all but one on the bedside table.

"Keeping a few within easy reach?" Andrew took the last

one from me and tore the wrapper.

"Seemed like a good idea."

Grinning, he glanced up from rolling the condom on. "Oh,

it’s a good idea." He looked around. "Lube?"

"Oh, right." I reached into the drawer again and found the

bottle.

While he put the lube on, I got on my hands and knees.

The bed shifted as he moved behind me, and when he ran his

hand down my side to my hip, I shivered. Anticipation lodged
my breath in my throat.

He pushed in slowly, both of us releasing long, ragged

breaths as he slid deeper inside me. The first stroke or two were
just as slow before he quickly picked up speed. Most nights, I’d
have asked him to go easy at first. This soon after an orgasm,

anything beyond slow and gentle would be too

much. Painful, even.

Not on a night like this, though. On a night like this, I’d

usually be begging someone not to hold back, to fuck me as
hard as he could and still harder than that. If it didn’t hurt, it
wasn’t enough.

I didn’t have to beg Andrew. He drove me right to the

edge of almost too much, gripping my hips tighter with every
deep, powerful thrust, and he didn’t stop. He just didn’t stop.
Pain blurred with pleasure, light and dark swirled together

behind my eyelids, and every shudder shook away a little more
of… of whatever it was I didn’t want to care about.

He gripped my hips tighter and released a long moan. I

rocked back against him, meeting his thrusts and driving him
deeper.

"Oh God…" His hands slid up my back to my shoulders,

granting him a little extra leverage. As he fucked me harder, the
sound he made was somewhere between a groan and a
whimper, the voice of a man wavering between pain and

ecstasy. "Oh God, yes…"

Thrust. His fingers dug in.

Thrust. A ragged breath turned into a moan.

Thrust. He pulled me against him. Held me there.

Shuddered once, twice, again.

And

relaxed.

After a moment, he pulled out slowly, and we both

collapsed on the bed to catch our breath. Eventually, he stood,

pausing as if to make sure his legs would stay under him. Once
he was evidently certain they would, he stepped away to get rid
of the condom. While he faced away from me, I had a moment
to drink in the sight of his back and shoulders. Those broad,

powerful shoulders must have cost him his soul and then some.
Jesus, you’re beautiful. His back simply demanded exploring
fingers and kneading palms, and my hands tingled with the need

to feel him. You’re beautiful and I have got to touch you again.

As soon as he was within reach again, I grabbed the back

of his neck and pulled him to me, kissing him passionately even

as we both still struggled to catch our breath. For a second, he
hesitated, as if I’d caught him off guard, but he quickly followed
suit. His arms went around me and his lips parted to let my

tongue past.

Tangled up in our kiss and each other, we sank onto the

bed. I was on top, giving his hands the freedom to run up and

down my back, gentle fingertips teasing electrified nerves along
the length of my arching spine.

When I raised my head, my pulse jumped. His face was

still flush from his orgasm, his skin slick with sweat, but the
hunger in his eyes hadn’t diminished at all from the moment
he’d given me that look over the rim of my drink.

He grinned and combed his fingers through my hair. "You

didn’t think we were done yet, did you?"

Surprise surrendered to amusement, and I kissed him

lightly before murmuring, "We’d better not be."

We weren’t. We definitely weren’t.

Five

If that bird doesn’t shut up, I’m going to strangle it.

The chirping continued, rousing me against my will. My

eyes fluttered open. Above me, daylight carved long shadows
among the peaks and valleys of the ceiling’s textured plaster.

Those shadows were as familiar as the rest of the room around
me, but something was out of place.

The incessant sound chased away the delirium of sleep,

and my surroundings started to make sense. Vague throbbing
let me know all the places that would probably be bruised later
on, and every aching muscle explained why. The holster on my

dresser and the body heat beside me reminded me that Andrew
was still here.

With the clarity of consciousness also came the

understanding of what was wrong: The annoying sound wasn’t a

bird at all.

I leaned over the side of the bed and grabbed my jeans.

Fishing around in the pockets, I found my cell phone just as it

kicked over to voicemail. I flipped it open and pulled up the
missed calls list. Evidently I’d slept through several calls. As I
blinked the names into focus, it was the most recent that jarred

me fully awake.

Chief Switzer.

Shit. Ice water slithered through my veins, bringing back

all the memories Andrew and I had drowned in sweat last night.
I shivered, pulling in a sharp breath as the sudden warmth of his
hand on my back emphasized the chill within.

The phone beeped again, this time letting me know my

boss had left a message. I grumbled something profane and hit
'send' to play it back.

Andrew sat up beside me. "What’s wrong?"

"My boss."

I keyed in my password, and the message played: "Hey,

Nicholas, it’s Chief Switzer. Listen, I need to talk to you about
what happened last night. Give me a call back or swing by my
office as soon as possible, would you?"

"Can’t wait," I muttered, snapping the phone shut. As I

leaned to the side to put the phone on the nightstand, Andrew
slipped his arm around my waist.

"Wants to talk about yesterday?" He kissed the back of

my shoulder and we both sank back down to the bed.

"Yeah. I’ll call him back later." The knot in my stomach

tried to tighten, but the heat of Andrew’s body kept me from

caring as much as I probably should have.

"You sure?" he murmured, nuzzling my neck. "Sounds

important." His coarse stubble made me shiver.

"I’m sure it is." I put my hand over his and he pulled me

closer. "It can wait."

"Hmm, I don’t know if you should ignore your boss." He

kissed my shoulder again.

"I can’t pay attention to him when you’re distracting me

like this."

"I’m not distracting you," he said, nibbling my ear gently.

"Yes, you are."

"Do you want me to stop?"

"Don’t you dare."

"That’s what I thought."

Still in his arms, I rolled onto my back. Though his eyes

weren’t quite awake yet, his lips came to life in a seductive grin,
bringing to mind everything he’d done to me last night. Oh yes,
Andrew was precisely what the doctor had ordered.

He ran his thumb along my jaw, the gentle friction of skin

over stubble making me shiver. "Sleep okay?"

"Surprisingly well, under the circumstances." I combed

my fingers through his disheveled hair. "Then again, I don’t

think you left me much choice."

He kissed me lightly. "Likewise."

"So, how did you know?"

"Know

what?"

"Last night," I said. "That I’d be… willing."

"You mean how did I know you were gay?"

"Bi, if you want to get technical," I said with a shrug. "But

yes."

He laughed. "Lucky guess."

"Come on, something must have given it away."

He raised his eyebrows and gave a half shrug, the

asymmetrical grin canceling out the attempt at innocence.
"Maybe it did, maybe it didn’t."

"Something did. What was it?"

"You were watching my hands and my mouth," he said.

"I was?" Oh, yes, I had been. Guilty as charged.

"Yes, you were," he laughed. "And most straight guys

won’t make eye contact with another guy for quite that long.
Especially not when he’s already nervous about something else."
"Observant."

Another half-shrug, this time with even less innocence in

his expression. "Flirt with a detective, don’t expect to get away
with it."

"Hmm, I think getting caught was well worth it."

His thumb made a slow arc along my lower lip, mirroring

the tip of his tongue moving across the inside of his own lip. For
a second, I thought he was about to say something. Instead his

hand moved into my hair and he leaned down to kiss me. It was
a light kiss, the kind that should have had the lifespan of a few
heartbeats, but it went on. He pulled me closer and gently

parted my lips with his tongue. I didn’t realize my hand had
moved to his face until his jaw, coarse and unshaven against my
palm, moved with the deepening of his kiss.

And still it went on, deep and tender, unhurried and

passionate. When he raised his head and looked at me again,
something startled the seductiveness out of his expression. We

stared at each other, as if neither of us had expected to see the
other at this end of a kiss like that.

He drew back slightly and we started to loosen the

embrace we’d caught ourselves in, but we both hesitated. We
should let go. I don’t want to let go. I resisted the temptation to
run my fingers through his hair again. This was

a one night stand. We weren’t lovers.

"I suppose I should get going." He made no move to pull

away. "Your boss is waiting for you, and I want to get down to
see Macy before I have to go see my boss." There was humor in

the lilt of his voice and the curl of his lip, but not in the
momentary loss of focus in his eyes. Something on his mind,
something that came and went in a second or two before he

cleared his throat and whispered, "Anyway, I hate to run out,
but…"

"Yeah, I guess I should get down to the station." I trailed

my fingertips across his shoulder and waited for the shiver.
When it came, I added, "We could always stay here for a few

more minutes."

He closed his eyes, arching his neck in response to my

touch. "I think we both know it would end up being more than a

few minutes."
"So?"

His shoulders dropped slightly, undoubtedly signaling that

his defenses had done the same. "I wouldn’t want to overstay
my welcome." Still, he bent to kiss my neck, and it was my turn
to shiver.

"I don’t think that’s going to be an issue."

"You sure?" He murmured, nipping the side of my neck as

he pressed his hard cock against my hip. "This could take a
while."

"Yes, yes it could." I guided his hand down to my own

erection. "In fact, I’m counting on it."

He growled something I didn’t understand. Before I could

think to ask him to repeat it, his mouth was over mine, and we
were right back to that first moment in my kitchen last night.

After five orgasms between us and two showers together,

we managed to pry ourselves off each other, get dressed, and
leave my apartment. The double echoes of our footsteps were
far less menacing in the light of day, and the parking lot was

free of the eerie shadows that had driven us indoors last night.
The late morning sun warmed the chill the darkness had
created, but a new one settled over me on the way to Andrew’s

car. Over me and between us. It followed us into the car,
hovering above the console as we silently buckled our seatbelts
and Andrew started the engine.

This short car ride would define where we went from

here. He’d been exactly what I needed, gave me everything my
mind and body craved after yesterday. The need was physical,
and everything that had happened last night and this morning

were physical. No strings, no reason to expect this to continue in
any direction.

But I wondered. The accidental tenderness this morning

was tenderness nonetheless. It was the first time we’d looked at
each other in the light of a new day, without all the heart-
pounding adrenaline of yesterday, and there was less distance

between us than perhaps there should have been. I couldn’t
quite define what it was, but something about this seemed…
different. A bizarre kind of intimacy born of meeting in such

chaos and not letting go until order had been restored in the
universe.

No, that was nonsense. I was just trying to give myself an

excuse to want more of him. Of course I wanted more. Sex with
Andrew was hot and it made me forget for a while. He was the

nearest warm body, and evidently the need for one was mutual.
We’d had something in common, we’d had something the other
wanted, and for one night, we were all the other needed.

For

one

night

only.

Now it was the morning after. Time to move on and get

back to the world we’d escaped.

Up ahead, the station came into view. I chewed the inside

of my cheek and wondered how this departure would go. I didn’t
know what I was supposed to say or do. Did this call for a kiss or
a handshake? Goodbye or goodbye for now?

Last night was fun. What do you say we do it again

without all the insanity?

Call me?

Thanks for the lift, Detective Carmichael?

My stomach fluttered with nerves— because I’m about to

face my boss, that’s all—as Andrew pulled into the parking lot

and stopped. He left the car in drive, and I couldn’t tell if he’d
done so as a question or an answer.

"Well," he said. "Take care of yourself." An answer, then.

"Likewise. And thanks for the ride." I paused, my cheeks

burning. "I mean the lift. Here. To the station."

Andrew laughed. "Not a problem." He extended a hand

across the console.

We shook hands and exchanged polite smiles, a parting

gesture that seemed about as fitting as closing the Olympics

with some wet firecrackers and a sparkler.

It was just a one night stand, Nick. Leave it alone.

After a few seconds of that silence that no one ever

knows quite how to fill, we said a couple of whispered goodbyes

and I got out of the car. I took a few steps toward the firehouse,
then stopped. I looked over my shoulder and offered him one
last smile. He returned it before steering out of the lot and

driving away.

As Andrew disappeared into my past, I walked into the

station. On the way down the hall to Switzer’s office, I passed

the lounge, where several on-duty firefighters and EMTs sat
around waiting for an alarm to go off.

"Hey, Swain!" Johnson said, looking up from the baseball

game on TV. "How’s it going, man? We heard what happened."

"It’s going," I said.

"Is it true what Leon said?" McLarney asked over the top

of his coffee cup. "He told second shift that some fruit loop tried
to kill you while you were helping that cop."

"Yeah, some crackhead." I shrugged to hide the shudder.

I started to say something else, the words halting in my throat
when goose bumps prickled up my spine and a wave of panicked

'someone’s there' surged through my consciousness. A split
second later, a hand clapped my shoulder from behind. I nearly
jumped out of my skin, spinning around to see who it was.

"Hey, hey, easy." Keller, one of the firefighters, put his

hands up.

"Sorry." I let out a breath, ignoring the way my heart

pounded. "Just a bit jumpy, I guess."

"Can’t blame you for that," Johnson said. "So what

happened, anyway?"

My stomach twisted into knots at the thought of

rehashing it. "Actually, I have to go talk to Chief—"

"Well if it isn’t the boy from the front page," Sims’ voice

came from behind me and cut me off.

I looked at him. "I beg your pardon?"

"You’re front page news, kid." He handed me a copy of

the local paper. As I picked it up, the knots in my gut tightened.

There were no pictures of me, thank God, but my name came up
in the article. Several times. So did phrases like 'racial slur,'
'discriminatory practices,' and 'lawsuit against the city.' There

was talk of an investigation for misconduct and gross neglect.
Someone even accused both Macy and me of hate crimes.
Funny, though, there was no mention of Jesse holding me at

gunpoint while I helped Macy. Those would probably come out in
later stories; in this reporter’s rush to be the first to break the
news, he’d likely latched on to the most sensational thing he
could find. Exclusivity trumped accuracy, of course.

"Just what I need." I handed the paper back to Sims.

"Don’t worry about it, man." Keller clapped my shoulder

again. "It’ll blow over. Always does."

"Tell that to the woman’s boyfriend," I muttered. Again

they tried to get the real story out of me, but I bowed out and
continued on my way to see Switzer. Maybe one day, this whole

thing would be my "oh yeah, well let’s see you do a
thoracentesis on a sidewalk with a gun to your head" shit-talking
story. Today was not that day.

I knocked on the chief’s door.

"Come in."

I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.

He rose to shake my hand. "Nicholas, good to see you." I

hated the fact that he insisted on calling me by my full first

name, something even my mother didn’t do. It was just his way,
though, so I ignored it as I always did. After he shook my hand,
he gestured at the faux leather chair in front of his desk and

took a seat himself. "Thanks for coming in. I won’t keep you
long."

"I have all day." I sat across from him. "You gave me the

day off, remember?"

"Yes, that’s true." There wasn’t a lot of humor in his

voice, though. "You’ll be taking a few days off, actually."

"Look, Chief, I’m fine," I said. "Really."

He folded his arms across his barrel of a chest. "I want to

be sure of that."

"I’m still alive, aren’t I?"

"Yes, and thank God for that," he said. "For the safety

of our patients, though, I need to be damned sure that

your head is still screwed on straight."

"Chief, I—"

"It’s department policy, son. You know the drill."

I closed my eyes and exhaled. I did indeed know the drill

after something like this. Mandatory time off, a psych eval, and,
quite possibly, an investigation by Internal Affairs.

"Can’t wait," I muttered.

"That, and there are some concerns about how last

night’s call was handled."

I kept myself from groaning, but still rolled my eyes. "Oh,

Jesus."

"City Hall has been getting complaints about how you

triaged the scene." He folded his hands on the well-worn desk
blotter. "The word ‘discrimination’ has been coming up. A lot."

It was one thing to worry that my judgment would be

called into question. It was another when the media put their
bullshit spin on something and turned it into a something to sell

newspapers. But it was a whole different ballgame when the
official complaints started rolling in, when people were willing to
sign their names below accusations and give them life. It had

been less than twenty-four hours. There would be more
complaints, of that I had no doubt.

"Chief, you know me," I said. "You know I—"

He put his hands up and nodded. "I’m not accusing you of

anything, Nicholas. You know the rules. The complaints come in,

I have to look into them."

"I know."

Switzer leaned back in his chair. "All right then, tell me

what happened."

I rubbed my eyes. "Fuller and I responded to the call. We

were first on the scene with four victims." I shrugged, more

apologetically than flippantly. "I had three people in bad shape
and only two to attend them. Jennifer was the worst of the
three, and as far as I could tell, her odds were slim to none, so I
black-tagged her."

"Did you think she could be saved if sufficient manpower

was readily available?"

Chewing the inside of my cheek, I hesitated for a moment

before shaking my head. "Not with that kind of
blood

loss."

"Did you think Ms. Lombardi’s condition was as critical as

it turned out to be?"

"Yes and no. She was responsive, bleeding heavily, with

labored breathing. It wasn’t until I’d red-tagged her and actually

listened to her chest that I caught the bigger problem."

Switzer nodded slowly and looked at some notes. "You did

the right thing, kid. From everything I’m getting from the other

medics, there was no saving Jennifer. I’m still waiting on the
official coroner’s report, but I understand there was catastrophic
blood loss. Unofficially, if she wasn’t dead when you arrived on-

scene, she probably would have been whether you’d tried to
save her or not."

I closed my eyes and swallowed hard. There was but cold

comfort in knowing a difficult decision like that was most likely
the right one.

"Now, some of the witnesses don’t think so," Switzer

continued. "Maybe we need to come up with something other

than ‘black-tagging’ for a mass casualty situation, because
several bystanders thought you refused to treat her because she
was black."

I scowled. "So was the guy I red-tagged. So is my

partner, for God’s sake."

"Understood." He set the notes down. "But, you know

how people get. Bereaved, needing to lay blame. The fact that
you treated an officer instead of a civilian is going to come into
play too."

"Right, like I knew she was an undercover cop?"

He shrugged. "Everyone knows now, so they’re going to

conveniently forget that you didn’t."

"Great." I stared at his desk for a moment, running

through the whole scene again. The murderous hatred in

Shawn’s eyes and voice gave me chills. Looking at Switzer, I
said, "Was anyone arrested yesterday?"

"Unfortunately, no. Not even that fucker who put a gun to

your head," he said. "Besides him, the only one they would have
booked was on her way to the morgue."

"What about her boyfriend?"

"What about him?"

"He threatened me," I said. "Grabbed me, told me he

was going to hunt me down and kill me. His name was

Shawn. Shawn…" I pursed my lips, searching my memory for his

last name. "Foster. Shawn Foster."

"Hmm." Switzer rifled through some papers, furrowing his

brow and scanning a few pages. "I’ll have to talk to the police

chief. I don’t see any records of any arrests being made. Just—
Wait." He shuffled through some more pages.
"What?"

"Shawn Foster, you said?"

I nodded, my heart pounding as I prayed there was

another arrest report that he’d missed the first time through.

"Looks like he was one of the complainants."

"Are you serious?"

He slid the page across the desk. I picked it up and

skimmed over the barely legible accusation of ignoring Jennifer’s
condition because she was black. The form was one from city
hall, not the police. He’d gone downtown and put in the

complaint that way instead of talking to the cops at the scene.
Slick bastard. I was surprised it had gotten to Switzer already.
Internal Affairs must have been sinking their teeth into this one
if complaints from city hall were getting processed this quickly.

Sliding it back to him, I said, "So is the city going to issue

a statement at some point? Maybe let people know what a black
tag is?"

He nodded. "As soon as the autopsy results are officially

released, the city will release a statement."

"How long will that be?"

"If it’s as cut and dry as I’m told it is, probably within two

or three days. It’s not like we have to wait for a toxicology
report or anything for this one."

"Great. What is the city telling the media until then?"

"Same thing you will," he said. "No comment."

I gritted my teeth. "Of course."

"You know as well as I do they aren’t going to say

something they might have to retract later. If there’s an

allegation of misconduct, they can’t jump the gun to cover your
tracks."

"Not until they can be sure they won’t get a PR black eye,

of course."

He offered a sympathetic shrug. "The city’s protecting

its

image."

"Look, maybe I’m out of line for saying this, but the city

needs to worry a bit more about protecting its people," I said.
"Maybe, I don’t know, get off its ass about building that station
near Masontown?"

Switzer nodded, scowling. "I know. And the media’s

having a field day with that, too."

"I don’t blame them. I mean, they can call me whatever

names they want for doing what I did. That doesn’t change the
fact that there should’ve been a faster response."

"You’re preaching to the choir, son."

I exhaled. For the last two years, the city had hemmed

and hawed about building a station closer to Masontown.
Bureaucratic bullshit and budget cuts had kept it tied up, even

as the neighborhood’s population exploded following the closure
of two major methadone clinics. With the influx of jonesing
heroin addicts came a whole new mini economy. Crack joined

heroin. Prostitution followed.

And still a two-lane bridge with no shoulder separated us

from this neighborhood. In high traffic, it was nearly impossible

to squeeze through and get to Masontown in a hurry. That
bridge had kept yesterday’s response in a chokehold while Macy
tried to breathe, Andrew talked Jesse out of killing me, and
Jennifer died.

I rubbed the ache out of my forehead. "Yesterday was

bound to happen, Chief, and it’s going to happen again."

"Yeah, I know." Switzer let out a long sigh. "But they’re

too busy cutting all the existing stations down to skeleton crews
to be bothered building another firehouse."

I nodded, muttering a string of profanity under my

breath.

"Listen to me, Nicholas. I know this is something you’re

passionate about, but don’t let me hear about you breathing a

word of it to the media. They’re going to be hounding you until
this thing dies down, and I don’t want you commenting on any

of it."

"I know." The city had a strict policy about employees

communicating with the media. That policy was pretty much

summarized as 'don’t even think about it.'

"I’m serious," he said. "This is going to be a PR nightmare

as it is."

"Oh, do forgive me." I made no effort to mask my

sarcasm. "I’ll keep that in mind next time I have to decide how
to treat a mass casualty."

He glared at me. "You know what I mean."

"Yeah, I do," I said through my teeth. "The city can’t be

bothered to give those people the help they need, and heaven
forbid I mention that to the press that’s crucifying me for doing

the best I could."

His chair creaked as he leaned back slowly, and as he

eyed me, I wondered if I’d gone a little too far.

I took a breath. "Sorry, sorry. I won’t say anything to the

press."

"I know you won’t." Switzer sat up again and rested his

elbows on the desk. "Son, I know you’re handling this all very
well, but I do think taking a few days off would be in your best
interest."

"To be honest," I said. "Getting back to work will probably

do me more good than sitting at home and dwelling on all of it."

"I understand. Still, it’s department policy. Until you’ve

been declared fit for duty after a psych eval, I can’t let you
respond to any calls." He made an apologetic gesture. "My
hands are tied. That, and if anything happens on your watch,

you know that’s going to reflect badly on the department."

I raised an eyebrow. "If anything happens?"

He sighed. "You’re a good medic, but shit happens.

People die sometimes in spite of anyone’s best efforts. If it

happens right now, someone’s going to find a reason to blame
you."

I couldn’t argue with that.

"So, I think you should take a few more days off," he

said. "You’re obviously stressed about it, and I don’t want it
affecting your work."

I bit my tongue almost hard enough to draw blood. Just

hard enough to hold back a snide remark about fucking up and
giving the city another PR black eye.

When I was sure my internal censor was back online and

I could speak without getting myself fired, I said, "How much

time should I take? I don’t have a hell of a lot of vacation time
left."

"Don’t worry about it. This won’t come out of your

personal time."

The bean counters will love that. "Okay, well, you tell me,

then."

"Let’s start with a week," he said.

My stomach turned. With that much time on my hands to

dwell on all of this, I was going to lose what was left of my mind.
"A week? Chief, I—"

"Yes, a week."

"Chief—"

"Don’t argue with me, Nicholas." His expression echoed

the warning in his words. "Department policy recommends two
weeks, so you can take the week I’m offering, or take two. Now
go home, get some rest, and I don’t want to see your face in

this station for a week."

I thought about arguing with him anyway. Instead, I rose.

"Yes, sir. See you in a week."

Six

Click-click-click.

Hammer drawing back. Reverberating down my spine.

Her lips are turning blue. She can’t breathe. How can you let her
die just because she’s black? The gun’s shaking. She can’t

breathe. I will hunt you down and kill you! She can’t breathe.

Just do it. Needle in. Flash of red and white —

I flew upright in bed, wide-eyed and gasping for air. The

panic in my veins was as cold as the sweat on my skin.

Slowly, reality set in all around me for the hundredth time

since I’d gone to bed. Piece by piece, I separated fact from

fiction in my head. I’m still alive. He didn’t shoot me. Just a
dream. Just the same fucking dream.

I ran a shaking hand through my damp hair. For the first

time, I was thankful the chief had insisted I take a few days off.

God only knew how many nights this was going to last, but I
was in no condition to work after spending hours wishing my
subconscious would forget what happened and ignore what

didn’t happen.

It was daylight now. Had been for hours. Given the all-

night nature of my line of work, I was used to sleeping whenever

I could, even when the sun was up.

Not today. Each time I awoke, it was harder to fall back

to sleep, and I was tired of dreaming, so I gave up and got up.

After I’d showered, I wandered aimlessly for a while, just trying
to find something to do. Housework, a video game, anything. I
was both exhausted and restless. Too jittery for caffeine, too

tired to focus on anything, too wound up to sit still. Though I
was dead tired, I finally decided to go for a run. At least it was
something to occupy all this nervous energy, even if my muscles

wouldn’t be happy about it.

So I changed clothes, stretched, found my half-charged

MP3 player, and headed out. I’d long ago mapped out a few

different paths amongst the streets and parks near my
apartment. A half-mile for easy, lazy days. A mile and a half,
two, and three miles for my regular workouts. And, for days

when I needed to run until I couldn’t think anymore, six miles.
My mind itched for the exhaustion from a long run, but since I
was only functioning on a few hours of sleep, I opted for two

miles.

Less than half a mile in, I was already feeling it, so I

slowed my pace a bit.

The fatigue in my legs wasn’t just from lack of sleep.

Some of the soreness lingered from everything I’d done with
Andrew the other night. I smiled at the memory. The man had
incredible stamina, and he found every possible way to turn me

on over and over and over again. Even when we were both too
exhausted to move after the second—or was it third?—time, he
didn’t stop. Whether it was a fingertip running up and down my

arm, or his lips brushing the side of my neck when he spoke, or
just the look in his eyes, everything he did said 'we’re not done
yet.'

And we weren’t done, not until we’d both collapsed in the

earliest crimson haze of sunrise.

I hadn’t dreamed that night. In the few hours between

Andrew letting me surrender to sleep and Chief Switzer calling
me, it was darkness. That was exactly what I’d hoped for,
exactly what I’d needed, even though I knew the nightmares

and cold sweats would be along in due time. Like last night.

The dreams were like flickering images reflecting off

scattered shards of blood-stained glass: not quite clear, not

quite real. Sometimes I saw what happened. Sometimes I saw
what could have happened. Sometimes it was a jumbled,
abstract kaleidoscope of nonsensical things that a psychiatrist
would have had a field day with.

In daylight, the memories didn’t leave me alone either,

but they were more coherent. Everything replayed in my mind in
chronological order. In agonizingly slow motion. In high

definition. I saw, heard, felt, smelled, and tasted

everything even more acutely than when it had

happened.

More than anything, I couldn’t shake the memory of that

icy certainty that I was going to die. I’d had reason to be
concerned about my own safety on calls in the past. Belligerent

drug addicts. Passing cars that got too close. A rather large
Rottweiler that wasn’t quite as friendly as his owners believed.

A shaking gun to the back of my skull? That was a new

one. And every time I thought of how many times he could have
pulled that trigger, my stomach turned. On one hand, I berated

myself for dwelling on it so much. It was over. I’d survived. Why
keep agonizing over it? On the other hand, though, it was a
close call. Way, way too close. Every time I saw the memory

through to the end, the fear was real and raw, like I was
jumping out of my skin at the climax of a horror movie I’d seen
a hundred times before.

This will pass. I will get over this.

On my way past a row of newspaper vending machines, I

stopped when a headline caught my eye:

Masontown Shooting Death—Paramedic to be

Investigated for Misconduct, Discrimination.

I looked around, eyeing the mostly empty street in case

some passerby might recognize me. Though there was no photo

on the front page, I felt terribly conspicuous, as if the silent
machine was poised to scream an announcement that the
paramedic in question was right here, right now. I gave the

newspaper one last wary look, certain my face was going to
materialize amidst all the accusations and speculation.

Finally, I jogged on.

I wondered how much of an investigation there would be.

Assuming the autopsy showed that Jennifer would have died
anyway, Internal Affairs wouldn’t have much of a leg to stand

on. They’d likely grill me, ask how I knew right then what it took
the coroner a few days to confirm, but I didn’t see myself
getting suspended or losing my job.

The autopsy results would likely be released in the next

twenty-four hours or so, and I’d be able to exhale. The
paramedic in me knew I’d made the right decision. With no time
to hem and haw over it, no manpower to spare, and far too

much blood on the pavement, there was nothing else I could
have done. I had every logical, rational reason to let her die,
because she was probably going to die anyway.

The illogical, irrational side of me wasn’t so easily

convinced. What if there had been a chance? What if there
wasn’t as much blood as I’d thought? Making life and death

decisions was part of my job, and it was never easy. I knew this
wouldn’t let go of my conscience for a while. It didn’t matter if
she was going to die anyway. I’d given the order. I’d nodded to

the Grim Reaper and let him come in to do his job.

I turned a corner and headed up a hill, concentrating on

the ache in my calves instead of Jennifer. Or Macy. Or Jesse. Or
the newspaper.

As my building came into view, my cell phone rang. I

unclipped it from my waistband, stumbling when I looked at the
caller ID. I’d deleted my ex-boyfriend from my phone weeks
ago, but the nameless numbers that appeared on the screen

may as well have spelled out 'DAVID'.

I slowed to a walk and answered it. "Hey, what’s up?"

"Hey," he said. "I, um, are you going to be around

today?"

"Yeah, I’ll—"

"You okay? You sound out of breath."

"Yeah, yeah, you caught me in the middle of a run."

"This early in the day?"

"Yes, this early in the day." Impatience seeped into my

voice. I didn’t particularly care. "What do you need?"

"Oh, right, um," he paused. "All that stuff I needed to

come pick up. Do you mind if I come get it today?"
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Just what I needed: a

few awkward moments with my ex to add some bitterness to the
twisted cocktail of my thoughts. But, the sooner he got his shit
out of my apartment, the sooner that unpleasantness would be

over. One less thing to deal with.

"Yeah, sure," I said. "When did you want to come by?"

"When works for you?"

I wiped sweat from my forehead. "Whenever. I’ll be

around."

"Hmm. Give me a couple of hours. That okay?"

"Sounds good."

After I hung up, I walked the rest of the way to my

building, but didn’t go in right away. What to do with two

more hours. Sit around and wait for him? Find something to do?

Or run myself into the ground to kill some time?

Before my fatigued muscles could talk me out of it, I

pushed myself into a jog and headed down the one-mile loop.

David’s call had resurrected some of the jitteriness that my run
had managed to beat into submission, and I wasn’t going to stop
until this restlessness was gone.

That last mile was a mistake.

I could handle six miles on most days. When I was this

exhausted to begin with, though, even two was pushing it. Three

was definitely too much. My muscles made sure I knew just how
annoyed they were, burning and trembling on the way up the

steps to my apartment. I’d probably have to take a short walk
later in the day just to keep from getting too sore.

It wasn’t the smartest thing I could have done, but it sure

did wonders for my head. If nothing else, by the time I got
home, the only things I could think of were a shower and putting
my feet up for a while. I even managed to put David’s visit out

of my mind until I looked at the clock and realized he’d be along
in half an hour or so.

My body ached, but my mind had escaped, if only

temporarily. Mission accomplished. Maybe that extra mile wasn’t

such a bad idea after all.

I was on the couch with my feet up when the doorbell

rang. With a string of profanity—partly directed at David, partly

at my sore legs, with a blue streak left over for my age—I
pushed myself up and answered the door.

Neither of us spoke. He offered little more than a vague

nod as a greeting. I returned it, at least trying to be cordial, and
stood aside to let him walk past. Cold air followed him,
emanating from the stiffness in his posture, the narrowness of

his eyes, and the thin, straight line of his lips.

I bit my tongue to keep from asking what I’d done to piss

him off this time. We weren’t together anymore. I wasn’t going

to fight with him.

The boxes were stacked in my spare room, and I helped

him carry them down to the car. As we made the three trips

down to the parking lot, I made a mental note not to shack up
with someone again unless I was damned sure it was going to
last. I’d been through this with my ex-wife, too. The weeks and

months of finding scraps of the past around the house and
having to cross paths to exchange possessions, all it did was
drag things out that were better left done, over with, and
forgotten.

With the trunk lid closed on what I hoped were the last

reasons for us to see each other, we exchanged a stiff
handshake and polite goodbyes. He opened the driver’s side

door and rested his hand on the roof, looking at the pavement
between us, something unsaid hiding in the way he pursed his
lips.

Certain I was going to regret it, I asked anyway.

"Something on your mind?"

He tapped his key on the window and finally looked at

me. "I saw your name in the paper."

I groaned. "Yeah, I guess it’s gotten around a bit."

He was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke again,

the temperature dropped a few degrees. "You know, I never
pegged you for that type."

"Pegged me for—" I paused. "What are you talking

about?"

He rolled his eyes. "A racist."

Ah, that’s why you decided to come over now and take

care of this after you’ve been putting it off for weeks. Just an
excuse to rake me over the coals. Get in line, fucker.

Forcing myself to stay calm, I said, "Oh, for Christ’s sake,

you know me better than that. You don’t really buy that line of
bullshit, do you?"

"Well, the papers—"

"The papers obviously aren’t telling the whole story," I

growled through clenched teeth.

His eyebrows jumped. "What do you mean? They said you

flat out said you wouldn’t help her because she was black, and—
"
"Black-

tagged, David," I snapped. "Black. Fucking.

Tagged."

He inclined his head and raised his eyebrows. "Okay, and

that means…?"

"There were four victims at the scene," I said. "And it was

just Leon and me. I had to triage them. The two we treated
were red-tagged. They needed help right away or they were

fucked. The third was a green tag. He didn’t need to be treated
immediately."

Something like enlightenment worked its way into his

expression, but his voice was still laced with hostile suspicion.
"And the black tag?"

I released a long breath. "It meant that she was too far

gone for me to help. Considering a large percentage of her

body’s blood volume was on the sidewalk, there wasn’t a hell of
a lot I could do for her. I’m sorry everyone’s misinterpreting
‘black tag.’ It had nothing to do with her race."

"So she was in the worst shape, and you just left her

there?"

I rolled my eyes. "I’ve explained triaging to you before.

You know why I had to do it."

"Would she have lived if you’d treated her?"

"Probably not, no."

"Probably?"

"As far as I know. The autopsy hasn’t been released yet."

"So the papers are just conveniently glossing over that

fact?"

"Evidently they’ve been glossing over a hell of a lot." I

took a deep breath to keep my temper in check. "Either that, or
you’re just not particularly concerned about how I’m doing after
everything that happened that day."

"Oh, right, because I’m sure you’d tell me all about it if it

was bothering you—"

"I’m not talking about how I feel about that woman's

death," I said. "There was a lot more to that whole scenario than

the media is letting on."

He eyed me, a hint of a sneer on his lips. "Oh? Like

what?"

"Well, maybe the fact that while she was dying, I was

busy trying to reinflate the other woman’s lung?"

"I thought you said the other woman was in the worst

shape."

"She was. She was bleeding out, and there wasn’t a hell

of a lot I could do about it. The other woman’s lung collapsed.

That I could fix."

"Oh. Well, I’m sure that part just hasn’t gotten to the

press yet."

I laughed bitterly. "I figured. So if they didn’t mention

that part, then I can pretty well guarantee they left out the bit
where I was reinflating the other woman’s lung while some

delusional crackhead had a gun to the back of my head." I
closed my eyes as a shiver ran down my spine. No matter how
many times I’d relived it, just saying the words made my

stomach turn.

When I looked up, David blinked rapidly. "Wait, what?"

I shifted my weight. "Obviously me being a racist is

bigger news."

His posture relaxed slightly and he rested both forearms

on the door. "So, someone really put a gun to your head?"

I nodded. "I guess he thought I was hurting her or

something."

"Jesus Christ."

"Yeah."

He chewed his lip for a moment and looked away. When

our eyes met again, his head was tilted and his eyes narrowed
slightly, the all-too-familiar expression that always preceded his

layman’s attempt at psychoanalysis. I didn’t even have time to
cringe before he said, "So, how are you doing with this?"

I put my hands up. "David, I—"

"I’m just asking, Nick," he said. "I’m concerned. Don’t tell

me you’re fine. I’m sure it’s bothering you."

"I’m

fine."

He glared at me. "I don’t buy that."

"Believe whatever you want. I’m fine."

He exhaled. "Look, whatever happened with us, if you

need to talk, I’m here."

I laughed. "You just came over here to read me the riot

act for being a racist, but now you suddenly want to be there for

me?" I put my hands over my heart and sighed dramatically.
"Oh, David, I’m touched."

"Yeah, yeah, I know, I was wrong." He took a breath, and

when he spoke again, he was calmer. "I shouldn’t have jumped
to conclusions. I’m sorry."

Dropping the sarcasm, I said, "Don’t worry about it."

"I am worried about you, and—"

"David." I put my hands up again, pressing the air

emphatically with my palms. "I’m fine. Really."

"I doubt that."

"So you’re a mind reader now?"

"No, I just know you. And you can’t tell me that you’re

‘fine’ after something like that happened to you."

"I can. I just did."

He watched me for a moment, then rolled his eyes. "And

you wonder why I left."

"What’s that supposed to mean?"

"When you need someone the most, you shove them

away."

Here we go again. Time and again, we’d been through

this. He couldn’t let it go and I was too stubborn to give him the
last word. "What makes you think I need someone to get me

through this?"

"Everyone needs to lean on someone else sometimes. You

just keep everyone at arm’s length." His eyes narrowed. "Unless

of course you’ve had a shitty day and just need a substitute for
your hand."

I blinked. That was a new one. "Oh, for God’s sake, it was

never like that."

"Wasn’t it?" He shifted his weight and set his jaw. "I

suppose that’s why you were content to fuck the night away, but

not say a word about what was bothering you?"

"I never heard you complaining about the sex."

"And I never heard you tell me what bothered you so

much that you needed to be fucked blind to get over it."

"Maybe because getting fucked blind got me over it."

"It just made you feel better, it doesn’t get the crap out

of your mind."

"So it’s not good enough for me to feel better, then deal

with it on my own?" I leaned against another parked car. Why
did I do this to myself? I didn’t need to explain myself to him.
Pride is a bitch, though, and I kept at it. "If sex makes me feel
better, I owe you an explanation about what’s on my mind even

if I don’t feel the need to discuss it?"

"If you just wanted to fuck and not talk, you could have

taken care of that yourself," he snarled. "And left me

out of it."

Ouch, David. I cleared my throat. "Yeah, heaven forbid I

just needed some physical contact with the man I loved to help

settle my mind."

He snorted. "You just needed someone to use."

That hit below the belt, but I didn’t let him see it. Instead,

I calmly asked, "How is what I needed any different from you
asking for a backrub or, hell, asking me to listen while you
vented after a shitty day?"

"You were the only one I wanted to talk to or get a

backrub from." He narrowed his eyes. "I think you’d have been
happy fucking anyone who was a willing warm body."

I stared at him. Below the belt again and harder this

time. I knew he didn’t like my refusal to talk, but it hurt like hell
to hear he thought any warm body would have done while we

were together. Though we’d had our problems, I‘d loved him. I
still did.
"David,

that’s—"

"Oh, don’t tell me you didn’t go find someone to take it

out on the other night."

Yeah, you’ve got me there. "Not that it’s any of your

business if I did," I said, "but what difference does it make? I’m

single, remember? You left. If you and I had still been together,
I’d have come home to you."

"So you admit that anyone will do."

"What?" I made a frustrated gesture. "You weren’t

available to me anymore. What was I supposed to do?"

"Yeah, and I’ll bet you barely noticed until I wasn’t

available when you needed to fuck away a bad day."

I clenched my jaw. "That’s not true."

"Isn’t it? So who’s your new man?"

"What new man? What the hell are you talking about?"

"Are you denying it?"

"I’m saying it’s none of your concern." I hooked my

thumbs in my belt loops just to keep myself from defensively
folding my arms across my chest. "And if you thought I was just

using you, or that I didn’t care about you or wanted someone
else, you’re wrong. Very, very wrong." Of all the accusations
he’d thrown my way in the last year or two, this one hurt the
most.

"Then why wouldn’t you talk to me?" His voice was

calmer now, but the undercurrent of frustration lingered.

"Would you really have wanted to hear the things I put up

with all day?"

"I wanted to know what was bothering you." He folded his

arms across his chest, exactly the way I fought to keep myself

from doing. "Considering how much you pushed me away, I just
figured it was me."

"You know full well it wasn’t you."

"Do

I?"

I tried not to roll my eyes. This was one of those aspects

of a relationship that was always so much clearer in hindsight.

All along, David had done this, turning personality quirks of
mine—my need for solitude, my penchant for decompression
sex, my refusal to discuss things with him that I didn’t want to

discuss with anyone—into a slap in his face. Whether that was
my fault for not communicating or his for misinterpreting, one
thing was for sure: it was exhausting as hell.

"Look," I said quietly. "It wasn’t about you. It never was.

I just don’t like talking about these things. With anyone. I need
to get them out of my system and be done with it. Had you been
here the other night, I wouldn’t have told you much more than I

already have. And do you want to know why?"

"Yes, I do."

"For the same reason I never told you about all the other

shit I’ve seen and done and heard," I said. "Because then at
least one of us would be able to sleep that night. And every
night thereafter."

"Do you really think I ever slept well when I knew you

were that stressed out?"

"I didn’t know you were losing sleep over it, and for that

I’m sorry." I chewed my lip for a second before I went on. "But
you didn’t need to know what it felt like to have to make the

decision to let someone die without treating her. You didn’t need
to know what it was like to have to jam a needle between a
conscious woman’s ribs while you had a fucking gun to your

head, knowing—" My voice threatened to crack and I paused,
swallowing hard. There was no way in hell he was going to see
me lose my composure over this. Then I continued. "Knowing

full well that she could die if you didn’t do something, and you
could die if you did. Only to have the day capped off by someone
threatening to hunt you down and kill you for letting his
girlfriend die."

The words seemed to hit him in the chest. He stared at

me, stunned and speechless. Then he squared his shoulders.
"You know if you’d wanted to talk about that and get it out of

your head, I’d—"

"Get it out of my head?" I said. "Are you crazy? It’s there.

It’s not going anywhere. I didn’t need to lay it all on you."

"You still could have talked to me about it."

"If I wanted to talk about it at all, I would have," I said.

"But I didn’t. I didn’t then and I don’t now. You want me to talk.

The last thing I want to do is fucking wallow in it." I’m doing
enough of that without your help.

"It’s not healthy to just let that shit build up in your head,

Nick."

I eyed him. "I can’t imagine it’s all that healthy to be

constantly harangued by someone who wants to drag every

thought and feeling out of me, either."

"Drag it out of you?" He released a sharp breath. "For

fuck’s sake, it’s not like I put a gun to your—" He froze, eyes

widening. "Shit. Sorry, I…"

I waved it away, pretending the words hadn’t raised the

hairs on the back of my neck, just beneath the place Jesse’s gun
had practically drilled its way into the base of my skull. "Don’t

worry about it."

"Look, Nick, I’m sorry," he said. "I do still worry about

you. And I don’t think this is healthy, especially after what

happened to you the other night."

"I appreciate it," I said. "But it’s not your problem

anymore. I can deal with it on my own."

"I am still concerned about you, and this isn’t healthy.

You need to talk about this stuff so you can deal with it and—""

"No, talking is how you deal with things," I said. "Not

me."

"Yeah." He glared at me. "I know how you deal with

things."

I shrugged. I just didn’t have it in me to fight with him

anymore. "Like it or not, that’s how I deal with this shit."

He tightened his lips into a thin line. Then he nodded, an

abrupt gesture of resignation. "Well, knowing you, it must have
been one damned hot night, even if the morning after was cold

and quiet. Kind of puts a damper on sex like that when you’re
shut out after it’s over."

I sighed. "David, for the thousandth time, I wasn’t trying

to shut you out."

"Well, it doesn’t really matter what you were trying to do,

you did." He didn’t give me a chance to respond before he got in
the car and slammed the door. The engine rumbled to life.

Guess you’re shutting me out now, aren’t you? I thought

as he pulled out of the parking space and drove past me. I
closed my eyes and listened to his car disappear into the

background noise of the city. Then I shook my head and went
back into my empty apartment. My ex-wife and I had had nearly
the same conversation during our last "here’s the rest of your

shit" encounter. Another boyfriend along the way had ridden off
into the sunset for similar reasons.

Maybe they were all right about me, but it was simply the

way I was. I just needed someone who understood that. Who
understood me.

Seven

Station. That single word on my caller ID brought

whispered curses to my lips. The chief wanted me to take some
time off, but that number had lit up my phone at least a dozen
times in the hours since David left. It was mostly the guys

calling to see how I was doing, or to give me a heads up that the
media was sniffing around, or to find out if I knew where the
darts for the rec room dartboard had gone. I was as well as

could be expected, couldn’t care less about the fucking media,
and was pretty sure first shift had been the last to use the
dartboard, so I was tempted to let the call go to voicemail.

But that would just mean another message to delete

later. That, and it could be someone calling to tell me the
coroner’s report had finally come out, so I flipped the phone
open and tried not to sound as irritated as I was.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Swain, it’s Johnson," he said. "Listen, sorry to

bother you…"

"Don’t worry about it." You aren’t the first, doubt you’ll be

the last.

"Someone called for you earlier and asked me to pass on

his number."

I rolled my eyes. "Which newspaper is it this time?"

Fucking vultures. Every last—

"No, it was a cop. Said you knew him. A Detective

Carmichael?"

I sat up, nearly knocking my drink off the coffee table.

"Oh. Yeah, yeah, I know him. What did he say?"

"Just said to give you his number and have you give

him a call," he said. "Got something to write on?"

"Not yet, hang on." I looked around, then got up and

went to my desk. When I’d found a scrap of paper and a pen, I
said, "Okay, go ahead."

He read me Andrew’s number. When I’d confirmed I had

it right, he said, "So, how are you—"

"I’m fine," I said quickly. "Just bored off my ass and

ready to get back to work. I have to go, though. I need to call
this guy back. Thanks for passing it along."

"No problem. Take care of yourself, kid."

After we hung up, I chewed my lip and looked at

Andrew’s number. What did he want? Was this business… or
personal? Well, only one way to find out. I keyed the digits into
my phone and hit "send."

"Detective Carmichael." His voice, smooth and low, made

me shiver.

"Andrew? Hey, it’s Nick."

"Oh, hey. I’m glad you called."

Likewise. "What’s up?"

"Not a hell of a lot. I just wanted to see how you were

doing. With, you know, everything going on."

Strangely, it didn’t bother me that he’d asked. I was just

happy to hear his voice. Sitting back on the couch, I said, "I’m

okay. Boss man made me take a week off, so I’m climbing the
walls."

He laughed. "A forced week off? Oh, I could think of

worse things."

"Yeah, me too, but I’m getting a bit stir crazy."

"I’m not surp—" He paused. "Hang on a sec." There were

muffled voices in the background, with Andrew occasionally
interjecting something I couldn’t quite hear. Then he came back
on the line. "Listen, I’ve got some shit I have to take care of.

Would you mind meeting me somewhere tonight? I’ll buy you a
beer."

I swallowed. "Um, sure. Where?"

"Hmm. Do you know where The Downriver Grill is?

"That’s that weird place over on Shasta and Main, isn’t

it?"

"The one and only."

"I didn’t know they served doughnuts—"

"Hey! Watch it, Swain."

I chuckled. "Yeah, I can meet you there. What time?"

"Around eight would be best. Hopefully I’ll get out of here

well before then. If I’m going to be late, I’ll give you a call."

"Eight works," I said. "Do you need my number?"

"Caller ID, my friend. Already have it. I’ll see you there."

~ * ~

The Downriver Grill couldn’t decide if it was rustic,

swanky, or cutting edge hip.

The walls and ceiling were lined with relics and yellowing

photos from the long gone days of its founders. Below the
weathered snowshoes, cracking leather harnesses, and pictures
of life in a logging camp, candles flickered on small, oddly-

shaped and brightly-colored tables. Unseen speakers poured
muted classical music into the air while casually dressed
bartenders poured everything from micro brews to top-shelf into
mason jars and rocks glasses. The high dollar wine list didn’t

quite mesh with a menu full of potato skins, burgers, and deep-
fried everything.

Whoever designed this place must have been trying to

please everyone, and the end result was a violent clash of
cultures and colors. Still, once one got past the initial assault to
the senses, the atmosphere was surprisingly relaxing. It was

just a little on the eccentric side, to say the least, but relatively
quiet and dimly lit. If someone wanted a plate of onion rings
with their seven-dollar glass of Shiraz or a filet mignon with a

cheap local microbrew, The Downriver Grill was the place to be.

Tonight, I was only interested in a beer and the detective

who’d just walked through the front door.

I flagged him down from a table near the back, and as he

crossed the dining area, my heart jumped. I couldn’t decide, in
that moment, if I wanted this to be business or personal.

"Hey, good to see you," he said, shaking my hand.

"Good to see you, too."

"Sorry about earlier." He shrugged his jacket off and hung

it over the back of the chair. "Bunch of shit was right in the
middle of hitting the fan when you called."

I laughed. "Sorry I interrupted."

"Oh no, don’t be." He smiled. "Trust me, it was a nice

distraction. Besides, you know how it is in this line of work. One
minute it’s paralyzing boredom, the next it’s chaos and
catastrophe."

"Oh, yeah, I know how it goes."

He glanced at the bar. "So what are you drinking?"

I shrugged. "Whatever, I’m easy." I cringed. "Fuck, I

mean—"

Andrew laughed. "I was going to get a Miller Light."

"That works. Miller Light. Yeah."

"Wait here." He went to the bar, leaving me to roll my

eyes at my own Freudian slip.

When he returned with our drinks, we made small talk for

a while. In spite of our odd—if brief—history, we fell easily into
conversation. I was more at ease with him than perhaps I should

have been. Sure, we’d fucked, but it was a one night stand, and
now we lacked the obligatory awkwardness of two people
together after what should have been a one nighter. He should

have reminded me of that day, we should have had a hard time
looking each other in the eye after that night, but he didn’t and
we didn’t.

After a while, I said, "So, how is Macy doing?"

"Good, good," he said. "They’re still keeping her in the

hospital. Some sort of complication or something. Hell if I know
what. They’re pretty sure she’ll make a full recovery, though."

"Glad to hear it."

"Yeah, me too."

"Are you working without her, then?" I asked. "In

Masontown?"

"Not in Masontown, no. Our cover is blown, so she and I

won’t be working that neighborhood any time soon. A few other

detectives are already in the area."

I took a drink. "Just out of curiosity, with these new

detectives, what happens if one of them sees Jesse or Shawn?

After everything that went down the other night?"

"Well, they both have plenty of outstanding warrants

already."

I raised an eyebrow. "And yet no one bothered to arrest

Shawn at the scene? Or while he was filing a complaint against
me?"

Andrew shook his head, scowling. "The officers on the

scene didn’t realize he had warrants, and the clerks at city hall
were so flooded with complaints and paperwork, they didn’t give
a fuck who he was."

"Great. How convenient."

"Tell me about it." He sipped his beer, then absently

tapped the bottle on the edge of the table. "The guys that took

my place would book him in a heartbeat if it didn’t mean blowing
their cover. Every crook in Masontown is sniffing around for
wires and badges right now." He set the bottle down. "But my

guys are keeping an eye on both of them. Sounds like Shawn’s
actually been keeping a pretty low profile."

I tried—and failed—not to watch Andrew’s fingers playing

with the label on his beer bottle. "What about Jesse?"

He shrugged. "High as a kite, from what I’ve been told.

He was hanging around while the movers cleared out the
apartment Macy and I shared. They said he was real agitated,
mumbling to himself, that kind of thing. Don’t know how much

of that was withdrawal and how much was him freaking out
looking for Macy, though."
"Lovely."

"Yeah, no shit." Andrew shifted slightly in his chair,

resting his forearms on the table. "Have you considered
transferring out of the station? Maybe working in a different part
of town?"

"Should I?" I said. "I mean, Shawn made that threat at

the scene, but he hasn’t done anything."

"Well, no. I guess I’m just a little extra cautious about

things like this." He ran his finger along the neck of his bottle,
eyes staring unfocused at the table. "I mean, I’m not trying to
make you nervous, I just, you know, think we should take it

seriously."

I picked up my drink. "Well, if things do get ugly with

Shawn, I’ll consider a transfer, but…" I trailed off, neither

finishing the thought nor taking a drink.

He cocked his head. "But…?"

"Here’s the thing." I sighed and set my beer down. "My

station is already a skeleton crew. We’re running ambulances
with only two people on board, and we’re down to a total of four
paramedics and four EMT-Basics, not counting the firefighters

that are EMT-B trained. If I leave, I’d be willing to bet money
that if they replace me at all, it’ll be with an EMT-B instead of a
paramedic."

"Remind me what the difference is."

"Just different levels of certification. I can intubate, give

certain kinds of drugs." I paused. "I can treat a tension
pneumothorax. An EMT-B can’t."

Andrew’s eyebrows jumped. "And you don’t think they’d

replace you with someone equally qualified?"

I shrugged. "State only requires us to have three. With

the way they’ve been fucking with our crews, I wouldn’t put it
past them."

"Still, if it’s what you need to do to stay safe…"

"There’s always a certain element of danger in this job," I

said. "Not unlike yours."

"Yeah, I know." He clasped his hands together on the

table. "I just want to make sure you’re not putting yourself in
harm’s way. I don’t think Shawn’s going to do anything, but I

don’t know for sure. In a perfect world, I’d know, but I don’t."

"Yeah, and in a perfect world, the city would build the

firehouse they’ve been talking about for years, so my house

could focus on the people living on the other side of the river,
which would solve numerous problems."

"No shit. I’ve been wondering when they’re going to do

that." He ran his finger along the edge of the coaster under his
beer bottle. "A lot of those people are already fucked by
circumstance and the city just won’t get off its ass and get them
the emergency facilities they need."

"Yes, exactly."

He sipped his beer and tapped the bottle on the table’s

edge again. "The one place in this city that needs the most help,

and it gets the least. It’s a damned shame."

I raised my beer in a mock salute, then took a long drink.

He played with the label on his beer. "And to be honest

with you, I feel for people like Jesse."

I almost choked on my drink. "You do?"

"Yes, I do." He ran a hand through his hair and looked at

me. "Don’t get me wrong. I’d have shot him where he stood if
he’d made a move to put the gun to your head

again. But, I still feel for him."

"Because he’s crazy?"

Andrew nodded. "He needs help. He was already crazy

and now he’s an addict. The law says he’s a criminal, and I don’t

disagree. He’s a criminal because it pays for his drug habit. He’s
a drug addict because being high is less painful than being lucid.
And being lucid is hell for someone who can’t get the help he

needs to be sane."

I blew out a breath. Up until now, I hadn’t thought to

sympathize with the man who’d put me on the wrong end of a
revolver, but knowing what I did about Masontown’s residents, I

couldn’t argue.

"And I don’t imagine the drugs make him any more

sane," I said.

"No, definitely not." Andrew sat back, stretching a crick

out of his neck. "My guess is that the more rock he smokes, the
worse it gets. Hell, maybe that uncontrollable need to find more

crack distracts him from all the demons that were in his head to
begin with."

"Think it’ll distract him from coming after any

paramedics?"

Andrew laughed softly. "Most likely, yes, it’ll do just that."

"How do you know so much about this kid, anyway?"

"He lived on the same block as Macy and me. I saw him

around, especially once he decided he was in love with Macy."

"I’m surprised he didn’t object to her ‘husband’, then."

"No, Macy explained to him early on that we were married

and very happy together. Jesse was obsessed with making her

happy, so he accepted me because I made her happy." He
laughed. "Oh, if he only knew."

I chuckled. "No kidding. Her loss, I guess." We exchanged

smiles and a lingering look, then both coughed behind our beer

bottles and broke eye contact.

"Anyway," he said. "Some of the other guys in my unit

knew about him when he was just a petty thief. They said he

was nuts then and has just deteriorated since he discovered
crack."

"And no one’s ever brought him in?" I said. "Arrested

him? Put him in rehab? Something?"

He shrugged. "He’s been brought in a few times. Mostly

for theft. We never catch him in possession because he smokes

the shit as soon as he gets it."

"What a life." I shook my head and took a drink. "Stealing

and smoking."

"That’s the life of a lot of people in that area. And a lot of

them work together. In fact, Jesse’s done some work with and
for Shawn."

"Such as?"

"Mostly breaking into cars," he said. "Stealing radios,

cleaning out change trays, things like that. Shawn and one of

the other dealers both started out doing that crap before they
got into the narcotics and pimping."

"Lovely bunch of guys."

Andrew laughed. "No kidding. They were all part of a big

ring up until a few months ago. You couldn’t park a car in
Masontown without losing something."

"Yeah, I know," I said. "One of our ambulances was

relieved of some pain medication during a call a while back."

"I think I remember that." He paused, furrowing his brow.

"Six months or so ago, wasn’t it?"

"Thereabouts. We’ve had to keep all that shit under lock

and key. There’s been talk of not allowing us to carry it
anymore, but…" I shrugged. "Hasn’t come down to that yet."

"Thank God for that." He absently watched his fingers

play with his beer bottle, as if he couldn’t decide whether or not

to take a drink. "Anyway, Shawn and a bunch of the other guys
were mostly car thieves, car prowlers, that sort of thing.
Damned good at it, too. They even figured out how to cut off the

power to various buildings, then they’d wait for the utility trucks
to show up so they could steal every tool that wasn’t nailed
down."

"Crafty

fuckers."

"Yeah, they are." He played with the label again. "I swear

there’s a grand theft auto university in that neighborhood, and
Shawn and Jesse both graduated Magna Cum Carjacker."

I laughed. "I’ll remember that if I ever decide to park my

car down there."

He made a dismissive gesture. "Eh, they’ve moved onto

bigger and better things. Drug running and pimping

mean more money for less work."

"Well, isn’t that just the American dream?" I rolled my

eyes.

Andrew chuckled. "Yeah, well, the cars in Masontown

might be safer, but that’s about it. I’m sure you’ve been

spending more time there since the drug trade picked up."

"Oh yeah. My chief mentioned not long ago that they’re

trying to squeeze a few bucks into the budget for us to wear

bulletproof vests."

I half-expected him to laugh, or at least give a sniff of

amusement. Instead, he just looked at his beer and pursed his

lips.

"What?" I asked.

When he looked at me, the creases on his forehead

announced that whatever he had to say was completely serious.
"It might not be such a bad idea for you to wear one."

My eyes widened.

Andrew cleared his throat and folded his hands on the

table. "Look, I doubt you have anything to worry about. Jesse
doesn’t know which way is up and Shawn has bigger fish to fry.
Still, just in case…" He paused. "I mean, if you’re going to keep

working in that area, you probably should. Just as a precaution."

"How comforting."

"Just a thought." He shrugged. "Especially if you decide

you don’t feel safe there. It might give you a little peace of
mind."

"I don’t know. Something about a bulletproof vest just

makes me feel like a target."

"And on that off chance that you are a target…"

I blew out a breath. "Sooner or later, Shawn will be

arrested for something, though, right?"

"In theory, yes."

I raised an eyebrow. "In theory?"

He nodded. "He has warrants coming out his ass, so any

officer could arrest him on sight."

"But…?"

"But," he said, "we’re after the big players in that

neighborhood. We just don’t have the manpower to track down
every warrant with a Masontown address and haul them in. I

mean, legally, we could probably arrest half the population of
that neighborhood, but my unit has been trying to bring down
the suppliers, not the users."

I nodded. "Understandable. Though will that really curb

the rest of the crime if the people committing those crimes are
still loose?"

"It will if most of the crime is perpetrated by users who

steal shit to feed their drug habit."

"Good point. I hadn’t thought of that."

"Yeah, a lot of people want the druggies brought in.

Believe me, we’re constantly getting complaints for not ‘cleaning
up’ the area. But we’re after the cause." He sighed again. "Don’t

know why we bother, really. Take down one supplier, another
will move in."

"And I don’t imagine it helped when they shut down the

methadone clinics."

"Oh, Christ, no, not at all," he said. "That was probably

one of the worst things this city has done in years. Especially

after the junkies figured out that rock is more readily available
here than heroin." He shook his head. "Even if they reopened
the clinics, it won’t do the crackheads a damned bit of good until
someone invents a drug to treat crack addictions."

I nodded. "I know. Glad to see the idiots downtown

thought this through."

He snorted. "Yeah, right. That’ll be the day. They saved a

little bit of money, and now they get to spend even more on law
enforcement because they made that neighborhood a hell of a
lot more dangerous. And it’s just going to keep getting worse."

I quoted Chief Switzer. "‘Preaching to the choir.’"

He took a drink and lifted his eyebrows when he looked at

me again. "I’m not kidding when I suggest you consider

transferring. Or at least wearing a vest."

I avoided his eyes.

"Nick, if you don’t feel safe there, sooner or later, you’ve

got to put yourself first. Don’t be a martyr for them."

"I won’t know if I feel safe there until I go back to work."

"And it’s not too soon to think about taking precautions.

Or transferring out. The only good danger is the

danger you don’t put yourself into."

I nodded. "I know. I know. There’s also…" I trailed off,

biting my lip and dropping my gaze.
"What?"

I waved the thought away. "Nothing, it’s—"

"Are you sure?" He had the same inquisitive head-tilt that

David always had before launching into an armchair
psychoanalysis, but without the infuriating demands in his eyes.

Curiosity, if nothing else. Concern.

I focused on working my thumbnail under the edge of the

Miller label instead of looking at him. "With my shifts, I’m at the

firehouse for twenty-four to seventy-two hours at a stretch. We
pretty much live together." I shifted my gaze from the label to
him. "Including sleeping in the same room at times."

"So you’re concerned about a new crew accepting a guy

who isn’t straight?"

"Exactly." I blew out a breath. "I’m sure that sounds like

a pathetic reason, but—"

"No, no, not at all." He folded his hands on the table and

leaned a little closer. "I understand, believe me. Some of the

guys on the force aren’t too happy about me, either."

"Do many of them know?"

He shrugged. "A few. I don’t advertise it, I don’t hide it. I

can tell who doesn’t like it, but most of the people I work with
directly don’t care."

"I’m pretty much the same way." I took a drink, rolling it

around on my tongue for a second, pretending not to notice the

way he was watching my mouth. "The guys in my house know.
All of them do. There’s one or two that aren’t thrilled with it.
They aren’t threatening or anything, they just don’t like it. Some

of the other houses, though?" I grimaced. "Not so much. They’re
subtle, so they don’t get in trouble, but they make it very clear
that they don’t like having one of us in their house."

"Idiots," he muttered into his beer bottle.

"Yeah, they are," I said. "A few of my friends have been

put through hell. It’s not every house, not even most of them,

but they’re out there. So it’s either stay at my current station
and watch my back on calls, or transfer and risk having to watch

my back at the new house."

"I see what you mean. Do you really think someone

would try to hurt you though?"

Wouldn’t be the first time. "Maybe, maybe not. I guess

I’m just hesitant to leave." I rested my forearms on the table.
"And you’ve said yourself Shawn has other shit to occupy him

and he was probably just running off at the mouth. Maybe he
and Jennifer’s family will be content bitching to the media and
filing lawsuits against the city. Requesting a transfer at this point
seems a bit like—" I paused, closing my eyes as my own not-

yet-spoken metaphor made me cringe.
"Like…?"

I cleared my throat. "Like jumping the gun."

Andrew shifted a little, then gave a slight nod. "Maybe so.

I guess I’m of the better safe than sorry persuasion." His eyes
lost focus and something darkened in his expression. "It is my

job to protect people, after all." A second later, he went for his
beer. When he looked at me again, the odd expression was
gone, making me wonder if I’d imagined it.

Clearing his throat, he said, "Anyway, I think you’ll be

fine, but it’s a dangerous neighborhood. A little extra caution
wouldn’t hurt. If you’re going to keep working there, I’d highly

recommend a vest. For that matter, it might not hurt to look into
a concealed weapons permit."

"Except I don’t know how to shoot, nor do I own a gun."

"I can teach you. It’s not hard."

Sitting back in my chair, I showed my palms. "A gun is a

bit much. Unless you really think this guy is going to come out of

the woodwork and come after me…" I inclined my head and let
the unspoken question speak for itself.

"Probably not."

"Then I’ll pass."

He nodded. "Okay. If you change your mind, though,

don’t hesitate to call me. It usually takes thirty days for the
permit. Given the circumstances, I can try to push it through

faster."

"Hopefully it won’t come down to that."

"True." He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a

card, which he slid across the table to me. "Either way, if you
change your mind, call me."

I picked up the card. It had the number that was already

in my cell, plus a desk phone and an e-mail address. "Thanks."

"I’m serious. Call me any time." He paused. "For

anything."

I searched his expression for any limitations on the word

'anything' and found none. Swallowing hard, I nodded. "Will do."

I pulled out my wallet and slipped the card into it, thankful for
something to hold my attention besides Andrew’s face. Not that
I didn’t want to look at him. Quite the contrary. But looking

made me want to touch, and I wasn’t sure if I should. Or if he’d
want me to. Sure, he’d been the one to re-establish contact
after we’d gone our morning-after separate ways, but we had
other common ground besides everything we’d done in my

bedroom. That common ground was why he’d asked to see me.
He was concerned about my safety and how I was doing after
what had happened. Nothing more.

As I put my wallet back into my pocket, I didn’t have

anything to hold my gaze anymore, so I looked at him again. He
chewed his lip. I tried not to wring my hands or shift my weight,

anything that would betray my sudden nervousness.

He looked away first, picking up his beer and finishing it. I

wondered if he noticed me watching the way his Adam’s apple

bobbed when he swallowed. If he did, he didn’t let on.

Setting the empty bottle down, he said, "I guess I should

let you go." A soft, nervous laugh parted his lips. "Some of us

actually have to work tomorrow."

Disappointment and relief vied for dominance as I forced

a smile and said, "No rest for the wicked, then?"

He grinned. "None at all."

We picked up our coats and headed for the door. Outside,

we stood in silence in front of The Downriver Grill. Andrew pulled

out his keys, absently spinning the ring around his finger, the
faint, rhythmic jingle echoing off the brick building.

I nodded toward his keys. "Sure you want to drive?" I

said, chuckling. "After all that alcohol?"

He laughed. "I think I can handle one beer."

"You sure? A Crown and Coke or two had you stranded at

my place for two hours."

The laughter turned to a mischievous grin. "Well, just

didn’t want to take any chances that night, I guess." He inclined
his head a little, enough to leave me wondering if it was shyness

or just nestling his chin into his jacket to avoid the chilly wind.
We were both quiet for a moment, looking at each other but
unsure what to say.

"Where are you parked?" I asked.

He gestured over his shoulder. "A few blocks that way.

You?"

I pointed in the opposite direction. More awkwardness

fell. So much for walking a block or two together and delaying

the inevitable. This was where our ways would part.

"Well, it was good to see you," he said. "You have my

number. Don’t hesitate to use it." He dropped his gaze, then

quickly met my eyes again. "I mean, if you need anything." A
little extra color appeared on his cheeks and he laughed. "You
know what I mean."

"Yeah," I smiled. "Thanks."

"No problem." He extended his hand. I shook it, all the

while trying not to think of how many ways his hands had driven
me out of my mind the other night. Along with his mouth. And

his cock. And the way he breathed on me when—

I glanced down and realized we’d let the handshake linger

well beyond the customary few seconds.

We quickly separated, each taking a half-step back as if

to emphasize that we hadn’t really been standing that close.

"Well, um," he said. "Take care."

"You

too."

Another ending that felt wrong. I wasn’t sure what I

wanted from him, if it was another night of mind-blowing sex or

if I just didn’t want to be alone. All I knew was I didn’t want him
to leave. It seemed wrong to apply the brakes here.

That hesitation was as much his as it was mine. We held

each other’s gazes and I held my breath. The eye contact
lingered far too long to be accidental, and I couldn’t breathe
when he looked at me like that. Just go. It was a one night

stand. Leave it be.

Eventually, the need for oxygen made me break that

eye contact and, with a whispered "I’ll see you around," I

slowly turned to go, hoping for his hand on my arm. When it

didn’t come, I took a much-needed breath and started walking.
After I’d gone several steps, his shoe scuffed on the sidewalk
and his footsteps faded into the night behind me.

I was tempted to turn around and follow him, especially

as my heart pounded with a rhythm that sounded an awful lot
like "now or never, now or never, now or never."

The card in my pocket ensured that I could still contact

him after tonight. Two numbers and an e-mail address didn’t do
me a lot of good, though, if I couldn’t work up the courage to

use them.

Now or never. Now or never. Now or never.

I stopped and looked back.

The street was empty. Which side street he’d gone down,

I had no idea, but he was out of sight.

So, with two numbers and an e-mail address that I

doubted I’d ever use, I kept walking.

Eight

The autopsy results came out the next day, and when the

city’s police commissioner made a statement, the press was all
over it. Evidently there wasn’t much going on in the news if
something like this had people so enraptured, and enraptured

they were. Knowing this town’s media, they’d be all over this
story until something bigger happened or the coverage of the
upcoming elections picked up speed.

Like an idiot, I turned on the news to catch every juicy,

media-spun bit.

A red-haired news anchor filled everyone in on the

situation, reading the teleprompter with that dull-eyed look of
someone who’s repeating words without even hearing them.
After giving the heavily slanted rundown of my crimes against
humanity, she said, "We now go live to City Hall, where

Commissioner Stewart Engle has called a press conference."

I chewed my thumbnail. A press conference. The

commissioner. Front page news. A whole shitstorm over a split

second decision. I wasn’t so sure I liked having the power to
make a choice in the heat of the moment and create this kind of
fallout.

I picked up my coffee cup and held it in both hands to

ward off a chill as I watched the commissioner take the mike. He
addressed the press with all manner of formalities and the usual

crap that preceded a speech.

"Come on, come on, get to the point," I said into the

steam above my coffee cup. Pomp and circumstance annoyed

me anyway. In light of a situation like this, it bordered on
offensive. Just shut the fuck up about ‘thank you’ this and ‘all
your hard work’ that and tell us all what we need to hear.

At long last, he did. "First, the department wishes to

extend our condolences to the Thompson family for their loss. I
also assure you that there will be a thorough investigation into

the conduct of Paramedic Nicholas Swain, and Detectives Macy
Lombardi and Andrew Carmichael to ensure that no
discriminatory action led to this unfortunate circumstance."

That didn’t surprise me. More than once, I’d wondered if

this time off to clear my head was just a thinly-veiled excuse for
the paid leave we were often required to take pending

disciplinary action.

Commissioner Engle turned a page and I held my breath.

"According to the coroner’s report," he said. "The official

cause of death was catastrophic blood loss as a result of two

gunshot wounds to the chest and abdomen. There was
significant trauma to multiple organs, as well as a punctured
artery. With immediate medical attention and transfer to an

emergency facility, Ms. Thompson’s odds of survival were low…"

The rest of the words faded into the background. The

truth pushed the breath out of my lungs and flooded my veins

with guilt like ice water. Her odds of survival were low. With
immediate medical attention. And transfer to an emergency
facility. She could have survived. She’d had a chance. Not much

of one, but a chance nonetheless.

I set my coffee down and rested my forehead in my

hands, trying to ignore the way they shook as I combed my

fingers through my hair. Oh, God, I could have saved her. I tried
to listen to my rational, medically trained side. With a wound like
that, especially if an artery was ruptured, there had probably

been as much blood spilling into her chest cavity as there was
on the pavement. Still, there was that chance. That minute
possibility of divine intervention and a timely blood transfusion.

That tiny flicker of hope that I had snuffed out with my decision
to help Macy and leave Jennifer to finish staining the concrete
with more blood than she could afford to lose. Blood loss I could
have stopped. Or hindered long enough to get her into surgery.

Oh, God, I could have saved her.

Engle’s voice drew my attention back to the screen.

"While the department will investigate the conduct of all

personnel involved in this tragedy, our preliminary information
indicates that Paramedic Swain triaged the scene properly
according to procedure in determining which victims to treat

with the available manpower."

I sat back and stared at the ceiling, blowing out another

breath. I knew I’d acted without thinking about skin color or

anything else, but there’d still been that nagging worry in the
back of my mind that I could have saved her, and the coroner

had confirmed that. I rubbed my eyes and tried not to get sick.
Not that I expected a moment’s peace even if there’d been no
chance. Even if she’d had a ruptured aorta or something equally

lethal, if there was no question at all that she would have died,
this was going to follow me well into and beyond the foreseeable
future.

What if I’d tried to save her and failed? What if Jennifer

had lived, but Macy had died because of the tension
pneumothorax that I hadn’t yet diagnosed when I black-tagged
Jennifer? What if they’d both died at my feet?

I shuddered. It was going to be a long, long time before

the nightmares quieted and my conscience conceded I’d done all
I could with what I’d had at my disposal.

After the commissioner’s speech had concluded with more

obligatory nods to important people I didn’t care about, the
news anchor reappeared on the screen. I thought she was going

to move on to some other story. Apparently I was wrong.

"The city’s tentative backing of Swain’s decision to let

Jennifer Thompson die without treatment has outraged many of

the residents of Masontown," she said. "We have legal and
medical expert Dr. Fred Warner standing by with his take on the
issue. Fred?"

"Thank you, Linda." The bald, bespectacled doctor

steepled his fingers. "This was a tragic event indeed, but what
needs to be examined is why the medic chose to treat Detective

Lombardi’s injuries over Jennifer’s, especially when a patient
with Lombardi’s injuries could have survived until she’d reached
the hospital…"

I gritted my teeth. This dipshit hadn’t seen the blue

around Macy’s lips. He hadn’t seen the way her vitals

were worsening by the second. Some patients can survive a
tension pneumo until they reach the hospital, provided they’re

given enough oxygen and transported quickly. Macy was not one
of them, or I never would have attempted a thoracentesis on the
goddamned sidewalk. Much longer and she would have died or

had serious long term damage.

Wouldn’t she?

Had I overreacted?

I cursed aloud. It had been a judgment call in the heat of

the moment. Had it been the right call? With this autopsy report,
I wasn’t so sure about any decision I’d made that day.

As the commentary continued, every word laced with

doubt and suspicion, images of Macy, Andrew, and me flashed

up on the screen. They were the vaguely green-tinted pictures
the city kept in our personnel files, and they looked like
collaborations between those who took driver’s license photos

and those who took mugshots. The end results were washed out
and unflattering, managing to make all three of us look like
scowling, soulless zombies.

I was more than a little relieved when those pictures

disappeared from the screen. Anyone who’d been at the scene
already knew what I looked like, and half the city knew my
name now, but brandishing my face like a goddamned 'Wanted'

poster didn’t do much to calm these frayed nerves.

The rambling legal expert went away and a reporter

appeared, holding a microphone in one hand and an umbrella in

the other. She was one of those ambitious reporters with her
heart set on the anchor seat, I could tell. She had that gleam in
her eye, that predatory look of someone who frothed at the

mouth when she caught wind of someone else’s misfortune. One
person’s suffering was this woman’s opportunity.

"Detective Lombardi remains in satisfactory condition

here at St. Mary’s hospital and is expected to make a full
recovery." She pointed over her shoulder with the mike to
indicate the hospital behind her. "However, there are many

unanswered questions about the entire situation. With the police
department staying mum, the people want to know: why was
Jennifer Thompson shot in the first place? Sources tell me

Detective Lombardi was involved in an undercover operation to
break up a ring of narcotics and prostitution. I’m told the
shooting and stabbing occurred as part of a staged drug deal

gone bad between the detective and the victim, but this has yet
to be confirmed. Earlier, we tried to speak to her partner,
Detective Andrew Carmichael."

Images came up of Andrew shouldering his way through a

mob of reporters, head down to avoid the rain, questions, and
camera flashes. My heart skipped, as much from seeing him
hounded by the press as simply seeing him at all.

"Detective Carmichael," a voice from off-screen said. "Can

you tell us what exactly happened between your partner and
Jennifer Thompson?"

"Why did Detective Lombardi shoot Ms. Thompson?"

"Is it true Ms. Thompson was only armed with a knife?"

Andrew kept his eyes down and put a hand up. "No

comment." A flurry of questions followed him up the front stairs
of the precinct until the glass door closed behind him.

The news anchor replaced him on the screen, sitting

warm and dry behind her comfortable desk. "Now, we’re also
told the paramedic in question was held at gunpoint while

treating Detective Lombardi. Is this true?"

The reporter in front of the hospital reappeared. "Linda, I

can’t confirm either way. However, witnesses I’ve spoken to

have indicated that yes, a weapon was involved at some point
while he treated her."

"And what of this attacker? Was he arrested?"

"Witnesses say he was pursued on foot, but was not

apprehended and remains at large."

"At large and high as a kite, I hope," I muttered into my

coffee. The higher Jesse was, the less of a threat he posed to

me. I hoped.

"Now," the anchor said. "We go to Gina Bell, who’s live in

Masontown where I understand some residents are not happy

about these latest developments. Gina?"

A blonde woman took the anchor’s place on the screen.

"That’s right, Linda, the people here are not happy with

Commissioner Engle’s statement."

An angry young woman stood in front of a familiar

Masontown deli, rain pouring off the awning above her and

barely missing her furiously flailing hand. "Jennifer had some
problems, but she wasn’t no killer. Why did that cop go and
shoot her? All Jennifer had was a knife, but that bleep cop shot

her. What the bleep?"

The camera panned back to the reporter. "KJTI News has

been unable to reach Lombardi or Swain for an interview, and

like Detective Carmichael, both police and fire chiefs have
declined to comment. Some people here are upset about the
collective silence from everyone except Commissioner Engle,
saying they believe they’re owed answers. Answers that just

aren’t coming."

When the camera panned farther, revealing a crowd of

angry residents, I almost dropped my coffee. My spine

straightened, turning to ice one vertebra at a time as Shawn
Foster elbowed his way to the front. An electrocardiogram beep
of censorship punctuated the voice pouring out of my speakers:

"Of course none of them are going to bleep say a bleep

thing!" He gestured furiously, everyone around him ducking or
backing away to avoid getting hit. "They don’t wannableep admit

Jenny never should’ve bleep been shot in the first place, and
they sure as bleepain’tgonna string him the bleep up for letting

her bleep die like a bleep animal. That kid should’ve blown his
bleep head off and taken that bleep cop down with him.
Would’ve saved the rest of us the bleep trouble." He looked right

at the camera and his gestures funneled into a single Grim
Reaper finger pointing at the screen. At me. The hairs on the
back of my neck stood on end when he added, "You’re a dead

man, Swain."

I drew back, sinking against the sofa as if that would

somehow get me farther away from Shawn. He forced his way
back into the crowd and disappeared just before the camera

moved to one side, letting other residents of Masontown tell the
world how much of an injustice it was that Jennifer was dead
while Macy and I were both alive and employed.

I’d heard enough. I’d heard too much.

Fumbling for the remote, I turned off the television and

took a few deep breaths. With the news feed cut off, I found

myself listening for Shawn’s half-bleeped voice the way I
listened for a flatline to jump into action after I defibbed a
patient, my own heart slowing to suspended animation while I

waited for signs of life or death.

My apartment was suddenly stuffy, the walls closing in as

the air stagnated with the venomous echoes of Shawn’s voice. I

went out onto my balcony just to get some fresh air. Resting my
elbows on the wet railing, I let my head fall into my hands. I
rubbed my temples as if I could manually push away everything

I’d heard.

I knew what it was like to be threatened. My sexuality

had ensured that my high school and college years were

peppered with the occasional menacing note, anonymous phone
call, and tense locker room confrontation. I’d been well on my
way to a baseball scholarship before I quit the team my junior
year. My parents and coaches took me at my word that I simply

couldn’t play anymore because of neck and back pain following a
car accident that never happened. They never saw the notes in
my gym bag, nor did I ever tell them about the X-ray that, years

later, confirmed my secret suspicion that a couple of ribs were
fractured.

But this wasn’t some homophobe who wanted to scare

me into quitting the team because he was afraid I’d hit on him.
This was revenge. Back then, it was a damned queer who didn’t
belong in the men’s locker room, not an eye for an eye.

Something trickled down the back of my neck. I told

myself it was the rain, not cold sweat. I even convinced myself

that the chill running up my spine and the goose bumps on my
arms were from the wind.

Maybe what he’d said was an empty threat, I tried to tell

myself. Shawn Foster running off at the mouth, just like he had
the day his girlfriend died at his feet while my back was turned.
Whether or not he’d put his money where his mouth was, I

didn’t know.

Maybe I needed to go for a jog. Around the six-mile loop

so I’d run myself into the ground until I couldn’t think anymore.
Fuck the rain. I could run in the rain. Exhaust the body, wear

down the mind, sweat until I thought I’d sweat blood.

The wind chilled the wet fabric of my shirt, reminding

me just how few flimsy layers of woven thread separated

my skin from the elements. This shirt wouldn’t do me a damned
bit of good if a bullet flew my way. It might soak up some of the
blood, but it sure as hell wouldn’t stop anything.

No, jogging wouldn’t help. I’d spend the whole damned

time wondering if someone would recognize me and hate me
enough to try to kill me.

Pushing myself upright, I went back inside and dropped

onto the sofa again. I picked up my cell phone and tapped it on
the coffee table, echoing the rhythm with my foot on the floor.

When I pulled out my wallet and searched for Andrew’s card, I
ignored the voice in the back of my mind that tried to tell me I
was overreacting. Shawn was just talking shit. The finger he’d

pointed at me through the camera would never pull a trigger. If
he’d really wanted to kill me, he would have done it there on the
street after Jesse didn’t.

I keyed in the number for Andrew’s desk phone. With my

finger over the 'send' button, I hesitated. Words like 'paranoid'
and 'coward' throbbed in the back of my mind like buzzing neon
signs, telling me what a fool I was for letting Shawn scare me

like this. They didn’t, however, buzz with quite as much
insistence as the ghosts of the twinges I used to get just below
my left shoulder blade. Sometimes people did put their money

where their mouths were. In my case, that had once involved a
baseball bat and my ribcage, and for a far lesser offense than
letting someone die.

I hit 'send'.

The phone on the other end rang twice.

"Detective Carmichael." His voice was low with the

flustered growl of someone who wanted the world to leave him
the hell alone.

My heart jumped. "Hey, it’s Nick."

"Oh, hey," he said, his mood brightening a little. "Good to

hear from you." His tone changed to something a bit more

serious. "I assume you saw the news?"

"Yeah, I did. Listen, um," I paused. "About that vest and

concealed weapons permit…"

Nine

My apartment was on Andrew’s way to the range, and at

a few minutes past seven, he called to say he was in the parking
lot. I grabbed my jacket and keys, triple-checking I had my
wallet and all the necessary identification, then went down to

meet him. I was really doing this. I was really accepting the
possibility that someone not only wanted me dead, but might go
through the motions to make it happen.

When I got in the car, his smile was as nervous as I felt.

All the tension we’d left in front of The Downriver Grill was
waiting in that narrow space above the console between us.

"Good to see you," he said. "Well, aside from the

circumstances I guess."

I laughed. "Yeah, the circumstances can go to hell."

Would we find a reason to see each other if those circumstances

were different? Should we—I cleared my throat. "Looked like the
reporters were giving you a hard time this morning."

He shrugged. "It’s the media. What do you expect?"

"Yeah, isn’t that the truth?"

"Fuckers," he muttered. "That was one of those times I’m

seriously glad the department doesn’t allow us to comment."

"Yeah, no shit," I said. "I’ve managed to avoid them so

far. I don’t know what the hell I’d say if I actually had to answer
them."

"I’d probably say something and get myself fired."

"Such as?"

"Like anatomical instructions for storing their

microphones."

I laughed. "I know the feeling."

"Ah, well," he said. "It’s not the first time I’ve dealt with

them, probably won’t be the last. I guess it’s just part of this line

of work."

"Speaking of which, I’m surprised you were back to work

so soon. After everything that happened the other day."

He shrugged again. "Some time off was suggested, but

with our investigation compromised, I needed to help transfer

the case to the new undercovers that are going in." He paused.
"That, and it keeps me in easy reach if someone important
wants to chew my ass about that day."

I cocked my head. "Chew your ass? For what?"

He was quiet for a moment, then shook his head.

"Nothing. So have you thought any more about transferring?"

"I’m going to play it by ear for a bit. I’m not sure how far

I should go just to be cautious, you know? I could just be
running from phantoms."

"Possibly, yes," he said. "And I sincerely hope you are

just running from phantoms and this trip to the range is a
complete waste of time."

"I hope so, but do you think so?"

"Don’t know." He tapped his fingers on the wheel and

glanced at me. "Either way, a little extra caution never hurt
anyone. I’ve got an extra vest with me that will fit you." He

gestured toward the trunk. "And the paperwork for a concealed
weapons permit. That’ll help speed things along with getting the
gun, too."

"Oh, right, there’s that cooling period, isn’t there?"

He nodded. "Five days, unless you have a permit."

"Something tells me Shawn Foster could get a gun a little

faster than that," I muttered.

"You ain’t kidding," he said. "That law’s bullshit when it

keeps people from protecting themselves from people who can

get weapons illegally."

I gave no response except for a shudder.

Twenty minutes later, we were at the range and I

followed Andrew into the shop at the front of the facility. The

place smelled of brass and gun oil, and the walls were lined with
targets, Second Amendment slogans, camouflage hunting gear,
and the severed heads of a few unsuspecting woodland

creatures.

On the other side of a glass case filled with dozens of

pistols and revolvers stood the grey-haired range master. He

peered at me over his glasses, something like disapproval or
disgust contorting his mouth.

"Evening, Andrew," he said, his voice echoing the shape

of his mouth. "Bringing us some new clientele, I see?"

Don’t sound so thrilled, asshole.

"Just trying to keep some money rolling your way,"

Andrew said through his teeth. "This is Nick Swain. Nick, Gordon
Stiller."

The bushy eyebrows lifted slightly.

Yeah. ThatNick Swain. What of it?

He didn’t comment though, just extended his hand over

the gun case and said, "Pleasure." We shook hands, and he
didn’t hesitate to pull his back quickly, almost abruptly,
afterward. Then he took some papers out from under the
counter and slid them across the glass to me. "I’ll need you to

read these. Initial each line, then sign the bottom. And your ID,
I need that, too."

I pulled out my wallet, handed him my driver’s license,

and went over the form.

"Need ammo?" Gordon asked Andrew.

"Yeah. Give me…" Andrew paused. "Let’s start with two

boxes of nine-mill."

Gordon set the boxes on the counter. "What about

weapon rentals?"

"Not yet. We’ll start with my guns for now." Then he

gestured at the targets on the wall. "Give me three or four of the
silhouettes and a pack of band-aids."

Band-aids? I didn’t ask, just shook my head and kept

reading and initialing.

With ear protection on, paperwork signed, and targets

and ammunition in hand, we left the front counter and headed
back into the range. The first door closed behind us and Andrew
glanced over his shoulder, looking past me and narrowing his

eyes.

"Motherfucker," he muttered.

"Who?

What?"

He adjusted his ear protection and nodded toward the

front desk. "Fucking range master. I used to come here with my
ex, so Gordon seems to think I’m sleeping with every man I
bring through that door."

I laughed cautiously. "Well, he’s not entirely off the mark

this time."

Andrew paused and looked at me. Then he laughed.

"Yeah, I guess you’re right." Our eyes met. We both quickly
looked away and kept walking. Did I imagine that extra color in
his cheeks? I couldn’t be certain. I sure as hell wasn’t imagining

the flush of heat in my own face.

I glanced over my shoulder at the range master, who had

busied himself with helping other customers. A young man and
possibly his wife or girlfriend. Surprise, surprise, Gordon was
smiling and seemed perfectly pleasant with them. I shot them

one last look, then continued into the range with Andrew. So
that was why that bastard was looking at me cross-eyed. I
couldn’t decide if I felt better or worse knowing it was my

sexuality rather than my recent infamy that triggered his
contempt.

Andrew picked one of the lanes near the far end of the

range. After setting the boxes of ammo on the bench, he hung

one of the targets on the hanger and pushed the button to send
it about fifteen feet out. Then he pulled his pistol out of his
shoulder holster and dropped the magazine.

"I suppose I should have asked before we came here," he

said. "But have you ever fired a gun before?"

"Long time ago. My dad taught me with a twenty-two."

He grinned. "Okay, so you know which end to point

downrange, then,"

"Hey, fuck you," I laughed.

"In all seriousness, this isn’t exactly an elephant gun, but

it packs more of a punch than a twenty-two."

"I’ve fired pellet guns with more of a kick than a twenty-

two."

"That’s about all they are," he said, chuckling. "Glorified

pellet guns. Anyway, it’s just a nine millimeter, not too

powerful." He ran me through the basics of gun safety, most of
which I remembered from my dad’s lessons an age or two ago.
Then he put the magazine in, pulled the slide back, let it snap

forward, and took aim.

He squeezed off a few shots. He barely budged with the

recoil, his broad shoulders squared and practically daring the
gun to try to knock him off balance.

Focus, Nick. The gun, not the man. Or his hands. Or his

arms. Or his shoulders.

Andrew dropped the magazine again and set the gun

down. "Ready?"

Oh, you’d better believe—I muffled a cough. "Yeah,

yeah."

"First, the fun part." He set a box of ammunition on the

bench, the rounds inside rattling. "Loading the magazine."

After he’d shown me how to load the magazines—which

required much more manual dexterity than I’d expected—he
walked me through holding the gun, standing, and aiming. Then

I put the magazine in the pistol, and he guided me through each
step again.

"Keep your finger outside the trigger guard until you’re

ready to shoot," he said. "Make sure you’ve got a good, solid
grip on it." His voice and expression were completely serious. He
was probably so used to doing this in his line of work, he didn’t

even notice the double entendres. And in any other situation,
with anyone else, I probably wouldn’t have noticed them either.

"Here, you’re holding it a bit high." He reached for my

hands, stopping just before he touched them. "May I?"

I nodded. He put one hand under the butt of the pistol,

steadying it while his other hand pushed mine lower. His gentle,
strictly business touch did nothing to help my concentration or

keep my hands steady.

"You want to make sure you’re not holding it too high," he

said. "Or when that slide comes back, you’re in for a rude

awakening." He released my hands. "Is that comfortable?"

Nothing about this is comfortable, Andrew. "Yeah, it is."

"Feet a little further apart." He put his hand on my hip,

which instantly straightened my spine. The toe of his shoe
nudged the inside of my foot. I moved. He tapped it

again. I moved it a little further.

I took a deep breath, ordering myself to focus on the gun

in my hands, not his hand on my hip.

"Lean forward just a bit," he said.

I shifted my weight.

"Little more." He put his hand between my shoulders,

pushing gently. "This way, when the gun recoils, it won’t knock

you off balance."

I don’t think the gun is the problem.

"Now, when you squeeze the trigger," he said. "You’re

going to do so slowly. Just keep putting constant pressure on it

until it goes off. Ready?"

"I think so."

He stepped back, giving me a little more room, though I

was still acutely aware of exactly where he was. "Go ahead, give
it a try."

I slid my finger onto the trigger and did as he said,

squeezing it until it went off. There was more recoil than I
expected, but it wasn’t bad. I aimed again, fired again. By the
time I’d finished the magazine, I was fairly comfortable with it.

He pulled the target back. "Not bad." He gestured at

some of the holes in the silhouette’s chest and one in the neck.

"At least four of those would have been fatal."

I shuddered, masking it with a laugh. "Well, he shouldn’t

have just stood there and let me shoot at him, then."

Andrew snickered. "No one ever accused targets of being

terribly bright. Now reload the magazine while I put some band-
aids on him. Then you can try again."

"Band-aids? I wondered about them." I dropped the

magazine and started loading it.

"Yeah." He picked up a sheet of black stickers. "So you

can reuse the target." As he put the stickers over the bullet

holes, I laughed.

"Band-aids," I said, shaking my head. "And people say I

have a morbid sense of humor."

With our unfortunate silhouette bandaged and ready for

action again, Andrew sent the target back out and I took aim
once more.

After I’d gone through three magazines, Andrew

reached into his ankle holster and pulled out a small

revolver. "Here, try this one. It’s a thirty-eight. Has a little more

recoil than the nine-mill, but some people prefer them because
they’re more compact."

"Easier to conceal?"

"Exactly."

"Now, you don’t have to pull the hammer back to fire it,"

he said. "This is a double action, so you can pull the trigger with

or without drawing the hammer back."

"What difference does it make?"

"With the hammer back, you’re going to have a lighter

trigger pull. It’s practically a hair trigger at that point, which is
how I prefer it."

I put my thumb on the hammer, and when I drew it back,

the slow creaking made my hands shake. It wasn’t even the

sound—I could barely hear it anyway—but that vibration. The
click-click-click I’d felt against my head was not something I
wanted in my hands.

I set the gun on the bench, resisting the urge to jerk my

hands as far away from the thing as possible. "You know, the
revolver just isn’t as comfortable."

"You sure? You haven’t even fired it."

"Yeah, it just—" I glanced warily at the weapon. "The

other was just more comfortable." Please don’t ask. Please don’t

ask. Please don’t ask.

Andrew just shrugged. He took the gun, fired off one shot

at the target, then put it back in its holster. "Do you want to try
a few different models?"

"Sure, what’s the difference?"

"Mostly different grips, trigger pulls, configurations for the

safety, barrel lengths." He nodded toward the boxes of
ammunition. "We’ve got plenty left, might as well see if any of

the other models work for you. We can try a few different
calibers too, if you want."

We went through three boxes of nine millimeter and one

box of forty-five caliber before we called it a night. I found three

guns in particular that were quite comfortable, eventually
settling on a Para Ordnance nine-mill. After signing seven million
forms under the watchful, disapproving eye of Gordon the

Homophobic Range Master, the gun was mine. Well, it would be
after the five day cooling period,
anyway.

Before we got back in the car, Andrew pulled the

bulletproof vest out of the trunk. Though I found comfort in the
fact that the vest would stop most bullets, it unnerved me that I

even needed to consider this. Overkill. It had to be overkill.

As we left the range, I couldn’t stop thumbing the straps

and fabric of the vest. Each time it flexed beneath my touch, I

wondered if it would do any good. Of course it would. It was
designed for this. It wouldn’t stop a knife blade, as Macy knew
all too well, but it was made for this. Still, though the Kevlar was

much stronger than it seemed, I wasn’t so easily convinced now
that it might be the only thing standing between me and a
bullet.

At the same time, I felt like an idiot for dragging Andrew

to the range over some most likely idle threats from Shawn.

"Do you think I’m overreacting to all of this?" I asked.

"What? To Shawn’s threats?"

"Yeah."

"It’s hard to tell, honestly. I mean, he was talking shit on

the news this afternoon, then had time to go home, rough up his

girl—"

"Wait, what girl? I thought Jennifer was his girlfriend."

"One of several, yes."

"Nice

guy."

"No shit. Pity the fucker took off before our guys got

there, or this would all be a moot point." He glanced at me. "The

thing is, it seems to be business as usual in Shawn’s world
unless there’s a camera around. There’s probably nothing to

worry about."

"So, if he’s just blowing smoke, why were we at the

range?"

Andrew glanced at me again. "Because there’s always

that off chance he isn’t blowing smoke." He released a breath.
"Let’s put it this way: all Shawn’s done is talk. Chances are,

that’s all he’s going to do. Still, I’d rather not leave you
vulnerable in case he does decide to act on it."

"Do you think a vest and gun are enough?"

"I certainly hope so." He paused. "Now, I normally

wouldn’t recommend carrying until you’ve practiced drawing
from the holster. In your case, you’re competent with a weapon
and I’d rather you weren’t unarmed if you go back into

Masontown. Just, you know, be aware of your skill level and
your limitations. If you find yourself in a situation where you
need to use your gun, don’t try doing some Wild West quick

draw nonsense or you’ll probably shoot yourself in the foot."

"So a little common sense goes a long way, then?"

"Yes, exactly." He was quiet for a second, then looked at

me. "Let me ask you something. And answer me completely
honestly."

"Sure. Go ahead."

He looked out the windshield, furrowing his brow as if he

was still looking at me and trying to convey just how serious he
was. "Look, I know what it’s like to have your judgment called

into question. Especially in this line of work, when…" He paused.
"Well, we both know what can happen."

I shivered."Yeah."

"So, that being said…" He paused again, taking a breath.

"Are you, you know, okay with all of this? You’re not going to go
and off yourself over it or something?"

I laughed, the humor only half-genuine. "No, I’m not

going to go do anything like that. Besides, if I was suicidal, I
wouldn’t be asking for help to keep this jackass from possibly
killing me."

He chewed his lip, then nodded. "Good point. I’m serious,

though. This stuff can sneak up on you later. It might not hurt to
talk to the department psych—"

"No, no, no." I put up my hands. "My boss is trying to get

me into the shrink’s office, and I already have to do a damned
psych eval before I go back to work. That’s more than enough

for me."

"Are you sure?"

"Really, I’m fine with it."

"So say most people who aren’t fine with it."

Oh, Christ. Not you, too. "Look, it’s not easy, but I prefer

to deal with this stuff on my own. My own way." I clenched my
jaw, bracing for the usual arguments.

He just shrugged. "Yeah, I know how that is. Sometimes

the last thing you want to do is discuss it."

I exhaled. "Yes, exactly."

"Well, anyway," he said. "The reason I was asking is…"

"You don’t want me buying a gun and using it on myself?"

"Precisely."

"No, you don’t have to worry about that. It’ll take some

time to sort this out in my head, but I wasn’t planning on using

a hot lead injection to speed the process."

Andrew laughed. "You do have one dark sense of humor,

Swain."

"And you laughed, so I guess that’s something we have in

common."

He looked at me and grinned. I returned it, and the

devilish look in his eyes made my heart race. We both quickly
looked away, clearing our throats and focusing out the
windshield instead of on each other.

"So, that permit," he said. "I’ll do what I can to get the

paperwork processed faster and get you your gun. If you’re
comfortable with it, I’ll let you carry one of my weapons until

then."

"Isn’t carrying it without the permit, you know, illegal?"

He shrugged. "So is threatening your life. Personally, if it

comes down to it, I’d rather sort it out in a courtroom than a
morgue."

"You have a way with words, you know that?"

He glanced at me and smiled, but his expression quickly

turned serious again. "I just want to make sure you have what
you need to stay safe."

A cop in my bedroom might help. "I appreciate it." I

looked out the window until my face stopped burning.

"I’ll leave the form with you tonight. Just get it back to

me as soon as you can, then I’ll take you downtown and get all

the fingerprinting crap done."

"My prints are already in the system."

"Oh, right, right." He grinned. "Damn, that’s usually the

fun part." He winked at me.

"Well, if it’ll make the process go faster, you could always

reprint me. You know, so some pencil-pusher doesn’t have to
find mine in the system."

"Anything to speed the process," he said quietly.

I tried to ignore my thoughts of Andrew’s hands on

mine while he fingerprinted me. Getting fingerprinted so I

can carry a weapon to protect myself, and all I can think about

is him. Christ, I really am losing it.

"You okay?" he asked.

It still amazed me that I could get so sick of everyone

asking me that, but it didn’t bother me when it came from him.

Taking a breath, I nodded. "Yeah. I’m okay."

He didn’t push the issue. Neither of us spoke as he drove

the last few blocks to my place. He pulled into my apartment’s

parking lot and into a guest spot. There, he put the car in park,
letting the engine idle. My heart pounded.

He looked out the windshield for a moment before turning

to me again. "Listen, I know this is probably the last thing you
want to discuss, but just hear me out. This whole thing is
probably going to take some time to quiet down. All of it. Not

just the shit with Shawn, assuming he decides to do anything.
The media’s going to be all over it for a while."

"Yeah. I know."

"The more the press says about it, the more it’s going to

spin people up, especially when they put their bullshit slant on it
and paint you as a villain." Resting his elbow on the steering

wheel, he turned to me. "But you know what really happened. I
know what really happened. If you hadn't made the decision you
did, odds are that two people would have died that day. You had

to think fast and act under circumstances that would have made
every last critic buckle."

I avoided his eyes. "Well, I guess we’ll just have to see

what happens." Instinctively, I cringed, once again expecting the

questions, the prodding to discuss things I didn’t even want to
think about. Things I just wanted to forget using the one surefire
method I knew.

The questions didn’t come, though. He simply said, "If

you need anything at all, if you don’t feel safe, if someone so
much as looks at you sideways, call me. Day or night. I’m not

kidding."

When I looked up, I wanted to thank him for the offer and

promise him I would, but with the way he faced me just then,

the streetlights knew all the angles and contours of his face and
exploited them just right. By some miracle, I managed a nod.

After a moment, I found my voice. "I guess I should let

you go."

"Right, right." He took his elbow off the wheel, jumping as

if I’d startled him. "Like I said, call me if you need anything." He
extended his hand across the console.

For the briefest second, I regarded his hand with caution,

wondering if I dared touch him when I knew the next step would
be breaking contact and walking away. But I shook his hand
anyway.

The longer the handshake lingered past the point of polite

and platonic, the less I wanted to let go.

It was Andrew who finally broke contact, releasing my

hand and slowly withdrawing his. "Well," he said with an

uncertain smile. "Have a good night."

"You too." I reached for the door handle. After a second’s

hesitation, I looked at him. "I don’t suppose I could talk you into

coming upstairs for a drink."

He chewed his lip, dropping his gaze for a moment. "Can’t

say I’m in the mood for a drink."

But he killed the engine anyway.

Ten

Andrew threw me onto the bed and I dragged him down

with me by the front of his shirt. The only thing more frantic
than the way we kissed was the way our shaking hands tried to
unbutton, unbuckle, unzip. Just the anticipation of everything

between now and sunrise made my head spin; Andrew was the
kind of lover who demanded my full attention, all the while
making me the center of his universe.

He unclipped his holster from his belt and shrugged it off,

then took his ankle holster off. He leaned away long enough to
set them on the floor beside the bed, and before he could come

back to me, I sat up and pushed his shirt over his shoulders. His
skin, oh God, I could finally feel and taste and smell his skin.
What the hell was I thinking, letting him walk away the other
night?

No matter. He was here now.

Clothes, shoes, and phones tumbled to the floor, others

not even making it past the edge of the bed. We were

surrounded by discarded clothes, desperate to get to each other
after holding back for so long. It had only been a few days, but
it may as well have been a lifetime.

"I should have known I couldn’t stay away from you," he

murmured, pausing to kiss me. "Ever since I dropped you at the
station, I’ve wanted you again."

"Feeling’s mutual, believe me."

He shivered, kissing me hungrily. "I want to fuck you so

bad. Right now."

Yes, yes, God, yes. Though I desperately wanted him

again, I still couldn’t quite believe he was in my bed again.
Masking nerves with playfulness, I said, "You mean you don’t

want to spend half the night on foreplay?"

He laughed softly. "Foreplay is for a guy who can wait to

fuck you." He kissed me, pressing his cock against my hip.

"Tonight? I’m not that guy." I wasn’t in the mood for foreplay
either. I was in the mood for Andrew. I gestured toward the
bedside table, and he didn’t hesitate.

He tore the condom wrapper, hands still shaking even as

he rolled it on and reached for the bottle of lube.

"How do you want me?" I asked.

"Knees." As he stroked lube onto his cock, he closed his

eyes and sucked in a breath. The delirious arousal in his
expression mirrored mine, and I couldn’t wait another second,
so I did as he asked, turning onto my hands and knees.

Hands on my hips. Cool lube against my skin. Oh, fucking

hell, yes. He started to push in slowly, but I slammed back
against him, needing him deep and needing him now.

"Oh… fuck…" My eyes watered. Good God, he was inside

me. Finally.

Andrew moaned, holding me to him, fingers twitching on

my hips. He took a few sharp, uneven breaths, some of which
may have vaguely resembled the gasping curses of someone as
overwhelmed as I was.

After a moment, his grip on my hips steadied. So did his

breathing. He withdrew slowly, holding me tight to keep me
from taking over again.

"So you want it like that, huh?" he said, probably through

clenched teeth. "Hard and deep?" As if to emphasize that, he
slammed back into me, knocking the breath right out of my

lungs.

"Yes," I moaned. "Like that." I screwed my eyes shut,

anticipating the next powerful stroke as he pulled out again.

Then his chest warmed my back, and when he spoke, his

lips were inches from my ear. "You like it like that?"

Oh fuck, yes. But all that came out was a moan.

"Tell me, Nick," he whispered. "Do you want me to fuck

you as hard as I can, just like I did the other night?" He kissed
right behind my ear.

Another failed attempt at speech, though I managed a

nod.

His hand slid up my back, my neck, into my hair. The

twitch of his fingers told me what he was about to do, but still I

gasped when his hand tightened in my hair and pulled my head
back. Stubble brushed my skin when he growled, "Tell me so I
know I’m fucking you right."

100

With a shiver, I moaned, "Yes, fuck, yes."

He groaned, burying his face against the back of my

shoulder as he thrust harder. "Oh, Jesus, you feel fucking
amazing…" He released a sharp breath and sat up, slamming
into me again and again, the dizzying mix of pain and pleasure

bringing tears to my eyes.

"Don’t stop, Andrew…" Just the sound of his name made

me shiver. Yes, I had him again. Yes, he was here. Andrew. In

my bed. In me. "Don’t fucking stop…"

"I won’t." His voice was unsteady. "Not a chance."

My vision started to cloud, the familiar surges of

electricity shooting up my spine. I wasn’t usually one to come

from this alone. Then again, I wasn’t usually with someone who
was so rampant, so relentless.

I shuddered. Moaned. A split second before I passed the

point of no return, Andrew’s rhythm suddenly changed, trading
his powerful thrusts for a slower, gentler pace. The breath I’d
drawn, the one I’d held for the "Oh, fuck, yes" that I knew was

on its way, fell out of my lungs in one single, surprised
exhalation.

"Don’t stop, fuck, don’t stop," I said, gritting my teeth

with frustration.

Gentle fingertips trailed up my electrified spine. "I don’t

want you to come yet," he said, panting.

I didn’t have to ask why. I couldn’t have spoken if I

wanted to, because just the thought of fucking him almost did
me in.

He picked up speed again, holding on painfully tight as he

drove himself into me. I forced myself to breathe, to stay in
control, to do as he asked and hold back, but my God, I was

losing it. I was losing it fast.

"Jesus, Andrew, I can’t," I moaned. "You’re gonna make

me—"

"No, not yet." Arousal and breathlessness slurred his

words. "Not yet, please, not—oh, fuck." He thrust deep and
hard, then held me against him, releasing a long groan as he
came.

almost—almost—came with him.

He pulled out slowly, and while he got rid of the condom,

I grabbed another out of the drawer. He glanced at me,

moistening his lips as I opened the wrapper. As he came back to
bed, his eyes asked how I wanted him. All I gave was a sharp
nod, the best I could do when I was this fucking turned on, but

101

he must have understood, because he laid on his back while I
rolled the condom on.

Once I’d put some lube on, I joined him. My mouth

watered with anticipation of his kiss, but first, I had to be inside
him or I was going to lose it completely.

I guided my cock to him and pushed in slowly. I’d barely

given him that first inch, and already I was lightheaded.
Watching my cock slide into him, every stroke made me dizzier.

All the way in, then out. All the way in, out again. Is it possible
to be this turned on?

I leaned down, resting my weight on my arms as slow

strokes became deep, feverish thrusts. The taste of his kiss met

my tongue in the same instant I was all the way inside him. The
kiss broke with a low groan against my lips when I withdrew,
and when my cock was deep inside him again, a sharp breath

cooled my skin. We kissed, we fucked, we tasted each other, we
breathed each other, faster, harder, more, more, more. I
couldn’t get enough of him.

Andrew gasped. Then, what began as a low growl rose to

the most arousing sound I’d ever heard: a plea, his voice half-
choked and dangerously close to a sob. "Oh, fuck, Nick, don’t

stop, don’t fucking stop…"

I bit my lip and breathed as evenly as I could, trying not

to come even as his voice sent me closer to the edge faster than

the thrusts I took inside him.

"Harder," he begged. "Harder, fuck, oh, God, harder…"

I pushed myself up and fucked him harder, my head

spinning faster every time I drove my cock deep inside him. My
arms quivered and my shoulders ached, and I just didn’t care.
The muscles that burned with fatigue would have to live with it.

They’d be sore as hell in the morning, but I wasn’t stopping any
time soon. Not until Andrew and I were both too exhausted to
move, and even then I couldn’t be sure we’d stop.

He put his hand on the back of my neck and pulled me

down to him. The shift in position slowed my rhythm, but Jesus,
the taste of his kiss. I’d have stopped completely as long as he
promised to keep kissing me like that, but I didn’t have to stop

and he didn’t stop and his kiss and his body were fucking
incredible.

I wanted to come, I wanted to let go and come inside

him, but I wasn’t ready for this to be over yet, and I silently
begged every thrust not to be the last.

Resting my weight on my forearms, I kissed him again,

102

and that did nothing to keep me from losing control. His skin
was hot and slick with sweat, his breath and mine coming in

short, shallow gasps against each other’s mouths, and every kiss
was nothing but desperate, unrestrained lust.

I threw my head back, closing my eyes as surrender

became deliciously inevitable.

Andrew’s fingers curled in my hair. "Oh, fuck, yes…" His

breath cooled the perspiration just above my collarbone, and I

didn’t even try to hold back.

It was probably the first completely silent orgasm I’d ever

had, the intensity holding the air in my lungs and overwhelming
me into blissful, trembling silence, and it just wouldn’t quit.

Then, all at once, I released my breath and slumped over him.

"That," I said against his shoulder, "was incredible."

"No kidding," he breathed, stroking my hair with a

shaking hand. We lay in silence for a minute or two before my
heart slowed down a little. I pulled out and got up, and once the
condom was taken care of, we pulled each other close under the

covers. Lying on our sides, we kissed lazily until we’d caught our
breath. Though we were in no hurry now, there was promise of
more in every brush of his lips against mine. This was going to

be one long night.

After a few minutes, Andrew drew back slightly. Not

pulling away, just finding a comfortable distance so we could

keep each other in focus.

"You know," he said. "That night you met me down at the

Downriver, after we walked away, I almost turned around and

came after you."

I laughed. "You too, huh?"

He nodded. "You could say I was game for a rematch."

His fingertips brushed my face before continuing into my

hair. "In fact, I’d like to see you again." The asymmetrical grin
looked both mischievous and shy. "And maybe this time we
could skip all the other shit."

"I wouldn’t mind skipping all of that anyway. But yeah, I’d

like to see you again, too."

I could only assume it was relief that turned the grin into

a smile. He touched my face again and kissed me lightly. When
he broke the kiss, a knot formed in my gut, and I shifted my
gaze away from his.

"What’s wrong?" he asked.

I hesitated, then met his eyes again. "Should we be doing

this? You know, with Internal Affairs breathing down our necks?

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I could see them raising eyebrows over this. Like we might be
covering for each other."

"We’ll just keep it quiet until IA is done with all of their

bullshit." He ran the pad of his thumb over my cheekbone. "We
should probably keep it quiet anyway. I mean, given the way

some people react…"

"Yeah, I know what you mean." I paused. "Do you think

this is a good idea?"

"I don’t know if it is or not," he said. "But with everything

else going on lately, this is the first thing that’s felt remotely
close to right."

I couldn’t argue with that logic, so I pulled him closer and

kissed him again. It was a gentle, lazy kiss that deepened and
lingered, his arms tightening around me as I gently nudged him
onto his back. The first time we were together, I’d needed to

relieve some tension the only way I knew how. This time, I just
couldn’t get enough of him. I’d barely caught my breath from
fucking him, and already I wanted more.

Catching me completely by surprise, Andrew grabbed my

shoulders and threw me onto my back. I stared up at him, and
had I been standing, the one-sided grin he gave me would’ve

brought me to my knees.

"I’ve got plenty left," he said. "How about you?"

I pulled him down to me. "Bring it on."

104

Eleven

Since I wasn’t working for a few more days, Andrew

invited me over to his place on his night off. He lived several
miles out of town, and with everything going on lately, I was
more than happy to duck outside the city limits for a while.

He’d inherited his parents’ home a few years ago, he’d

told me. Several times he mentioned that it was a bit of a drive.
I didn’t realize just how true that was, though, until the

pavement ended. It was all trees and fences out here, with the
occasional candle-flicker of light to indicate houses at the ends
of long driveways.

This was the kind of place where the city didn't exist

anymore. Way out in the sticks on property that was big enough
to separate him from the rest of the world. Hand-me-down land
on Get-Me-The-Hell-Out-Of-Town Street.

His gravel driveway wound away from the road and back

into the woods. The house wasn’t huge—just a modest one-story
ranch style with a single car garage—but it was as immaculately

maintained as the landscaped yard around it.

I parked next to his car in front of the garage. I wondered

why he kept the car outside. He didn’t strike me as the type to

have a garage stacked to the ceiling with boxes and clutter.
Maybe that was where he worked out. With a body like his, he
either had his own equipment or made judicious use of a gym

membership.

I followed the curved, stone walkway to the porch. I’d

barely put knuckle to wood before the door opened and he

greeted me with a smile. With that smile.

He kissed me lightly. "No trouble finding the place?"

"None at all."

I stepped inside and he closed the door as I shrugged off

105

my jacket. I looked around the foyer, which was sparsely but
tastefully decorated. "Nice place, by the way."

He glanced at his familiar surroundings. "I like it. The fact

that there’s no mortgage attached to it helps."

"Yeah, I can imagine." I grinned. "So no rent, no

mortgage. What ever do you do with that surplus cash?"

He laughed. "I work for the same bastards you do.

Surplus? Please."

"Okay, point taken."

The smile turned mischievous. "Actually, a chunk of the

money that would have gone to rent or a mortgage is dog-eared
for car insurance."

"Car insurance?" I chuckled. "Just how bad of a driver are

you?"

"It’s not how I drive," he said with a wink. "It’s what I

drive."

My eyebrows jumped. "That piece of shit?" I gestured

over my shoulder at the front door, beyond which his

nondescript sedan was parked beside my own.

"Oh, hell no. Give me a little credit. Come on, I’ll show

you." He led me down the hall past the kitchen and opened the

door to, I assumed, the garage. We stepped into the darkness.

"This where you keep your toys?" I asked.

"Nope. This is where I keep my toy." The light came on.

My lips parted. "Oh. My. God."

I didn’t have to look to know he was beaming. There was

no doubt in my mind he had that smirk on his face, combining

the giddiness of a kid showing off his favorite toy with the pride
of a man who had a garage containing a black Corvette
Stingray. An immaculate, showroom-beautiful, 'that’s what I

want when I grow up' black. Corvette. Stingray.

"You like?"

"Like you have to ask," I said. "What year?"

"Eighty-one."

I glanced at him—yep, expected that smirk—as I walked

around the car, admiring it from all angles. "She’s incredible."

"You should hear her out on the road."

"You mean, you actually take her down that dirt road?"

He laughed. "Well, until I get wings fitted, that’s the only

way to get her out to the main drag. I just drive slow as hell

until I’m on the blacktop."

I walked around to the back of the car, resisting the

temptation to run my hands over that glass-smooth, black

106

finish. Not a scratch, not a rock chip, not a single flaw. "How
many miles?"

"Less than fifty thousand. Old owner was a collector."

"And how many of those miles have you driven?"

"A little under twenty thou. I’ve had her for about four

years, but I only take her out when the weather is perfect."

I looked at him. "Don’t want the rain touching your

baby?"

"Absolutely not," he laughed. Then he gestured at the

car. "She’s my pride and joy." The look in his eyes and the
reverence in his voice left no doubt about how true that was.
"Spent three years trying to find just the right one, and there

she is."

"You’d better take me for a ride one of these days." I

followed him back into the house.

"It’ll cost you."

"Oh, will it, now?"

He looked over his shoulder and grinned, but didn’t

elaborate as we continued into the kitchen.

"I got a late start," he said. "I hope you don’t mind

waiting a bit to eat."

I shrugged. "I’m not going anywhere."

Andrew smiled. I leaned on the opposite side of the

kitchen island while he went about preparing dinner.

This was the kitchen of a man who not only knew how to

cook, he enjoyed it. Granite countertops. Brushed stainless steel
appliances. A spice rack that definitely wasn’t just for

decoration, since most of the jars were nowhere near full.

While he prepped dinner, conversation wandered. Before

long, we did what two guys in our lines of work could be

expected to do: compared battle scars and war stories. Throwing
my back out while helping a patient out of a mangled car didn’t
quite compare to the time he dislocated his shoulder and
sprained his knee while subduing someone who was high on

PCP. A jagged scar on his right arm was more spectacular than
the barely visible one just above my left elbow, but I had pins
and screws holding bone matter together underneath it, so I

won that round.

"I think the worst is getting pepper-sprayed," he said.

"They sprayed me once in the police academy, of course, and

I’ve gotten hit a few times since then."

I grimaced. "Ugh, I hate that shit."

"Felt the bite a time or two?"

107

"Ooh, yeah. Never been sprayed directly, but I’ve gotten closer
to it than I would have liked."

"I know that feeling. I once got sprayed, then didn’t quite

get it off my hands."

I cringed. "You rubbed your eyes, didn’t you?"

He nodded.

" Dumbass."

"Hey, watch it." He shot me a playful glare. "Anyway, that

was probably one of the more unpleasant moments of my life."

"I can imagine." I rested my hip against the counter. "I

guess that kind of thing is unavoidable in this business."

"You ain’t kidding. A little pain and danger are part of the

game."

"Yeah, they are. Though some of it, I could do without." I

laughed. "And for that matter, I swear to God I’m going to start

wearing a helmet to work."

Andrew looked up. "Why’s that?"

"My partner." I rolled my eyes. "Jesus Christ, I don’t know

who taught that man to drive."

"You wear a seatbelt, I assume?"

"Of course. Except if I’m in the back treating a patient." I

clicked my tongue. "Nothing puts a patient’s mind at ease quite
like having a medic stop treating them for a second while he
swears up a storm because he cracked his own kneecap against

the stretcher after Mario Andretti took a corner too fast."

"Oh, he’s one of those."

"Yeah. Drives too fast anyway, and sometimes forgets to

pay attention. Hell, they don’t even have to widen the roads
anymore. The city just has him drive through, and all the curbs
pull back in terror."

Andrew laughed. "That bad, huh?"

"That bad. I swear, every time he gets behind the wheel,

my life flashes before my eyes."

His hands stopped momentarily. "Hmm. Maybe I

shouldn’t take you out in the ‘ Vette then."

"Oh? Why’s that?"

He shrugged and continued shelling crab legs. "No

reason."
"Bullshit."

He shot me a devilish look. "Well, there have been a few

completely unfounded accusations that I might sometimes
allegedly bend a few laws."

I raised an eyebrow. "The laws of the city or the laws of

108

physics?"

Glancing up at me, he just grinned.

"Aren’t you supposed to enforce the laws, not break

them?"

"I didn’t say I broke them." He showed me his palms,

raising his eyebrows in a failed attempt at innocence. "I said I
bent them."

"Uh huh. Something tells me you’re bending the laws of

physics, which, if I recall, is against city law."

He shrugged and went back to work on the crab legs.

"Well that’s—fuck!" He shook his hand in the air, releasing a
string of curses.

"You okay?"

He nodded and looked at his hand. "Damned sharp

edges."

"You know, they make rounded kiddie scissors. Might be a

bit safer if that knife is too dangerous."

He flipped me the bird with his other hand. "I meant the

crab claws, smartass."

"Okay, so now you’re being attacked by a dead animal?" I

didn’t even try not to grin.

"Are you always so sympathetic with your patients?"

I laughed. "Are you saying you need a paramedic?"

He rolled his eyes, then furrowed his brow and looked

closer. "Oh, lovely."
"What?"

"Little fucker left a sliver."

I cringed. "Ouch. Have fun with that."

"Bastard." He went to the sink and ran some water over

his hand, then looked closer, frowning as he tried to work the

sliver out. "Don’t want to come out, do you?" he muttered.

I came around the island. "Here, let me see it."

He raised an eyebrow. "I don’t need a paramedic for a

splinter."

"No, but I can probably get it out without making it

worse."

Sighing, he held out his hand. Sure enough, a tiny piece

of white shell had embedded itself in his palm. It wasn’t exactly
a mortal wound, but it was just deep enough that neither of us
was going to get it out with fingers alone.

"Don’t mess with it. I’ll get it." I released his hand and

pulled a steak knife out of the knife block.

His eyes widened. "Um, what’s that for?"

109

I looked at the knife, then at him, and deadpanned,

"Don’t worry about it. Just put your hand on the cutting board."

"Yeah, I don’t think so."

I chuckled. "Just relax. You have some vodka around,

right?"

"In the freezer." Confusion twisted his lips and pulled at

his eyebrows. "Is this a drinking game or something?"

I chuckled and got out the bottle of Stolichnaya. "Hate to

waste this stuff, but…" I poured enough to fill the bottlecap.
Then I dipped the end of the steak knife in the vodka and kept it
there for a few seconds.

"Okay, MacGuyver, what exactly are—"

"Hand." I held out my own.

He hesitated, eyeing me suspiciously, then offered me his

hand. Holding the blade between my fingers like a pencil, I

found the end of the sliver, ignoring the hiss of breath he drew.

"You know this is technically assault with a deadly

weapon, right?" he said.

"Do you want me to leave the sliver in?"

"No, but—"

"Then you’ve consented, so it’s not assault. Now shut

up and hold still." As I slid the end of the knife under the

piece of crab shell, I held his wrist tighter with my other hand.
"What time is it?"

"What? You want to know—"

"Time?"

"Crazy fucker." He craned his neck to look at the clock.

"It’s twenty after seven. Why?" He looked at me again just as I
released his wrist.

"You’re welcome."

"Wait, did you get it?" He looked at his hand.

"Of course I got it." I feigned offense. "What kind of

amateur do you take me for?"

"Well, you weren’t exactly using the proper tools of the

trade—"

"I could put it back in if you’d like."

He put his hands up and stepped back. "No, no, that’s

quite all right."

I laughed and gestured at the cutting board. "Want me to

finish with the crab legs so they don’t attack you again?"

"I think I’ll manage, smartass." He went back to work,

though he moved a bit more carefully as he separated the meat
from the shells. "So did they teach you that little vodka and

110

steak knife trick in paramedic school?"

"No, I got that one from my mom."

"Sadistic woman."

"It got the sliver out, didn’t it?" I paused, pretending to

be deep in thought. "Though come to think of it, I always

wondered if the vodka had less to do with sterilizing the knife
and more to do with making it burn more."

"Something tells me you’d still have used it regardless of

the answer." He glared at me. Then he just laughed and shook
his head.

"You didn’t even feel it, you big baby."

"True," he said. "She teach you that clock trick, too?"

"Nope. That’s all me."

We fell into conversation again, and when there was a

pause, I glanced out the kitchen window. Darkness had fallen,

and there were no streetlights or city lights or headlights to
interrupt it. Just darkness. Peaceful, near-silent darkness.

"Damn, sure is nice and quiet out here."

"That’s what I love about it," he said. "I listen to all the

noise all day long. At least I can get a break from it all out
here."

"I don’t blame you. Must be nice to get away from the

city sometimes."

"It is." He looked up at me and smiled. "Hopefully I can

talk you into getting away from the city again." The look in his
eyes made me shiver just before he again focused on the food.

"Oh, twist my arm," I said.

He winked and finished preparing dinner. While it cooked,

he showed me around the rest of the house. Though I was still
getting to know him, every inch of this place just screamed

"Andrew." Neatly arranged books filled the cases that covered
one wall of his office. Opposite the bookcases, the walls were
adorned with a few framed photos and awards highlighting his
career on the force.

Unembellished, black-lacquered furniture in both the

living room and bedroom. Photos of, judging by the striking
resemblance, family members all along the hallway and on the

occasional shelf or table.

It was all undeniably Andrew. It was possible, though,

that it was neither the simple furniture nor sparse décor that

kept his name at the forefront of my mind. It could have been
the look I caught his reflection giving me in the glass of a picture
frame. It might have been related to the way he casually rested

111

his hand on the small of my back when we moved from one
room to the next.

Or maybe, just maybe, it had something to do with the

way both conversation and respiration dwindled to almost
nothing when we were in his bedroom. The one room in the

house I wanted to be in more than any other. If his expression
was any indication, he was on the same page.

Forget dinner, his eyes said.

Say the word, mine replied.

We left the bedroom, though, both drawing deep breaths

as soon as we were across the threshold and safely in the
hallway. I wasn’t sure why we were being so coy. It wasn’t like

we hadn’t slept together. But we hadn’t done so here, and the
air between us tonight was… different. Taut with quiet intensity,
not the usual desperation that had us throwing each other down

and tearing clothes off. This was different. This was new.

So we continued this little dance.

We avoided each other’s eyes as he opened the door kitty

corner to his bedroom.

"And, here’s the last room," he said.

Just as I’d suspected, he had a home gym. Free weights,

a punching bag, a treadmill, the whole works. Just the thought
of him, sweaty and shirtless, taking out his frustrations on that
punching bag made my heart beat faster. Oh, what I wouldn’t

give to be a fly on the wall in this room…

Before my imagination ran away with me—well, both of

us—we went back into the kitchen.

"You drink bourbon?" he asked.

I’ll drink anything right about now as long as it’s cold.

"I’ve been known to, yes."

"Good. Because that’s what I have. Maker’s Mark? On the

rocks?"

I gave a dramatic sigh. "Oh, if I must."

"Yes, you must."

"So commanding," I said.

He grinned and filled two glasses with ice. He poured the

drinks, handed one to me, and we talked and drank while we

waited for the oven timer to go off.

After we’d eaten, we went into the living room and sat on

the couch with our drinks. Andrew pulled his knee up onto the

cushion between us and slung his arm over the back of the
couch, creating the illusion of casual distance while subtly
encroaching into more intimate territory.

112

We didn’t touch, though. I wanted to. I needed to.

Judging by the long pauses and longer looks, so did he. But we

didn’t.

I had no doubt he’d invited me over tonight with every

intention of letting his bedroom walls see everything mine had

already witnessed. Before we got to that, one of us had to make
the first move, but something told me we were playing a very
different game tonight. The flirtation tonight had a different

tempo, a different cadence to the volley of playful comments
and gestures. Just like the platonic handshake in his car had
been the wrong ending for that first morning after, hauling each
other to bed in a flurry of discarded clothing and torn off buttons

would be the wrong beginning for tonight.

The conversation wandered, but even superficial

discussions about work, the ‘ Vette in the garage, or the blind

referees overseeing the last Super Bowl couldn’t keep my mind
off what we weren’t saying. He rested his hand on his knee,
occasionally tapping his fingers in a sequential, four-beat ripple

as if to draw my attention to them.

Touch me. I dare you.

I sucked an ice cube into my mouth and rolled it around

on my tongue. It didn’t do much good, though. Not with Andrew
watching my mouth move.

He cleared his throat and indicated my nearly empty

glass. "I see you don’t mind bourbon, then?"

I shrugged. "Well, it’s not Crown Royal, but it’ll do in a

pinch."

He laughed softly. "I’m partial to Maker’s Mark myself."

"So I noticed."

He shook his glass, letting the ice clink against the sides.

"In fact, I could go for some more. You?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Wait here, I’ll be right back." He stood and disappeared

into the kitchen. As soon as he was gone, I exhaled. I wondered

if that was why he’d gone to get the drinks himself. Maybe he
needed a breather as much as I did. Being this close to him was
thrilling and more than a little overwhelming, as was this coy

distance we kept. Did I have the same effect on him?

I sighed and rubbed my forehead. I’d had a few drinks

this evening, but over the course of a few hours. The alcohol

wasn’t what made my head this light. For all Andrew’s presence
did to me, I may as well have been drinking water.

Lukewarm, tasteless, alcohol-free water.

113

The goose bumps prickling along my arms announced his

return a second before his footsteps, then voice: "Maker’s Mark

on the rocks." He handed me a glass, then took his place on the
couch. I sipped my drink, silently trying to decide if it was just
my imagination, or if he really was sitting a little closer than

before.

Our eyes met and neither of us spoke for a moment. I

couldn’t even remember what we’d been talking about earlier,

and hadn’t a clue where to start now. Not that it mattered. If I’d
tried to speak, I was sure the only thing that would have come
out was, "Andrew. Bedroom. Now."

We broke eye contact and were both suddenly fascinated

by our drinks. It was a safe place to look and, evidently, to find
something to start the conversation.

"I need to get some brandy again," he said, pausing to

sip his bourbon. "Haven’t had a good glass of brandy in far too
long."

"I like the taste of brandy," I said. "But it’s supposed to

be served warm. Or at least room temperature. I can’t stand
warm alcohol." I wrinkled my nose. "If I want a drink, I want it
cold."

"Don’t tell me you put ice in wine, then."

I laughed. "I can’t stand wine."

"What?" He shot me a horrified look. "You don’t like

wine?"

I pulled another ice cube out of my drink and sucked on

it. "Not a fan, no."

He chuckled. "No accounting for taste, I suppose."

"True. Wine aside, if it’s warm? No way."

"Depends on the drink, I guess," he said. "Some are

better at room temperature, some are better as cold as humanly
possible."

"Ugh, I’ve never been able to drink room temperature

drinks, alcoholic or otherwise," I said. "Ice cold or steaming hot.

No in between."

"I don’t know." He sipped his bourbon, watching me as he

rolled it around in his mouth before he swallowed it. "I think if

the right drink was served the right way, you might take it at
whatever temperature it came to you." The way he looked at me
just then melted the ice on my tongue.

Clearing my throat, I said, "Is that so?"

He said nothing, just watched me over his glass as he

took another drink. Our eyes met, his narrowing slightly in

114

perfect harmony with the broadening grin. And it was that grin.
The same damned grin that had weakened my knees when we’d

stood in my kitchen on either side of a decisive shot of Crown
Royal. He knew just what he was doing to me,

and it wasn’t accidental.

As he reached to put his glass on the coffee table, he

moved slowly, smoothly, without the slightest hint of
unsteadiness as if to let me know just how in control he was. I

sipped my own drink. This could stand to be colder. A lot colder.
Holy shit, I need something cold right now.

When he sat back, the hand that had deposited his glass

on the table didn’t retreat to his lap. Instead, he rested it on my

knee. There was no tentativeness, no hesitation, just a
declarative 'yes, I’m touching you.'

His eyes darted toward that point of contact before

meeting my own again.

Yes, I’m touching you.

The heat of his hand through denim made me shiver. His

thumb drew an arc down to the outside seam of my jeans, and
as his hand turned, his fingers slid a little further up my inner
thigh.

Ice cold. Steaming hot. No in between.

Our eyes met again.

Oh, no, something cold isn’t what I need right now at all.

With a hand much less steady than his, I reached for the

coffee table and set my glass beside his. I left only a fraction of
an inch between them, and when I sat back, wanted even less

between us.

His knee was still bent on the cushion, so I rested my

hand there, barely resisting the urge to sigh with something like

relief that I was finally touching him.

His hand abruptly lifted off my leg, leaving a cold,

invisible handprint. I swallowed hard as denim shifted beneath
my palm, worried he was pulling away, but he was simply

leaning toward the coffee table. Reaching for his drink.

He didn’t pick up the glass, though. Instead, he dipped

his middle and index fingers into it. When he brought his hand

back, he reached for me, for my face, leaning closer as he ran
his fingertips across my lower lip. The vague burn of alcohol
barely registered over the warmth of his touch, and without

thinking about it, I licked my lips.

I didn’t even have a chance to taste the bourbon before

Andrew’s lips were against mine. It was just a slow, gentle kiss,

115

his tongue barely parting my lips, and still it was intense with
alcohol and him. I thought my heart stopped, but all that had

stopped was time.

When he pulled away, he took all the air in the room and

my lungs with him. Between the Maker’s Mark and the taste of

Andrew’s kiss, I couldn’t breathe. I could only want. And I
wanted more.

I put my hand on the back of his neck and drew him back

to me, breathing him in as the kiss deepened. His fingers
brushed along my jaw and into my hair as his other arm
wrapped around my shoulders and pulled me closer.

This wasn’t a slow, gentle start, a game of waiting to see

who’d get up the nerve to turn up the heat. Every time his skin
heated my fingertips or stubble brushed across stubble, I knew.
We weren’t just carefully testing the water, waiting for one or

the other to undo the first button and send us into the feverish,
frenzied desperation with which we’d fucked every time before.
It was neither caution nor restraint that slowed our hands and

tempered every long, gentle kiss. The intensity between us
manifested itself in this unhurried tenderness, in the desire to
not only touch, but feel.

There was no need to test the water because—slowly,

subtly, seductively—we’d already jumped.

Still kissing me, he used his body weight to guide me

against the back of the couch. Then his hand slid up my thigh
and onto my cock, squeezing just hard enough through my jeans
to make me gasp.

"You don’t mind slowing things down a bit tonight, do

you?" His whiskey-flavored whisper made my mouth water.

"Not at all," I said.

With a gentle, languid kiss and the slow, teasing motion

of his fingers on my zipper, he commanded equal attention to
both his hand and mouth. It was impossible to say which was
more arousing: the nearness of his fingers to my cock, or the

sensual way his tongue slipped beneath mine and drew it into
his mouth.

He broke the kiss just long enough to tilt his head to the

other side and come back for more. The second our lips met
again was the exact moment his hand closed around my cock,
and I shivered against him.

"Like that?" he murmured, kissing his way along my

jaw.

I managed something in the neighborhood of an

116

affirmative, and even that barely left my lips because he
tightened his hand just enough to make me forget if I was

inhaling or exhaling. A soft huff of laughter warmed the side of
my neck.

"God, I love it when you’re this turned on." He leaned

away for a second, reaching for his glass, and I bit my lip. I
loved the way his drink tasted on his tongue, wanted to taste it
again.

But just as he’d done moments ago, he didn’t take a

drink. Instead, he fished an ice cube out, meeting my eyes as he
slipped the ice between his lips. Then he moved to the floor,
kneeling in front of me and stroking my cock slowly while he

sucked on the ice cube. His fingers were cool from the ice, but
that contact wasn’t nearly as intense as the moment he took my
cock into his mouth.

The contrast of hot and cold made breathing damn near

impossible. Moaning softly, I combed my fingers through his
hair. He circled the head of my cock with both tongue and ice.

The cold smoothness of the ice emphasized the soft warmth of
his lips and tongue. Every touch startled me because I never
knew whether to anticipate hot or cold.

Then it was just his mouth, so either the ice had melted

or he’d swallowed it. He nearly deep-throated me once, twice,
then—

"Oh God." There it was again, the intense cold pressed

against my cock alongside the heat of his mouth. "Oh, my God,
Andrew, that’s incredible…" I barely whispered, afraid anything

louder would disrupt the ecstasy of hot-cold-hot-cold. I wanted
to plead with him not to stop, not to stop, please, God, don’t
stop, but the tip of his tongue slid the ice along the underside of

my cock, and I couldn’t speak. I moaned, letting my head fall
back as the intensity made my eyes water.

As the ice melted, the cold diminished, and still the

intensity didn’t change. When the ice was gone, my nerve

endings had nothing to focus on except for Andrew’s mouth and
the way his lips and tongue teased, touched, tormented me.

I reached behind me, grabbed the back of the couch

with both hands, and held on as the world around me

disappeared in tear-blurred white light. I thought I heard myself
say something. Couldn’t remember. Couldn’t care less. Couldn’t

hold back. Couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stop, don’t
stop, don’t stop…

With one perfect sweep of his tongue, I lost it. He kept

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going until a split second before it became too much, and only
then did he stop. Pushing himself up, he rejoined me on the

couch. The look on his face suggested he intended to say
something, but I didn’t give him a chance before I kissed him.
This wasn’t a gentle, tender kiss like earlier, before he’d sent me

into orbit. This was deep and passionate. Breathless and
desperate. His kiss was whiskey and semen and Andrew, and I
just couldn’t get enough of him now.

Just as he’d done to me, I guided him up against the back

of the couch and slid my hand over his thigh. He growled softly
against my lips as I unzipped his jeans and teased him through
his boxers. When I pushed the thin fabric aside and trailed my

fingers along his hard cock, he moaned and let his head fall
back.

"Jesus fucking Christ…" He closed his eyes.

"Like that?"

He nodded.

Grinning to myself, I reached for my drink, hoping there

was still some ice left.

There was.

118

Twelve

By the time I went back to work a week after Jennifer

Thompson’s death, other chaos and corruption had pushed my
name to the back pages of the newspaper. It jumped briefly
back to page three when the Commissioner made a statement

that neither Macy nor I had done anything wrong, but the
obligatory scandals tied to the upcoming election kept it from
making the front page. For that, I was thankful.

Internal Affairs had called me in a few times to grill me

about what happened. The first few interviews could only be
described as interrogations. The fourth was a bit less forceful.

The fifth was "let’s make sure we have our facts straight, we’ll
call you if we need anything, do have a nice day" bullshit. The
psych eval was boring and tedious, the mousey therapist
scrutinizing me over rimless glasses as she ran through a list of

loaded questions. By the end, I was deemed fit for work and
cleared of any charges relating to Jennifer’s death.

My station had responded to numerous calls in

Masontown during my absence, mostly without incident. A few
comments, a few blistering tirades from angry residents, but no
threats or violence.

So the day I went back to work, I felt a little ridiculous

buttoning my shirt over the top of a bulletproof vest.

"Are you sure I really need this?"

Andrew put his hands on my hips and kissed my cheek

before meeting my eyes in my bedroom mirror. "Better safe
than sorry."

"If you say so," I said.

"How does the holster feel?" He nudged my ankle

holster with his foot.

"It’s… different."

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"Yeah, they take some getting used to. Give it a few days,

you won’t even notice it."

"Somehow I doubt that."

He smiled. "Trust me."

I’d gotten the gun two days before the cooling period was

up, thanks to Andrew pushing my concealed weapons paperwork
through in a hurry. Gordon the Homophobic Range Master didn’t
seem thrilled to see us when we’d picked it up, but he was

getting my money, so he wisely didn’t make any comments.
Andrew had had me wear the gun and holster around just to get
used to it, only taking it off when we were in bed.

The only problem with that plan was that, aside from a

few trips to the gun range, the bed was where we spent most of
our time. While he was at work, I had plenty of time to get
acquainted with this new, foreign weight around my ankle. When

he was home, my gun was on the dresser beside his.

I looked at my watch. "I’d better get going."

"Yeah, me too." He kissed me. "You’re on duty for the

next two nights, right?"

"I am. I’ll have my cell phone with me, though. Assuming

I’m not on a call, I can usually stop and talk."

He smiled. "Good. I’ll call you."

After a long kiss, we both headed out to our respective

cars and off to work.

Aside from the unusual weight on my ankle, the bulky

vest under my shirt, and the coil of nervousness in my gut, I got
back into the swing of business as usual in no time flat. Talking

shit with the guys, trying to occupy downtime, waiting for the
alarm to go off. When the guys tried to ask about what
happened, I ducked behind the Internal Affairs banner and said I

couldn’t talk about it until the investigation was over. They didn’t
need to know that IA was already done with me.

At a little past noon, the alarm went off. Leon and I were

summoned to a suburban neighborhood where a teenaged girl

had fainted.

She was in good condition when we arrived: Coherent,

aware of her surroundings. Her blood pressure was still

low and her face was pale, but she wasn’t in immediate danger.

To her mother, I said, "I’d still like to take her to the

emergency room so they can run an ECG and be absolutely

sure."

Brow creased with worry, the girl’s mother nodded.

I looked at Leon. "Let me take down a few more of her

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vitals, then we’ll get her out of here." I smiled reassuringly at
the girl. "Any pain anywhere? Loss of sensation?"

"My head hurts," she said.

"How bad? On a scale of zero to ten, zero being no pain,

ten being the worst pain you’ve ever experienced?"

She pursed her lips, which I realized had gained more

color even since I’d arrived. Definitely a good sign.

"I’d say a two," she said.

I nodded. Though I doubted she had a serious injury,

there was some concern that she’d struck her head on the way
down, so I made a note for the emergency room staff to check
that more thoroughly.

With two fingers against her radial artery, I let my watch

tick the seconds by while I counted her pulse.

Seven…eight…nine…

Movement behind me erased the number in my mind.

Trying not to let my frustration show, I started again.

One…two…three…

Someone came through the door behind me. A new

person, someone whose face I hadn’t seen and voice I hadn’t
heard.

Focus, Swain.

One…two…three…

As my watch marked fifteen seconds, I realized I’d been

counting the unseen footsteps instead of the beats beneath my
fingertips.

One…

"Nick?" Leon’s voice jarred my attention to everything in

front of me instead of behind me. He nodded at my hand, which
was still on the girl’s wrist. "What’s her pulse?"

"Sorry." I shook my head and tried to focus. "Lost count."

Focus, come on. After a few tries, I got her pulse and

recorded it, but I was rattled. We were on the other side of the
district from Masontown, a world away from anyone I should

have been concerned about. I was being ridiculously paranoid,
to the detriment of my ability to care for my patients. How was I
supposed to focus when someone walking into a room behind

me sent my blood pressure skyrocketing and my skin crawling in
anticipation of a gun barrel?

All the way to St. Mary’s, as I monitored the girl’s vitals

and kept her and her mother calm, I silently chastised myself for
letting what had happened interfere with my work.

Get it together, Swain. Fucking get it together.

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We turned her over to the emergency room staff and

went back to the ambulance. Maybe if I just had a little more

downtime, I told myself, I could calm down and get myself
together. A few minutes to collect my thoughts. If I couldn’t
focus, I had no business treating patients. Once I got back to

the station, I’d just take a break. Spend some time by myself,
clear my head, and focus.

I can do this. I know I can do this.

As Leon steered us away from the hospital, I leaned back

to kick my feet up onto the dashboard, forgetting until the last
possible second that I had a little extra weight on one ankle. It
probably wasn’t the most dignified moment of my life as one

foot landed perfectly on the dash while the other missed,
sending my clipboard clattering to the floor. Only my seatbelt
saved me from looking even more like a clumsy idiot.

Leon laughed as I picked up the clipboard and tried again.

"Out of practice?"

"Hey, fuck you."

"I’m just—" He paused, doing a double take. "Hey, what

the hell is that?"

"What’s what?"

"On your leg."

"Fuller, are you checking my legs out again?" I clicked my

tongue. "I’m going to have a serious talk with—"

"Oh, shut up. No, what is that?" He gestured sharply at

my ankle, and I realized the strap for the holster was slightly
exposed.

I leaned forward to pull my pant leg down enough to

cover it. "Nothing."

"You’re packing heat, aren’t you?"

I sighed. "Yes, I am."

"So, whatcha got under there, anyway? Thirty-eight?"

Click-click-click. "Uh, no. Revolvers aren’t my thing. It’s a

nine-mill. Para-Ordnance. Not sure what model."

"They make some nice guns." He nodded with approval.

"Just decided to carry a little extra insurance after what
happened?"

"Not really." I shrugged as I worked on my report. "It’s all

part of the fashion statement."

He shot me an incredulous look. "What? What fashion

statement?"

"Goes with the Kevlar." I tapped the vest. "I’m all about

accessorizing, you know that."

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"Swain, you are a strange individual, you know that?"

"No wonder they put us together, then."

"Why? So I could balance it out and make this crew at

least half normal?"

I laughed. "No, they probably just figured that birds of a

feather—"

"Oh, shut up."

We exchanged looks and laughed, then continued to the

station where we got back into the routine of our shift.

The downtime I so desperately needed eluded me, as it

turned out to be a busy day. One of those days we all loved to
hate. Being busy meant not being bored, but it also meant

people getting sick, hurt, and killed.

And, just as I knew it would eventually, it meant going

into Masontown.

I held my breath when Leon turned the ambulance down

Jackson Street and we neared our destination.

Masontown hadn’t changed in my absence. At least, it

hadn’t at first glance, and I avoided offering it a second one.
Instead, I looked at the completed report on my lap, double-
checking I’d filled it out correctly. Of course I had—this shit was

so simple, I could do it in my sleep—but it gave me something
to look at besides that particular expanse of sidewalk where my
life had stopped on a dime.

Leon parked in front of a decrepit brownstone. When I got

out, I was sure the temperature had dropped ten or fifteen
degrees since I’d gotten in the ambulance at the station. Either

that, or the goose bumps on my back and arms came from some
chill that was under my skin.

I shivered even as I told myself I was being ridiculous. I

grabbed one end of the stretcher and we went inside.

Upstairs, the patient’s son gave us the rundown. His

mother was asthmatic with a half-century-old smoking habit and
a history of chronic bronchitis. This afternoon, she’d suddenly

developed difficulty breathing that her inhalers didn’t relieve, so
he’d called us.

He led us into the room where she sat on the sofa,

wheezing.

I sat beside her. "Mrs. Gray? I’m Nick, this is Leon. Can

you tell—"

"What’s your name again?" she said in a grating three-

pack-a-day voice. She squinted, staring at something on my
chest, then scowled at me. "Swain? You’re that man they’ve

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been talking about on the news. The one who let that poor girl
die."

I blinked. "I—"

Her son clicked his tongue. "Mom, they said on the news

that’s not what happened."

"I don’t care," she said in between wheezing. "I want him

out of my house."

Leon looked at me, a 'what do we do?' expression on his

face.

There was only one thing we could do. I stepped back.

"You have this under control?"

"Yeah, I’ve got it."

"I’ll wait for you outside."

Hushed voices exchanged terse words as I left. I didn’t

stay to hear them. If a patient didn’t want me to treat her, then

there wasn’t much I could do. I closed her front door behind me
and waited around in the hallway. At least this way, I was close
by in case Leon needed me. That, and I wasn’t outside where

someone else might recognize me.

I wandered to the end of the hall where there was a

window overlooking the street. I rested my forehead against my

arm and looked down at the street below.

I’d spent a lot of time in this neighborhood. Enough that I

recognized faces, even if I couldn’t put names with them. The

girl with the hot pink Mohawk and spiked collar walked her ill-
tempered Chihuahua down this street a few times a day. The
elderly black woman who used her cane for everything from

pushing crosswalk buttons to gesturing at people was usually
out and about unless the weather was foul.

The kid across the street with the haystack of blond hair

was one of the neighborhood’s many drug addicts. Some days,
he grabbed at his hair and mumbled to himself. Other days, he
paced frantically, almost sprinting back and forth, screaming at
anyone who got too close. Right now he was on the stairs in

front of another apartment building, rocking back and forth and
brushing invisible insects off his shaking arms.

There was a gaunt young Asian woman—she was Filipina,

I think—shuffling down the sidewalk, her expression blank. I’d
seen her before. In fact, I’d treated her before. She was one of
the heroin addicts left high and dry when the methadone clinics

closed, and she’d overdosed twice in the last year and a half.
Corazon, I believe her name was. A month after the second time
I treated her, I saw her leaning against a wall in an alley with a

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rubber hose around her arm and a needle in her hand.

I exhaled and stepped away from the window. I felt sorry

for the druggies, but they made me nervous now. This whole
place made me nervous. Somewhere amidst these rundown
buildings and dark alleys, was the person who’d held a gun to

my head and the other who’d twice said he wanted me dead.
This used to be that shitty neighborhood we invariably visited
several times a week. Now it had a darker quality about it, the

way a house does after you learn that the previous homeowner
murdered his family in their beds with an axe.

A door opened and I turned around.

Leon eased it closed behind him. "I think we should take

her in, except it’s going to take both of us to get the stretcher
down the stairs, and she doesn’t want you anywhere near her."

I chewed my lip. There was nothing I could do. If I went

into her house, she could have me strung up for trespassing. If I
laid a hand on her, battery.

I pulled my phone off my belt. "Let me call in to the

station. They might be able to spare an extra pair of

hands. What’s her condition right now?"

"She’s stable," he said. "The wheezing isn’t getting any

better, though, and I don’t like the way her blood pressure
looks."

I nodded, speed-dialed the station, and put the phone up

to my ear. "Stay with her. I’ll send them in when they get here."

Leon went back inside as Keller picked up on the other

end.

"Hey, Keller," I said. "Listen, I’ve got a patient who

doesn’t want me anywhere near her, and we need to get her to
St. Mary’s. Any chance one of the guys can get down here and

give us a hand?"

"Doesn’t want you anywhere near her? Why?"

"We’re in Masontown."

He was quiet for second. "Oh. Yeah, I’ll come down.

Traffic’s getting heavy. It might be a while. What’s her
condition?"

"Stable, but the sooner we get her out of here, the

better."

"I’ll be there as soon as I can."

About twenty minutes after we hung up, Keller came up

the stairs. "So what’s the deal?"

I shrugged. "She’s not happy being treated by the man

who let that girl die."

125

He rolled his eyes. "Well, the customer’s always right, I

guess." He pulled his keys out of his pocket. "My car’s out front.

Mind taking it back to the station?"

"Actually, I was planning on walking back to the station."

"Oh, fuck off, smartass."

"Hey, I’m not the one asking stupid questions."

"Get out of here." He dropped the keys into my hand,

clapped my shoulder, and went into the apartment with Leon.

On my way down the stairs, I wanted to be angry with

the patient for her attitude, but could I blame her? All she had to
go on was media-fueled rumors and speculation. I wasn’t pissed
at her. I was pissed at all the people who’d made me out to be a

racist bastard who should be crucified

for the EMT equivalent of malpractice.

Outside, the haystack blond kid was up and pacing in

front of the stairs across the street. He grabbed at his hair,
shaking his head and staggering in between tripping on his
shoelaces.

I got into Keller’s car, adjusted the seat, and started the

engine. As I pulled away, the crackhead started toward me,
flailing madly and screaming something I couldn’t hear.

I accelerated just a little harder than I needed to. He was

in one of his 'scream at anyone who gets too close' moods, and I
was in no mood to be confronted by him. Particularly not without

Leon nearby. I was no wimp, but Leon was almost twice my size.
The crazies were easier to face with someone like him backing
me up.

Glancing in the rearview, I watched the kid flail and trip

over himself in the middle of the road before he darted off in
some other direction. I shook my head. Poor kid.

As Masontown faded behind me, my thoughts wandered.

How many more patients would kick me out before this all

faded away? How long before the ghosts vacated my head so I
could do my job without fucking it up? What the hell was wrong

with me? I couldn’t do something as simple as take a girl’s pulse
without being distracted by paranoia. Masontown—everyone and
everything about it—made me nervous. I needed to get this shit

in my head squared away and fast if I had any hope of doing my
job properly. I was already being strung up for letting someone
die. I didn’t need to kill someone because I was too busy

freaking out over a thing that went bump in the night.

When I got back to the station, I went into Chief’s office.

Switzer leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms.

126

"Nicholas, what can I do you for?"

I hesitated. "I was wondering if I could take a few more

days off."

His eyebrows jumped and he sat up. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I’m just…" I resisted the urge to run a hand

through my hair or rub the back of my neck, afraid that fidgety
gesture would make me look as unnerved as I was. "I

just need, you know, a little more time."

"Of course," he said. "How much time do you want?"

"How much will the scrooges downtown let me get away

with?"

He gave a quiet laugh. "Under the circumstances, I think

they’ll be flexible." His expression turned serious. "Honestly,
Nicholas, how much time do you need?"

I shrugged. "A few days, maybe?"

He regarded me silently for a moment. "I think you

should talk to one of the department psychologists."

"No, no, I don’t need to talk to a shrink."

"It might help."

"Chief, I’d rather not. Really."

"Nicholas—"

"I did the psych eval for IA’s investigation," I said. "It’s

just not how I deal with things."

Switzer sighed. "Here’s the deal: I’ll give you another

three days. If you need more than that, I’ll grant it under the
condition that you see the department psychologist."

"I guess I’ll see you in three days, then."

His eyebrows lifted slightly. "You’re a stubborn one, kid."

I offered a tight-lipped smile. Why everyone at the station

insisted on calling me "kid" I didn’t know. Most of the guys were

within a few years of me, if not younger. I figured when I hit
thirty-five next year, they’d find another nickname for me. I’m
certainly feeling my age these days, though. ‘Kid’, my ass.

127

Thirteen

There was nothing quite as relaxing as a night with

Andrew in his remote oasis of sex and silence. I’d stayed with
him two nights in a row, and we’d spent all last night and most
of the morning wrapped up in sheets and each other. We

probably would have stayed there well into the afternoon, but
duty called, and he had to get to the precinct to meet with
another detective about something. In a few hours, we planned

to meet at my place.

After I left, my tires hadn’t even touched pavement

before my cell phone rang.

"If you’re not calling to tell me I won the Publishers

Clearing House, fuck off," I muttered as I dug my phone out of
my coat pocket. When I saw the name on the caller ID, I
groaned. I waited until I’d gone from the dirt road to blacktop,

then returned the call.

"Don Switzer."

"Hey, Chief," I said. "It’s Nick. You called?"

"Yes, I need you to come by the station as soon as you

can."

My hand tightened on the steering wheel and I swallowed.

Had something turned up with Internal Affairs? Some new
developments or witness statements? Were they going to make
a scapegoat out of me just to calm people down about the whole

thing?

I cleared my throat. "Um, okay. What’s going on?"

"Just, come on in as soon as you can," he said. "I’d rather

talk face to face."

Oh shit. "Yeah, sure. I’ll be in as soon as I can."

"No rush, whenever you can."

Okay, maybe it wasn’t so serious. "Give me an hour or

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so."

After we hung up, I dropped my phone on the passenger

side and chewed my lip. Though he hadn’t sounded angry and
wasn’t in a terrible hurry to see me, his call made me nervous.

I should have just stayed in bed.

In spite of my nagging concerns about what Switzer

wanted to discuss, my mind kept drifting back to everything
Andrew and I had done last night. I smiled to myself. That man

was insatiable. It was just as well we’d met in our thirties. If we
both still had the stamina of our twenties, we probably would
have killed each other by now.

The more time I spent with him, the more I wanted to

spend with him, and not just in bed. When I was with him, the
world and all its insanity ceased to exist for a few hours. It was
just us, and nothing else mattered.

I wasn’t quite sure what to make of that. I didn’t think I

was ready to jump into anything, but did I have a choice ?
Ready or not, the universe seemed to be telling me, he’s here

and he’s not going anywhere.

"I guess time will tell," I whispered to no one in

particular.

Between the distance and some congestion on the

freeway, it was almost an hour and a half before I made the turn
a few blocks from the station. As soon as I did, my stomach

flipped just as it had when Switzer’s name showed up on my
caller ID.

Three—no, four—news vans were parked on the curb.

Cameras and reporters swarmed on the sidewalk.

The vultures are circling and the chief wants to see me.

That’s not good.

At least they knew better than to block the entrance. That

didn’t stop them from trying to get as close to my car as
possible when I turned, though. They came at me with
microphones pointed at my window, shouting questions that I

muted by turning up the radio. They still tried. I can’t imagine
they thought I heard them through the window. Or maybe they
thought my car would answer. They were more likely to get an

answer out of it than me anyway.

I drove past them and parked around the back of the

station, as close to the back door as I could get. When I got out,

footsteps and voices told me the mob was heading my way, so I
sprinted inside.

I continued down the hall, then knocked on Switzer’s

129

door.

"It’s open."

I stepped in and closed it behind me, thankful for yet

another barrier between myself and the reporters frothing at the
mouth outside. "You wanted to see me?"

Switzer smiled and gestured at one of the chairs in front

of his desk. "I did. Have a seat." When I did, he went on. "This
is about that incident in Masontown."

I groaned and closed my eyes. "I had a feeling it was. I

take it that’s why the media’s outside?"

He nodded, scowling. "Not much I can do about them.

Public property." He shrugged.

"Okay, so what’s going on?"

"Well, it would seem," he paused, shuffling through some

papers. "That you’ll be getting the city’s Medal of Valor."

I stared at him. "I—what?"

He smiled. "The city reviewed all the reports of what

happened, and you’re getting the medal for saving Macy

Lombardi’s life even while your own life was in danger."

I rubbed the bridge of my nose. "You’ve got to be fucking

kidding me."

"Nope." He slid a piece of paper across the desk. It was a

letter from the mayor himself, indicating I would be getting the
medal for 'performing, while on duty, an act of bravery and

heroism warranting recognition for gallantry and risk of life'.

After a moment, I blew out a breath and set the letter

back on the desk. "I don’t get it. One minute they’re trying to

string me up for discrimination and gross neglect, the next
they’re giving me a damned award?"

"IA found no reason to pursue you for discriminatory

practices or misconduct." He gestured at the letter. "Quite the
contrary, apparently."

"Chief, at best, I was just doing my job."

"No, you’ve earned this, Nicholas. You went above and

beyond the call of duty the minute you did a thoracentesis

on a dying woman while you had a gun to your head."

I shuddered. It would be a long time before I could look

back on that day without my skin wanting to turn inside out.
"And what about Jennifer Thompson?" Her name made my chest
tighten with guilt.

"You did what you had to do." His shrug was probably

meant to be apologetic, but was just flippant enough to set my
teeth on edge. "Those two bullets did more to black-tag her than

130

you ever could have. What you did just meant Macy Lombardi
didn’t end up on a slab next to her." He tapped the letter with

one emphatic finger. "That is why you’re getting this medal."

I shifted uneasily. "Okay, what about Jennifer’s family?

This has all been high profile as it is, and obviously the media’s

caught wind of this new development."

Another shrug. "It’ll be good PR."

I glared at him. "With all due respect, Chief, I couldn’t

care less about good PR when someone has threatened to hunt
me down and kill me over this whole thing."

"Has he taken any action to follow through with any of

that?"

"No, but I’d just as soon not tempt him into it."

"I hardly think he would do anything at an awards

ceremony attended by half the police force."

"Half the police force and a good chunk of the media."

"Nicholas, I know you’re concerned," he said. "And I

understand. These threats are being taken seriously. But the

fact of the matter is, this will probably be the safest you’ve been
since you got out of the ambulance in Masontown that day."

I shuddered again. "And afterward? Is half the police

force going to stay with me, or am I on my own once the
commissioner’s finished using me to polish the city’s image?"

The chief sighed. "What do you want me to do?"

"I don’t know what you can do at this point. I just want

this to fade away, honestly. The media exposure makes me
nervous, and this is just going to make it worse."

"Or it’ll convince people that you did the right thing."

I laughed bitterly. "If the coroner’s report didn’t do that,

pinning a medal to my chest and calling me a hero

won’t

either."

He shrugged, this time more apologetically. "If people see

that—"

"Yeah, I’m sure they’ll magically be persuaded into my

favor because a bunch of rich, white politicians who can’t be
bothered to build a firehouse decided to—"

"I get it."

I set my jaw. "What if I refuse to accept it?"

Switzer’s lips thinned into a bleached "don’t fuck with me"

line. "This is one of the highest honors a paramedic can receive.

You’ve earned it." He paused, gesturing in the general direction
of the parking lot where the media waited for me. "And if you
choose not to accept it, it’s going to create yet another stir."

131

I blew out a breath. "Okay, you’re right. Except that stir

won’t require me to be up on stage in front of God and everyone

accepting a medal for something that has me on quite a few
people’s shit lists."

He rested his forearms on the desk and leaned toward

me, still looking at me with an expression that didn’t invite
argument. "Look, I realize you want this to just fade away into
the background, and I don’t envy you for putting up with the

media bullshit. But the fact is, it’s not going to fade away
overnight. The media is going to suck this story dry until they
have nothing left to say about you. So, you can either let them
keep digging up the negative shit, or you can take a chance that

this will put a positive spin on things."

Gritting my teeth, I released a resigned sigh. Switzer was

as down to earth as any higher-up, but he was still a higher-up.

He still put stock into the games the politicians played with the
media and people’s perceptions. The asshats in their ivory
towers saw this kind of thing as a way to genuinely sway people

to see things in a positive light. Those of us down below in the
real world just saw a bunch of overpaid jackasses pissing on our
collective leg and telling us it was raining.

In a quiet, even voice, I said, "Did you need to talk to me

about anything else?"

"No, that’s all." He sat back in his chair. "Though as long

as you’re here, how are you holding up?"

I chewed the inside of my cheek. "I’ll manage."

"Are you sure? If you’d like me to set something up with

the department psychologist—"

"No, no, I don’t need to talk to a shrink."

He regarded me skeptically. "There’s no shame in—"

"It’s not shame," I said. "I just, I’m dealing with it on my

own."

"I’m sure you are, I’m just concerned with how you’re

dealing with it." He steepled his fingers. "You look like you

haven’t slept in days."

I had to bite my tongue to keep from chuckling. "I’m fine,

Chief."

"You know, under department policy, I really should be

requiring you to see the psychologist."

"I’ll go to the psychologist if the city calls off this awards

ceremony."

He glared at me. "It’s not going to happen."

"Then I think we understand each other." I’m sure he

132

thought I sounded like a petulant, stubborn kid. Maybe I did, but
I don’t think he quite understood how opposed I was to either

option. Talking to a shrink wouldn’t help me. I knew myself well
enough to be certain of that. And getting up on stage to accept
that medal in front of the media’s prying eye wasn’t distasteful,

it was terrifying. I was scared to death of the exposure and the
fallout.

There was no sense arguing with him. It was done, the

media already had their claws on it, and whether I liked it or
not, the awards ceremony was going to happen.

Christ, I need a drink. Or a—I cleared my throat. "Well,

I’ll let you get back to work."

He nodded. "Take care of yourself, Nicholas."

"Will do." I got up, shook his hand, and left the office. I

was tempted to stop in the hallway and give myself a few

minutes to get my head around all of this, but I needed to get
out of here. One of the guys might see me and want to shoot
the breeze or, worse, ask how I was doing.

So I got the hell out of there.

When I stepped outside, the press was still there, buzzing

around like wasps lying in wait until the kid who’d poked their

nest came back. They descended on me, cameras flashing and
questions chattering into one big mass of nonsense. I kept my
head down, refusing to make eye

contact with any of them.

As soon as I started the engine, I cranked up the radio.

With the music blasting, all of the activity outside was reduced

to soundless flailing and microphone-waving while people’s
mouths opened and closed like suffocating fish. For once, I was
thankful for the department’s set-in-stone policy about not

talking to the press. I was conditioned to tune them out and
refuse to speak to them, and with everything going through my
mind right now, that habitual silence would keep me employed.

They moved aside and let me back out of the parking

space. I drove through the gauntlet of reporters, resting my
elbow below the window and casually shielding my face with my
hand. Once I was out of the parking lot and had driven a block

or so, I lowered the radio volume.

This was never going to end. Things like this usually died

down in a few weeks or months, once something more

sensational came along to occupy space on the coveted front
page, but a few weeks or months may as well have been years.
As it was, it hadn’t even been ten days, and already I’d

133

forgotten what life was like without this shit hanging over my
head.

And instead of fading away, it just kept getting worse.

From its place on the passenger seat, my cell phone

chirped with that gentle audio nudge to let me know I’d missed

a call.

"Fucking hell, what now?" I snatched it off the seat and

flipped it open.

Andrew.

Six letters on an LCD screen, and for a few fleeting

seconds, I stopped giving a shit about anything else.

He hadn’t left a message, so I hit 'send' to call him back.

I liked that about him; unless it was something pressing, he
didn’t bother with voicemail. He knew his name on the missed
calls list was enough to let me know he wanted to reach me, so

there was no need for a message.

After a few rings, he picked up. "Hey, what’s up?"

"You tell me." I smiled just from the sound of his voice.

"You called?"

"Right, right, sorry. It’s been a bit crazy here, I couldn’t

remember if I meant to call or already had."

"Losing your memory in your old age?"

"Yeah, that’s it." He added something I didn’t quite catch,

but I guessed it was along the lines of 'smartass'. "Anyway, I

was just calling to let you know this is going to take me a bit
longer than I expected."

"Don’t worry about it. I got hung up at the station

myself."

"I thought you were off today."

"I was," I said. "Chief called me in for a little one on one."

"Uh oh, that doesn’t sound good."

"Could be worse." I paused. "What time do you think

you’ll get out of there?"

"Probably five or six."

I clicked my tongue and sighed dramatically. "Well, so

much for that matinee, then."

He laughed. "Yeah, I’ll just have to find a way to make it

up to you, won’t I?" The playful seductiveness in his voice made
me shiver.

"You know I’m going to hold you to that."

"Oh, I’m counting on it."

134

135

Fourteen

I dropped my MP3 player on my desk, then went into the

kitchen to refill my water bottle. I took a few gulps in between
pausing to catch my breath and stretch my legs. Then I peeled
off my sweaty running clothes, dropped them into the washing

machine, and went into the bathroom for a shower.

I closed my eyes and let the water run over my face and

through my hair.

The run hadn’t helped at all. Six miles, every one of which

I’d probably pay for tomorrow morning, and still I couldn’t shake
loose the kudzu vines of fear and anger that had anchored

themselves to my consciousness. If anything, it had only gotten
worse. All through my run, everyone and everything was sinister
and suspicious. Every glance in my direction was full of
contempt, not the bland apathy of a stranger. All the newspaper

dispensers knew my name. A faster jogger coming up behind me
on Halifax Boulevard was Shawn Foster right up until the second
he overtook me and became someone I didn’t know.

When I managed to convince myself to let go of the

paranoia and stop superimposing threats into my surroundings,
my mind went back to Switzer’s office. And the parking lot with

the media. And back to wondering if this dog and pony award
show would piss Shawn off enough for him to make good on his
threats. If the media and the city would just let it go and let it all

die, maybe Shawn would do the same.

The more I thought about all of it, the more it pissed me

off. And worried me. And scared me.

I sighed and rested a hand on the shower wall, wishing

there was a temperature setting for 'way too hot'. To Switzer
and anyone else, I probably came across as ungrateful for

objecting to this damned medal, but that was far from the truth.

136

I’d known one medic and one firefighter in my career who’d
received the Medal of Valor. I didn’t know the medic personally,

but the firefighter was Eric Bowman, a friend of mine. Though he
never said anything about it publicly, he told me in confidence
that he didn’t want the medal.

"It’s an honor," he’d said. "But some things, you just

don’t want to remember. That thing is like wearing a film reel of
everything that happened that day."

I’d been there that day. I’d zipped a body bag over the

face of someone I couldn’t revive, and more than once thought
I’d have to do the same for Eric. That day was hell for all of us.
That night was one of the hottest nights I ever had with my ex-

wife, and looking back, the quiet morning after was one of the
last nails in the coffin of our marriage. I didn’t want to talk about
what had happened. I couldn’t, and no matter how much she

tried to coax it out of me, I wouldn’t. I didn’t want to think about
it. Yet even then, I hadn’t quite gotten my head around why my
friend never wore the medal unless he had to, nor did he display

the accompanying plaque.

Now I got it. Did I ever. Situations like this were hard

enough to deal with. Then everyone expected him to look at the

award and smile to himself, remembering the time he’d gone
above and beyond the call of duty, being thankful he was still
alive, and all of that bullshit. When Eric looked at it, all he saw

was the day he and someone’s little girl spent nearly a minute
trapped beneath rushing floodwaters in a car that was
submerged after the current had swept it away.

I ran my hands through my hair and turned to let the hot

water beat on the back of my neck, knowing the heat couldn’t
get quite deep enough to wash away that cold ghost of a

revolver muzzle.

I could handle this. I’d go up on stage, smile through the

speeches, accept the award, and tuck it away at the bottom of a
box when I got home. Eventually, the media coverage would

fade away. Eventually, Shawn would lose interest in me. Or
maybe he already had, in which case it was up to me to get over
this ridiculous paranoia and stop looking over my shoulder every

five seconds.

The water started to get cold, so I turned it off and got

out. At least Andrew would be here in a couple of hours. Maybe

we could shut out the world tonight like we had last night. Just
being around him was enough to relax me. Crown Royal had
nothing on the touch of Andrew’s hand.

137

But he wasn’t here yet. After I’d gotten dressed, I did

everything I could to kill time. I was too restless for a movie, too

exhausted for another run, and a shoot ‘em up video game was
anything but appealing. I did, however, make some progress
cleaning out my spare bedroom, which had become a cluttered

mess when David and I were separating our stuff. Reorganizing
it didn’t do much to ease the tension or settle my nerves, but it
kept my hands occupied and made time go by faster.

Andrew came to my door at a little past six. As soon as he

stepped across the threshold, my heart rate jumped and I
swallowed hard. This was a mistake. I should have cancelled
because I should have known I’d be looking at him like that

again. The way I had when he sat beside me in the emergency
room waiting area while I tried to ground myself back in reality.

He kissed me hello, and it was that lingering kiss that

comes with familiarity. It also sent shivers down my spine and
made me want to haul him into the bedroom.

I didn’t, though, because I couldn’t tell where stress

ended and desire began.

Did I want him? Or did I just want the nearest warm

body? What if I hurt him like I’d hurt David? Using him for

decompression sex was okay when we were two strangers who
wanted the same thing. But we weren’t strangers now. He
wasn’t just a warm body anymore. He was… Andrew.

If anyone stood a chance of getting me, of understanding

how my mind worked and how my job affected me, it was
Andrew. I can’t fuck this up. I just can’t. But how was I

supposed to explain it to him?

I want you so bad I can’t think, but I don’t want to use

you like that?

I don’t know how to explain why I just want to shut up

and fuck you?

And why am I this afraid of losing you?

"So what did your chief want?" he asked as I poured us

some coffee.

"To tell me that the city is going to make sure none of

this bullshit dies down any time soon."

His eyebrows jumped. "Meaning?"

I handed him a coffee cup and nodded toward the living

room. Neither of us spoke on the way from the kitchen to the

couch.

I rested my elbows on my knees and ran my hand

through my hair.

138

"You okay?" He put his hand between my shoulders, that

contact giving me goose bumps even through clothing.

Jesus, I want you. You have no idea. I can’t do this.

His hand moved up to my neck, bare skin warming bare

skin.

My mind wanted to tell him not to touch me, that he

didn’t know what he was doing to me, but with every gentle,
kneading circle his fingertips made on my tense muscles, my

body said "don’t even think about it."

"What happened?" he asked.

I tried—and failed—to ignore his touch, but at least it

gave me an excuse to close my eyes. God, I want you, Andrew,

I—"The city’s giving me the Medal of Valor."

His hand stopped, then started again. "You make that

sound like a bad thing."

"I haven’t quite managed to convince myself it’s a good

thing."

"Why wouldn’t it be?"

"The media’s going—" Fucking hell, Andrew, your hands

are amazing. "—to have a field day with it."

"Yeah, but Jesus, I’d be surprised if they didn’t give you

this award, media attention or not." His fingers continued finding
and trying to release all the tension in my neck. It was meant to
relax me. He couldn’t have known that kind of contact was like

secondhand smoke to a jonesing smoker.

"I’m just not so sure I want that much exposure. I mean,

with Shawn and everything."

"Yeah, I understand," he said. "But if there’s anywhere

on the planet where you’ll be safe, it’s at the awards

ceremony. Have you ever been to one to one of those things?"

I nodded. "A few."

"They’re wall to wall cops, remember?" He squeezed the

back of my neck gently. "And I’ll be there. If it’ll make you more
comfortable, we can drive in together, and I’ll stay as close as I

can. That said, though, I really don’t think there’s anything to
worry about."

"Thanks," I whispered. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him

all the other reasons I didn’t want the award. It would just be a
reminder of the day Jennifer died and I almost did. Saving Macy
was part of my job. It was also one of the most traumatic

moments of my life, and I didn’t want something on my wall to
remind me of it.

I sighed, the sound startling me as it drew my attention

139

to how long the silence between us had lingered. I had no idea
how much time had passed since either of us had spoken.

I turned my head. He craned his neck a little, meeting my

eyes. His expression invited more conversation if I was so
inclined, but demanded nothing. I didn’t want to talk anymore.

There was only one thing I wanted. Only one thing I needed.

You just needed someone to use.

"I need a drink." I stood abruptly. "You want anything?"

He stared at me for a moment, hand still hovering in

midair where my neck had been just seconds before. Then he
lowered it. "Um, yeah, sure. Whatever you’re having." Rising
slowly, he followed me into the kitchen.

I didn’t need the alcohol, nor anything cold, nor the

familiar taste of Crown. I just needed to move, and walking from
the living room to the kitchen was as close to pacing as I could

get right now without betraying just how wound up I was.

I hadn’t even turned the bottle cap before Andrew’s

hands materialized on my hips. He slid his arms around me, and

I knew what was next. First his body against mine. There it is.
Then his breath on my neck. There. A light brush of stubble and
the gentle touch of his lips. Oh God, Andrew,

you really don’t know what you’re doing to me.

"You’re edgy tonight," he murmured against my neck.

"Are you sure you’re okay?"

Don’t tell me you’re fine, David’s voice echoed in my

mind. I’m sure it’s bothering you.

I swallowed. "I’m just—" Whatever I am, I want to fuck

you until I’m not anymore— "stressed."

He kissed the base of my neck, sending goose bumps all

the way down my spine. "I wish there was something I could do

about all of this."

Oh, there is. Believe me, there is. I took a breath. "It’ll

just take time for everything to calm down."

When you need someone the most, you shove them

away.

Ignoring David’s voice, I turned around in Andrew’s arms.

Facing him didn’t help my guilty, conflicted conscience, though.

With my back to him, I could almost persuade myself that using
him to fuck away my problems was a bad idea. That I would
drive him away like I’d unknowingly driven away those before

him.

But it was difficult to hear reason over the whisper of

denim across denim when he pulled me closer and let his

140

erection brush against mine.

His hand drifted down my back. He leaned toward me,

cupping my jaw with his other hand just before he kissed me.

The earlier neck rub was too much. This kiss was well

beyond that point, and every gentle touch and warm breath

made me want to rip his clothes off and have him.

The kiss deepened. Intensified. Passed the point of no

return when a kiss was no longer just a kiss, but a prelude. The

beginning of something that had to be finished or else it would
haunt me and drive me mad until it was. A song that would be
stuck in my head until the last note finally played.

If you just wanted to fuck and not talk, you could have

taken care of that yourself and left me out of it.

I suppressed a shudder and broke the kiss, dropping my

gaze. "Listen, maybe tonight’s…"

He touched my face and kissed my forehead. That tender

gesture sent conflicting waves of arousal and guilt through me.
His lips on my skin made me want him. His affectionate touch

made me hate myself for wanting him like this.

"You’ve got a lot on your mind," he said. "If you’re not in

the mood, just say so."

"It’s not that."

He raised my chin so I had no choice but to look at him.

"Nick, I’m not a mind reader. If you are, if you aren’t…" He

raised his eyebrows. "Just tell me."

I swallowed hard. "I—" need to be fucked blind. I need to

feel until I don’t care anymore. Damn it, I just need to fuck

someone right now.

David’s voice worked itself into my mind again: So you

admit that anyone will do.

No, I thought, running my fingers through Andrew’s hair.

Not just anyone. Just him. The hand in his hair went to the back
of his neck.

"Never mind," I whispered, and kissed him.

He hesitated for just a second before taking my kiss’s

word for it and returning it with just as much fervor. He pressed
his hips against mine, pushing me up against the counter. I

pulled him closer, pulled the breath right out of him as I kissed
him with that all too familiar desperation. Everything I wanted
was right here. I wanted to taste him, I wanted to be inside him,

I wanted… a substitute for your hand.

My ex-boyfriend’s voice rippled through my consciousness

like cold water. I hoped Andrew mistook the shudder for one of

141

pleasure, and with his hard cock separated from mine by nothing
but denim, that wasn’t entirely a misinterpretation.

"Why don’t we go in the bedroom?" he said.

That shudder was pleasure and nothing but. He didn’t

wait for any answer beyond that. He guided me backwards

toward the doorway and into the hallway.

A shirt came off. A belt jingled. Hands on my skin. Skin

against my hands. Stumbling. Panting. I grabbed his neck and

kissed him so hard I nearly made him trip over his own feet, so I
forced him up against the wall instead. He grunted with surprise,
and my own vehemence startled me.

Easy, Nick. I backed off, returning to a gentler kiss.

Andrew was having none of it, though. His fingers

tightened in my hair, and this time he was the one who

turned the kiss from tender to desperate and violent. He leaned

into me, pushing me off balance enough to warrant a step back.
Then another. After I’d gone a few steps, he shoved me up
against the opposite wall, kissing me furiously, relentlessly.

"Tell me what you want," he said between kisses.

"I want to fuck you." The words tumbled off my lips

before I could even think twice about my reasons and motives

and all of that shit that just didn’t matter, and Andrew kissed me
again. This time he walked backwards, pulling me into the
bedroom. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I just wanted him

so damned bad. We couldn’t get our clothes off fast enough.

Drawer. Wrapper. Lube. Fuck, I need you so bad, Andrew.

Kneeling behind him, I trailed my fingertips up his back,

watching his muscles quiver at my touch. Then I retraced the
same featherlight path all the way to the base of his spine
before putting my hand on his hip. With my other, I guided my

cock to him. I pushed in slowly, the breath leaving my lungs at
the same speed I slid into him. The room spun, my head spun,
and nothing existed except us. Nothing mattered except how he
felt around my cock and in my hands and—

If you just wanted to fuck and not talk…

A shudder tried to follow the silent voice up my spine, but

I forced it back. I closed my eyes, thrusting a little harder.

"Jesus, you feel fucking incredible."

…you could have taken care of that yourself…

"So do you," Andrew said, his back arching.

…and left me out of it.

I slowed the rhythms of both my breathing and my

thrusts, holding Andrew’s hips tight with trembling hands. It

142

wasn’t muscle fatigue from my earlier run that kept me from
going any faster than this. That was an ache that could be

ignored when it meant driving my cock deep inside him until
neither of us could take anymore. No, that wasn’t what held me
back now.

My entire body trembled with the restraint it took to move

this slowly. Still, I bit my lip and forced myself to stay in control.
I wanted to fuck him until we both saw white, but there was one

thing I wanted more than that. One thing that was worth this
gentle, torturous rhythm.

Andrew rocked back against me, his body trying to coax

mine out of this slow motion. I held his hips, clenching my jaw

so hard it ached.

Come on, Andrew, I know it’s there. Give me what I

want, and I’ll give you what you want.

His back and shoulders rippled with tension, but when he

spoke, his voice was little more than a whispered plea. "Nick,
please, fuck me. Hard."

shivered.

Yes, that’s it. I moved just a little faster. "You

want it hard?" I said, trying to sound playful. I need to know you
want this as bad as I need it.

"Yes," he moaned. "Please."

"Come on, Andrew, I can’t—"

"Fuck me, Goddammit," he growled, and slammed back

against me, forcing me all the way inside him.

That was all I needed. I held on tight and fucked him.

Every thrust sent me closer to blissful oblivion, and every time

he cursed, pleaded, demanded, begged for more, I wanted him
more. Not the nearest warm body. Not just anyone. Him.
Andrew.

"Oh…God…" My eyes rolled back and my spine threatened

to turn to pure, electrified liquid at any second. "Oh God, I’m…" I
shuddered, and just when I couldn’t hold back a second longer,
Andrew took over, meeting me thrust for deep, violent thrust,

and I came.

When the last tremor had come and gone, I pulled out

slowly, struggling just to breathe until I’d completely withdrawn.

My hands shook as I took care of the condom, and my muscles
tingled with the absence of whatever had had them so tense and
knotted.

Still panting and shaking, I got back into bed and lay

beside him. I rested my weight on one forearm and touched his
face with my other hand.

143

"I needed that," I breathed. Some long-forgotten voice in

the back of my mind tried to argue, but I didn’t hear it over the

lazy, breathless way Andrew kissed me.

He took my hand and guided it lower, wrapping my

fingers around his cock.

"I hope you didn’t think we were done yet," he said,

barely breaking the kiss.

"Of course not." I stroked him gently. "In fact, I think

we’re just getting started."

"You’re damn right we are," he breathed as I kissed his

neck and tightened my hand around his cock.

Then I released him and pushed myself up on my arms. I

flicked my tongue across his nipple. "Think you can keep up with
me?"

"Oh, you know I can." He released a hiss of breath as his

abs quivered against my lips. "I think you know I—" He gasped,
his back arching off the bed. He tangled his fingers in my hair,
moaned softly, and murmured the last few coherent words he

could still manage: "Oh God, Nick, your mouth is fucking
incredible…"

144

Fifteen

Bloodstained concrete. "He’s hurting her!" Immediate

medical attention and transfer. Blood, so much blood. "Why
didn’t you help her?" Odds of survival low. "Make him stop
hurting her."

The gun. The gun. Fuck, where’s the gun?

"He’s killing her!"

"I will hunt you down and kill you!"

"Jesse, put the gun—"

I flew upright, gasping for breath and shivering under

cold perspiration. I rested my elbows on my knees and rubbed

my temples.

Movement beside me startled me a second before a hand

on my back nearly made me jump out of my skin.

"Hey, take it easy. You okay?" Andrew’s voice brought me

back down to terra firma. "Nick? You okay?"

I nodded, exhaling as I sank back to the pillow. He

propped himself up on his elbow beside me, faint light from

outside backlighting him.

"You sure?" he asked, trailing his fingers along my arm.

"Yeah. Just, you know…"

"Nightmares?"

Sighing, I nodded. "Every fucking night." I didn’t usually

wake up so violently, but the dreams were there and they were

relentless.

Andrew kissed my shoulder. "I know the feeling."

"You too?" I turned toward him, struggling to make out

his features in the darkness.

His silhouette moved just enough to imply a nod. "No

one walks away from something like that completely

unscathed."

145

"Isn’t that the truth?" I shivered. It occurred to me that I

hadn’t told him what I’d dreamed about, but I suppose it didn’t

take a genius to put two and two together. I put my hand over
his, running my thumb across the side of his wrist. "It’ll probably
be better once this whole thing finally dies."

"Yeah, probably."

"Sorry I woke you up."

He kissed me lightly. "Don’t worry about it."

We settled back in to go to sleep. I rolled onto my side

and Andrew draped his arm over my waist, molding his body
against mine as our fingers laced together.

He fell asleep first, every soft exhalation warming the

place where cold metal had too recently been pressed. At first, it
made me want to shiver and pull away from him, but the more I
focused on his breath on my skin, the less I noticed the phantom

throbbing beneath it. And the more his chest rose and fell
against me, the more my own breathing fell into the same
rhythm. The same relaxed, calm rhythm.

Eventually, I slept, and for once, so did all the ghosts in

my mind. The next thing I remembered that wasn’t silent
darkness was daylight. And in spite of whatever haunted me and

wound me up, there was nothing quite so relaxing as daylight
with Andrew in it, sleepy-eyed, unshaven, and so deliciously
close. We’d moved apart in our sleep, and it didn’t take long for

us to move right back together.

For all I’d worried last night that David was right and I’d

been using Andrew as a substitute for my hand, we’d continued

fucking long after the need to decompress had been met. I’d
forgotten I ever needed to relieve any tension in the first place,
and all I could think of was how badly I wanted him. And in the

light of day, he didn’t ask what had gotten into me. He didn’t try
to draw answers out of me that I didn’t offer. The silence
between us was anything but cold. If he wanted anything from
me now, it was just more of what I’d given him last night.

Once we’d finally pulled ourselves away from each other,

showered, and dressed, we walked to a diner a few blocks away
for breakfast. He was off today, so we had nowhere to be and all

day to get there. A leisurely walk, breakfast, a walk back, and I
had no doubt we’d be back in bed before long.

In front of the restaurant, a newspaper dispenser caught

my eye.

Off to the side, but still on the damned front page, an all

too conspicuous headline: Medal of Valor to be Awarded for

146

Saving Critically Wounded Detective. Below that, in slightly
smaller font: Paramedic Cleared in Neglected Woman’s Death.

I suddenly wasn’t hungry anymore. The backhanded

swipe in the subtitle turned my stomach, but it was the exposure
that made my skin crawl. There were newspaper dispensers just

like this all over Masontown. If Shawn wanted to find me, he
could get that much closer to me for the princely sum of twenty-
five cents.

Andrew put his hand on my shoulder. "They’re going to

spin everything. They could find fault in someone who single-
handedly rescued everyone from a burning orphanage. Don’t let
them get to you."

"It’s not that." I pulled a quarter out of my pocket,

deposited it, and took one of the papers out.

"You don’t really want to read what they said, do you?"

"Not really, no. I’m just curious about a few things."

He shrugged. "You’re going to drive yourself crazy with

this shit."

"Probably."

He shook his head and opened the door. A waitress

seated us near the back, mercifully away from the windows.

Once we had coffee, Andrew looked at the paper.

"So what exactly do you want to know from that article?"

"Mostly, I’m curious if they said anything about the

awards ceremony."

"Such as?"

"Such as when and where it is."

He set his coffee cup down. "Something like that, I don’t

see why they wouldn’t."

"That’s what I figured." I pursed my lips. "Mind if I read

it?"

"Of course not. I’m a bit curious myself."

I skimmed over it. "Oh, how nice."

"What?"

"Bastards made sure to put in a little sidebar to let

everyone and their mother know they can find my ass in the
main auditorium of the Riverside Convention Center on the

fifteenth at one o’clock in the afternoon." I rolled my eyes.
"Think they could mention where I’ll be sitting and what I’ll be
eating for lunch afterward, too?"

Andrew picked up his coffee again. "Nick, you’re worrying

about nothing. Doesn’t matter how much the press says when
that place is going to be wall to wall cops. Shawn so much as

147

shows his face, they’re going to be drawing straws to see who
gets to put the bracelets on him."

"I don’t know, I’m still not comfortable with it."

"I don’t blame you. In your shoes, I’d probably be

uncomfortable with it, too, but you really have nothing to worry

about at an event like that." He sipped his coffee. "What else
does the article say?"

I scanned the text. "Let’s see, continuing controversy,

blah, blah, blah, questionable conduct, blah, blah, blah, story
continues on page three. Christ, what else is there to say?"

Andrew looked at me over his coffee cup. "Well, go to

page three and find out."

"I’m not sure I want to know," I muttered, but I flipped to

page three anyway. The second I did, I sucked in a breath and
my blood turned even colder.

He cocked his head. "What?"

I folded the page back and turned it around for him to

see. Andrew’s eyebrows jumped as I showed him the photo of

me getting into my car at the station. Though the license plate
was blurred out, the make and model were obvious.

Andrew took the paper, frowning as he read the caption

aloud. "’Controversial paramedic, Nick Swain, thirty-four,
declines to comment on receiving the Medal of Valor as he
leaves Station Sixteen yesterday.’" He tossed the paper onto the

table. "I wonder when they’ll figure out that ‘declines to
comment’ might also mean ‘doesn’t want his face all over the
damned news.’"

"Good thing they don’t know where I live." I rubbed my

temples. "Do they have no clue at all that I would prefer to lay
low right now?"

"Probably not," he said. "You’re involved in something

sensational. You don’t get to lay low. And they probably don’t
see what Shawn said as a genuine death threat. They see him as
someone that’s stirred up over this whole thing, and is therefore

a way to get better ratings."

"Vultures," I muttered.

He laughed. "Yeah, they are. But this whole thing will die

down eventually. It always does."

"I know." I chewed my lip, looking into my coffee cup as I

tried not to look right at him. Something in my gut twisted. Did I

want to tell him this? Would he understand? Finally, I exhaled.
"Look, it’s not just the exposure. I mean, that makes me
nervous, especially since there are people who aren’t going to be

148

happy about this, but…"

He folded his arms on the table and leaned toward me.

"What?"

Staring into my coffee cup, I said, "This isn’t false

modesty or any of that bullshit, but I really, really don’t want

this medal."

"Why not?" He reached across the table and put his hand

over my wrist. "You deserve it."

Absently, I released my coffee cup and turned my hand

over to gently grasp his. Running my thumb alongside his wrist,
I said, "And do you think I’d be getting it if the city didn’t have
an image to smooth over?"

"Maybe, maybe not." He squeezed my hand gently. "It

doesn’t change what you did. Whether or not someone’s willing
to put in the paperwork for it doesn’t change the fact that if

anyone deserves it, it’s you. I understand why you don’t want
the media coverage and all of that. Just don’t think for a second
you didn’t earn the medal."

I swallowed, avoiding his eyes again. "I did my job.

Someone died. I’m not sure I want to have something on my
wall or my uniform to remind me of that every day."

Andrew chewed his lip for a moment. "Do you have plans

for the rest of the day?"

"Besides holing up in my apartment and avoiding the

media?"

He laughed softly. "Yes, besides that."

"No plans."

He pulled his phone out of his pocket. "I’ll be right

back." He started to slide out of the booth.

"Wait, where are you going?"

"Just making a call."

I eyed him suspiciously, but he just smiled, stood, and

walked outside. While he was gone, I looked at the picture of
myself in the paper. Maybe Andrew was right. Maybe I was just

being paranoid over nothing. Still, the idea of stepping out into
the spotlight to accept that medal made me shiver. Even without
Shawn’s possibly empty threats hanging over my head, the

medal itself commemorated something I wanted to forget.

Sooner or later, something else would grab the media’s

attention. Fresher meat for them to scavenge until the next

carcass came along. With the election coming up in a few
months, the mudslinging had already begun, so maybe that
would push me to the back pages and, eventually, out of sight.

149

Andrew slid back into the booth, setting his phone on the

table before picking up his coffee.

I raised an eyebrow. "Why do I get the feeling you’re

plotting something?"

He smiled behind his cup just before he took a sip. As he

set it down, he folded his hands in front of him. "Just trust me
on this."

All through breakfast, he kept mum, refusing to drop so

much as a hint about who he’d called or why. Eventually, I gave
up trying to get it out of him, but the question still lingered in
the back of my mind.

On the way out, I shoved the newspaper into the

trashcan, relieved to be as far away from it as I could get. We
continued up the sidewalk, heading back to my apartment and
shooting the breeze about this and that. When we got to the

parking lot, though, Andrew dug his keys out of his pocket.

"Come on." He gestured toward his car. "We’re going for

a drive."

"We are?"

He smiled. "Trust me."

I shot him a suspicious look, but got into the passenger

side of the car. "So where are we going?"

He glanced my way as he turned the key. "You’ll see."

There were few people I trusted enough for the whole

mystery destination thing. I’d even gotten nervous when my
brothers hauled me into the car to take me to the undisclosed
location of my bachelor party. I was born to be paranoid,

apparently.

But I trusted Andrew, so I said nothing as he pulled out of

my apartment parking lot and drove us toward God knew where.

Every time he put his turn signal on, though, breathing

required just a little more effort. I trusted him, I told myself. I
trusted him, even if he was taking us in the direction of
Masontown. Far too close to that neighborhood for my comfort,

and closing fast.

Then, much to my relief, he turned right on Jackson

Street instead of left, taking us to the bridge—the very bridge

that had kept help away the day we met—and across the river.
We drove through a couple of neighborhoods, continuing into
one of the suburban developments just outside of town.

"You’re still not going to tell me where we’re going, are

you?" I said as we turned down a side street.

"We’re going this way." He pointed out the windshield.

150

"Smartass," I laughed.

"You’ll see. We’re almost there."

"Almost where?"

"Nice try." He put his hand on my leg and glanced at me.

"Don’t worry about it."

That’ll be the day.

He turned down another street, driving past row upon row

of cookie cutter houses and white picket fences. There was

nothing sinister about this place, though I knew the things that
went on in these unimposing, sitcom-perfect houses. My job had
knocked down the façade of boring suburbia where nothing ever
happened. I’d seen chalk outlines and bloodstains on the floors

beyond those stained glass French doors. I’d arrived a few
minutes too late to save a hysterical mother’s daughter after
she’d hanged herself in her giant walk-in closet. A house just

like that one on the corner exploded last year, taking two
neighboring houses and their occupants with it, after a meth lab
did what meth labs often do. Places like this were quieter than

neighborhoods like Masontown, but it was an illusion. They just
didn’t wear their dark sides on their sleeves.

I didn’t think for a second that Andrew had brought me

out here for anything nefarious. It was just that unknown that
made me jittery.

He parked in the driveway of a grey, two-story 'nothing

ever happens here' house at the end of a cul-de-sac. "Here we
are."

"And where’s here?"

"Right here." He smiled, patting my leg. "Just trust me on

this."

"I do, I’m just wondering what you have up your sleeve."

He unbuckled his seatbelt. "Then follow me." I followed

him up the walk and onto the porch. He gave me a reassuring
smile as he knocked.

"Andrew, seriously, what are we doing here?" I asked,

keeping my voice low in case the home’s inhabitant was near the
door. "And where is ‘here’, anyway?"

He just smiled. "You’ll see."

The door opened.

I tried to breathe, but the air wouldn’t move.

The last time I saw that face, it wavered between

blanched and cyanotic, ringed by blonde hair that was splayed
across blood-stained pavement like a preemptive halo. We’d
been two strangers standing together on death’s doorstep, and

151

now I was standing on her doorstep.

"Macy," I whispered.

She smiled—healthy, pink lips now, instead of pale blue—

and said, "So you’re Nick." She extended her hand. "It’s great to
finally meet you."

I shook her hand—warm, with a firm grip—and looked at

Andrew, then back at her. "Likewise." My mouth had gone dry.

She released my hand and hugged Andrew with one arm,

keeping the other protectively against her side. I could only see
one side of his face, but he closed his eyes for a moment while
he hugged her, and I swore I caught a hint of 'thank God you’re
still here' in his expression.

"I’m glad I’ve finally had the chance to meet you," Macy

said, turning to me again. "Or, well, meet you when

you’re not trying to run me through with a needle."

"Yeah, I guess that’s not the best time to meet someone,

is it?" I glanced at Andrew and he tried to suppress a grin.

To Macy, he said, "Are you going to let us in?" He

gestured at me. "I promise he won’t be a bad influence on the
kids."

She laughed. "Fortunately, there’s only one kid home,

and Nick isn’t the one I’m concerned about." She gave him a
pointed look.

He showed his palms. "What? What?"

She stood aside. "Come on in."

"Is Tony home?" Andrew asked as we walked in.

"No, he’s out with the other two brats." She glanced at

me. "Tony’s my other husband."

Andrew coughed to mask the word "Slut."

She smacked his arm. "Watch yourself, Carmichael. I may

be injured, but I can still beat the hell out of you."

He paused, cocking his head. "So would that be

considered spousal abuse, or assault and battery?"

"Homicide, actually."

I tried unsuccessfully to suppress a laugh.

He glared at me. "Don’t encourage her."

I put my hands up. "Hey, if this is a lover’s spat, I’m not

getting in the middle of it."

"Wise move," he said.

"Just so you know, though, if I have to pick sides, I’m

going with her."

"What? You fucking traitor."

I shrugged apologetically. "Hey, she sounds mean. I don’t

152

want to fuck with her."

"Oh, he’s a smart one," Macy said. "How do you keep up

with him, Andrew?"

Andrew just muttered something under his breath while

Macy and I exchanged grins.

Even amidst the banter, my heart pounded. Of all the

places Andrew might have had in mind when we left my
apartment, I hadn’t expected this. I had a feeling I’d meet Macy

eventually, but I hadn’t had a chance to prepare myself for it. I
hadn’t known I’d need to prepare myself for it. The three of us
conversed and joked with ease, but every time I looked at her,
all I could think was 'you were dying in my hands'.

"Can I get either of you some coffee? Tea?" She looked at

me. "Something alcoholic to help you put up with him?"

I laughed. "No, I’m fine, thanks."

She turned to Andrew. "What about you, dear?" The

sarcastic emphasis on the last word nearly made me snort with
laughter.

"No

thank

you,

darling."

"Well, if you’ll excuse me for a second," Macy said. "I’ll go

upstairs and get the tax deduction who’s still home." She looked

at me. "Make yourself at home in the living room. Just don’t let
your pet on the furniture."

"Fuck you," Andrew said, chuckling.

"You wish, Carmichael."

She went upstairs and Andrew showed me into the living

room.

"I can certainly see how the two of you pulled off the

married couple thing," I said.

Andrew sat on the couch beside me, keeping a platonic

distance. "That’s why they sent us in," he laughed. "Half the
force thinks we’re married anyway. You wouldn’t believe the
scandal when she showed up at something with Tony."

"I can imagine."

A moment later, Macy returned, towing a bored kid who

looked to be about ten.

"Hey, Carlin," Andrew said, getting up to shake the boy’s

hand.

"Carlin, this is Nick." Macy gestured at me. "He’s the

medic who took care of me."

As I stood to shake his hand, Carlin’s expression changed

from bored to something that was almost reverent.

"Did you really put a needle through my mom’s chest?"

153

His grip was loose, absent, as if he barely realized he was
shaking my hand.

"I, uh—" Unsure how much I should say, I looked at

Macy, raising my eyebrows. She nodded, so I turned to Carlin.
"Yeah, I did."

He released my hand and, catching me completely off

guard, hugged me. "Thank you," he whispered.

I gently returned his embrace and looked at Macy and

Andrew. When I met Andrew’s eyes, his knowing smile told me
exactly why he’d brought me here. I looked down at the boy
who’d embraced me, whose mother had nearly died in front of
me. I wasn’t sure what to say just then. Not that it mattered,

since my breath had stopped in my throat.

After a moment, Carlin let me go. He asked a few more

questions about what I did for a living—this time stemming from

typical adolescent male curiosity about blood, guts, and gore—
then went back upstairs. Andrew and I settled back onto the
couch and Macy gingerly took a seat on the armchair.

"How are you healing?" I asked. "I didn’t do any

permanent damage, did I?"

She laughed. "No worse than Jennifer did, the little bitch."

Her humor faded slightly. "Sounds like the media’s been working
you over with how things went down with her."

"Yeah, you could say that," I said. "Hopefully they’ll get

bored with it sooner than later."

"Oh, they will," Andrew said. "They’re jumping all over

the medal, but after that, I suspect it’ll die down."

"And maybe once they do, everyone else will," I said.

"People giving you hell about it, too?" she asked.

I nodded. "I’ve had a patient throw me out because she

didn’t want me touching her."

Macy gave a cough of laughter, flinching slightly. "Are you

serious?"

"Yeah," I said. "She didn’t want some racist treating her."

She rolled her eyes. "Some people."

"Shawn Foster doesn’t seem too happy about the whole

thing, either," Andrew said to Macy.

"I don’t imagine he is." She picked up a mug off the

coffee table—tea, judging by the string and tag draped over the
side—and sipped it, then shrugged. "Once he hears about the

medal, he’ll probably get his panties in a wad, find a reporter or
two to film him bitching about it, then go off and beat one of his
other girls."

154

I chewed my lip. "Yeah, and he’s expressed an interest in

seeing me dead, too."

Macy waved the thought away and shook her head.

"Shawn? Please. He’s all talk and no action. He just likes the
attention he’s getting from the media. That stupid fucker is a

media whore, and he’s a pussy if ever there was one." Her
crudeness still surprised me. I had to keep reminding myself she
wasn’t a typical suburban housewife. She was a cop. An

undercover cop who’d walked among dangerous men without
flinching. An undercover cop who’d taken a knife, shot her
attacker, and lived to tell about it. She was no delicate fucking
flower.

"So, you don’t think Shawn would follow through with the

things he said?" I asked.

"No," she said. "To be honest, it’s Jesse who concerns

me. That kid’s a damned lunatic."

"What’s to worry about with Jesse?" Andrew scoffed.

"He’s a thief and he’s crazy, but he’s not dangerous."

Macy eyed him. "Says the man who didn’t have him

appear everywhere he went. I’d come around a corner and he’d
be right there."

"Yeah, but unless you’re a car door lock, he’s not

dangerous."

She shrugged. "I don’t know, I just get a bad vibe off

him. He’s fucking creepy"

"Okay, I’ll give you that," he said. "Following you around,

it’s creepy. But he’s never tripped my radar as someone to be

concerned about."

"You’re lucky," Macy said. "I don’t know when Jesse

scares me the most, honestly. When he’s close to sane, when

he’s coming off a binge, or when his delusions get the best of
him."

"Which Jesse do you think showed up that day?" I asked.

"Probably the delusional one," she said.

"Except he was obsessed with you, not Nick," Andrew

said.

"True." She sipped her tea. "I don’t know. All I have to

say is, I’m glad to be out of that neighborhood now. I swear to
God, I still catch myself looking over my shoulder and expecting
to see him." She shuddered. So did I.

"I still don’t think he’s dangerous," Andrew said. "If he

was, he’d have—" He paused, glancing at me. My heart

jumped. He didn’t have to finish the sentence.

155

"Good point," Macy said quietly. She sipped her tea and

quickly changed the subject. "So how long did it take you two to

start dating?"

I blinked. "What?" I turned to Andrew, who looked as

startled as I felt.

"What? How do—" Then he laughed and put his arm

around my shoulders. To Macy, he said, "I should have known I
couldn’t get anything past you."

"Please," she snorted. "I was ‘married’ to you for how

long?"

"Entirely too long."

"Oh, shut up."

"You two sound like you’re still married," I laughed.

"Oh, no," she said. "He’s your problem now, Mr. Swain.

Enjoy."

"Maybe you can offer a few pointers for keeping him in

line," I said.

"Hey!" Andrew said.

"Can’t help you there." She offered a less than apologetic

shrug. "You’re on your own."

"Bitch," he muttered.

"Asshole," she said. They looked at each other and

laughed. "I could use a refill." She started to stand, grimacing
and sucking in a breath.

"I’ll get it." Andrew stood and picked up her mug, keeping

it out of her reach. "Sit. I’ll be right back."

She glared at him, then sighed and sat back. "Yes, dear."

"Don’t argue with me, woman," he called over his

shoulder.

Laughing, she shook her head and gave me a pointed

look. "You really do need to keep that man in line, I’m telling
you."

I showed my palms. "I do the best I can. He’s a

challenging one."

"Don’t I know it?"

I chuckled. "So what gave it away, anyway?"

She smiled. "The way he looks at you."

"It’s that obvious?"

She glanced at the doorway through which he’d gone,

then shrugged with one shoulder. "With as long as I’ve

known him, yeah, it is. I knew the second I opened the door."

"I swear, I don’t make a habit of picking up guys on

calls," I said.

156

"Well, I don’t make a habit of playing matchmaker by

getting stabbed." She paused, furrowing her brow for a second

before continuing. "I could have sworn Cupid was a little cherub
with a bow and arrow, not a drug-dealing whore with a knife."

We both laughed. A moment later, Andrew returned with

a mug of tea, and the three of us continued talking. Toward mid-
afternoon, Tony came home, along with Wesley and Jimmy,
their other two 'tax deductions'. After we’d been introduced and

shot the breeze a while longer, they had some plans for the
evening, so Andrew and I left.

After the front door closed behind us, we walked back to

the car in silence. The good humor we’d all shared indoors

evaporated in the late afternoon sun, and we neither looked at
each other nor spoke as we got in. It wasn’t anger or coldness
between us, just something unspoken.

Andrew started the car, but he didn’t shift gears, nor did

he look at me. The only sounds were the idling engine and my
beating heart.

A full minute went by before he looked at me. He barely

whispered, the words slightly unsteady, when he said, "Nick,
that woman is one of my closest friends. She’s been my partner

for the last six years." He nodded toward the grey, two-story
'nothing ever happens here' house. "She’s his wife and their
mother. If you hadn’t done what you did that day, we all would

have lost her." He put his hand over mine and looked me in the
eye. "For whatever the media or anyone else might say, or
whatever the politicians intend to gain by doing this, that is why

you’re getting this medal."

157

Sixteen

"None of y’all are going to miss my bachelor party this

weekend, are you?" Leon said as he came into the lounge where
the rest of us were hanging out.

"Who’s buying the booze?" Keller asked.

"You’re buying your own damned booze," Leon said. "You

think I’m made of money?"

"Well, in a few days, you won’t have a penny to your

name anyway," Bentley said, snickering.

Leon rolled his eyes. "Please. It’s my money as much as

hers."

"Come on, Leon." I elbowed him as he dropped onto the

sofa next to me. "Don’t you know how community property
works?"

"No kidding," Johnson said. "What’s hers is hers, and

what’s yours is hers."

"Oh, bullshit." Leon shook his head and waved

dismissively. "It ain’tgonna be like that. Not with her." Everyone

else laughed, myself included.

"Just wait, Fuller," Keller said. "Six months from now,

you’ll be bitching about being married, just like the rest of us."

Leon grinned. " Ain’t my fault you idiots didn’t figure out

the rules before you got married."

We all laughed even louder, and Leon’s lips contorted with

frustration. "Man, fuck you all."

"Okay, so, bachelor party," Johnson said. "Swain, you’re

driving, right?"

"What? I don’t think so. I drove to Sanderlin’s wedding."

"Oh, come on, it’s not like you’re going to drink anyway,"

he said.

"Says who? I could drink your dumb ass under the table."

158

"Aw, let him drink," Keller said. "It’ll probably ease the

pain of being surrounded by half-naked women."

"More like the pain of being around you when you’re

shitfaced," I said.

"Hey, it’s not my fault I’m a ladies’ magnet," he said. "If

it’s that difficult to watch me get all the girls, well, yeah, I can
understand why you’d need to drink so much."

"Whatever," I said. "Tell you what: I’ll get there

fashionably late and give you a head start. ‘Cause when I get
there, well…" I shrugged. "Sorry, bro, you don’t stand a chance."

"Oh, please." Johnson snorted. "Why don’t you hit on the

bartenders and bouncers, and leave the girls to the rest of us?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of

Bentley shifting in his chair, but I ignored him. "Fine. Maybe one
of the bartenders, but give me a little credit here. Those

bouncers? Fuck, no."

The collective groan made me laugh. Bentley was visibly

uncomfortable, though, so I changed the subject.

"Okay, so how are we figuring out designated drivers?" I

said to Johnson and Keller.

"Looks like we’re drawing straws again," Johnson said.

Keller groaned. "Fine, we’ll—"

The alarm went off. We all stopped, craning our necks

and waiting for the loudspeaker.

"Code two, fire and medical. Collision on highway nine-

twelve, northbound at exit fourteen. Code two, fire and medical.
Collision on highway nine-twelve, northbound at exit fourteen."

Everyone was on their feet and out of the lounge before

the announcement was over. We could pick up the bantering
later. For now, work to do.

Calls always seemed to come in twos and threes, and

we’d barely transferred our patient to St. Mary’s before the
dispatcher sent Leon and me to Masontown for an elderly
woman having chest pains.

"Man, it just doesn’t quit sometimes, does it?" he said.

I shrugged, resting my clipboard on my lap and my feet

on the dash. "Keeps us employed, doesn’t it?"

"That’s true."

While he drove, I filled out the report for our last call.

Fortunately, a lot of it was the same mindless, repetitive crap as

every report I’d ever written, so I didn’t need one hundred
percent focus to do it. This left at least some of my mind free to
wander back to last night. "Last night" seemed to be my default

159

setting ever since Andrew and I started seeing each other. At
least that gave me some pleasant mental images to carry me

through my two-night rotation at the house, after which we’d
probably create some new, hotter images for my ongoing mental
porno.

"Someone’s in a good mood today," Leon said. "Unless

that’s just a really funny report."

I hadn’t realized I’d been smiling. I probably looked like

an idiot. "Is it a crime for me to be in a good mood?"

He frowned, the seriousness in his expression making me

laugh. "I don’t know," he said. "Depends on why you’re in such a
good mood."

"Do you want a detailed explanation, because—"

"No, no, no, for the love of God, no."

"Well, you brought it up."

"Doesn’t mean I want to know details," he said. "I was

just saying you were in a good mood. I don’t need to know how
you got that way."

"Well, if you change your mind, let me know. Though he

might have the video uploaded by—"

"Oh, shut up, Swain."

"Like I said, you brought it up." I moved a little, adjusting

my feet on the dash and muttering a few curses when every
muscle in my legs protested.

"You okay?" he asked.

I just grinned.

He put a hand up. "Never mind, never mind. I’m just

going to pretend it’s that damned gun you’re carrying."

"Oh, whatever, I’m used to that thing now."

"La, la, la, I can’t hear you," he shouted.

I just chuckled.

A few minutes later, we parked in front of the one of

the more rundown apartment buildings in Masontown. Not

that any of them were in great shape, but this was one of the

places that was undoubtedly in violation of numerous building
and safety codes. With the stretcher and jump kit, we headed
inside.

Naturally, with as much as my body ached today, the call

was on the eighth floor. Leon was out of breath by the second
floor. I just winced at every twinge in my back. Or hip. Or legs.

Ah, but it was so, so worth it, I thought, grinning to myself.

On the eighth floor, the stretcher wheels clattered on the

cracked laminate floor, echoing through the cavernous hallway.

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Faded numbers on doors counted down to our destination.

I knocked on the door.

Silence.

I knocked again. "Emergency medical, is anyone home?"

"Think someone’s in there alone?" Leon asked.

I tried the door, which was locked. "Let’s see if any of the

neighbors know if someone lives here."

I knocked on the apartment across the hall. When the

door opened, the elderly woman gave us a puzzled look.

"Sorry to bother you, ma’am," I said. "Do you know who

lives in that unit?" I gestured at the door.

" Ain’t nobody there," she said. "Place has been empty for

two weeks."

Leon and I looked at each other.

"Are you sure?" I asked. "We got an emergency call

from—"

"Of course I’m sure," she snapped. "If you don’t believe

me, talk to the landlord."

"Do you have the landlord’s number?" I said.

She huffed, then nodded and disappeared into her

apartment. A moment later, she returned with a business card.

"Thank you." I pulled my phone off my belt.

"Morons," she muttered. "First they send racists, now

idiots who can’t find people."

Leon and I exchanged glances again. Turning so she

hopefully couldn’t see my nametag, I cleared my throat and
handed Leon the card. "You mind calling? My, um, my battery’s

almost dead."

"On it." He took out his own cell and dialed the number.

"Mrs. Parker? This is Leon Fuller, I’m an Emergency Medical

Technician with Firehouse Sixteen. Listen, do you have tenants
in apartment Eight One Eight?" He furrowed his brow. "Uh huh.
Uh huh. Thank you, ma’am." He hung up and rolled his eyes.
"It’s empty. She’s going to let us in to be sure no one’s gotten

into it." He thanked the neighbor, who snatched the card out of
his hand and disappeared back into her apartment.

"Pleasant tenants," I grumbled, glaring at the door she’d

slammed behind her.

Leon sighed. "This is probably a false alarm. I’m going to

go downstairs and make sure no one’s fucking with the bus."

I nodded. "I’ll wait for the landlady." Leon went down to

the ambulance while I called dispatch to verify the address. It
was correct, and a few minutes later, the landlady came up to

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key me into the apartment.

Just as she said it would be, it was empty, and eerily so.

Walking into the bare living room, I couldn’t shake the paranoia
prickling its way up my spine. I followed the landlady from room
to room, and every time a door opened, I cringed, expecting

someone to be waiting for us on the other side. Waiting for me.

When heavy footsteps echoed down the outside hallway,

coming toward the door, panic lodged my breath in my throat.

What if it wasn’t someone in the apartment? What if they were
waiting outside and luring us—me—inside? I was a heartbeat
away from some serious tachycardia when Leon appeared in the
living room, looking pissed off and flustered.

"What’s wrong?" As soon as I asked, I knew.

He gestured sharply over his shoulder with his thumb.

"Junkies fucking with the bus again."

" Goddammit," I muttered. I looked at the landlady. "Oh,

sorry."

"Don’t worry about it," she said.

"Thank you for letting us in," I said as we stepped out

into the hallway. "Sorry to be a bother."

"Oh, no bother at all." She found the right key on the ring

and locked the door. "I’d rather check and be certain than have
a body turn up in one of my empty units."
I

shivered.

On the way down the stairs, I glanced at Leon. "So how

bad is it?"

"He made a mess, that’s for sure."

"Anything

missing?"

"Hard to tell. We’ll have to go through it back at the

house."

"Lovely. Did you see him?"

"Nah, I chased the little bastard off before I could get a

look at him." He paused as we went from the last flight of stairs
to the lobby. "Think someone put in a false alarm to get into our

shit?"

"Wouldn’t surprise me. Crafty, I’ll give them that."

Just as Leon had said, the ambulance was a mess. It

wasn’t just the back, though. In fact, very little in the back was
disturbed. In the cab, papers were scattered all over both seats,
and the report I’d been working on was on the passenger seat

soaking up Leon’s spilled coffee.

"Did this idiot think we keep all the good stuff in the cab

or something?" I glared at the mess.

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"If he was high, who knows what he was thinking?"

"Obviously clearly enough to make a call to an empty

apartment." We shoved the stretcher into the back, then I did a
quick check through drawers and compartments. Though I’d
have to do a more thorough inventory back at the station to be

sure, it didn’t look like anything was missing. The needles
weren’t disturbed, nor was anything else a druggie might seek.
The lockbox with all of our medications was untouched, all its

contents precisely how I’d arranged them earlier.

"Anything missing?" Leon asked.

"Not that I can see." I put a sheet of plastic over the

passenger seat so I could sit without getting coffee all over me.

"I’ll do a full inventory when we get back. Let’s just get the fuck
out of here."

"You don’t like this neighborhood, do you?" he asked as

he started the engine.

I shot him an incredulous look. "And you do?"

"Well, I wouldn’t say I like it," he said. "But you get

jumpy as hell whenever we come down here."

"Do you blame me?"

"Not at all," he said. "Don’t know how you put up with it,

to be honest."

"Well, if these inconsiderate bastards would go to another

part of the city to get hurt or sick, I wouldn’t have to."

Leon chuckled. "We should send flyers around asking

folks to do that."

I laughed, then shook my head. "I’m probably worrying

about nothing. Just being paranoid."

"Yeah, well," Leon paused to take a corner on two wheels,

sending my heart into my throat. "Just because you’re paranoid

doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you."

I glared at him. "Thanks for that. Really."

He put his hand ups defensively. "Hey, I’m just saying."

"Hands on the wheel," I growled.

At the station, I went through the ambulance to make

sure nothing was missing. Leon put in a call to the police to let
them know we’d be submitting a report, but it wasn’t exactly

worth an officer’s time to come check it out, so I was on my
own.

Around the time I’d finished my painstaking inventory,

my cell phone rang. It was Andrew, fortunately. He was the only
one I cared to talk to at the moment.

"Hey, what’s up?" I asked.

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"Just calling to say hello," he said. "Did I catch you at a

bad time?"

"No, no, not at all." I put my inventory on the seat beside

me and leaned back against one of the compartments our thief
hadn’t disturbed. "I’m just counting needles and band-aids."

He laughed. "How exciting."

"Boring is fine," I said. "I’ve had enough excitement for

one day."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah, some druggie broke into the ambulance in

Masontown. Hence why I’m counting needles and band-aids."

"Oh how nice. Did you catch the guy?"

"No, Leon chased him off. Doesn’t look like he got

anything, though." I sighed. "This has been happening a lot in
that area lately. Wouldn’t surprise me if they stop letting us

carry painkillers in the near future."

"Heaven help your patients," Andrew said dryly.

"No shit."

The conversation wandered for a bit. We mostly just

passed the time talking to each other about nothing.

"By the way," he said at one point. "I meant to ask, are

you off on Friday night?"

"I am, but I’m already committed to a night of

debauchery."

"Is that right?"

"Yeah. Leon’s bachelor party." I chuckled. "I swear,

they’re dragging me to that strip club. I don’t want to go."

He was quiet for a second. "Which club?" His voice

sounded odd. At first I thought it was irritation, maybe a little
jealousy. Replaying those two words in my mind, I wondered if it

was concern.

"The Seventh Sin." I paused. "Why? Are you okay with

me going?"

"Yeah, yeah, of course," he said. "I’m just…"

"Why?"

You’re not getting possessive, are you?

"I’m just not sure if it’s a wise idea to go into a place like

that. I mean, until we really know if Shawn’s going to pull

something or not."

Okay, not territorial. Protective. I couldn’t decide if that

made me more or less comfortable. "Andrew, the club’s on the

other side of town. If it was one of the places in Masontown, I
could see being concerned. Really, what are the odds of having
him show up?"

164

"I know," he said. "You can’t be too careful, though."

"Maybe not, but I can’t stay under lock and key all the

time, either."

"Yeah, but in a club like that? It’s almost impossible to be

vigilant."

A smile tugged at my lips. "Andrew, are you suggesting

you’ve been to such seedy places?"

He laughed. "I may have ventured into some in my

younger days."

"And any day before today could technically be

considered your ‘younger days’, so…"

"You’re good at this."

I clicked my tongue. "I’m disappointed in you, Andrew."

"What? Why? You’re planning on going to one this

weekend, and you’re disappointed in me?"

"Well, yeah," I said. "You went without me."

He laughed softly. "Won’t happen again, I promise."

"Going to hold you to that."

"Wouldn’t expect any less." He was quiet for a moment,

and when he spoke again, the humor had faded from his voice.
"Listen, in all seriousness, I just want you to be careful. Shawn

operates out of Masontown, but he gets around the city. You
can’t be looking over your shoulder constantly, but at the same
time, if you do look over your shoulder, it helps if you can see

what’s there."

I tried to ignore the chill working its way up my spine.

"Andrew, I’ll be fine."

"Most likely, yes," he said. "Still, a place like that is dark

as fuck. It’s hard to see the guy sitting next to you, let alone the
one in a corner."

"Which means it’s hard for him to see me, too."

"Okay, I’ll give you that." He paused. "I guess I just have

a really bad gut feeling about a place like that," he said.
"Remember, Shawn’s a pimp. Some of his girls work in strip

clubs."

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. "Do you

know which clubs?"

"Mostly the seedy ones in Masontown and the Grainger

District."

"So, not The Seventh Sin?"

He hesitated. "Well, not that I know of."

"Then it’s probably perfectly safe."

Another pause. "Yeah, probably. I’m just, like I said, it’s

165

just a gut feeling." He laughed half-heartedly. "I’m probably just
being overprotective."

"Either that, or you want me to cancel my plans and come

over to your place for the night."

"Well, I certainly wouldn’t be against that idea."

I laughed at the mischievousness in his voice.

He cleared his throat. "Okay, okay, seriously. Maybe I

am just being extra cautious. It’s just that Shawn’s been

laying low lately. Keeping an unusually low profile. Even my
undercover guys in Masontown have barely seen heads or tails
of him."

I couldn’t decide if that made me feel better or worse.

"So, is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"I don’t know." He sighed. "It just means I can’t keep

track of him like I’d like to right now. They’re keeping an eye out

for him, but they can’t compromise their investigation. The thing
is…" His long pause made me shiver.

"The thing is, what?"

He took a breath. "He has contacts all over the city. His

boss’s people are working everywhere. We haven’t seen him in
Masontown at all for the last three days, which means he could

be anywhere."

I swallowed. "So does that mean he’s more likely to be at

The Seventh Sin?"

"No," he said. "It means I only know where he isn’t."

I swallowed. "That’s… encouraging."

"One of the joys of dealing with people like this." He

paused. "Look, I want you to have a good time, on Friday night.
Just promise me you’ll be careful."

"I will."

Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t

out to get you.

I shuddered.

166

Seventeen

The crowd at The Seventh Sin was sparse for a Friday

night when Johnson, Keller, and I walked in. There was just
enough light to make out a handful of silhouettes hunching over

beers in booths and around the stage, but it was too dark to see
their faces. I tried to ignore my edginess about being in a place
where I couldn’t see everyone. Even if facial details were hard to

see without squinting and staring, movement was visible. If one
of the faceless people came toward me, I’d still see them, as
would the guys sitting around me. Short of an entourage of

cops, there wasn’t much that was safer than being surrounded
by firefighters.

That, and we were on the other side of the city. Shawn

Foster didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know where he was,
either, and as long as he wasn’t here, I didn’t care.

So I joined the guys beside the stage where several seats

had been reserved for us. We were a little early for the show, so
we shot the breeze over the first round of drinks. Since Johnson
had drawn the short straw, he ordered a Coke while Keller and I

dove right in with scotch for him, Crown and Coke for me. By
the time everyone had arrived and the show was about to start,
my head was pleasantly light and my second empty glass was
kitchen-bound on the waitress’s tray.

We took our seats alongside the stage. Bentley sat a few

places over, keeping a frosty but civil distance between us. I
didn’t mind; we were both here to have a good time, and if he

was more comfortable this way, then so be it.

All at once, the stage came to life in an explosion of light

and sound. Disco lights danced across mirrors and glass the way

emergency lights bounce off cars and windows, and the rows of
bottles on the wall looked like stacks of multi-colored light bars.
Every flash created shadows to eclipse faces that were there,

167

then weren’t, then were again. It was impossible to focus on any
one detail for more than a split second at a time, the constant

stimulus obscuring everything into a muddied melee of non-
descript shapes and colors. Even the guys sitting near me, guys
whose faces I knew as well as I knew my own, blurred into

anonymity. People who were still looked like they were moving.
Those who were moving seemed frozen in place.

The relentless palpitations of the rapid-fire strobe light

almost kept up with my heart, and when a blonde-red-blue-
blonde waitress appeared to ask if I wanted another drink, I
most certainly did.

"Double Crown on the rocks, please."

She nodded and disappeared into the epileptic light-dark-

light background.

"I didn’t think you were much of a drinker," Keller

shouted over the music.

"I’m not." I forced a laugh to hide my uneasiness. "But

since Johnson’s driving for once, I’m taking advantage."

He raised his glass. "I’ll drink to that."

The first barely-dressed stripper stepped out on stage,

writhing and undulating to the beat of "Where’s my drink?

Where’s my drink? Where’s my drink?" I tapped my foot against
the stage to relieve some nervous energy, stopping when the
constant motion reminded me of the absence of the straps

around my ankle and the lightness where the weight of my gun
usually rested.

Every time my shirt moved against my skin, it reminded

me of the protective layer of Kevlar that wasn’t there. How could
I have forgotten to wear that? I didn’t even think to put it on
because I wouldn’t be anywhere near Masontown.

My pistol was tucked uselessly into its case in my bedside

table drawer. I couldn’t bring it into this club anyway; alcohol
was served here, and without a badge, I couldn’t be here with a
gun. It was probably just as well if I was going to drink. I was

just used to having them, that’s all.

That was all it was. It had to be. I’d gotten too used to

the sidearm and bulletproof vest. Without them, even when I

was half a city away from the man who’d threatened me, I was
exposed. Vulnerable. I was too used to leaning on that damned
crutch.

My drink showed up as the stripper left the stage, and I

ordered another just to keep them coming. This was going to be
one expensive night, but I didn’t give a fuck. With a steady

168

stream of alcohol to wash away my paranoia, I tried to pay
attention to the stripper who’d just taken the stage.

She was hot. Good God, she was hot. Her body was

fucking incredible. Not the sharp-edged consummation of a
marriage to drugs or an eating disorder, but the smooth, slim

shape of someone blessed with both incredible genes and a gym
membership. She looked like the type who begged to be thrown
down and fucked hard while those long, painted nails carved

roadmaps over her man’s back.

She didn’t take long at all to get down to a G-string, a

barely-there bra, and thigh-high leather boots that probably
creaked like old mattress springs when she put her ankles on a

lover’s shoulders. It was impossible to hear it over the music
though, no matter how fast she moved or how far she bent. Any
red-blooded male in the room probably envied the pole in the

center of the stage, especially when she held on to the top with
her ankles and hung upside down. Jesus, as strong and flexible
as she was, she must have been incredible in bed.

And still the shadows offstage kept catching my eye,

drawing my attention away from this athletic woman and her
bedspring boots. There were more people in the club now, more

thickening crowds around tables and the opposite side of the
stage. More faces I couldn’t see,

He’s not here, Swain. Get it together.

I made myself focus on the show. The stripper was on her

hands and knees now, looking from man to man. Then she
looked right at me, flickering lights playing across the glitter on

her face and the mile-long false lashes. She crawled toward me,
eyeing me seductively, and I forced myself to keep looking right
back at her, ignoring the guys who ribbed me or the fleeting

shadows that tried to conjure Shawn out of thin air.

She rested one hand on the edge of the stage and

grabbed my shirt with the other, pulling me forward and leaning
down to make it appear she was kissing my neck. Just her

breath slipping under my collar was enough to make me close
my eyes and let my head fall back. The boots squeaked and my
chair shifted to accommodate changing weight. I opened my

eyes as one knee came down beside my leg, then the other, and
she combed those back-scratching nails through my hair. I was
painfully hard, and she made sure I knew just how aware she

was of that fact: pressing against me, running her hand across
the front of my jeans, that filthy, mouthwatering wink. She was
good. Damn, she was good.

169

She sat up and a waitress reached past me to put a shot

glass in the front of the stripper’s bra. Trying not to laugh at the

guys cheering and egging me on, I closed my lips around the
shot glass, pulled it free, and threw it back. As I set the glass
down, I grimaced, my eyes watering as whatever the hell it was

burned its way down my throat. She licked—

Is there someone in that corner?

—her lips and reached behind her. A second later, her bra

went slack, and she draped it around the back of my neck, the
thin, warm fabric trailing across my skin like fingertips. She
leaned as close as she could without touching my face with her
breasts, taunting me with the heat of her skin and a vaguely

sweet scent that made my spinning head spin faster.

She stood over me, then turned around and sat in my lap,

pressing her firm, gorgeous ass against my cock. Her boots

creaked with every move she made, the sound barely rising
above the thumping music and, just as I’d suspected, sounded
like aging bedsprings. The same way they probably sounded

while she was being fucked. I drew in a breath, gripping the
armrests as she—

That face. Over there. Was that him?

—wound me up to the sound of my crew cheering and

hollering. Nails ran down my arms, then over my thighs, making
my skin tingle even through jeans. Oh, God, Andrew, why can’t

you be here tonight?

He’s not, but Shawn might be.

That thought tried to rush over me like a cold shower, but

I could almost ignore it when the stripper’s hips gyrated in front
of me, just close enough for her ass to brush over my erection.

The music faded and the stripper hoisted herself onto the

stage. The guys applauded as she took her bra and gave me a
wink. I pulled a twenty out of my wallet, and when I handed it to
her, she grinned and dropped it in my lap, then leaned down to
pick it up with her mouth. She winked again, held up the twenty,

and gave a quick nod before she tucked the bill into her G-
string. The cheering rose to a roar as she headed down the line
and started teasing Leon.

I reached for my drink. Without that beautiful distraction,

my breath came back and so did the paranoia that had tried to
elbow its way in during my lap dance. My heart pounded, and

the single drop of sweat sliding down the back of my neck was
colder than the drink in my shaking hand. Lights kept flashing,
shadows kept moving, bass kept pounding. The alcohol made

170

the colors bleed together and the stage listed and tilted in front
of me. Oh God, oh God, I’m losing my mind. What’s wrong with

me?

Whatever was wrong with me, I needed to get away from

this sensory overload. Just for a minute. Just enough to take a

breath, slow my heart rate down, come back to Earth.

"I’ll be right back," I shouted to Keller, hoping he heard

me over the music.

He laughed. "Need a little time to yourself?"

"Fuck you." I clapped his shoulder as I stood, casually

grabbing the back of my chair with my other hand when the
room wobbled around me.

"You all right?" Johnson asked.

"Fine, fine." I took my hand off the chair, giving a 'see?'

gesture when my legs held me up without too much protest.

Johnson and Keller both chuckled and shook their heads before
turning back to the show. I headed for the restroom. The guys
could think whatever they wanted about my sudden departure.

Risking a little juvenile speculation beat the hell out of having a
half-drunk nervous breakdown.

Naturally, the men’s room had to be at the end of a long,

dark hall that was shaded from the violent, face-obscuring lights
of the rest of the club. I kept my eyes down and let my mind do
what it would to fill the unseen empty spaces with people who

weren’t here. A grown man, afraid of the dark. Nice.

Once I was in the light again, the restroom door banged

shut behind me, muffling the blasting music and leaving me in

an imitation of peace and quiet.

The mirror presented a face that was just as soulless as

the pictures they’d shown on the news. The harsh light created

sickly shadows beneath my tired eyes and exploited every line
time had etched into my skin to make me look as haggard and
rundown as I felt. Running away from people who weren’t there
was fucking exhausting, and it was taking its toll.

I turned away from my reflection and massaged my neck

with both hands. The fluorescent lights bathed the restroom in
sickly blue-green, like the room was trying to audition for the

role of a morgue in some prime time police drama. The four stall
doors, even with their graffiti and chipped grey paint, may as
well have been drawers hiding bodies on slabs.

I really am losing my mind.

This wasn’t a morgue. Shawn wasn’t here. There was no

need to freak the fuck out.

171

I was running from ghosts, my mind creating people and

threats that weren’t there. And all Shawn had done was shoot

off his damned mouth. I rubbed my eyes and sighed. It was just
paranoia, coupled with Andrew’s concerns about this place. His
worries were rubbing off on me. Shawn wasn’t coming after me

here. He probably wasn’t coming after me at all, or he’d have
done something by now.

Wouldn’t he? Get it together, Swain. Come on.

One thing was for damn sure: I hadn’t had nearly enough

to drink tonight.

I took a deep breath, assured myself for the thousandth

time that he wasn’t here, and went back out into the club.

Before I returned to my seat, I stopped at the bar and ordered
another double. While I waited for it, I drummed my fingers on
the bar, wondering where my buzz from the last few drinks had

gone.

This must have been what it was like for the junkies all

over Masontown. All they could think of was their drug of choice.

Anything else took a backseat, whether it was the need for food,
sex, shelter, or the sight of a gorgeous half-naked woman
defying gravity on a stripper pole. They needed their drug like I

needed peace of mind, and they’d get it by whatever means
necessary. Lying. Stealing. Fucking. If it came down to it, killing.

Me, I would just drown it. Drown it until I didn’t give a

shit anymore or passed out, whichever came first.

On my way back to the stage with drink in hand, I passed

Leon, who cast a wide-eyed look at my glass.

"Good God, Swain, slow down," he slurred. "You can’t be

drunker than the groom, you know."

"Then hurry up and get drunk." I took a long drink,

watching him over the rim of the glass.

"What are you drinking so much for anyway?" He

gestured at the stage. "Is it that traumatic being around naked
women?"

"Fuck you, I’ve probably been with more naked women

than you have."

"Oh, right," he said. "So what did you do? Get through all

the women and then get started on the men?"

I laughed, nearly choking on my drink. "Yes. Yes, that’s

exactly it. I ran out of ladies, so I had to start working through

the men." I winked at him. "Just so you know, your number’s
coming up soon."

His expression went from amused to stunned to horrified.

172

"What? You—"

I chuckled. "Come on, Leon, you know you’re not my

type."

"I should hope not. Now get back over there."

I went back to my seat and tried to enjoy the show.

By the time the next stripper had come and gone, I was

down to a glass full of melting ice cubes. My head was light and
my lips were numb, but my eyes kept flicking to silhouettes and

nooks and crannies where my personal demons may or may not
have lurked.

Nope, not drunk enough yet.

I questioned the wisdom of drinking this much when I’d

convinced myself Shawn was here. Except I knew he wasn’t
here. He couldn’t be here. He wasn’t. But he might be.
Somewhere. God, I need another drink. He wasn’t here. If he

was, being drunk off my ass wouldn’t help . Fuck it, I’ll keep
drinking until I don’t care anymore and hope being surrounded
by firefighters is safe enough.

I flagged down the blonde-red-blue-blonde waitress and

ordered another double Crown.

173

Eighteen

Oh fuck.

My head. Dear sweet Jesus, my head.

Rubbing my temples didn’t help. The gentle percussion of

my fingertips may as well have been rivet guns firing against my

skull.

My throat was raw, so I must have drunk myself sick. Hell

if I could remember that part. I tried to backtrack to my last

somewhat clear memory, but thinking hurt. Semi-clear images
of strippers, flashing lights, and way too much whisky flickered
through my mind. God only knew when I’d gotten home.

I certainly didn’t get very far, I realized as I braced

myself against the pain and opened my eyes. I was still dressed,
lying on the couch. For that, I was thankful. At least Johnson
and Keller—assuming they were the ones who brought me

home—hadn’t bothered to drop my wasted carcass in the
bedroom. The sunlight coming through that window would have
been brutal. The light in here, peering through closed blinds,

was painful but bearable.

My cell phone burst to life in a cacophony of shrill beeps

and tones that I must have thought, in some distant, pain-free

time, sounded pleasant enough to assign as a ringtone. Cursing
that blissfully ignorant previous incarnation of myself, I picked
my phone up off the floor—how the hell did it get on the floor?—

and sent the call to voicemail. With that silenced, I went back to
putting fingertip rivets of pain into my temples—
Beep.

An exasperated sigh came out as a groan.

Inconsiderate bastards. I didn’t send you to voicemail so

you’d actually leave me a message.

I silenced that intrusive beep. A few minutes later, it rang

174

again. Then again. Muttering a string of curses that echoed
painfully through my head, I turned the phone off.

Ah, peace.

Lying back on the couch, I debated getting up and getting

some water versus just staying on the couch for a few more

minutes. Though it meant moving, something my aching head
was not happy with, I opted for the former. Getting some fluids
in my system would kill the hangover sooner than later.

Standing up wasn’t as bad as I expected. It wasn’t

pleasant by any means, but contrary to what I was certain would
happen, my skull neither split in two nor imploded. Maybe this
day was off to a better start than I thought. The floor wobbled a

little, and I wondered what I’d been thinking when I moved into
an apartment with such blinding white walls, but I made it to the
kitchen.

I put the coffee on. While I waited for it to be ready, I

drank half a bottle of water. It had been a while since I’d been
this hungover. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time I drank

that much, that fast, and felt this much like I’d been hit by a
freight train afterward. I wondered how many of the guys were
this fucked up. They were seasoned veterans when it came to

getting drunk and hung over. A few of them had even been
known to come to work and hook themselves to IVs the next
morning to get ahead of the dehydration.

I was hurting, but not that bad.

As I drank some more water, followed by the first of what

promised to be many cups of coffee, last night slowly crawled

back into my memory. The lights. The sounds. The shadows that
moved and the shadows that didn’t move. People who were
there and people who were only in my head.

More than once, the guys encouraged me to slow down.

They didn’t get it. They just didn’t get it. Every drink they
downed just made the night more fun. Every empty glass I put
on the waitress’s tray was one step closer to getting fucked up

enough to forget why I wanted to get that fucked up. My mind
was a terrifying place last night, and I wanted to be as far out of
it as I could get.

Mission accomplished, said the throbbing behind my eyes

and the blank spots in my memory.

A few more pieces fell into place. A lightning bolt of 'oh

shit, I’m fucked' piercing the drunken oblivion as I was sure—
damned sure—that someone was following me across a parking
lot. In sober hindsight, it was just the echo of my stumbling

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footsteps on the way from the car to my apartment. My body
had been too drunk to get on the fight-or-flight bandwagon,

though, and I’d just continued leaning on Johnson—or was it
Keller?—until he got me into my apartment and deposited me on
my couch. Then I must have passed out, but not before my few

remaining vestiges of coherence had a chance to wonder if… if…
if…

Jesus Christ. Even that drunk, I couldn’t escape this

fucking paranoia.

A knock at the door made me jump so high I nearly

dropped my coffee. Visions of Shawn standing out in the hallway
sent icicles down the length of my spine. Stop being ridiculous.

He doesn’t know where you live.

Still, I was wary as I approached the door. The warped,

fish-eyed view through the peephole didn’t do pleasant things to

my head, but at least the person on the other side was the one
and only person I felt like dealing with today.

I opened the door and gestured for Andrew to come in.

"Sorry to show up unannounced," he said. "You weren’t

answering your phone, so I was concerned."

I gritted my teeth. It irritated me that he felt the need to

check in on me, like he needed to protect me. But underneath
that irritation was the icy awareness that his worry was justified.
And shared.

"Yeah, sorry about that." I tried to sound casual about it.

"I turned my phone off. Hurt my head every time the damned
thing rang."

He laughed softly. "That bad?"

"Worse." I gestured toward the couch and we both took a

seat. "Now I remember why I don’t usually drink that much."

"Must’ve been a good time, at least."

That gave me pause. I sat back, lacing my fingers behind

my head and looking into nothing, the throbbing in my skull
reminding me of flashing lights and twitching shadows that had

driven me out of my mind.

Andrew eyed me. "What’s wrong?"

Exhaling hard, I said, "I swear, I’m going out of my

mind."

He blinked. "What? Why?"

"Last night," I paused, shaking my head. "Man, this

sounds crazy."

"Try me."

I rested my elbows on my knees and combed my fingers

176

through my hair, pausing to rub the stiffness out of my neck. "I
kept seeing Shawn. Everywhere."

Andrew tensed. "He wasn’t there, was he?"

"No, but I’d feel a hell of a lot less crazy if he had been." I

kept rubbing the back of my neck and stared at the floor

between my feet.

He pushed my hands aside and took over, gently

kneading the soreness away. "Nick, you’re not crazy. Anyone

would be paranoid with someone like that out there."

I jerked away from him. "Anyone would be paranoid with

someone encouraging them to be," I snapped. My own sudden
anger startled me as much as the dizziness from standing too

quickly. Looking at Andrew, it obviously had the same effect on
him. Unable to resist the urge to move, I stood, intending to
start pacing until the dizziness and the ache in my head caught

up with me.

Andrew rose slowly, a puzzled expression narrowing his

eyes. "I’m not trying to make you paranoid."

"Maybe not trying, but—"

…it doesn’t really matter what you were trying to do, you

did, David’s voice finished the thought in my head.

My shoulders dropped. I exhaled, rubbing my neck again.

"I’m sorry, Andrew, I didn’t mean to imply…"

He put a hand on my waist and kissed me lightly. "I

know. And I probably have gotten you more wound up about
this than necessary. I’m sorry if I have. I’m just, you know,
concerned."

I nodded. "Yeah, I know. Fuck, this whole thing is

going to send me to the nuthouse."

"No, it won’t." He laughed softly. "You’ve been holding up

better than most people. You were bound to hit a breaking point
eventually."

"Am I just worrying about nothing, though?"

"I don’t know. Maybe." He rested his forehead against

mine and stroked my hair. "But I’d rather you worry about
someone who isn’t there, than be oblivious to someone who is."

"This award bullshit isn’t going to help me sleep at night,

you know."

He nodded. "I know it won’t. But at least that day, you

know you’ll be safe."

"It’s after the fact I’m concerned about."

Andrew ran his fingers through my hair. "We’ll deal with

that then. Chances are, once the awards ceremony is over, it’ll

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be in the papers for a day or two, then it’ll die down."

"In the media maybe," I said. "What about Shawn?"

He sighed, shaking his head. "I don’t know. My guys are

trying to keep track of him, but…" He shook his head again.

"Has he said anything when he’s been around them?

Mentioned me or Jennifer or anything like that?"

"No. It’s not like him to keep his mouth shut, but several

of the dealers suspect that there’s either a cop or a narc among

them, so they’ve all been pretty quiet. Ever since I blew Macy’s
and my cover, they’ve all been watching their backs."

"Great. I’m probably just being paranoid anyway."

He pulled me to him and kissed me again. "This will pass.

I know you’re worried right now, and I’m probably not helping,
but…" The pad of his thumb brushed over my cheekbone. "I
promise, my guys and I are doing everything we can to keep

you out of this guy’s sights."

I rested my forehead against his. "I know. And thank

you."

"You don’t have to thank me," he said. "It’s my job, and

even if it wasn’t, I’d do everything I could to keep this jackass
away from you."

I said nothing, just put my arms around his waist and

kissed him.

"You okay?" he asked after a moment.

"I’ll live." I met his eyes and managed a smile. "As soon

as the hangover gremlins vacate my head, anyway."

Andrew laughed. "Can’t help you there, I’m afraid."

I shrugged. "Well, I guess I did bring it on myself. Not

much I can do about it now, but I could go for a shower." I
paused. "Care to join me?"

He smiled. "Like you even have to ask."

Fingers laced loosely together, we went into the bedroom.

Neither of us spoke as we got undressed, nor did we touch, but I
doubted that would last long. In spite of the relentless aching, I

knew how Andrew and I were. I wasn’t in the mood. Not even
close. The minute his skin was against mine, though, I had no
doubt I would be.

When I stopped to get a 'just in case' condom and lube

from the nightstand, Andrew shot me a look that said there was
no 'just in case' about it.

Just as I suspected, as soon as we were in the shower,

we were in each other’s arms. We weren’t all over each other
the way we usually were, though. Every kiss was slow and every

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touch gentle. Not demanding, but wanting. I didn’t care about
the pulsing red haze of pain, only the tender desperation in

Andrew’s kiss.

If there was anything in my world that was still sane, it

was this insanity between us, this insatiable need for each other.

Andrew’s touch rendered everything else irrelevant, and
whenever we were together, we were the only thing that
mattered. Breath wasn’t worth drawing unless it crossed his lips

first.

Wet hands slipped over wet skin. Hot water rushed over

us and we couldn’t get close enough. The only thing separating
his cock from mine was heat and water, and every time we

moved or even breathed, my attention was drawn to that vague
friction between us.

I was aware, on some level, that we were moving. My

body responded to his, my legs moving to accommodate my
changing center of gravity. The only water touching me now was
that which ran off his shoulders and down his chest. Then that

was gone too.

My back touched the icy wall and I broke the kiss with

a gasp. He gave me just enough time to release that

breath and take another before his mouth was over mine again.

Air halted in my throat when Andrew’s hand touched my

cock. First it was just fingertips trailing along the underside.

Then a gentle, barely-there grasp, stroking so lightly I could
have mistaken his skin for water if not for the up and down
rhythm.

I wanted to tell him how good it felt, that he was doing it

just right, but he still kissed me just as passionately, his mouth
relinquishing nothing as he stroked my cock. He barely granted

me the right to breathe, let alone speak. And still he did it just
right, knowing just when to tighten and when to release, when
to speed up and when to slow down. I moaned into his kiss and
he shivered, his hand moving just a little faster and oh, God,

yes, just like that, how do you know? How the fuck do you
know?

All at once he broke the kiss, panting against my lips as

he breathed, "I want to fuck you so bad right now."

"Jesus…" was all I could say. My knees shook and my

fingers slipped as they tried to hold on to his shoulders.

"Come for me." He bent to kiss my neck, exhaling hard

against my skin when my back arched off the wall. "You have no
idea—" he nipped my earlobe "—just thinking about fucking you,

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I swear to God I’m about to come."

My knees buckled. One hand hit the wall, the other

grabbed the rail on the shower door, and I came, every whisper
of "yes, God, yes, I have got to be inside you" driving me deeper
into delirium.

As the white light behind my eyelids dimmed and the

electricity in my nerve endings cooled, I somehow found both
my voice and my breath. "Fucking… hell…"

"Stay right here." Too quickly, he stepped back, leaving

me to grapple with gravity and try to remember how to stand.
His hand returned to my waist, and I grabbed his arm, unsure
who was shaking more. Even though I knew it wouldn’t help me

regain my balance, his mouth was too close to resist, so I
tangled my fingers in his wet hair and pulled him into a kiss.

By the time we separated this time, my legs weren’t

shaking as bad. Speech wasn’t possible, though, not with my lips
still tingling from his kiss.

The upward flick of his eyebrows to ask if I could stand on

my own, and I answered with a nod.

One hand remained on my waist as his eyebrows jumped

again.

Are you sure?

Yes, yes, go.

His hand lifted off my waist, hovering tentatively in the air

for a second before he turned to get the 'just in case' condom
and lube that I knew from the start we’d be using before this
shower was over. He rolled the condom on, then went for the

lube, keeping his back to the water, probably so the lube
wouldn’t wash off.

With the bottle close by in case we needed more, our

eyes met, and whether or not words were possible at that point,
they weren’t necessary. I turned around, resting my forearms on
the wall. His hands were on my hips. Then one wasn’t. I bit my
lip, closing my eyes as I anticipated, waited, wanted.

Cool lube touched my skin, and never in my life had I so

desperately needed to have someone inside me right now.

There. Yes. More, Andrew, oh God, I can’t wait, more…

Both hands were on my hips again, holding us both

steady. With every long, languid stroke, he moved deeper. His
hands went from my hips to my sides, then my back, drifting up

to my shoulders. One continued along my upper arm to my
forearm, stopping on the back of my own hand. I separated my
fingers, and his curled between mine. His other hand went back

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down my side, then he wrapped his arm around me, pulling
himself against my back. I had no idea what turned me on

more: his slow, from-the-hip strokes, or the way his breath
cooled the wet skin at the base of my neck.

"Jesus, Nick," he moaned. "I’ve been… oh, God…"

"Tell me." I had no idea where the words came from, but

they did.

"I’ve been needing this since—fuck, oh fuck—" He

shuddered, thrusting once before returning to his slow, easy
pace. "The last couple of nights, while you were at work, you
just—" He groaned. "You just have no idea. All I could think of
was—" He gasped, then pressed his lips against the side of my

neck. "God, I’ve been needing this for days."

I rocked my hips back and forth, finding his rhythm.

"You’re not the only one."

"I was thinking about you last night." His voice barely

reached me over the sound of the water. "Twice. And I still
couldn’t…" He damn near sank his teeth into my shoulder, the

scrape of stubble across my skin making me shiver. "…it just
wasn’t enough. I wanted you. I wanted…" He thrust a little
harder, a little deeper. "God, I wanted you."

I bit my lip. Nothing in the world held a candle to the

eroticism of Andrew’s desperation. His desperation for me. The
more he wanted me, the more I wanted him. It was just as well

we were in the shower, because we were rapidly approaching
the point of becoming a fire hazard.

Using the wall for leverage, I pushed back against him,

encouraging him to move faster.

"You wanted me last night," I said, my voice trembling.

"You have me now."

"I know I do. And…oh, God…" His hands suddenly moved,

returning to my hips, and he fucked me harder. He fucked me
deep and hard, like a man driven out of his mind by the need to
do this, this, and only this.

"Oh, my God, Andrew," I moaned.

His hands tightened around my hips until I was sure his

fingers would leave bruises, and I just didn’t care. He could

bruise me all he wanted as long as he kept fucking me just like
that.

"Fuck, I don’t want this to be over, but I can’t…" His voice

trailed off into a moan that became a whimper. "Oh God, oh
God…" With a deep, violent thrust, he slammed us both against
the wall and came, his cock twitching inside me as he released a

181

long, ragged breath against my shoulder.

He pulled out slowly, then stepped back enough to let me

turn around. I leaned against the wall, surprised its cool surface
didn’t sizzle when my skin made contact, and we kissed
tenderly, lazily. Then he drew me back with him, pulling me

toward the water, and we were right back where we’d started:
kissing while hot water slid through the barely-there space
between us.

"You know," he murmured after a while. "I’ve always

found the best cure for a hangover is to just spend a few extra
hours in bed."

I reached past him and turned off the water.

182

Nineteen

"Masontown, Masontown, Masontown," Leon groaned,

shaking his head as he buckled his seatbelt. "Always Mason-
fucking-town."

"What do you expect with a place like that?" I said.

"I expect the city to build a firehouse in a place like that,

that’s what I expect." He started the engine. "This is ridiculous."

"Tell me about it."

The rollup door opened, letting us out of the station, and I

grumbled a few curses under my breath. The media. The
goddamned media. In the hour or two since our last call, I’d

almost forgotten about the cameras and microphones outside.

The mob separated to let us through, reminding me of the

parting of the Red Sea. It wasn’t because of how they moved
aside as if pushed apart by some unseen, divine hand, but

because of the way they waited, hovered, like twin walls of
water ready to come crashing down all around us at any second.
Not that a few dozen people and some cameras could do much

to an ambulance, but it was a menacing sight nonetheless.

We turned onto the main drag. Leon accelerated hard

enough to squeal the tires, and I wasn’t about to protest.

Anything to get me as far from the relentless flock of reporters.
With the awards ceremony coming up later this week, they’d
been lurking outside the firehouse all damned day, desperate to

pick every last piece of meat off this story until nothing
remained but sun-bleached bones.

"Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me," Leon said.

"What?"

He gestured behind us. I looked in the side mirror, my

blood pressure skyrocketing when I realized a news van was

following us.

183

"Fucking ambulance chaser," Leon muttered.

"Ambulance chasers are lawyers, dipshit." I kept watching

the van.

"Fine, maybe they are," he said. "But this is an

ambulance, and he’s chasing it, so that makes him an

ambulance chaser."

"Well, hopefully he’s a sane driver," I said. "At least then

you’ll probably lose him in a block or two."

"Asshole."

Leon could call me an asshole all he wanted, but I was

right. About three blocks before the bridge, after a couple of
Leon-style turns, we’d lost the news van. I kept an eye on the

mirrors even after we were across the bridge, and the reporters
didn’t reappear.

With the press eluded, we went into Masontown and into

our patient’s apartment. It was another elderly patient, this time
a man in his eighties who couldn’t get up after a fall. With the
help of his two sons, we moved him onto a stretcher, preparing

to take him downstairs and transport him to St. Mary’s.

While we secured him, something caught the younger

son’s attention, drawing him to the living room window.

"What in the name of God is going on out there?" he said,

craning his neck.

Leon and I both glanced up.

"What’s wrong?" Leon asked.

The man’s son opened the window, and it wasn’t the

sudden rush of cool air that made me shiver. Voices buzzed

outside. Some chanted, some shouted on their own, all the
words combining to form abstract nonsense, but the tone was
unmistakable.

It was the overture of fury that preceded a riot.

Words like 'racist' and 'killer' emerged from the madness,

and I shivered again. Leon and I exchanged glances. He went to
the window while I continued securing our patient to the

stretcher, and when my partner looked back at me, something
cold settled in my chest.

"Leon, what’s going on?"

"There must be a hundred people out there," the son

said.

Leon returned to my side of the room. "Fucking media,"

he said under his breath.

My stomach turned. "You’re kidding."

He shook his head. "That same van that was following us

184

earlier, plus a couple more. And they’ve got a nice big crowd all
stirred up out there."

"Shit," I said.

"What do we do?"

"Only thing we can do." I gestured at our patient. "We get

him out of here."

"You going to be able to get to the ambulance?" The elder

son asked.

"They’ll move out of their way," his wife said. "They’ve

got someone on a stretcher."

"Yeah, but I have a feeling we’re part of the reason we’re

here." I cringed. I was the only white person in the room, and I

was the only one who was very conspicuously being accused of
racial discrimination resulting in someone’s death.

"You’re that medic from the news, aren’t you?" the

younger son said. His brother bristled, setting his jaw as he
glared at me.

Swallowing hard, I nodded. "Yes, and I—"

"Obviously he’s no racist," the daughter-in-law broke in.

She gestured at the patient. "He’s treated Papa better than most
medics do." Her husband shot her a look and she returned it.

Something silent passed between them, then he relented, his
shoulders relaxing a bit as he nodded.

"Well, then let’s get him out of here." He gestured at his

father and looked at his brother. "Come on, James, we’ll keep
the crowd back."

Relief swept over me. Those brothers were big,

intimidating men; having them on my side was reassuring to say
the least.

With his sons leading the way, we wheeled our patient

out of his apartment and carefully maneuvered the stretcher
down the stairs. The closer we got to the main entrance to the
building, the louder the crowd became, and my stomach turned
a little more as we approached the door. Thick crowds made me

nervous anyway. Angry mobs with my name all over them were
another thing entirely.

Leon stopped with one hand on the door and looked over

his shoulder at me. "Just don’t look at them. They won’t touch
you unless they want to take a ride in the back of the bus with
him."

Swallowing hard, I nodded.

The push bar on the door sounded like the racking of a

shotgun, and a split second later, the blast of shouts and chants

185

bombarded my senses. I gritted my teeth and focused on the
patient in front of me. The stretcher in my hands. The pavement

beneath my feet. Anything but the furious screams and threats
that were far too close by.
"Murderer!"

"Racist!"

Others shouted in my defense. The patient’s sons stayed

to either side of me, using their sheer size to keep people back

as they ordered the crowd to give us room. All around us, people
moved, individuals melting into the gelatinous form of an angry
mob: when one part was pushed back, another swelled forward.
We moved through a claustrophobic pocket of air that shifted

constantly, but stayed exactly the same size.

I made the mistake of looking up instead of focusing on

the pavement in front of me. The faces blurred. I was in the

middle of an ocean of featureless, screaming fury, the ebbing
and flowing motions making me seasick. Occasionally, a single
face came into focus for a split second, like a cresting whitecap

breaking the monotony of blue water.

A pretty brunette made ugly by the fury contorting her

face, screaming words I couldn’t make out. The cracked-out kid

with the frenzied eyes and haystack of blond hair, saying
something that was lost in the roar of the rest of the ocean. A
combed-over reporter shoving a microphone in my face and

asking something I didn’t care about.

Each in turn swam into focus, then out, other faces

replacing them before melting into nondescript shapelessness

again. My heartbeat drowned out all the voices, all the shouting,
all the screaming. I gripped the stretcher rail even tighter,
terrified to let it go for even a second, because then I’d see how

badly my hands were shaking.

It wasn’t an ocean anymore. Everything was spinning. I

can’t breathe. Blurring. There’s not enough air.

Then one face came into focus.

Shawn.

Shawn

Foster.

Shawn. Fucking. Foster.

Staring right at me, face stoic, jaw set. Shawn. There.

Here. Coming through the crowd. Leading with one shoulder.
Working his way toward me. Fast. Too fast. The spinning,

ebbing, flowing, blurring crowd shifted again, and he was gone.
Out of sight. Out of sight but still here.

"Come on, Leon, let’s go," I shouted, giving the stretcher

186

an extra push.

He glanced over his shoulder, alarm registering in his

eyes, but he didn’t argue. A huge presence loomed behind me as
I pushed the stretcher into the ambulance. I hoped it was my
patient’s son. Hoped it was. Too afraid to look. Please let it be

him. Even as I climbed into the ambulance, my nerve endings
sizzled with the anticipation of an attack—a hand on my throat,
someone grabbing my shirt, a weapon against my skin, a

weapon through my skin—and I shuddered at a fleeting vision of
myself being dragged back, pulled into the angry mob,
swallowed up by them and—

The doors slammed behind me.

I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding. The

engine roared to life and the ambulance jerked into motion.
Behind us, the shouts and chaos faded.

A drop of sweat carved an icy path down the back of my

neck as I took a few deep breaths to collect myself. My hand
shook. I swallowed hard. My autopilot mode, the fearless façade,

was slipping.

Patient, Nick. Focus on the patient. Over and over, I

pleaded with my subconscious to just give me some more time.

Let me get this patient to the hospital and into someone else’s
hands, then bring it on. Just a little longer, just a little longer.

I made it to the hospital. Once the ambulance stopped,

everything happened in slow, slow motion, and it all seemed to
happen from a distance, like I was watching myself do
everything out of nothing but habit. Muscle memory got me

through opening the doors, pulling the stretcher out, and
wheeling it into the emergency department. I heard myself
giving the staff the rundown of the patient’s condition, felt my

lips and tongue forming the words, and saw the attending
physician nod to indicate he’d understood.

Then they wheeled the patient away. As soon as my hand

left the rail on the side of the stretcher, I knew what was

coming. My knees hadn’t yet buckled, but they would. My breath
wasn’t yet gone, but it would be. Before he was even out of
sight, I found a chair and sank into it, closing my eyes as the

panic set in. For the sake of my patients and my job, this
delayed reaction was a good thing. Focusing on something else
kept me calm when I needed to be.

But it was hell when it caught up with me.

And this time, I hadn’t even made it this far before I’d

nearly lost it. The walk from the apartment building to the

187

ambulance had probably taken less than a minute, but it was
sixty seconds of hell.

Shawn was there. I knew he was. I’d seen his face as

sure as I’d seen that cracked out kid and the combed-over
reporter.

Leon was beside me now, his hand on my shoulder, but

his voice barely made it to my ears. The words came to me in
slow motion, each syllable drawn out so long that whatever he

said lost all meaning and simply blended into the wall of abstract
background noise.

I saw him. I saw him. He was there. I saw him. He saw

me.

He saw me, and he was coming for me.

"Hey, Nick." Leon’s voice finally jarred me back into the

present. He looked at me, his brow furrowed. "Jesus, man, that

crowd really got to you, didn’t it?"

Not the crowd. Who the crowd was hiding. I just nodded.

"I’m sorry, Leon, this shit is really fucking with my head these

days."

"I don’t blame you." He clapped my shoulder. "It’ll blow

over eventually. The media will get bored with it, and everyone

will find someone else to scream at."

I nodded again. It was just easier than explaining to Leon

that the crowds, the media, and all of that crap wasn’t what had

me wringing my hands to keep them from shaking. Let him think
the stress was getting to me, that I was simply overwhelmed.

"Come on, let’s get out of here." He rose. I stood slowly,

making sure my legs would cooperate. I was lightheaded from
that after-the-fact panic, but I didn’t think I was in any danger
of passing out.

In the ambulance, I chewed my thumbnail and stared out

the passenger window. The report for this call sat on my lap,
untouched. My feet weren’t on the dash. None of the passing
scenery registered. All I saw was Shawn Foster’s face swimming

out of the blur before disappearing once again. Leon tried to talk
to me a few times, but I responded with non-committal,
monosyllabic answers. For the life of me, I didn’t even know

what he’d said. I felt like an ass for ignoring him, but I was
beyond distraction.

All this time, I’d been worried my paranoia was

unwarranted. And maybe it was. Maybe he’d had no intention at
all of putting a hand on me when he came through the crowd
toward me, but I wasn’t going to lay life or money on the

188

possibility he just wanted to chat. Not after he’d twice expressed
his desire to see me dead. And not after the way he looked at

me today, with eyes full of the kind of hatred that propelled
bullets and sharpened knife blades.

If he’d just intended to scare me, he’d succeeded.

We pulled into the station, driving through the

conspicuously thinned Red Sea of reporters. At least this group
had had the decency to stay here rather than pursue us while

we were on a call. I just hoped they’d all eventually get bored
and leave.

I made three more calls that night, and thankfully none of

them were to Masontown. A three-car pileup on the freeway. A

house fire with minor injuries. A drug overdose half a block away
from a long since closed methadone clinic. The blissful oblivion
of autopilot mode carried me through those calls, keeping me

focused on all things clinical. It was only during down time that
my close encounter with Shawn kept creeping back into my
mind.

Around one in the morning, things settled down. I was

both exhausted and jittery, but hoped the former would
outweigh the latter enough to let me get some sleep. Some of

the guys were staying up to shoot pool, but I didn’t feel like
socializing.

There were three bedrooms in the house. Sanderlin and

Johnson were asleep in the room we shared with several others,
so I moved as quietly as I could to avoid disturbing them. I had
to be ready to run on a moment’s notice, so I was still in my

uniform. I took my shoes off and tucked them under the bed.

As I climbed into bed, my limbs were heavy with fatigue,

my mind even heavier. I hoped to God the alarm didn’t sound,

not until I’d had a chance to sleep for a couple of hours.

The second my head hit the pillow, though, I was wide

awake.

I stared up at the ceiling. The room seemed to rock

beneath me, the way it often did after I’d been out on a boat too
long. From the down the hall, the sounds of pool balls cracking
together and the guys laughing and trash-talking reminded me

that I was, whether I liked it or not, awake. I’d long since grown
accustomed to Sanderlin’s snoring, but suddenly wanted to put a
pillow over his face.

I closed my eyes and let out a long breath.

Snore.

Crack. Thunk.

189

"Oh, man, that so counts!"

"The fuck it does, that was slop. Pure slop."

Crack. Snore.

"Damn it. You’re up, man."

"Let me show—" Snore"—you how it’s done."

Crack. Crack. Thunk-thunk. Snore.

This was pointless. I got up, put my shoes on, and slipped

out of the room. I hoped to God the alarm would sound now. I

was dog-tired, but it would be something to do besides lying
awake. Besides lying awake and thinking about all the things I’d
be dreaming about if I ever managed to fall asleep. At least calls
distracted me. While I focused on a patient, I could ignore my

own instincts, my own fear.

But I couldn’t ignore it forever. Sooner or later, it was

going to distract me, and someone was going to get hurt.

If the paranoia didn’t, the fatigue would. I was going to screw up
and someone was going to die.

And wouldn’t that be just peachy keen for this city’s

fucking image?

I went up to the training tower behind the firehouse. The

empty, concrete building was three stories of quiet solitude. This

was the place I often went when I needed to be alone so I could
think and pace and breathe.

On the third floor, I rested my elbows on the concrete

railing and rubbed my temples with my fingertips. Whether or
not this was hindering my job, it was definitely hindering my life.
I couldn’t even get through Leon’s bachelor party without

drinking myself stupid just to keep myself from having a panic
attack.

I pushed myself up and looked out at the city, pretending

the bulletproof vest didn’t make me shudder every time it flexed
to accommodate my movement. How long was I supposed to
keep wearing this thing? How long was I supposed to keep
waltzing into Masontown under conspicuous flashing red lights,

hoping if a bullet did come my way, it hit the vest and not me?
If Shawn didn’t intend to kill me, if he’d been blowing smoke,
how long did I have to wait before I could let my guard down?

Enough is enough. I can’t take this shit anymore.

I couldn’t escape the media attention. The awards

ceremony and all its requisite exposure was something I’d have

to endure. All of these things would come and go in due time, as
would the nightmares, the flashbacks, and the guilt.

There were factors I could control, though.

190

With my mind made up and ever so slightly more at ease,

I went back into the house and managed a few hours of restless

sleep.

At nine o’clock, my rotation ended. I took a shower,

changed into casual clothes, and went to the chief’s office.

"Door’s open," he said when I knocked.

I stepped in and closed the door behind me.

"Nicholas, what can I do for you?"

Chewing my lip, I took a seat in front of him. He folded

his hands on the blotter and watched me, waiting.

Finally, I said, "I want to transfer to another house."

191

Twenty

I was on pins and needles as I parked in front of the

precinct.

With midday traffic and a flood of vehicles going to the

awards ceremony, Andrew and I figured it would make more

sense to take one car. That, and whether I’d admit it to him or
not, I wasn’t entirely comfortable going alone. Maybe I was just
in the habit of being paranoid. I knew, intellectually, I had no

reason to worry today. As he’d reminded me over and over, the
place would be crawling with cops. If Shawn had a brain in his
head, he wouldn’t even try to get to me. This would probably be

the safest I’d been in ages.

Still, I was nervous.

I hadn’t been to Masontown in a few days. My transfer

hadn’t yet gone through, so I was once again on paid leave until

things settled down. As such, I’d been able to keep a low profile
since the day the media had drawn Shawn and me way too close
together. But now I was going to be back in the spotlight. The

morning’s papers were slathered with speculation about this
being propaganda, a cover-up, an outrage. Now that the city
was trying to make me their golden boy, the press was hell-bent

on making me a pariah.

I didn’t care what those vultures thought of me. All they

saw was a sensational story with a bunch of buzzwords that

could rile people up and sell papers. What bothered me was the
fact that my name was everywhere. Anyone who cared to find
me needed only look at the front page to find out I’d be center

stage at the Riverside Convention Center at one o’clock.

I fidgeted, trying to get comfortable in my dress

uniform. It was perfectly tailored and usually fit just right,

but I hadn’t had it altered with a bulletproof vest in mind. This

192

shirt and jacket weren’t nearly as forgiving as the uniform I wore
every day. Oh well. I’d be a hell of a lot less comfortable if I

wasn’t wearing the vest, so I’d endure it.

A steady stream of people moved through the precinct’s

front door. It must have opened and closed three dozen times

while I sat here waiting for Andrew. When it opened this time,
though, I knew, and I looked up just in time to see him appear
in the doorway.

Oh, God.

If there was one thing that made this awards ceremony

worthwhile, it was the uniforms, and for all the blunders this city
made, they knew how to dress their cops.

Both of our dress uniforms were somewhere between

military attire and a suit. Mine was closer to the latter. His, the
former, like a subdued version of Marine dress blues.

It was almost completely dark blue except for a few

yellow highlights: a stripe up the side of each pant leg, piping
around the stiff collar, and a braided rope that descended from

his shoulder and looped under his arm. His cover had a similar
rope, though thinner, stretched around the front above the brim.
On one side of his chest, he wore his shield. On the other, a row

of multi-colored bars indicating various awards and
commendations.

Even with his vest underneath it, the jacket fit like a

dream. It emphasized his broad shoulders and narrow hips
perfectly. Whoever designed that uniform must have had
Andrew Carmichael’s body in mind. Whoever had tailored his

deserved no less than sainthood.

Hope you don’t mind sewing a few buttons back on later,

Andrew.

He opened the door and slid into the passenger seat.

"Ready for this?" He took his cover off and put it in his

lap.

"As ready as I’ll ever be." I gave what I hoped was a

reassuring smile.

He returned it, glancing up from pulling off his white

gloves and dropping them into his cover. "Stop worrying." He

squeezed my leg gently. "You’ll be safe. And besides, you’ve
earned this. Just enjoy it."

Easier said than done. I just smiled, backed out of the

parking space, and headed downtown.

Parking for the convention center was across the street in

a five-level garage. Scores of lot attendants directed us up, up,

193

up, until we were in the nearly-full fourth level.

"Are all of these people here for this?" I asked.

"Probably. There isn’t anything else going on here today."

"Lovely," I muttered.

After I’d parked, we took the elevator down to the ground

floor and started outside, but stopped. My stomach turned.
Several news vans were lined up along the curb, and the
vultures circled outside the main entrance.

Andrew touched my arm. "Don’t worry about it."

"Don’t worry about it? They’re going to mob me on the

way in."

He grinned, flipped his phone open, and speed-dialed

someone.

"Carter? It’s Carmichael. You ready?" Pause. "We’re here.

Go." He hung up the phone. "Let’s go." He went outside and

started across the street, walking quickly. He was heading right
toward the mob of cameras and microphones.

I practically had to run to keep up with him. "What?

What’s going on?"

"Call it a little backup plan."

"Andrew—"

He glanced over his shoulder. "Trust me on this. Just

keep your head down."

"Keep my—"

Squawking voices and shuffling feet up ahead made my

heart pound. I knew that sound well, that telltale twitter of
reporters who’d spotted their target. I kept my head down

though, especially as Andrew put his hand on my arm to urge
me to walk faster. I cringed, expecting them to be all around us
at any moment, but the noise and activity moved away from us.

"Watch your step," Andrew said as we started up the

stairs. At the top, he reached for the door and herded me in.

When the tinted glass doors banged shut behind us, we

stopped and I looked back. Through the crowd of reporters and

waving microphones, four covers similar to Andrew’s and my
own inched closer to the stairs. Hands in white gloves pushed
microphones away, jacketed elbows and shoulders parted the

thick mob, and finally the four men emerged from the crowd. It
was three cops, all shielding a paramedic from the press.

I looked at Andrew, raising my eyebrows.

He just winked.

"Did you," I paused, glancing back as the cops and medic

came up the steps and through the same door we had a moment

194

before. I looked at Andrew again. "A decoy?"

He grinned. "You’re welcome."

I laughed. "You devious son of a bitch."

"And don’t you forget it."

"Jesus, Carmichael," one of the three cops said, elbowing

him. "Didn’t know they were turning the badgers out today."

" Aww, did they mess up your hair?" Andrew sing-

songed. "Terribly sorry."

"Fuck you," the other officer said. They laughed and

shook hands.

Andrew gestured at me. "Bill, this is Nick Swain. Nick, Bill

Carter."

"Pleasure." Bill shook my hand.

"Likewise," I said. "Hey, uh, thanks for the diversion."

He chuckled. "Don’t worry about it. Owed this asshole a

favor anyway."

Andrew laughed and introduced me to the other guys,

who were a few cops from his unit and a paramedic from

another house. Then we went through security, where the metal
detectors and pat downs offered my fraying nerves some
comfort. We continued through the convention center to the

theater, where we mingled amidst the unsettlingly thick crowd.
Andrew stayed close by as we made the rounds. For the most
part, he was right behind me, which helped settle my nerves. A

little. At least no one was going to sneak up behind me.

I forced a smile through all the congratulating and raving

about being a hero. I couldn’t help glancing around constantly,

checking for familiar faces. For that one familiar face.

When it was show time, Andrew, Macy, and I were all

expected to be on the stage, sitting in the row behind the

podium along with the chiefs, the commissioner, and the
chaplain. Macy sat between Andrew and me, but just having him
close by made this somewhat more bearable.

The chaplain stood to give the invocation. Though I

bowed my head with everyone else, my eyes were open,
searching the gathered crowd. The bright stage lights above me
made it hard to pick out individual faces in the endless rows of

people. The first dozen or so rows were uniformed medic, police,
and firefighters. Behind them, people I didn’t know. Anyone and
everyone. People I could see, people I couldn’t, and each

subsequent row disappeared deeper into the shadows.

I reminded myself of everything Andrew had said. This

place was swimming with cops. I was safe here. Shawn wasn’t

195

here.

I took a deep breath and willed myself to relax.

After the chaplain took his seat, it was the police chief’s

turn to say a few words. A few words, my ass. All his nods to
important people and token peons—like me—were drawn out as

long as humanly possible until most of what he said was about
as engaging and meaningful as the dialogue from a bad porno.

Next was Chief Switzer, who was blessed with a serious

case of stage fright. This meant he deliberately kept every
speech he ever made as brief and to the point as he could.
There was a special place in heaven for people like that, I was
sure of it.

But of course, the commissioner’s speech was long. Not

long like commencement speeches and presidential addresses
often are. It was an election year, so his endless rambling

worked its way into that purgatorial duration reserved for
standing in line at the department of motor vehicles and having
a root canal with no anesthetic. Simultaneously.

And I was onstage, fully visible, which meant I couldn’t

let my boredom show.

While he rambled, making sure to thank everyone who

could score him some votes, I mentally tallied the expense of
this ostentatious little ceremony.

Printing costs for enough copies of the program for the

three or four hundred people in attendance. Paying the parking
attendants. Cleanup crews afterward. Even though the
convention center was city-owned, I was sure there was some

cost associated with the simple privilege of occupying this space.

It wasn’t cheap, of that I had no doubt.

All this for some positive PR to smooth over the city’s

black eye. Never mind the fact it would have been even better
PR if they put the money toward that fire station no one was
building in Masontown. Apparently it was easier to turn the
scapegoat into the golden boy. Or a target.

"And here to present the Medal of Valor," Commissioner

Engle said, drawing my attention back to his speech. "Are
Detectives Macy Lombardi and Andrew Carmichael." He turned

and smiled at the three of us. We stood and came forward.
Fortunately, none of us were expected to say anything. All we
had to do was go through the motions of Macy pinning the

medal to my jacket and Andrew handing me the plaque. Just our
little piece of this ridiculous song and dance.

As she pinned the medal on, making sure to do it slowly

196

so people had time to get their obligatory photos, Macy
murmured, "You know, I could show you what it feels like to

have a needle between the ribs right about now."

I smothered a laugh. "Why do you think I wore the vest?"

Andrew chuckled, making it nearly impossible for me to

keep a straight face. Macy hugged me and kissed my cheek.
After she’d moved aside, Andrew handed me the plaque and
extended his other hand, pausing for more camera flashes.

Barely moving his lips, speaking only loud enough for

Macy and me to hear, he said, "Sorry, handshake’s all you get
for now."

Macy snorted with laughter and neither Andrew nor I

could keep from smiling. A few cameras flashed. At least they’d
have some shots of us with genuine smiles; no one but the three
of us needed to know why.

We took our seats again, and mercifully, the ceremony

ended not long after. Then it was more handshakes,
congratulations, photographs, and fake smiles until we managed

to make our escape.

When we made it to the tinted glass front door, the crowd

of reporters and onlookers had thickened. A lot.

"Tell me you have another decoy," I said to Andrew.

He shook his head. "Unfortunately, not this time."

I looked at him with raised eyebrows.

"We got away with that on the way in, but there’s a

bigger crowd now." He gestured outside. "We’ll escort you out,
and there will be officers lined up on both sides to keep people

back. If we try to take you around them, there’s a chance
someone will see you and you’ll get mobbed, even with a police
escort. This won’t be fun, but it’s safer."

"Great."

"Just keep your head down and walk fast," he said. "The

chief and I will be right behind you."

I sighed. "Do these people really not get what

happened?"

"They probably do," he said. "But the truth doesn’t sell

news or get ratings. They’re just going to keep spinning it until

nobody gives a fuck about it anymore."
"Lovely."

"Ready?" Switzer asked.

"Oh, yeah," I muttered.

With a pair of cops in front of me and my boss and

boyfriend walking behind me, I stepped out of the convention

197

center into the noisy melee of the media. As Andrew had
predicted, twin rows of officers formed a human barricade

between the press and me, giving me a path across to the
garage. Though they could keep the reporters physically away,
there was nothing they could do about the volley of questions

thrown my direction. Most of the voices muffled each other into
a shapeless buzz of nonsense, making it all easy to ignore, but
one question jumped out at me:

"Mr. Swain, how do you feel about receiving a medal after

allowing Jennifer Thompson to die untreated?"

I stopped so suddenly that Andrew ran into me. He tried

to encourage me to keep walking, but I planted my feet. Turning

slowly, I faced the source of the question.

Her blood red lips twisted into a 'yeah, I’m talking to

you' smirk, and her narrowed eyes met mine without

backing down. The other reporters fell silent, pointing more
microphones at me. Uncomfortable murmurs rippled around us.

Andrew touched my shoulder. "Come on, let’s go."

Chief Switzer stepped in. "The department has a strict—"

I put a hand up to silence him, never taking my eyes off the
predator-eyed woman who’d asked.

"I’m sorry," I said. "Could you repeat the question?"

The smirk broadened into a sneer. "The people want to

know, Mr. Swain: how do you feel about receiving the city’s

Medal of Valor after allowing Jennifer Thompson to die
untreated? After all, you couldn’t possibly have known the
extent of her injuries, which if I may remind you, the coroner

said were survivable with prompt treatment."

This was where I was trained to say 'no comment'.

This was where I was supposed to walk away and let the

city’s PR department handle it.

And this was where I decided that policy could go straight

to hell, because I’d already let the woman on the other side of
that mike under my skin, and I was done being crucified by

people who didn’t know what I saw when I tried to sleep at
night.

I took a step toward her so she could hear me when I

lowered my voice. "There were four people on the ground and
two EMTs. Three people were critically wounded, but there were
only two pairs of hands to treat them." I paused. Switzer

fidgeted beside me, growling something under his breath that
was probably an order to shut up. Ignoring him, I continued.
"Let me ask you, Ms.—" I raised my eyebrows.

198

The reporter grinned. "Jillian Hayworth, KJTI News." If

she’d had feathers to ruffle, she’d have done so just then, the

arrogant cunt.

"Let me ask you, Ms. Hayworth," I said. "What would you

have done?"

Switzer moved, but Andrew said something I didn’t hear,

and the chief stopped, releasing a sharp, impatient breath that
promised me the riot act reading of my life when we got back to

the station.

Jillian squared her shoulders. "Well, I—"

I snapped my fingers repeatedly in her face. "Time’s-

a-wasting,

Jillian."

"I—"

"Clock’s ticking. Make a choice."

"Well, you—"

"People are dying, Jillian. Come on. Choose."

Her eyes darted left and right and her face flushed. "But

I—"

"Choose, Jillian. Now."

"That’s

enough, Nicholas," Switzer said.

I nodded once to acknowledge him, but kept my eyes on

Jillian. Flustered, she glared back at me, but with considerably
less confidence than before. Her cheeks had turned a satisfying
shade of red.

In a calmer voice, I said, "You all have the luxury of

spending minutes and hours criticizing the decision I made. You
all have the coroner’s report and reams of information I didn’t

have at the scene."

"But you," she paused, glancing to either side and

stammering as she went on. "You couldn’t possibly have known

she was going to die."

I shook my head. "No, I didn’t know for sure. But based

on the information I had and the few seconds I had to figure it
out, I had to assume she was too far gone. I didn’t neglect her

because of her race, no matter how you all want to twist it
around and say I did. If I had treated her, then all you
bloodthirsty scavengers could have put on your fake sad faces

and cried crocodile tears at two funerals instead of one, but I’m
sure it wouldn’t have gotten you nearly the ratings that a racist
paramedic has. You want someone to rake over the coals? Why

don’t you run a story or two about that firehouse no one’s
bothering to build in Masontown?" I bit my tongue, knowing
even before Switzer tensed beside me that I’d gone too far.

199

Quieter now, I said, "Yes, I could have treated Jennifer

Thompson, but I—" I swallowed hard when my voice threatened

to crack. I cleared my throat. "But I couldn’t have saved her."

Before Jillian or any of the other reporters could speak, I

turned and continued toward the parking garage. I didn’t have

to look to know Andrew was right behind me. Switzer was most
likely following me, too, but I had no doubt Andrew was close.
His presence was simply there, and I’d never been so thankful

for it.

The press jumped back into action, shuffling behind the

barrier of officers and bombarding me with questions. I ignored
them, keeping my eyes down until the door slammed behind us,

cutting off the squawking and squabbling.

Switzer wasted no time. "Nicholas, what the fuck was

that?"

I turned around, shrugging apologetically. I had no fight

left. "I’m sorry, Chief, I—"

"Sorry?" he snapped. "The media is going to have a

fucking field day with this. This is going to be a PR nightmare."

The words 'Fuck PR' nearly made it to the end of my

tongue, but Andrew put his hand on my shoulder and said,

"Chief, why don’t you and I make sure Detective Lombardi isn’t
hassled too much on her way out?"

Switzer tensed like he was about to protest, but pursed

his lips and muttered something under his breath. Then he
stabbed a finger in my direction. "We’re going to discuss this."
Without another word, he went back outside into the waiting shit

storm.

Andrew squeezed my shoulder. "Go on up to the car. I’ll

be there in a minute and we can get the hell out of here."

When I looked up, he quickly glanced around us, then

leaned in to kiss me gently.

"Go on," he said. "I’ll be there in a minute." He kissed me

again before we went our separate directions.

In the elevator, I leaned against the wall and closed my

eyes. Though lashing out at the press had gotten a few things
out of my system, it probably wasn’t worth it. They’d

undoubtedly edit what I’d said and spin it somehow.
Commissioner Engle would come down on Switzer, Switzer
would come down on me. The plaque in my hand and the medal

on my chest were likely the only things that would keep me out
of the unemployment line. A mouthy paramedic wouldn’t make
the city look all that great. Firing me for running off at the

200

mouth when they’d rewarded me for—in the eyes of the public—
killing Jennifer Thompson? That would be a PR nightmare.

I laughed bitterly as the elevator lurched to a stop on

the fourth floor. For once, the city’s obsession with its

shiny, perfect image might benefit me.

As I walked from the elevator to my car, a couple of

voices caught my attention. I glanced to my left.

A workman was up on a ladder, cursing at a security

camera. The other workman handed him a wrench, then went
back to holding the ladder steady.

"Damned cheap piece of crap," the first muttered.

I chuckled to myself. Budget cuts were a bitch. Like

everything else, the cameras were probably made by the lowest
bidder.
"

Nicholas," I could just hear Switzer during my next

review. " We need to discuss your attitude…" I allowed myself
another laugh as I took my keys out and unlocked the car. I
popped the trunk and put my cover and gloves in an empty box

to keep them from getting crushed or dirty.

My momentary humor faded as I looked at the award,

running my fingers over the engraving for the millionth time.

Now I had something to put on display to remind me of the day
I made a choice to let someone die and almost got my head
blown off for my trouble. Because I don’t already have the

bathroom mirror to remind me every fucking morning.

I rolled my eyes and dropped the plaque beside the box.

Then I took the medal off my jacket and tossed it into my cover.

I slammed the trunk, unbuttoned my jacket, and got into the
car. I started to put the key in the ignition but something on the
dash caught my eye.

I did a double take.

My car keys fell out of my hand, rattling on the

floorboards as my heart jumped to 'holy shit' speed.

Sitting between my odometer and tachometer, brass

casing glinting in the parking garage’s low light, was a single
bullet.

201

202

Twenty One

I stared at it, the cold, inanimate brass. It stared back at

me, bringing my respiration to a standstill.

Visions of a revolver missing one—only one—round

flashed through my mind. Or a magazine with nine rounds, more

than enough to do the job without this single, expendable bullet.
I only knew where this round was. The others could be
anywhere. The others were here. Here somewhere. In his hands.

Waiting for me. Looking for me.

Oh God. Oh God. Oh my fucking God, he’s—

The passenger door opened.

Searing, blinding panic. The sudden breath I drew was my

last. I knew it. It had to be. I waited for the gun. For one of the
other five or nine bullets, for—

"Nick, what’s wrong?"

Andrew’s voice replaced panic with jittery relief.

I released my breath. "Jesus…"

"What? What’s wrong?"

I gestured at the dash with a shaking hand.

He craned his neck. "Where the—" He looked over his

shoulder, casting a sweeping glance around the garage. "Stay in

here and keep your head down." He drew his gun from his ankle
holster and stepped out of the car.

Seconds ticked by between heartbeats. Andrew’s

footsteps faded. Reappeared. Faded again. Reappeared, moving
faster now, staccato clicks of dress shoe heels hitting pavement
and in a hurry.

His voice filled the garage, barking orders at unseen ears.

"I need every available man up to the fourth level of

the Riverside Convention Center. Block all entrances and

exits. No one goes in or out of this building until I give the go

203

ahead."

He opened the driver’s side door. "I don’t see anyone, but

stay in the car for now."

I nodded, staring at the bullet on my dash while Andrew

leaned on the open car door.

"Looks like it was jimmied," he said.

"How can you tell?"

He gestured at the top of the door. "Scratches in the

paint."

"Lovely," I muttered.

He squeezed my shoulder gently. "You okay?"

"Oh. Yeah. Great."

Another gentle squeeze. For the first time, and for

reasons I didn’t understand, I very nearly shrugged his hand
away.

Neither of us spoke. A moment later, the elevator dinged,

sending my heart into my throat. When I looked, the doors
opened and a dozen or so officers in dress uniforms filed out. A

moment later, more emerged from the other elevator while
echoing voices and footfalls in the stairwell preceded the arrival
of even more.

Andrew stepped back and gestured for me to follow him. I

stepped out of the car, casting a wary glance around the garage.
I was knee deep in cops now, surrounded by people dressed for

a formal event, not chasing a stalker or carjacker.

Andrew immediately took charge, ordering officers to

sweep rows on every level of the garage, inspect every nook and

cranny, and find anyone who might be a witness. He sent
someone else down to get the security tapes.

"No one gets in or out of this garage," Andrew barked. "I

want men at every door, stairwell, and elevator. The rest of you,
fan out. Check every car for any sign of a break-in. I don’t care
if it’s a door ding, if any car in this building is in anything less
than showroom condition, I want to know about it." As the

crowd of officers dispersed, Andrew stopped four of them. "Stay
here with him." He turned to me. "I want you to stay with them.
You have your vest on, right?"

My skin crawled beneath the thick layers of Kevlar. I

nodded.

"Good." He gave a sharp gesture to the four assigned to

me, and turned to go.

I followed the four officers to an area near the stairwell. I

leaned against the wall to take some of the weight off my

204

shaking knees, and the officers kept watch. They had a
panoramic view of the garage and I had three solid concrete

walls to keep anyone from sneaking up behind me. Or to keep
me cornered if someone got past the three men and the woman
who stood with hands on weapons.

The arrhythmic clicks of dozens of dress shoes filled the

garage. Voices murmured. Radios crackled. Occasionally,
someone shouted that a row had been deemed all clear. Those

reports did nothing but twist my nerves into tangled knots. He
wasn’t in this row, which meant he wasn’t close by, but they
hadn’t found him, which meant he could be anywhere.

I folded my arms across my chest, trying to still the

shivering. My jacket, shirt, and vest were hot enough to make
me sweat, but this was a much, much deeper chill.

This was real.

It wasn’t an imagined face in the shadows, a possible

glimpse of Shawn in the crowd, an empty threat. This wasn’t
extra precautions and safety measures to protect against

someone who wasn’t there. He was there, and just as he’d
promised, he’d hunted me down.

This was real.

The three walls around me were closing fast. All the

graffiti twisted and reshaped itself on the pitted, aged concrete.
Shawn Foster Was Here. Shawn Foster Was Here. I will fucking

kill you, Nick Swain.

I closed my eyes, rubbing them with my thumb and

forefinger. God, I’m getting delusional. I’m going insane. I

suddenly understood why Jesse Kendall hid from his demons in a
crack pipe. But where the fuck was I supposed to hide when the
demon was real?

An officer came up to me with a handful of papers. "Mr.

Swain, this is everything from your glove compartment. Is
anything missing?"

I flipped through the pages. Registration. Proof of

insurance. Receipts from my last half dozen or so oil changes.
The phone number of some guy I vaguely remembered meeting
ages ago but never bothered calling.

I shook my head and handed it back. "As far as I know,

it’s all here."

"As far as you know?"

I eyed him. "Do you know every scrap of paper you leave

in your glove box?"

He chuckled and left.

205

A few minutes later, rapid, deliberate footsteps echoed

like gunfire and carried a familiar voice closer. I turned to see

Andrew on his cell phone. His eyes were unfocused, his brow
furrowed, and the fury in his voice matched the moment he’d
ordered Jesse to put the gun down.

He stopped in his tracks, eyes widening suddenly but

gaining no focus. "What? What the fuck do you mean?" Inclining
his head and closing his eyes, he pressed his fingers into the

bridge of his nose. "You’ve got to be fucking kidding me." Pause.
"And no one thought to bring this to anyone’s attention? Didn’t
occur to anyone that this might pose a threat or—" He paused
again, exhaling hard. "Okay, right, but—" Another pause,

another sharp exhalation. A moment later, he snapped his phone
shut.

"What’s wrong?"

He nodded past me to the area by the elevator. "Security

cameras were tampered with."

I glanced at the two workers I’d seen earlier, one holding

the ladder while the other still threatened the piece of shit
camera.

"What about the other cameras?" I asked. "In the rest of

the building?"

He made a sharp gesture. "A few others were tampered

with. The tapes on all the others don’t show anyone suspicious.

They’re still running through the tapes, but there’s no sign of
Shawn." To one of the officers, Andrew said, "I want statements
from both of those workers. I want a play-by-play of every last

second since they got that call, right down to when, where, and
what they ordered for lunch."

"Yes, sir," the officer said. Two of them broke away from

us and approached the men with the ladder.

Andrew rubbed the back of his neck, closing his eyes

as he took a deep breath. "This is insane." He looked at

me. "Three other cars on the other levels were fucked with. All

the same make and model as yours."

"What?" I stared at him.

"They were all jimmied, as near as we can tell. Two of

them have paint damage similar to yours." He exhaled hard.
"The glove boxes basically ransacked, but it doesn’t look like
anything else was touched."

"So he was looking for my car."

Andrew nodded.

Anger surged like hot water through my veins. "So this

206

guy got into four cars," I said through clenched teeth. "Four
fucking cars in a building full of cops and goddamned security

cameras?"

He nodded again, his jaw tightening. "Probably used the

papers in the glove compartments to verify he had the right

car."

"How the hell did he know which car was—" I paused.

"Fuck, the pictures in the paper." I glared at Andrew. "Good to

know I was just being paranoid about that article."

His eyebrows jumped. "Nick, I—"

"Hey, Detective Carmichael." A voice turned both our

heads and another officer appeared, gesturing over his shoulder

with a notepad. "We’ve got a witness, says he saw someone
wandering around this level with a slim jim."

"Any idea where he went?" Andrew asked.

The officer shook his head. "Witness chased him off.

Thought he was just some random car prowler."

Andrew cursed under his breath. "Did he at least get a

description?"

"Kid had a hood on and gloves. The witness didn’t get a

look at his face."

"Fuck," Andrew muttered. "How long ago?"

"An hour or so."

I shuddered. Maybe it was just as well the ceremony had

dragged on and on. What if I’d come out here before the
witness? And what if Shawn had been on the ground level, just
feet away, while I stopped to let Jillian Hayworth have it? How

could I have been so careless, standing out in the open like that
when he could have been anywhere? Knowing he was a media
whore who was drawn to cameras like the cameras were drawn

to sensational stories about racist paramedics? Christ, what was
I thinking?

Andrew rubbed the bridge of his nose again, then made a

sharp gesture. "That has to be our guy. And if it was an hour

ago, he could be anywhere." He fisted his hands for a moment,
chewing his lip. "He’s probably long gone. I want every available
officer fanning out from this building. Ask everyone you can find

if they saw any suspicious activity or anyone even remotely
fitting that worthless fucking description."

The officers cleared out in a clatter of shoes on asphalt.

Once they were gone, Andrew and I walked back to my car. I
looked around the empty garage, wondering if any stones had
been left unturned. If Shawn was just biding his time, skillfully

207

avoiding the cops while he waited for me to let my guard down.

A hand on the small of my back made me jump even

though I knew it was Andrew.

"Sorry." He lifted his hand away. "You okay?"

I stopped, as did he. Shaking my head, I said, "This is

getting insane." My voice was quiet, but still echoed in the
deserted parking garage, and that echo did nothing to mask the
unsteadiness of my words.

"I know," Andrew said. "Christ. This is…"

"And it’s not just in Masontown now." A shudder ran up

my spine. This was exactly why I hadn’t wanted this damned
award. It was too visible. It was too much exposure, flushing me

out in the open where I could be found, and all to smooth over
the city’s public image. I wondered how they’d fix the black eye
if their golden child paramedic had been offed in the parking

garage with their fucking medal still pinned to his jacket.

Andrew broke the silence in a flat tone that didn’t invite

debate. "You’re staying with me."

Sudden anger flared in my chest. "Am I?"

He looked at me, eyebrows up. "Nick, you’re—"

"Last I checked, I’m not wearing the same uniform as

everyone you’ve been giving orders to."

He drew back a little. "I wasn’t giving you an order."

"Didn’t sound like a question, either."

"Jesus, Nick." He rolled his eyes. "I just want to make

sure you’re someplace safe."

I gave a sharp sniff of sarcastic laughter. "Oh, really?"

He cocked his head, his expression asking for clarification.

"I can’t say I totally trust your judgment about

‘someplace safe’ at the moment."

Andrew blinked. "What?"

"You convinced me this was about as safe as anywhere," I

said. "Surrounded by cops, well-guarded, cameras everywhere,
what the fuck could go wrong, right?"

"I was wrong, Nick, I—"

"I’ve trusted you over my own instincts more than once."

The more I spoke, the more the anger grew until it

overshadowed the lingering panic. "You’ve convinced me to be
paranoid to the point I’ve almost had a nervous breakdown
when there was no one there at all. Then you turn around and

convince me I’m perfectly fucking safe here. That bullet was in
my car. How am I supposed to know the next won’t be in my
goddamned head?"

208

"That’s exactly what I’m trying to keep from happening,"

he snapped.

"So you tried to talk me out of going to a strip joint, when

you said yourself it was nowhere near where he was known to
do business, but encouraged me to go some place that would be

crawling with fucking media? The whole city knows I’m here,
Andrew."

"And half the police force is here, too."

"Good thing, isn’t it? If they hadn’t been here, Shawn

might’ve been able to get in here and fuck with my car."

He started to speak, but hesitated, closing his eyes and

taking, then releasing, a long breath. When he spoke, his voice

was low and calm, though an angry edge remained. "Nick, I’m
not a fucking psychic. I’m doing the best I can, but I don’t know
his next move any more than you do."

"Yeah, that’s evident." I gestured at my car.

His lips thinned and his eyes narrowed. "I’m just trying to

keep you safe," he said in a low voice. "That’s why I’m asking

you to come to my place."

"Asking me?" I said. "Or ordering me?"

He thumbed his chin. "You have anywhere else in mind?"

"I can stay at the station."

"Okay, do you want to stay with me?"

I put my hands up. "Honestly, I don’t know where I want

to stay. Or where I should stay. Because every fucking place in
this city seems to be crawling with reasons for me to be
paranoid."

"Which is why I’m suggesting my place. I’m sorry if it

came out as an order. I told you, I’m just trying to keep you
safe."

"Yeah, that’s going great. Thanks."

"What do you want me to say, Nick?" he snarled. "I

mean, I could say I’m sorry I didn’t look into my goddamned
crystal ball and tell you Shawn would be here, but not at the

strip club. Or, I’m sorry that common sense suggested a dark
room full of strangers and shady customers wouldn’t be safer
than a convention center filled to the gills with police and

security cameras. Or, I’m sorry I’ve—"

"I get the fucking point."

"No, I don’t think you do." He spoke through his teeth.

"All this time, I could have sat back and let you deal with this
alone, but instead, I’ve bent over backwards to try to keep some
distance and a few layers of Kevlar between you and Shawn. I

209

know these people, I know what you’re up against, but I don’t
know everything they’re going to do. Do things my way, and

maybe my guys can catch this fucker before he catches up to
you."

I nodded at my car and threw back, "Little late for that,

don’t you think? Now do you see why I didn’t want anything to
do with this fucking ceremony?"

"You didn’t know this was going to happen any more than

I did."

"But I had a feeling something would, and it did." I cursed

under my breath and ran my hand through my hair. "Christ, I
didn’t even want this goddamned medal to begin with."

"So now it’s the medal’s fault?"

"Of course not. The medal’s just one more thing to

remind me of a day I’d just as soon forget ever happened. Just

like the plaque, just like the fucking bullet in my car, just—"

"Yeah." His eyes narrowed. "Sounds like you could do

without anything that reminds you of that day."

"Oh believe me, you don’t know how right you are." I

didn’t realize what he’d been implying until my answer was
already in the air.

His lips tightened. "I figured as much."

"You know what I mean, Andrew."

"Yeah. Yeah, I do." With a sharp exhalation, he put his

hands up and stepped back. "Fine. You know what? Fuck you.
You’re on your own." He turned on his heel and stormed toward
the stairwell, throwing over his shoulder, "I’ll get a lift back to

the precinct from one of the guys."

I didn’t watch him go. I got in my car, slammed the door,

and shoved the key into the ignition. Grinding my teeth, I

started the engine, ignoring the place from which that brass-
jacketed bullet had taunted me in all its gleaming 'here I fucking
am' brazenness. It wasn’t there anymore, thank God. Most likely
bagged and labeled as evidence.

Backing out of the parking space, I flinched when I looked

in the rearview and saw movement. After a second of panic, I
realized it was just my own reflection. I cursed my own

jumpiness and shifted into drive.

On my way out of the parking garage, fear pushed the

anger aside. Shawn had been here. That meant he might still be

here. Sure, Shawn had taken off when the witness chased him,
but to where? He could still be here. He could be anywhere. He
could be back in Masontown, or he could be around that corner

210

on the ramp leading down to the next level of this garage. It was
all I could do to keep my eyes on the pavement in front of me.

Phantom movement kept drawing my attention to the spaces
between cars and the shadows behind posts.

The lower levels of the garage were busier, occupied by

people leaving the ceremony and employees coming and going.
Even over my engine and through my car windows, the place
echoed with the quiet, unnerving murmur of business as usual.

Thankfully I couldn’t hear all the footsteps, any one of which
could have been him, but I heard enough. Every engine turning
over was a car that might follow me. Every sound wore a hood
and every slamming car door carried a slim jim. I gripped the

steering wheel to keep my hands from shaking.

I’m going out of my mind. I’m losing my fucking mind.

But try as I might, I couldn’t brush this off as unjustified

paranoia. Whether or not he was now, Shawn had been here.
He’d found my car, gotten into it, and left a message I couldn’t
ignore.

There was little comfort to be found when I made my

escape from the garage into the blinding daylight. The concrete
walls that had boxed me in with "Shawn might be here" couldn’t

protect me from "he could be anywhere out here."

I tapped my fingers on the wheel, trying to muffle my

own heartbeat. The growing stretch of blacktop in the rearview

allowed me to catch some of my breath. With every green light
that let me put another block between the garage and me, I
relaxed, but not by much.

With fight or flight pacified by distance, something else

came back to the front of my mind.

Fine. You know what? Fuck you. You’re on your own.

I expected a surge of fresh anger, but it didn’t come.

What came was guilt. The deep, acidic guilt that would be
neither ignored nor denied. I exhaled hard.

I’m sorry I didn’t look into my goddamned crystal ball and

tell you Shawn would be here, but not at the strip club.

The words dripped with sarcasm and burned with truth.

What were the odds? Sure, the media knew where I was, but

how many people had the balls to pull something like that when
the place was knee deep in cops?

I’m sorry that common sense suggested a dark room full

of strangers and shady customers wouldn’t be safer than a
convention center filled to the gills with police and security
cameras.

211

Now, the anger came, but it didn’t come for Andrew.

Christ, what was I thinking? Andrew had done nothing wrong.

His concern with the strip club made sense. His assurance that
this event would be safe also made sense.

All this time, I could have sat back and let you deal with

this alone, but instead, I’ve bent over backwards to try to keep
some distance and a few layers of Kevlar between you and
Shawn.

I rested my elbow below the window and chewed my

thumbnail. I owed him gratitude if nothing else, and instead I’d
taken my anger out on him. My anger, my panic, my frustration
with everything except for him.

He may have been wrong about Shawn’s next move, but

he knew this game better than I did and he gambled according
to the best odds. Listening to him was more likely to keep me

alive than not. I couldn’t decide what made me angrier: the fact
that I needed the kind of protection Andrew offered, or the fact
that I’d lashed out at him when his only sin was a lack of

clairvoyance.

Fuck you. You’re on your own. The words cut deeper

every time they replayed in my head, and they just didn’t stop.

Fuck you. You’re on your own." It wasn’t just the vulnerability. It
wasn’t just the fact that I needed him. Fuck you. You’re on your
own. I wanted him. Shawn didn’t matter. Nothing mattered

except the fact that I wanted to be with Andrew, and in a
moment of misdirected anger, I’d shoved him away.

My transfer was still pending, but the firehouse was closer

than my apartment. My apartment that was full of more
reminders of Andrew than I could take right now. Sounds like
you could do without anything that reminds you of that day.

I pulled into a parking space behind the firehouse and

killed the engine. Closing my eyes, I let my head fall back
against the headrest and released a long breath.

When I opened my eyes, I met my reflection’s gaze in the

rearview. Accusing eyes stared back at me, demanding an
explanation I couldn’t provide. I looked away, but my own lips
whispered the mirror’s question:

"What have I done?"

212

213

Twenty Two

I walked into the firehouse on legs made of lead and I

hadn’t made it three steps through the door before the guys saw
me.

"Hey, hero!" someone shouted.

The voice made me groan. No, not now. Please, not now.

But I turned around anyway, finding the willpower to force a
half-assed smile as the guys came out of the lounge.

"Let’s see the goods," Jackson said. "I’ve never seen one

of these medals up close."

I gestured over my shoulder. "It’s, um, it’s in the car. I’ll

bring it in later."

"Oh, come on." Sanderlin clapped my shoulder. "We need

to get a picture of you with it."

"Maybe in a bit." I tried to politely back out. "Really,

guys, it’s been a crazy day." I looked around. "Is Switzer back
yet?"

Jackson shook his head. "Nope. Haven’t seen him."

"Good. Listen, I’ve got—" I thought quickly. "I need to

make a few calls, but I’ll tell you guys all about it when I come
back in."

They protested, but I managed to bow out and make my

escape. Where I was going, I had no idea. Just somewhere in
this building where I could be alone. My usual hiding spot in the

training tower called to me, but it was too much like a miniature
version of the parking garage. No amount of logic or rationality
would persuade my nerves to stop checking the shadows for

Shawn, even though I knew he wasn’t here. I needed to clear
my head, not give myself a panic attack.

It was still early in the day, so the entire crew was awake,

which meant the bedrooms were empty. I went into one and

214

closed the door behind me before I dropped onto one of the
beds. I rubbed my forehead with both hands, muttering a long

string of profanity that was mostly directed at myself with a
"fucking bastard" or two left over for Shawn Foster. None of it
was pointed at Andrew.

I got up and paced. Sat again. Paced. Lay back and

stared at the ceiling. Leaned against the wall. Paced. Bed. Floor.
Wall.

The restlessness wasn’t just physical. Regret. Fear.

Regret. Fear. My emotions refused to settle, and so too did my
body. Like a pendulum keeping time alongside the heartbeat-tick
of the clock, every swing reminded me of the growing void

between the moment he’d walked away and now. Of the
moment I’d let him go.

Tick. I’d let him go.

Tick.

I’d

made him go.

"Fuck," I whispered, running my hand through my hair

and rising to pace again. This wasn’t right. This couldn’t be right.
I had to talk to him.

As I pulled my phone out of my pocket, it occurred to me

that I had far bigger things to worry about than patching things
up with Andrew. Shawn was out there. He was closing in on me.
He’d gotten way too close.

But I was away from him now. For the moment. Here at

the station, I was safe. He’d gotten too close, and now Andrew
was too far away. There was nothing I could do about Shawn

right now, but if Andrew was willing to talk to me, maybe I could
do something about all that was wrong there.

Praying he’d answer and forcing myself to keep it

together, I convinced my shaking hand to speed-dial Andrew’s
number.

He picked up on the first ring. "Hey."

"Hey." I paused, chewing my lip. "Can we, um, can we

talk?"

"Yeah, we can talk." His voice was steady, but calm.

Neutral. Laced with neither fury nor forgiveness. After a

moment, he said, "I’d rather not talk and drive, though. I’m

on my way home now. Do you want to meet me there?"

I swallowed. Over the phone was intimidating enough.

But if he was willing to see me, I wasn’t going to object. And for
that matter, if there was anywhere in the world where Shawn
wouldn’t find me…

215

"Yeah, yeah, I can meet you there." I rose and started for

the door. "I’m at the station. I’ll be there as soon as I can."

I went out the side door to avoid the guys. They meant

well, and I didn’t want to cold shoulder my crew, but this
couldn’t wait. That, and Chief Switzer could be along any

minute. If we crossed paths, I wasn’t going anywhere any time
soon. I shuddered. I’d have to face that music sooner or later.
Not now, though. Not now.

I made it out of the house without being seen, got in the

car, and pulled out of the station’s driveway as Switzer was
pulling in.

I pretended not to see him. I pretended not to hear my

cell phone ringing. I pretended the conversation I was heading
toward was less unnerving than the one waiting for me back at
the firehouse.

Rush hour was over, so the roads were mostly clear. Still,

the drive to Andrew’s took an eternity. An eternity I spent
reliving our angry conversation and his departure. There had

been so many opportunities to call a truce. So many chances to
realize I was flying off the handle over nothing. I should have
bitten my tongue until it bled.

It was easy to see that from here. Just like the reporters

who had the luxury of going over Jennifer Thompson’s death in
the unhurried comfort of hindsight, it didn’t make much

difference what I thought now. In the moment, I hadn’t thought.
I hadn’t been able to.

I glanced in the rearview. That yellow sports car with

tinted windows had been awfully close to my bumper for the last
mile or so. I changed lanes, exhaling when the other car
accelerated and passed me. Cool relief swept over me.

I exhaled hard and tried to focus on the road and my

thoughts of Andrew. How was I supposed to think clearly when
blinding panic and crippling paranoia had practically become my
natural states?

No excuse, Swain. None of this was Andrew’s fault.

I tried to cling to the hope that his invitation meant he

was open to forgiveness. It had to be a good sign. Unless of

course he just wanted me to look him in the eye and say what I
had to say, at which point he would remind me that I could go
fuck myself. His walkway and driveway were the perfect lengths

for a duly humiliating walk of shame.

No matter how much I tried to tell myself I was

overreacting, that this was a lover’s quarrel, not a breakup, the

216

finality of his parting words wouldn’t be ignored. It wasn’t like
we’d just had a minor disagreement over something trivial.

Sounds like you could do without anything that reminds

you of that day.

I cringed. If those words stung me, I could only imagine

how he felt when I’d responded without thinking. Was there
even room for forgiveness in a situation like this? When I’d
rejected his efforts to keep me alive because, through no fault of

his own, he’d been wrong?

At least he was, hopefully, willing to hear me out.

But what to say?

"I’m sorry, Andrew, I…" I what? "I was scared and angry,

and you happened to be the nearest warm—" I cringed again.
The nearest target was more like it.

I didn’t know why I’d said it. I didn’t think about any of it

until the words were out, and now that I did think about them,
they made no sense at all.

That was what I’d tell him, then. It was the truth, pathetic

though it may have been. I’d spoken without thinking.

The pavement ended and gravel ground beneath my tires.

A cloud of dust followed my car down the winding road, and my

heart jumped into my throat when I turned down Andrew’s
driveway. His house came into view in the fading daylight.
Pulling up to his home, it struck me as ironic that I’d dug my

heels in about coming to this very place, but now I was here
anyway, seeking forgiveness instead of protection.

"And so the prodigal lover returns." I got out of the car.

On the way up the walk, I buttoned and straightened my

jacket just to occupy my hands for a few seconds. I could have
changed at the firehouse, but that would have taken more time.

That, and it wouldn’t have made much of a difference. With or
without a uniform that didn’t fit over my vest, "comfortable"
wasn’t going to happen until this matter was resolved.

I made it onto his front porch. Standing on the 'Welcome'

mat, I held my breath and knocked.

Footsteps. Deadbolt. Showtime.

Andrew opened the door. He, too, still wore his dress

uniform. I wondered if he hadn’t had time before I arrived, or if
he simply hadn’t bothered.

Our eyes met, but only for a fleeting moment. His shifted

away a second before mine did, and he gestured for me to come
in. I walked past him, my dress shoes snapping on the tile with
every tentative step I took into his house. Then I stood, my back

217

still turned, trying to find the courage to face him. The door
clicked, signifying a full stop to divide 'going to him' from 'here

with him'.

The rest of the universe was shut out, the door sealing us

inside this tense microcosm. His shoes scuffed, then clicked, the

narrow foyer echoing with the regimented sound of footwear
similar to my own performing an about face. I closed my eyes,
taking a deep breath as the weight of Andrew’s gaze pressed my

shoulders. For all I knew, he wasn’t even looking at me, having
found something to hold his attention on the floor between us or
the walls closing in around us. Or maybe he couldn’t stand the
sight of me. Imagined or not, the weight was there.

Another

step—

click-snap—broke the silence, followed an

eternity later by another— click-snap—and he was right behind
me. Too close. Not close enough.

Like a comic book character granted some bizarre

supernatural power, I’d been cursed since the day we met with
hyperawareness, the acute, unshakable ability to home in on

anyone behind me. Anyone, real or imagined. The air crackled
with Andrew’s presence. I knew exactly where he was. Exactly
how close—how far away—he stood. My mind’s eye followed the

soft creak of weight shifting in highly polished shoes, of fabric
rustling over fabric while he tried to figure out what to do with
his hands. Into his pockets. Folded across his chest. Pocketed

again. Weight switching back to
the

other

foot.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end beneath

my starched collar. I wasn’t afraid of him, but I was afraid of
what would happen if I looked at him. If I didn’t look at him. If I
spoke. If I didn’t speak.

"You wanted to talk?" His voice was barely a whisper, but

it echoed in the tiny foyer and I’d have startled just the same if
his words had been shattering glass.

I recovered and nodded slowly. "Yeah. I…" Guilt, fear, and

shame conspired to render me mute. Every word I’d carefully
rehearsed in the car abandoned me now, retreating to higher
ground and leaving me to face him on my own.

Click-snap. Heartbeat. Heartbeat. Heartbeat. Click-snap. I

couldn’t breathe. Not when he was this close, close enough I
was sure my nerve endings would curl like paper drawing back a

second too late from a flame.

"Nick…" Another whisper like shattering glass. "Turn

around." Heartbeat. Heartbeat. Heart. Beat. "Please."

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I turned my head enough to let my peripheral vision find

him. At the very edge of my sight, his not-quite-focused shape

was there. Standing. Waiting. I took as much of a breath as I
could this close to him, then willed my feet to move.
Scuff.

Scuff.

Heartbeat.

Click.

And there we were.

Our eyes met. This time, I was the one to look away.

"Listen, I—"

Contact silenced me. We were touching. No, he was

touching me. A hand on my waist. Just enough pressure to say
he was sure he meant to put it there, just light enough to ask if
I wanted it to stay there. Confusion trumped fear and I looked

up in time to meet his eyes in the same instant his other hand
touched my face.

Then he drew me to him and kissed me.

With the same lips that had told me just hours ago I was

on my own, he accepted the apology I hadn’t yet given. The
vague taste of bourbon met my tongue. Whether it was liquid

courage or just something to settle his nerves, it was there, and
it made the taste of his kiss unmistakably Andrew.

I didn’t understand but my body did. It was impossible

not to be aroused when he touched me. Whether or not I

was worthy of it, his breath was on my skin, his body was
against mine, and I wanted him.

We broke the kiss, breathing hard against each other’s

lips. My hands were on the sides of his neck, my thumbs running
along the edge of his jaw. When I’d put them there, I couldn’t

remember. I couldn’t remember them ever being anywhere else,
or feeling anything besides his heartbeat beneath hot skin and
late afternoon stubble.

There was still pain in his eyes, the slight lift of his

eyebrows asking if I meant everything I’d said in the garage. He
ran his fingers through my hair with unsteady tenderness that
contradicted the certainty of his kiss. He’d made a move. The

next was mine, whether or not I knew what move to make.

Whatever I’d thought of in the car was long gone, and the

words that came were the only words that mattered: "Andrew,

I’m sorry."

Again his fingers went through my hair, though they were

steadier this time. He smiled, if uncertainly. "You’re here. That’s

all I care about."
"I—"

He kissed me. His lips and tongue were gentle, but the

219

hand on the back of my neck was unyielding. Shut up. Just shut
up.

I’d expected anger. Terse words of the four-lettered

variety to echo everything we’d said earlier. The air between us
should have been made of ice, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t there at

all. There wasn’t enough room for air, hot or cold, between his
body and mine.

He broke the kiss and looked at me, moistening—

tasting—his lips with a quick sweep of his tongue. The look in his
eyes was one of seductive boldness until he dropped his gaze
and bit his lip. After a moment, our eyes met again, and the
rhythm of my heart went from aroused to scared. This storm

hadn’t yet passed.

Hoping to bridge the gap again, I kissed him, but he

hesitated when he returned it. Again he dropped his gaze. Then

he rested his forehead against mine, the hand on my waist
moving to the small of my back.

"Listen," he said, his lips brushing mine. "I’m not great

at talking about this stuff."

"Neither am I."

"Then maybe talking should wait." He kissed me again,

then moved to the underside of my jaw and started down my
neck.

I closed my eyes, tilting my head to one side to give him

more access even as I said, "Shouldn’t we sort this out first?"

His breath was hot against my neck as he murmured,

"We are sorting it out." I shivered when his stubble scraped

across my collar. When he raised his head, I pulled him closer
and lost myself in his tender touch and bourbon kiss.

The hand behind my neck loosened, then released me

and slid down my lapel. He looked down as he unbuttoned my
jacket, frowning with concentration and watching himself
unfasten each button. Then, his eyes flicked up and locked on
mine, holding my gaze as he pushed my jacket down my arms.

My breath slipped between my lips as weight both figurative and
literal fell off my shoulders and landed at my feet with a dull
thud.

With shaking hands, I reached for his jacket, alternately

watching my fingers and his eyes. When the last button was
open, he shrugged once, letting his jacket fall away as mine had.

With that pooled at our feet, he grasped the front of my shirt
and kissed me again. He gently pushed me back, encouraging
me to take a step. Then another.

220

Every step down the hall took us closer to the bedroom.

Every button that separated brought us closer together.

In the back of my mind, some little voice tried to remind

me that I couldn’t use sex to escape this, that this wasn’t
something for which I could decompress and move on in silence.

I shrugged those thoughts away along with my shirt. Sex wasn’t
the escape this time. Sex was diving headlong into us. It was
full-on immersion into everything we stood to lose. I didn’t want

to escape him. I wanted to drown in him.

Clothes rustled. Shoes thumped. Velcro ripped and vests

tumbled to the floor. By the time we made it into bed, the only
fabric touching skin was Andrew’s sheets.

For the longest time, we just kissed. Hands roamed

skin, but we weren’t in any hurry. Some touches were so

light they only registered because my skin was still tender from

nights that had been rough, violent, and desperate in ways
tonight couldn’t be.

The distance was a distant memory. This closeness

terrified me, but I held him closer. The intimacy was beyond
unnerving, but I sought more. The fear wasn’t because I wanted
to pull back. Rather, I realized with every kiss and caress how

close I’d come to doing just that. To losing this. It was hard to
believe now that we’d walked away from each other, whether it
was for just a few hours to cool down or if we’d had every

intention of staying apart. Maybe it had been just a lover’s
quarrel, something to be resolved and forgotten, but it scared
me just the same because I was in love with him.

A shudder ran up my spine and I gasped hard enough to

break the long, gentle kiss.

Andrew raised his head and looked at me. He said

something. A question, if his raised eyebrows were any
indication, but the question in my own mind was much louder.

Am I?

He ran the backs of his fingers along my jaw. "Something

wrong?"

"No. Nothing." I reached for him, just to touch him, but

as soon as my fingertips hissed across his five o’clock shadow, I

needed to taste him again. I pulled him back down and kissed
him. That must have answered his question because he returned
my kiss without hesitation.

Yes. Yes, I am.

I gently pushed his shoulders back and lifted my own off

the bed, never once breaking the kiss as I eased him onto his

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back. Like never before, I couldn’t get enough of him. If his kiss
was to be believed, along with the way his fingers tightened in

my hair, the feeling was mutual.

I wanted to be inside him. I wanted him inside me. I

wanted to be as close to him as I could get, but I didn’t want to

break away even for the handful of seconds it would take to get
a condom. I just wanted him.

I want you. I need you. I love you.

We shifted again, this time coming to rest on our

sides. His fingers wrapped around my cock. The tight

warmth of his grasp made my breath catch, and our lips
separated long enough for a whispered "Jesus…" before we were

lost in another passionate kiss.

The skin beneath my fingertips went from the roughness

of his cheek, jaw, and neck, to the smoothness just above his

collarbone. He exhaled against my lips when my fingers drifted
over his nipple, and his body inched closer to mine as my palm
traced the profile of his waist to his hip. The rhythm of his

strokes faltered a couple of times, especially as my hand neared
his cock. When I let the back of my hand brush along the
underside of his erection, we both gasped; Andrew, from the

touch of my hand. Me, from the way his fingers tightened
around my cock.

I stroked him. He stroked me. His forehead rested against

mine and our breathing fell into the same rhythm. So did our
hands. For all I knew, my heartbeat matched his. Every action
and every response was mirrored: When I stroked faster, he did

the same. When he slowed down, I slowed down. Even as our
breathing became irregular, coming in short, sharp gasps, we
were almost perfectly in sync.

"Oh God, Andrew…" My lips brushed his.

"Fuck… that’s…" His voice trailed off to a moan. He kissed

me, then drew back so we could see each other.

My eyes tried to roll back, but I blinked a few times,

refusing to look away from him. His face—lips parted, brow
furrowed, cheeks flushed—was just as responsible for my near-
delirium as his hand on my cock.

"Don’t stop," he whispered. His cock twitched in my hand

and I couldn’t take anymore, especially when he moaned, "Oh
God, I’m—"

"I’m coming," I said in between gasping for air. "Fuck,

I’m, oh fuck, I’m coming…"

Semen hit my abs and my arm. I didn’t know whose was

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whose, and I didn’t care, I didn’t give a fuck, because I was here
and he was here and this felt too damned good for anything else

to matter.

As both orgasms subsided, my forehead met his again

and we panted against each other’s lips. Then he kissed me. A

long, gentle, breathless kiss, and as our bodies trembled and my
heart pounded, all I could think was I nearly lost this.

I’d nearly lost this, and though I didn’t understand how or

why, I hadn’t.

I was here.

He was here.

And I loved him.

223

Twenty Three

Lying on our sides, we faced each other. We didn’t look at

each other, nor did we speak as the crackling electricity faded
from the air and the world returned to its normal state of calm. I
didn’t quite know how to fill the silence. I was beyond thankful

he hadn’t turned me away or told me off, that we’d found a way
to reconnect, but the bridge we’d rebuilt wasn’t yet finished.

My hand was clasped in his in the narrow space between

our chests. They weren’t still, though. Our fingers constantly
flexed, shifted, touched; electrons moving around the nucleus of
nervous energy that heated the sliver of air between our palms.

I watched our hands for the longest time, hoping they’d

somehow generate enough kinetic energy to kick start my
rapidly waning courage.

But they wouldn’t, I knew. They were just hands. Just

skin touching skin, and if I wanted my skin to keep touching his,
no magic outside source was going to smooth over everything
that still divided us.

Swallowing hard, I looked at him. There was no anger in

his eyes, nor was there pain. Relief, if anything, much like that
which swept over me every time his fingers brushed mine.

"I’m sorry, Andrew," I said at last.

"So am I." He smiled and kissed my fingers, holding them

a little tighter now.

"Everything I said, it…" I took a breath. "I had no

business being angry with you."

"You were stressed." His fingers straightened, then

slipped between mine and curled over the back of my

hand. "Anyone would have snapped eventually. To be honest,
I’m surprised it’s taken you this long to buckle under all of this."

Oh, how I’ve had you fooled. "I know, but lashing out at

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you…"

"If not me, someone else." His wrist twitched as if he’d

been about to make a dismissive gesture, but he must have
decided it wasn’t worth releasing my hand. "Sooner or later—"

"Maybe so, but that doesn’t make it right." I moved a

little closer to him. "You don’t remind me of that day. That’s got
to be the furthest thing from my mind when I look at you."

He smiled, shifting his gaze for a second. "I know. And I

knew it when I said it, I just…" He sighed. "You weren’t the only
one who was speaking without thinking."

"Well, I’m just glad you were still willing to talk to me

now."

"Of course I was. Hell, I’m glad you called. I’d been trying

to work up the guts to do it, but…" He trailed off, shaking his
head.

"Seemed like I was the one who should come crawling

back."

"You weren’t the one who walked away."

"No, but you wouldn’t have walked away if I’d kept my

mouth shut." I swallowed. "I didn’t mean what I said. About not
trusting your judgment. About any of it, really, but especially

that."

He touched my face and kissed me lightly. "I know. And I

shouldn’t have been so forceful about—"

"You weren’t. Really. And you were absolutely right that

I’m better off here."

"Well," he said with a cautiously playful grin. "Here you

are."

I laughed. "You sneaky bastard."

"What? You think I tricked you into coming out here?"

"It worked, didn’t it?"

He smiled. "So it did."

I kissed him gently. "Well, as you said, I’m here now. I

hope you’re not planning to get rid of me."

"Not as long as you still have a few orgasms left in

you."

At that, we both managed a genuine laugh, and more of

the tension between us eased. I moved a little closer to him. His
lips met mine in another gentle kiss, one that lasted for…a while.
I didn’t care how long it lasted, only that it did. His foot slipped

over my ankle, just another point of "I need to feel you" contact,
and the warm, almost ticklish touch made me shiver.

When we broke the kiss and looked at each other again,

225

his expression had changed, and something cold flooded my
veins.

"What’s wrong?" I asked.

He took a breath. "Listen, you might be right about me

being overly protective, maybe to the point of being forceful

about it—"
"Andrew—"

"Just hear me out. Please. It’s not that I doubt your

ability to take care of yourself. Not in the least. I’m just scared
to death of losing you, Nick. Especially…" He trailed off, watching
his thumb trace circles on the back of my hand. I got the feeling
he was searching for the words to articulate it, so I waited

silently. Finally he looked at me again. "There’s something you
should know."

The seriousness in his voice raised the hairs on the back

of my neck. I turned my hand over and gently squeezed his.
"Tell me."

He swallowed hard. "The day we met, none of that should

have happened. For all you and Macy have caught hell for the
way things went down, I’m the one who really fucked up."

I stared at him. "What do you mean?"

"I should have been covering her." He swallowed. "Macy,

I mean. We had a planned liaison with a dealer who was working
with some of Foster’s boss’s competitors. Anyway, while we

were waiting for him, one of the kingpins who we’ve been after
for months showed up. He’s been slipping past all kinds of
surveillance, so we didn’t want to let him go, but we had to meet

this liaison. I was hesitant to leave Macy without cover, didn’t
think I’d have time to tail him, figure out where he was going,
and still make it back to meet this guy. Macy encouraged me to

go, but…" He shook

his head. "I shouldn’t have. I should have stayed."

"You couldn’t have known how everything was going to go

down, though."

"Maybe not," he said. "But I knew it was a risk. I knew it

was a risk, I left my partner uncovered, and when everything hit
the fan, I almost lost her." He freed his hand from mine and

touched my face, brushing his thumb across my cheekbone and
looking me in the eye. "Maybe I’ve been a bit more forceful
about it than I need to be, but Nick, I’ve already come too close

to losing her after leaving her uncovered. I’m just terrified of
losing you for the same reason."

I didn’t know what to say to that. There probably wasn’t

226

anything to say, so I just pulled him to me and kissed him.
When our eyes met again, it was my turn to have something to

say but not know quite how to say it.

"Look, everything I said earlier…" I paused, dropping my

gaze while I search for the words. Taking a breath, I looked at

him again. "Andrew, I—"

"I know, it’s—"

"I love you."

His lips parted.

My heart pounded, but I made no effort to retract what

I’d said. I swallowed hard and put my hand over his. "And I
don’t want to lose you, either."

"That’s not going to happen." Andrew leaned forward to

kiss me. Just before our lips met, he whispered, "I love you,
Nick."

I wanted to believe him. Though we’d reconnected and

the storm had passed, I was more afraid than ever that I would
lose him. Not only did I realize just how much I wanted him to

stay, but there was still that nagging fear that I’d push him
away. Not deliberately, but the same way I’d pushed David and
my ex-wife away.

Sooner or later, it would be another one of those nights.

A bad call, a stressful day, something. I’d come home and need
him like that again. And sooner or later, he’d get tired of the

silence after the storm.

I knew I loved him. I knew he loved me and he was still

here now. What I didn’t know was how to bridge that gap

between who I was and who I needed to be to keep from

pushing him away.

You’re still with me now. I ran my fingers through his

hair. Do I have any right to hope you’ll stay?

227

Twenty Four

The next morning, on the off chance Shawn had gotten

my address from the paperwork in my glove box, Andrew made
a few calls and arranged to have a couple of officers stop by my
apartment later in the day to make sure no one had broken in.

Just in case, though, I planned to stick around his house as
much as possible.

Since I’d worn my dress uniform when I came over last

night, Andrew loaned me a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Then,
while he took a shower, I went through the house, picking up all
the pieces of our uniforms that were strewn from the front door

to the bedroom door.

A faint beep caught my attention. It took me a second to

place it, but then I recognized the muffled sound of my cell
phone. I pulled it out of my pocket and looked to see who’d

called. The number was local, but unrecognized, and whoever it
was had left a message. I called my voicemail, keyed in my
password, and listened.

The second I heard her voice, I nearly dropped the

phone: "Mr. Swain? This is Jillian Hayworth. I’d like to talk to
you. About, um, about yesterday. I’m interested in running an

interview with you. I’d like to hear you give your side of the
events surrounding Jennifer Thompson’s death. Please give me a
call at your earliest convenience."

I had to listen to the message three times. The first time,

she sounded like she was extending an olive branch. The
second, every word smacked of manipulation and someone

sniffing for more ratings. The third, a combination of the two.

I chewed my lip and stared at the phone, trying to

decide what to make of her call.

The bathroom door opened, and I turned around as

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Andrew stepped into the bedroom with nothing but a towel
around his waist.

He glanced at my phone. "Calling for pizza this early in

the morning?"

I laughed. "No, just checking my voice messages."

"Anything from your boss?"

"No, but I did get one from that reporter from yesterday."

He raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

I nodded. "She wants to interview me so I can give my

side of the story."

Andrew released a cough of laughter. "You’re kidding."

"Not at all." I sat on the bed beside our uniforms. "Of

course she wants to talk to me now that I’ve made her look like
an ass."

"Which she richly deserved after making you look like a

bigot."
"Exactly."

"So are you going to do it?"

"Should I?"

He shrugged. "It’s your choice. I don’t know what harm it

would do, but then again, she could probably spin it and make

you look bad."

"And the department would probably shit if I did it."

"Well, they’re already going to shit over what you said

yesterday."

I cringed. "Fuck. I’m still waiting for that call from

Switzer."

He laughed softly. "I’m sure it’s coming. Hell, maybe

they’ll let you do the interview to counter whatever bad PR you
gave them yesterday."

I rubbed my forehead with the heels of my hands.

"Christ, why won’t this whole thing die?"

"Because of people like her who know just how to stir shit

up. She’s a reporter. A professional antagonist. And—" He

stopped suddenly.
"What?"

Furrowing his brow, Andrew said nothing.

I cocked my head. "What’s on your mind?"

"Are you opposed to doing this interview?"

My lips parted. "Andrew, I don’t want any more media

attention, it’s—"

"If Shawn was out of the picture," he said. "If all of this

was resolved, would you be willing to do it?"

229

"What about the department’s policy?"

"That can be dealt with, too. I just need to know if you’re

willing to do it."

I chewed the inside of my cheek, avoiding his eyes. "I

just want this whole thing to go away and die."

"What if that interview was the price for it all going away

and dying?"

I looked at him. "What are you talking about?"

He grinned. "I have an idea. Do you trust me?"

"Of course I do."

"Will you do the interview?"

I blew out a breath. "I don’t know what you’ve got up

your sleeve, but…"

"Just trust me on this. Give me your phone."

I handed it to him.

"Your last missed call, right?"

"Yep."

He hit 'send' and held my phone up to his ear as he said,

"Feel like going into town for lunch?"

"Hell, why not?"

He smiled, then shifted his eyes away as a voice on the

other end picked up. "Ms. Hayworth? This is Detective Andrew
Carmichael. I’m calling on Nick Swain’s behalf." Pause. "Yes,
yes, he’s fine. He’s here with me. Listen, I have a proposal for

you. In exchange for an exclusive on that interview." Another
pause. A grin played at the corner of his mouth and he winked
at me. To Jillian, he said, "Can you meet us at The Downriver

Grill at noon?"

~ * ~

No one ever looked out of place at The Downriver Grill

except for Jillian Hayworth.

She was dressed for fine wine and filet mignon, but

fidgeted like someone who desperately needed to throw back a
few shots of tequila. She was out of her element here, and it had

nothing to do with the mismatched eccentricity of the Grill’s
ambiance. It had everything to do with us, and when we
approached her table, she bit her lip and shrank away slightly.

The predator caged by her own prey.

She stood, thrusting her shoulders back, but not quite far

enough to counter the uneasiness in her eyes. When she shook

my hand, she did so without the vise-grip I’d have expected
from someone who’d been so infuriatingly full of herself. She
didn’t appear quite so cocky today. The look she gave me was

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somewhere between apologetic and intimidated.

She extended her hand to Andrew. "Detective Carmichael,

it’s a pleasure."

He simply nodded while he shook her hand, and the way

her eyes flicked back and forth between us suggested that our

combined silence unnerved her. I wondered if that was part of
his plan. On the drive in, he’d given me the rundown of his
proposal and said he’d do the talking. I had no objections.

After we’d all taken our seats, she said, "Mr. Swain, I—"

"Nick."

"Nick." Her face flushed a little as if this informality made

her uncomfortable. "I wanted to apologize. For yesterday. I

think I, well, I pushed too far without knowing all the answers."

"So you want an exclusive to get all of those answers?" I

growled.

"Nick." Andrew shot me a glare.

I exhaled. "Sorry, sorry."

"I want to do this interview to get those answers out

there," she said. "People have the wrong idea about you, and I
want to change that." Oh, she was good. The wide, pleading
eyes, the empathetic head tilt, the works.

I was tempted to question her altruism, especially since

she’d played her part in giving people the wrong idea about me,
but I had my own motives for being here. Giving her the third

degree would do nothing to get her on our side. Some crap
came to mind about catching proverbial flies with vinegar or
honey. So I bit my tongue. Hard. Andrew and I exchanged

glances, and I nodded.

He looked at her. "Before we discuss this interview, let’s

talk about my proposal. We think you can help us, Ms.

Hayworth."

"Please, call me Jillian."

"Okay, Jillian, we think you can help us."

"Sure, of course, anything I can do." She sat a little

straighter. Was that someone who genuinely wanted to help? Or
a hunter of exclusives who’d just caught the scent of blood?

Easy, Nick. Give her a chance.

"We need you to broadcast a story from on location in

Masontown," he said.

"About what?"

"The details don’t matter." He rested his forearms on the

table and leaned toward her. "But I need something that will stir
people up. Piss them off. Draw their attention to him." He

231

gestured at me.

She furrowed her brow, her eyes darting back and forth

from me to him. "Wait, you want to stir people up?"

He nodded. "Something that’ll get an emotional

response."

Suspicion joined nervousness in the trenches between

Jillian’s pencil-thin eyebrows. "It seems like you’re asking me to
do exactly what I came to apologize for."

"We are."

"And, why am I doing this?"

Andrew ran the backs of his fingers along the edge of his

jaw. "There’s someone in Masontown who we want to flush out."

Her eyebrows jumped. "Okay…"

"He’s a media whore, especially when it comes to this

whole situation with Nick. If he smells cameras, he’ll be there."

She shifted in her chair. "So, what happens when he does

come out? Assuming he does?"

"He will, and there will be plainclothes officers waiting,"

Andrew said. "When he shows up, they’ll arrest him."

Resting one elbow on the table, she put her chin on her

palm. "And who is he? How will I know when he’s there? And on

what charges?"

"It doesn’t matter who he is." Andrew’s tone was flat and

non-negotiable. "You’ll know he’s there because he’ll be

throwing a shit fit when he’s arrested." He shrugged. "And since
you’ll be the only reporter there, you’ll have a hell of an
exclusive. A wanted criminal arrested on live TV." He smiled.

"Something like that could probably warrant top story billing,
don’t you think? Just imagine the ratings, Jillian."

She wetted her lips. Licked her chops was more like it. I

couldn’t be sure, but I thought she shivered, and I nearly had to
bite my lip to keep from laughing. Andrew knew just the right
buzzwords to make her salivate. If he’d worked 'scandal' and
'syndication' into that sentence, he probably could have given

her an orgasm right there in The Downriver Grill.

"So," Andrew said, leaning back and folding his hands in

his lap. "Do we have a deal?"

"Well, I’m certainly intrigued," she said. "But, with this

story I’m broadcasting to catch this guy, what am I supposed to
say?"

Andrew smiled again. "You’re the reporter, Jillian. This is

what you do."

She fidgeted, biting her lip. "So, you just want me to

232

make something up? Find some bullshit angle just to upset
people about it?"

"Well, yes." He inclined his head. "That’s why we came to

you."

She inhaled sharply through her nose and her posture

straightened, but Andrew didn’t look at all bothered. She’d heard
our terms, and whether or not his comment had offended her,
he had her on the hook. The deck was stacked in our favor.

While we could go to any reporter in town with this sweet, sweet
deal, this was a take-it-or-leave-it proposition for her.

And if she wanted to up her odds at that anchor’s chair…

"Okay," she said with a nod. "You have a deal."

"Excellent." Andrew’s eyes flicked toward me and we

exchanged smiles.

"But," she said. "I want a few things in return."

Andrew raised an eyebrow. "Such as?"

"I’m assuming there’s some connection between Nick and

this mysterious criminal." She eyed us both, probably searching

for a facial betrayal of the truth. I offered none. Presumably
Andrew didn’t either, because she pursed her lips with
frustration. "There must be some connection, if he is involved in

this deal." Her eyebrows lifted and she once again searched for
unspoken answers. Meeting two poker faces, she sighed and
went on. "I want a guarantee that my questions about this will

be answered in the interview."

Andrew tapped his fingers on the edge of the table. "Can’t

make any promises."

"Why

not?"

"Depends on how much information is available to the

public." He gestured toward me. "As unfair as it is, considering

everything that’s been said about him, Nick would be in danger
of being accused of slander. Not only that, but he might taint a
potential pool of jurors, since your station is watched by so
many of this city’s good people." He laughed quietly, narrowing

his eyes just a little. "In that sense, I suppose your impressive
ratings are a double-edged sword, aren’t they?"

She fidgeted again, biting her lip. He’d played the ratings

card, and it had found its mark. A buzzword when he wanted to
reel her in, an Achilles’ heel when he wanted to shut her down.

She looked into her drink for a moment, then nodded.

"Fine. Fine."

"There’s one more thing," I said.

Her eyebrows jumped.

233

I glanced at Andrew, waiting for his subtle nod. When it

came, I turned to her again. "The department has a strict policy

about communicating with the press, so—"

"Oh, Jesus," she groaned, sitting back and rolling her

eyes. "I knew it. So there won’t be an interview, then, will

there?"

"I’ll talk to the police and fire chiefs," he said, gesturing

for her to calm down. "They’re going to want to smooth over

everything from yesterday. If you’ve cooperated with us and
helped us get this guy, I think we can work something out."

"What if you can’t?"

He shrugged. "Then you don’t get an interview, but you

get your headline-potential story and we get our guy off
the

street."

She scowled, eyes flicking back and forth between us.

"What if I won’t agree to this without a guaranteed, in-depth
exclusive interview?"

"If you don’t," Andrew said with another shrug. "There

are plenty of reporters in this town who will."

Jillian glared at him. Then she dropped her gaze and

sighed. I couldn’t help but smile.

Whether with honey, vinegar, or a combination of the

two, this fly was caught.

234

Twenty Five

I was on Andrew’s treadmill when he called. After

spending an hour in Switzer’s office to reap the four-letter
rewards of my little unauthorized sound bite, I needed a good
jog.

Slowing to a walk, I pulled my phone off my waistband.

"Hey, what’s up?"

He sighed, that heavy sigh that made me imagine him

pinching the bridge of his nose and tightening his jaw. "I was
just calling about tonight. It’s, well, it’s been a hell of a day…"
He trailed off and my heart sank a bit. With all the insanity in my

world these days, getting together with him was about the only
thing that kept me sane.

"Sorry to hear it," I said. "If you’d rather not go out—"

"No, no, it’s not that," he said quickly. "Well, it is. In a

way. But I still want to see you."

"Okay, so…"

"I just wanted to see if you were okay with staying in

instead of going out. I mean, I might not be the greatest
company tonight." For a moment, we were quiet. His lengthy
pause was loaded, one last unfired round waiting in the

chamber. Something unspoken. Then he cleared his throat.
"Anyway, I should get back to work. Are you sure you don’t
mind just staying in?"

I shrugged for no one’s benefit but my own. "Yeah, I’m

fine with that."

"You’re at my place, right?"

"Yes." My apartment had been deemed all clear by the

patrol officers a few days before, but Andrew had insisted I stay
with him as much as possible. Under the circumstances, I didn’t

protest.

235

"Good. I’ll see you tonight, then."

After I hung up, I looked at my phone, wondering what

subtext I’d missed during the conversation. When the stubborn
piece of crap refused to give me any answers, I clipped it back
on my waistband and continued jogging.

After my run, I grabbed a shower, all the while trying to

figure out what hadn’t been said. I wasn’t concerned that his
anger or frustration were directed at me, but there was

something there. Maybe it had something to do with our
arrangement with Jillian. It had been a couple of days since we
made that deal with her, and he’d run into some red tape and
speed bumps in his efforts to coordinate it. I hoped to God none

of the higher ups had called this whole thing off. Though I
wouldn’t be working in Masontown anymore once my transfer
went through, I wouldn’t draw an easy breath until Shawn

Foster wore a pair of silver bracelets courtesy the police
department.

By the time Andrew came home, I was no closer to

working it out than I’d been when we’d hung up. Whatever it
was, I’d find out soon enough.

After he came in, I turned the deadbolt, asking over my

shoulder, "So, one of those days?"

"One of those days." His voice was low and flat, neither

inviting more questions nor dropping the subject. Yes, it was a

shitty day. No, I don’t want to talk about it. But…what?

When I turned around, our eyes met and my breath

caught.

Without breaking eye contact, he moved closer, each step

slow, but deliberate. He cocked his head slightly, searching my
eyes for something. Even when he was close, too close, he kept

moving, and I had no choice but to back up. My shoulders hit
the door, but that wasn’t what knocked the breath out of my
lungs. His presence was always intense, always unavoidable.
Never like this, though. There was something just beneath the

surface, something barely restrained. Familiar, but I couldn’t put
my finger on it.

Just shy of making contact, he stopped. Like our bodies,

our lips were nearly touching, but not. He’d tilted his head,
leaned in for the kiss, but he only breathed on me now. Both his
breath and mine came in rapid, shallow gasps, the

breathlessness that belonged in the wake of a kiss, not the
moments leading up to it. A fraction of an inch remained
between us, the last mile between hesitation and execution.

236

I put my hand on his waist and he sucked in a breath, his

spine straightening. Closing his eyes, he released a deep growl

from the back of his throat, the sound so close it vibrated across
my lips.

When his fingers closed around my wrist, arousal and

panic both rippled through me. His skin on mine made my
mouth water, but the firmness of his grasp meant he had more
in mind than simply touching me. Don’t take my hand off you,

Andrew. Please. Don’t. I need to touch you, I—
He lifted my hand off his waist. The only contact now was his
forbidding hold on my wrist, and he was moving my hand away,
further away, too far away.

The back of my hand hit the door a few inches from my

head. Then he held my other wrist and did the same. His hips
moved just slightly, his cock brushing over mine, and I shivered.

Our eyes met again, and the primal, desperate hunger in his was
unmistakable. If either of us needed to be restrained to keep
from losing control, it wasn’t me.

"Andrew…" My lip just barely touched his, but he pulled

back before I could turn that point of contact into something
more. "Fuck, this is…"

He dipped his head and kissed my neck, releasing a

breath across my skin that echoed my own frustration. Yet he
was the one holding me back.

One of those days.

I held my breath. Was he…?

The penny dropped. He wasn’t holding me back. He was

holding himself back. The hands on my wrists were to restrain
him, not me. He wanted this. He needed this.

You don’t think I’ll understand, do you?

I pressed my hips against him, making sure he felt my

erection moving over his, and, like I knew he would, he
shuddered. With that shudder, he momentarily loosened his
grasp, and I wrenched my hand free, shouldering us away from

the door as I grabbed the back of his neck and kissed him.

And just as I’d hoped, the restraint was gone. He

hesitated for less than a heartbeat before slamming me back up

against the door and taking charge of that kiss, demanding
every breath from my lungs. I knew this kiss. I knew it well
because I’d given it time and again in the past.

If you want to decompress, I thought as I reached for his

belt, you’ve come to the right place. Shaking hands fumbled
with the stubborn buckle. Just sex. He moaned against my lips

237

as I slid my hand over the front of his jeans. No questions.

His buckle and zipper finally cooperated, and I only had to

stroke his cock once to make both of us gasp. He rested his
forehead against mine and his palm hit the door as his balance
wavered.

"Jesus," he breathed.

I stroked him gently. Every twitch of his cock in my hand

sent me a little further out of my mind and every time he

exhaled against my lips, my own cock ached a little more.

Our eyes met. There was one word in the air between us,

one unspoken word, but I heard it loud and clear just the same:

Bedroom.

Kissing, touching, struggling with clothes, we started

down the hall. Before we’d made it halfway to the bedroom, I
couldn’t wait any longer.

I pushed him up against the wall and kissed him even

harder, stroking him faster until he shivered every time my hand
changed direction. A moan became a whimper, though God only

knows who it came from, and I dropped to my knees a second
before they would have given out anyway.

"Oh, fuck, Nick…" he groaned before my lips had even

touched him. When I took him into my mouth, running my
tongue along the underside of his cock, his entire body jerked as
if the first tremors of an orgasm already surged through him.

I didn’t hold back. No teasing, no winding him up, no

drawing it out until he begged me for release. I gave him
everything I had—hands, mouth, fast, deep—and if we’d been in

my apartment, my neighbors would have known just how much
he liked it. The whole damned neighborhood would have known.
I didn’t give a fuck, though, not with the way his cock pulsed

against my tongue and his fingers twitched in my hair.

"Oh God, oh fuck, I’m—" He cut himself off with a long

moan. His hips moved in time with my hands and mouth, and
like my strokes, the tremors came faster and harder now, his

whole body giving in to what I gave him.

Don’t fight it, Andrew. I took him a little deeper and was

rewarded with a moan that tried to become a roar and settled

for something closer to a sob. Don’t fight it. I know you want
this. I slowed down just long enough to flick my tongue across
the head of his cock, and when he’d let his guard down, I went

right back to what I’d done before, and he was mine.

His whole body seized, his hands leaving my hair and

hitting the wall beside him instead. No groan, no growl, no roar,

238

just a sharp drawing of breath, and a tremor that continued all
the way down my spine. He released his breath in the same

instant his semen hit my tongue, and his voice granted him a
soft, helpless moan of surrender.

I stood, and before I was even fully on my feet, he

grabbed my shirt and hauled me to him. He kissed me in that
deep, violent, passionate way that made me want him so
goddamned bad.

"Fuck me," he pleaded, panting between kisses. Then it

was a demand: "Fuck me. Now." Another kiss, another gasp for
breath, and it was a soft plea once more: "Nick, please…"

"Bedroom," I whispered against his lips.

It was impossible to say who was leading who. We each

had handfuls of clothes and used them to pull each other closer
to the bed in between trying to pull those clothes off. He didn’t

even bother putting his holster on the dresser. He just shrugged
it off, set it on the floor beside the bed, and went right back to
getting all this clothing out of the way.

With nothing but heat between us, we stood beside the

bed and kissed more desperately than we’d ever done before.
The bed was there. Right there. Waiting. I wanted to drag him

down onto it, throw him down and fuck him the way I knew he
wanted, but his breathless, insatiable need overwhelmed me
into stillness, and all I could do was this.

"Jesus," he breathed, leaning me up against the bed and

running his hands over my chest and abs as he kissed my neck.
"I know it’s…this is…fuck, I can’t help it, I—"

He stopped when I reached for the nightstand drawer.

Raising his head, he watched with equal parts arousal and
disbelief while I pulled the condom out of the drawer and tore

the wrapper.

"You don’t have to explain yourself to me." I met his eyes

as I rolled the condom on. "The only thing you have to do is..."
A shudder of anticipation stopped my voice in my throat.

He wetted his lips. "What? Tell me."

With a shaking hand, I picked up the bottle of lube and

nodded toward the bed. "Turn around."

He didn’t hesitate, turning and resting his hands on the

bed as I put mine on his hip. He shivered. Or maybe I did. Or
maybe we both did. I didn’t know, didn’t care, because I was

about to be inside him.

When I pressed my cock against him, the half-growl, half-

moan may have come from my lips or it may have come from

239

his, but when the head of my cock slid into him, I knew the
sound was mine. I started to push in slowly, but before I’d even

given him an inch, he slammed back against me, and I was all
the way inside him. I had to grab his hips and hold him still for a
moment while I gasped for breath.

"Oh God," I moaned, closing my eyes as I tried to catch

up with the overwhelming sensation of being so suddenly deep
inside him.

"Nick," he pleaded, rocking against me, trying to work his

hips out of my grasp. "Nick, fuck me, please…"

I loosened my grip slightly and withdrew, then pushed

back in. I took a few slow strokes, more for my benefit than his.

This was hardly my first time with him, but he’d never been so
desperate, so demanding. He’d never wanted it like this.

I slowly pulled out again.

"Nick…"

I slammed into him. Then again. And again. I fucked him

harder, as hard as I could, hard enough it bordered on painful

even for me.

"Like that?" I said driving my cock deeper and harder

into him with every thrust until I was sure he couldn’t

take it any more. But even then, even as I reached my own
limit, the moan he released was one of nothing but pleasure.

"Oh, Jesus, yes," he groaned. "Just like that, don’t stop,

Nick, don’t…" He trailed off into a wordless whimper that could
have signaled pain if not for the way his shoulders rippled and
trembled as he thrust back against me. Oh God, the sight of

him, of those shoulders, of my cock moving in and out of him, of
his hands clawing at the bed as he tried to pull me that. Much.
Deeper.

I couldn’t take any more.

"Oh God, oh God, I’m coming…" I held his hips tighter,

clenching my teeth as I tried to keep going, keep thrusting, keep
fucking him even as my orgasm took over, as my vision went

white. I kept going until my balance gave out and I slumped
over him, resting my forehead on his shoulder.

"Oh my God," I murmured, my hands shaking as I pulled

out slowly. Andrew collapsed on the bed, and as soon as I had
gotten rid of the condom, I joined him.

"You’re fucking amazing," he said, panting against my lips

as he rolled me onto my back and kissed me. "I just can’t get
enough of this."

"Neither can—" I stopped abruptly when his erection

240

pressed against my thigh.

When he reached for the drawer, a flicker of surprise

vaguely registered in the back of my mind, but I didn’t give it
more than a second’s thought. He was ready for more and I
wasn’t going to argue with him. My only concern was keeping

myself from collapsing if he wanted me anywhere but on my
back. There wasn’t a muscle in my body that had stopped
shaking from the power of my orgasm.

With condom and lube in place, Andrew was over me

again. He kissed me and grinned. "You don’t mind another round
or two, do you?"

"Absolutely not," I said. "Don’t know if I can hold myself

up yet, though."

He sat up. "I’m not concerned about that in the slightest."

He trailed his fingers along my thigh, resting my leg against his

hip. "I want you just like this."

He pushed into me slowly, and so close on the heels of

such an intense orgasm, just that first stroke was enough to

create white sparks behind my eyelids. Every way we touched
made my head spin. Even the simple contact of his hand running
up my side was incredible, and with the way his cock moved

inside me, he may as well have been dragging live wires along
my spine.

"You feel fucking amazing," he breathed. I opened my

eyes and reached for him. As he came down to me, I raised my
head, expecting our mouths to come together in another frantic,
desperate kiss. As soon as our lips met, though, everything

slowed down. His rhythm faltered once, then again, before he
pushed all the way into me and stopped. We both sank back to
the bed, lost in a deep, gentle kiss.

I ran my fingers through his hair as he parted my lips

with his tongue, and we just held on. Just kissed. A few seconds,
a few minutes, some undefined increment of time went by.
When he started to pull out, I startled, so wrapped up in his kiss

I’d nearly forgotten he was inside me at all.

Resting his weight on one forearm, he looked down at me

and touched my face with his free hand as he pushed back into

me. Whatever had been on his mind earlier was nowhere to be
found in his expression, and if his eyes were to be believed, the
only thing on his mind was this. Now. Us.

"God, I love you," he whispered just before he leaned

down to kiss me again.

"I love you, too," I murmured between kisses, tangling

241

my fingers in his hair as he withdrew again.

He slid back in and we moved together, alternately

kissing and just looking at each other. His pace was a slow, easy
one, so languid it bordered on lazy. Somehow we’d gone from
fucking to making love. We weren’t even moving toward an

inevitable release, we were just moving with each other. Toward
each other. An orgasm didn’t matter, we just needed to be this
close.

Only the dull ache of fatigue in my muscles hinted at how

long we went on like this. As far as I was concerned, time had
come to a standstill. The hands on the clock ceased to move
because Andrew’s hands were on my skin.

Then a shudder drove him deeper inside me.

"Oh God…" He let his head fall beside mine. His shoulders

bunched as he picked up speed, thrusting deeper, thrusting

faster. "Jesus Christ, Nick…" With every thrust, his shoulders
rose and his back arched a little more until he released a hot
breath on my neck, shivered once, twice, and again, and

relaxed.

After a moment, he pulled out slowly and went to take

care of the condom. When he came back, it was too damned hot

to get under the covers, but not too hot to get close to each
other. He put his arm around me and I rested my head on his
shoulder while our fingers intertwined on his chest.

"I take it this was a really bad day?" I said.

He ran his fingers through his sweaty hair. "One of the

best."

Curiosity urged me to ask, but empathy made me bite my

tongue. This was when my past lovers would have started
digging, prodding for answers I didn’t want to give. So I left it

alone.

A long, long silence passed before Andrew sighed, turning

his head toward me. "Sorry if I haven’t been much of a
conversationalist tonight."

"Doesn’t bother me any. Besides, we’ve been too busy to

talk." I winked.

He laughed softly. "You know what I mean. I just didn’t

want you thinking I was…" He trailed off, looking up at the
ceiling again.

I swallowed. "Shutting me out?"

He didn’t speak, just nodded.

"Why would I?" I said. "I know how it is. Have a shitty

day, sometimes you just need to get it out of your system."

242

"That’s it. That’s exactly it." He turned toward me again.

"Not many people seem to get that."

"Well, some people get it," I said. "But they don’t get the

part where you don’t want to discuss it afterward."

"Or sometimes it’s just that you know they don’t want to

hear about it." He took and released a deep breath. "In this line
of work, we see things no one else wants to believe is real. We
see stuff no one wants to see. When you won’t talk about it,

they think you’re shutting them out, but when you do talk about
it, they shut you out because they don’t want to know about it."

I could barely breathe as he spoke. It was like he read

the words from a teleprompter in my eyes, seeing the thoughts

I’d never given voice to. Finally I managed, "And no

one gets it except the people who see it, too."

"Yes. Yes, that’s it exactly." He trailed his fingers down

the side of my neck. "You know exactly what I’m talking about."

I nodded. "You’d better believe it. It’s like, when you

know someone’s going to die no matter what you do, but you

just keep working anyway, because maybe, by some miracle,
you’ll stop the bleeding, or open up the airway. How do you
explain that to someone?" I chewed my lip. "I don’t think there’s

a feeling in the world worse than that moment when you stop.
When you put away the defibrillator, pull the sheet over the
person’s face, and have to look their family in the eye."

"Yeah, I can understand that," he said. "It’s kind of like

chasing someone down and losing them, then having to come
back and tell a mother you couldn’t catch the guy who murdered

her son."

"Is that what happened today?"

Andrew’s eyes took on a distant, unfocused look and he

exhaled.

I put my hand over his. "Sorry, I—"

"Triple homicide." He met my eyes suddenly. "Not

normally my area, but it involved some of the people we’ve been

investigating. I’ve seen some gruesome things in my day, but…"
The distant look returned. Then he shook his head and sighed.
"You know how it is. When you see the things people are

capable of doing to each other, and you wonder about the
human race in general." He looked at me, raising one shoulder
in a ghost of a shrug. "And you just need something, or

someone, to make you feel human again."

Lacing my fingers between his, I leaned forward and

kissed him lightly. "You don’t know how long I’ve been looking

243

for someone who understands that."

He smiled and stroked my hair. "You’re not the only one."

Lying this close together, he had to have felt the way my

heart pounded just then. When we’d made up after going our
separate ways in the parking garage, the relief had been nearly

overwhelming. That feeling didn’t hold a candle to this, though.
He understood. He got it. He got me.

There were still things I couldn’t bring myself to tell him.

That would come in time, if it came at all, but not all at once.
When it did, maybe I could show him the side of me that got
scared, that panicked, that occasionally had to retreat to the
training tower just to be alone so I could get my head around

the fact that I’d had my hands on someone the moment their
heart stopped beating. That was a degree of vulnerability I
wasn’t ready for him to see.

"Anyway," he said, breaking the silence and pulling me

out of my thoughts. "You’re the first person who’s ever…"
"Gotten

it?"

He laughed. "Exactly. Probably why I’d been single for a

while before I met you."

"It’s exactly why I was single when you met me."

"Really?"

I nodded. "My ex left because of this very thing. As did

the one before that. And my ex-wife. They just didn’t get that

sometimes talking doesn’t help. Sometimes I just need a good
hard fuck to make me feel better. Like you said, to make me feel
human." I shrugged. "So, they left."

Andrew kissed me lightly. "Well, you’ll have to try a lot

harder to get rid of me than demanding sex when you’ve had a
bad day."

Running my fingers through his hair and subtly drawing

him closer, I said, "Likewise."

"Hmm," he murmured, kissing me again. "Shitty days

suddenly don’t seem so bad if I’ve got this waiting for me at the

end." His lower lip dragged across mine. "I mean, if I have the
day from hell, I can come home and break furniture with you…"
A longer, deeper kiss.

"Why wait 'til you’ve had the day from hell?"

He slid his hand around the back of my neck and pulled

me closer. He slid his hand over my cock and, just before he

kissed me again, said, "I like the way you think, Swain."

244

245

Twenty Six

The next day, the plan to flush Shawn Foster out was

moving forward at last.

Andrew spent most of the morning on the phone, slogging

through last minute red tape and questions from people whose

sole purpose was to make simple things complicated. Jillian
called a few times, as did the officers who would be in the
crowd. Several times, Andrew snarled at the person on the other

end, asking more than a few people if he needed to replace
them with people who could find their own asses with both
hands and an anatomy chart.

He was near his breaking point, muttering and swearing,

when he finally got word that Jillian and the officers were
heading into Masontown. Safely in his living room, Andrew and I
could do nothing but wait.

We sat on the couch, waiting for the phone on the table

to ring. Detective Coleman was Andrew’s contact. He’d be on the
scene, watching from a car across the street and giving us

updates via a Bluetooth headset. To anyone else, he’d appear to
be any other technophile talking on the phone.

"Do you think this will work?" I asked.

He put his hand on my knee. "I hope so. My undercover

guys have seen him around Masontown the last few days, so at
least we know he’s in the area." He took a deep breath and

looked at the phone. "Now we just wait and see how much of a
media whore he really is."

"And if this doesn’t work?"

"Then we find another way to get him." He squeezed my

leg and turned to me. "We’ll get him, Nick. I promise.

One way or another."

"God, I hope so."

246

"We will. I’d be down there myself to personally arrest his

ass, but he knows I’m a cop. One look at me, and he’d hightail it

out of there. He’s—"

The phone rang. Andrew grabbed it and turned it on

speakerphone.

"Detective Carmichael."

"It’s Coleman. We’re in position."

Andrew set the phone on the table, resting his elbows on

his knees and steepling his fingers below his chin. "Any sign of
Foster?"

"Negative. The reporter is on-scene and there’s a crowd

gathering, but no sign of him."

"Check in with the other officers. I want to know the

second he shows up."

"Roger that." Something shuffled and a radio crackled to

life. Coleman’s voice was distant now, asking questions to
someone other than us. Tinny, static-obscured voices
responded, but I didn’t understand them.

After a moment, Coleman got back on the line. "No sign

yet."

"He’ll be there," Andrew said. "Just keep looking."

I couldn’t sit still. I got up and paced behind the couch

while Andrew glared at the phone. He was as motionless as I
was restless. Usually his calm was contagious, but this wasn’t

his usual relaxed, mellow calm. The tension in his shoulders was
almost visible to the naked eye, and a few times I wondered if
he’d shock me if I touched him. Though he was quiet, he was

anything but calm.

"Come on, Shawn," he muttered at one point. "Come out

and play with us, you fucker." He stared at his phone. No, glared

at it. He focused on it like he could will everything to happen
correctly on the other end.

Minutes passed. Too many minutes. There was just

enough sound on the line to let us know the other detective was

still there, but nothing was happening.

Coleman’s voice startled me. "This isn’t working, man. It’s

a small crowd, but I don’t see Shawn."

"He’ll be there," Andrew said.

"The reporter’s running out of steam," Coleman said.

"This is old news, man, she can’t get ‘em wound up like

she usually does."

"Then throw her a bone," Andrew said.

"What the fuck do you want me to do?"

247

"Yell something, get people stirred up. Come on,

Coleman. Don’t let me down here."

"Are you asking me to start a damned riot?"

"No, I’m asking you to keep this going long enough for

him to show his face."

Coleman muttered something. "Hang on." He spoke on

the radio, ordering one of the other officers to stir things up. The
response was hard to make out, but was just as incredulous as

Coleman’s reply to Andrew’s order. Something shuffled. Then a
door slammed. Coleman’s breathing was choppy now, like he
was on the move, and muffled voices in the background became
louder and clearer.

"Carmichael, this is going to get out of control."

Coleman’s voice was barely audible over the noise. "If we stir it
up any more, we’re going to end up with a full-blown riot on our

hands."

Andrew cursed, running a hand through his hair and

looking at the floor as he blew out a frustrated breath. "How bad

is it? I don’t want this getting out of control."

"It’s getting pretty—wait, wait."

Andrew sat up straight. "What? Talk to me, Jeff."

"Hold

on."

The background noise got louder. The buzz of many

became the individual voices of a few, and I could almost make

out the words now and then. The fury was palpable even
through the phone.

Angry noise exploded into chaos.

Cursing and shouting. Shuffling. Something snapping.

Panicked cries. Something creaking. More shouting. A grunt. A
clatter. A crash.

I leaned against back of the couch, staring at the phone,

my mind’s eye completely at a loss for what picture to put to the
sounds.

The noise diminished, and all I could hear was footsteps,

panting, and cursing. Then it all stopped except for the heavy
breathing.

What came next knocked my knees out from under

me.

"Shawn Foster, you have the right to remain silent…"

I stared at the phone, slack-jawed. Andrew laughed,

sitting back on the couch.

"It worked," he said. "Holy fucking Christ, it worked."

"They…" I paused, shaking my head. "They got him. They

248

fucking got him."

Andrew tilted head back and looked at me, smiling. He

reached up and slid his hand around the back of my neck,
pulling me down to kiss him. "I told you we’d get him
eventually."

"Thank God," I murmured.

He kissed me again, then let me go. As I came around

the front of the couch and sat beside him, he picked up his

phone. "Now I get to make a few dozen calls to make sure
everything’s squared away."

"Oh, that reminds me." I unclipped my phone from my

belt. Before I dialed the number, I said, "Are you absolutely sure

he’s not getting out any time soon?"

Andrew laughed. "That man has plenty of serious

warrants out on him. He’s not going anywhere."

"Good." I hit "send."

"Who are you calling?"

"My

boss."

The phone clicked on the other end. "Don Switzer."

"Chief, it’s Nick," I said.

"Nicholas, what can I do you for?"

"I’m calling about my transfer."

"Oh, right." Papers shuffled in the background. "We’re still

working on it. They want to replace you with a damned EMT-B,

so I’m still—"

"Actually, I want to stay at the house."

"You—" he paused. "What?"

"They arrested the guy that’s been fucking with me." Just

saying the words sent a rippled of elation through me. "So, I’d
like to stay, if the paperwork hasn’t already gone through."

"Well, thank God for that," he said. "Less work for me."

I laughed. "Sorry for all the trouble."

"No trouble at all, son. You’ve been through hell and

back the last couple of weeks."

"Yeah, you could say that."

"So can I expect you to be on for your regular three-day

rotation tomorrow?"

I smiled. "I’ll be there."

After I hung up, I set my phone on the coffee table next

to Andrew’s and sat back on the couch with him. He put his arm

around my shoulders, and we just sat in silence for a while.

Shawn was under arrest. I had my life back.

For the first time since Jesse Kendall’s gun touched the

249

back of my head, I let out a long, relaxed breath.

250

Twenty Seven

I couldn’t help but smile when I pulled into Station

Sixteen’s parking lot. Only a few days away, and I’d missed this
place like nobody’s business. I got out of the car, slung my
duffel bag over my shoulder, and headed inside.

As soon as the door banged shut behind me, movement

and voices announced that my arrival had not gone unnoticed.

A second later, Keller’s voice echoed through the garage:

"Hey, hey, hey, look who’s back!"

"Welcome back, kid," Jackson said, shaking my hand as I

stepped into the lounge.

"Thank God you’re back," Bentley said.

I blinked. He was the last person I’d expect to give me

any kind of warm reception. "Why’s that?"

He gestured at Leon. "Now I don’t have to ride shotgun

for this yo-yo."

"Hey, now," Leon said. "Let’s just back off of Leon’s

driving tonight."

"We would if you’d learn to drive properly," I said. He

glared at me and I shrugged as if to say What?

"You sure you want to go back to work in Masontown,

kid?" Keller asked. "I swear, those fucking druggies are getting
uppity."

"Oh, really?" I said. "How so?"

"Someone smashed a window on Twenty-nine Bravo the

other day." Bentley gestured over his shoulder at the garage.
"And if we turn our backs for more than two minutes, they start

rifling through everything."

"Little fuckers can pick locks, too, I swear to God,"

Leon

said.

"Oh, bullshit," Johnson said. "You said yourself you

251

probably left the bus unlocked."

"The other night, yeah," Leon said. "But I know I locked it

last night."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Bentley said. "Sure you did. Come

on, you didn’t even lock it when we stopped for lunch

yesterday."

"Man, fuck you," Leon said.

I laughed. "Obviously none of you have changed a bit

since I left."

"You think a few days is long enough for any of us to

grow up?" Keller shook his head. "Son, you have far too much
faith in us."

"Son?" I rolled my eyes. "Give me a break. I’m not even

five years younger than you."

He eyed me. "Are we talking chronological age, or—"

"Oh fuck off."

I fell back in with my old crew like I’d never been gone. It

was good to be back, indeed. In terms of alarms, the night was

quiet to the point of excruciatingly boring, and we passed the
time by talking trash over a few games of eight-ball.

At about a quarter to nine, my much-needed dinner

arrived in the form of hand-delivered, still hot, Chinese food. As
hungry as I was, though, it wasn’t the food I was looking
forward to.

"Do you know how packed that place gets this time of

night?" Andrew gestured with the white plastic bag on the way in
from the parking lot. "Who the hell gets Chinese at this hour?"

"A cop trying to impress his paramedic boyfriend?"

He lowered his voice. "If I was trying to impress you, it

wouldn’t be with Chinese food." We exchanged grins and went

inside. In the lounge, I introduced Andrew to the guys.

I don’t care who he is," Keller said. "What’s in the bag?

That smells awesome."

"Yeah, no shit," Leon said. "I do hope you brought

enough for the whole class."

Andrew looked in the bag, then pulled out a couple of

packets of soy sauce and deadpanned, "Well, if you boys

share, I’m sure you could make these last."

"Oh, Christ, I can see why the two of you get along so

well." Johnson rolled his eyes. On the other side of the lounge,

Bentley didn’t quite turn away before the disgust registered on
his face. I just ignored him.

Andrew and I went out to the patio to eat. It wasn’t

252

terribly cold out, and this way we weren’t eating in front of the
other guys. We sat on one of the benches with the bag and

boxes of food between us.

"Damn, you’re right, the food from this place is

incredible." He pulled a piece of sweet and sour pork out of one

of the cartons. "I may have to start going there more often."

I looked up from pouring some soy sauce into a carton of

rice. "As long as you stop by and drop some off here every time

you do."

"I’d planned on it." He winked. Then he looked at the

various cartons of food on the bench between us. "You’d better
not be taking all the rice."

"If you only ordered one carton, don’t blame me."

He searched through the bag. "Ah ha, I knew I got more

than one."

"See? All your accusations were completely unfounded."

He snorted. "Yeah, right."

"So, speaking of accusations…" I raised my eyebrows.

"What do you—" he paused. "Oh, right." He took a bite of

rice and a quick drink, then continued. "Shawn was arraigned
this morning. He’s denying everything about the bullet and

threats, but he’s got so many warrants for other shit, he won’t
be getting out any time soon."

"Thank God for that." I exhaled, tilting my head to get a

kink out of my neck. In the twenty-four hours and some change
since Shawn’s arrest, the tension that had knotted my muscles
was slowly working itself out. I wasn’t used to the feeling of not

being paranoid, and it took some getting used to. "Well, I’m just
glad all this bullshit is over."

"No kidding." He shook his head, eyes losing focus like he

was lost in thought for a moment.
"What?"

"I was just thinking."

I raised an eyebrow. "Should I be worried?"

"Shut up," he laughed, gesturing menacingly with a pair

of chopsticks. Then he dropped his gaze, poking at the rice with
the chopsticks. "Anyway, I was just thinking that this is the first

time since we’ve started seeing each other that we don’t have all
this shit hanging over our heads."

"Wow, you’re right. I hadn’t even thought about that." I

paused to fish around in a carton for another piece of lemon
chicken. "Well, maybe we can see what it’s like to do this
without it being a threesome with the Grim Reaper."

253

Andrew choked on his drink. He coughed, then cleared his

throat a couple of times. "Jesus, and you say I have a way with

words?"

I shrugged. "Hey, I’m just saying."

He rolled his eyes. "Morbid fucker." Then he held up his

Coke can. "To not looking over our shoulders every five
minutes."

"I’ll drink to that." We clinked the cans together.

After we’d eaten, I showed Andrew around the station. I

didn’t bore him with all the intricacies of ambulances and fire
trucks—God knew he already spent more than enough time
around emergency vehicles—but I insisted he’d want to see the

inside of the training tower.

On the second floor of the tower, he said, "So what

exactly is so exciting about an empty concrete building?"

"I don’t know, Detective," I threw over my shoulder on

the way up to the third floor. "It’s dark, it’s empty, and there’s
no one around. Can’t think why I’d want to bring you up here,

can you?"

"Hmm, well, I can think of one reason, but since you’re

on duty…"

"You overestimate my work ethic during downtime,

Andrew." I turned around at the top of the last flight of stairs
and grabbed his lapels, pulling him into the shadows.

"You do have a wild side, don’t you?" he murmured just

before I kissed him. We moved into a corner that wasn’t visible,
even in daylight, to anyone down below.

"Pity we can’t do much more than this," I said. "But I

couldn’t resist."

His hand slid around the back of my neck and into my

hair. "Don’t resist on account of me."

"Oh, I’m not."

"Good."

His other hand drifted up my side to my chest, the

movement palpable even through the thick vest. "Still wearing
your vest, I see. Good call."

"It’s getting in the way right now, though."

He grinned into my kiss. "Right now, it’s not the vest

that’s in the way." He pressed his hips against mine, the
hardness of his cock making me shiver. When his fingers met

my neck, I closed my eyes and tilted my head to give him more
access.

"Jesus," I breathed, silently begging the alarm not to go

254

off while Andrew kissed my neck.

"Hmm, don’t know if it’s such a good idea for me to show

up here while you’re on duty," he murmured against my skin.

"Oh? And why’s that?"

"Because you’re in uniform."

I bit my lip when his stubble brushed just above my

collar. "And?"

"And you look almost as hot in it as you do out of it."

"Then I guess you get to enjoy me in it for a little while."

Even if it is getting uncomfortably tight below the belt.

He lifted his head, and though I couldn’t see him, I knew

he had that mouthwatering grin on his face. "You know, we

could probably get away with a lot up here."

"We could, yes."

"In fact, we could probably—"

The bell went off.

Then, over the loudspeaker: "Code four, medical. Jackson

and eighteenth. Code four, medical. Jackson and eighteenth."

I closed my eyes and exhaled. "Oh, God damn it."

Andrew released me. "Guess that’s your cue."

"Yeah, it is." I kissed him quickly, then we started down

the stairs. Thankfully, my mind and body both quickly went into
autopilot paramedic mode, so six flights was plenty of time to let
me calm down enough to keep from embarrassing myself. On

the way into the house, I said, "If you don’t mind hanging
around, I should be back soon."

"If I don’t mind?" He snorted. "I’m not going anywhere." I

glanced over my shoulder, and the grin he gave me told me I
should be damned thankful that Leon liked to drive too fast. It
just meant I’d get back here sooner.

Andrew headed to the lounge while I went into the garage

and got in the ambulance. It was a code four, which meant it
wasn’t a critical emergency, so Leon didn’t turn on the sirens,
just the light bar. True to form, he squealed the tires as we

pulled out of the parking lot.

I rolled my eyes. "Obviously some things haven’t

changed."

"Boy, you’d better not be getting on me about my driving

already."

Putting my feet up on the dash, I said, "Well, I’ve got a

lot of time to make up for. Might as well start now."

He clicked his tongue, then glanced at my feet. "You still

packing heat?"

255

"Nah. It’s kind of nice to leave that thing at home,

actually. I think I was more nervous carrying it than not."

"Yeah, I don’t know how the hell you walked around with

that thing on." He shuddered.

I laughed. "Come on, Leon, you’re not afraid of guns, are

you?"

"Not afraid of them, but I don’t want to carry one, thank

you." He looked at me again. "I’m surprised you’re not afraid of

them."

Click-click-click. I shrugged to hide the shiver. "As long as

they’re not pointed at my head."

He murmured something in agreement. "So that cop,

back at the station. He’s your…" His eyebrows lifted.

"You can say it, Leon, it won’t kill you."

He scowled. "Well, what’s the latest politically correct

thing? Other half? Partner?"

"’Boyfriend’ will suffice, thank you." I paused. "I mean,

unless you want me to call him my—"

"Don’t. Even."

I laughed. "Anyway, yes, I’m seeing him."

"And you left him alone with Bentley?" Leon chuckled and

shook his head. "You’re one cruel son of a bitch."

"Cruel to Bentley or Andrew?"

"Bentley. I’m sure Andrew has no trouble dealing with

Bentley if he can put up with your dumb ass."

I shrugged. "I’m sure Bentley will be fine."

A few minutes later, we turned off the bridge and

continued toward Masontown. A chill tried to work its way down
my spine, but I reminded myself that the danger had passed.
Paranoia was just a habit. Relax. There’s nothing to worry about

anymore.

Leon glanced at me. "You sure you’re okay going back

there? Seems like you get rattled every time we go near that
place."

"Well, yeah, wouldn’t you?"

"Hell yeah, but I’d have transferred to another station by

now."

"I almost did, but asked Chief to cancel it since they

busted that asshole." I paused. "Besides, if I went somewhere
else, then I’d have to triple my coffee intake."

"Why’s

that?"

"Because I wouldn’t have your insane driving to keep me

awake."

256

"Boy, you need to watch yourself." He wagged a finger at

me. "Picking on me about my driving is hazardous to your

health."

I laughed. "Letting you drive at all is hazardous to my

health. I guess I just like living on the edge."

"Explains why you stuck around Masontown." He shook

his head. "You’re a braver soul than I am, let me tell you."

Or a stupid one. But it was over now. Nothing more to

worry about.

He turned down Jackson Street, and we were in

Masontown. Beneath my bulletproof vest, my skin crawled with
dread and paranoia. It had happened every damned time we’d

driven into this neighborhood since the crazy day I’d met Jesse’s
gun and Andrew, and even with Shawn in jail, I still couldn’t
quite ignore it.

Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t

out to get you," Leon’s voice echoed in my mind.

Yeah, thanks for that, asshole.

Leon looked at the address. "Fourth floor." He sighed.

"Always one of the top damned floors." We threw the jump kit
and oxygen tank on the stretcher, tied them down, and started

up the stairs. On the fourth floor, we found the apartment and
knocked on the door.

A blonde who I guessed to be in her thirties answered.

"Oh, thank you so much for coming."

"It’s what we do." I smiled and extended my hand. "Nick

Swain. This is Leon Fuller."

"Cindy Wellman." She shook our hands in turn. I used

that to gauge how panicked she was. Her willingness to go
through with social niceties was a good sign; she was clear-

headed and calm, which would make our jobs easier. With that
out of the way, she led us down the hall. "My mom called me
tonight because she was having dizzy spells, and when I got
here, she’d fallen."

In the living room, Cindy stood with her arms folded

tightly across her chest as if warding off a chill. Nervous, but in
control. On the floor, an elderly woman raised her head to look

at us.

"Who are they, Cynthia?" she said. "I don’t want any

company, just help me up. This is hurting my hip." Mild

confusion, not terribly agitated. Noted.

I knelt beside her. "Hi, Mrs. Wellman. My name’s Nick.

How are you feeling?"

257

Her forehead wrinkled with confusion.

"Mom, you need to go to the hospital," Cindy said.

"They’re going to take you." She looked at me, eyebrows up in
an unspoken, 'right'?

I nodded. Leon and I went over Mrs. Wellman’s vitals,

and she didn’t appear to be in serious condition. Her breathing
was slightly labored, though, and her daughter indicated she had
a history of emphysema. She couldn’t remember the last time

she’d drunk anything, and while that could have had to do with
her slight confusion, I was concerned she was dehydrated,
especially since she’d had dizzy spells all day.

To Leon, I said, "Let’s get her going on some oxygen,

then we’ll take her downstairs."

Leon nodded and went about getting the tube in her nose

and the oxygen flowing.

Once he was done, I said to Mrs. Wellman, "You’re a bit

dehydrated, so I’m going to put an IV in, then we’re going to
take you to St. Mary’s, okay?"

"Oh, Lord, I hate needles," she said, her voice shaking.

"It’s okay, Mom." Cindy patted her hand while I looked for

a vein on the other arm.

Mrs. Wellman’s eyes widened when I pulled the IV needle

out, and she didn’t look away even when I put it against her
skin. I lined it up with her vein.

"Could you tell me what time it is?" I asked.

Cindy started to speak, but Leon made a sharp gesture,

and she stopped.

Mrs. Wellman craned her neck, probably to look at the

clock above the television. "It’s, let me see…" She paused.
"Nearly ten-thirty."

"Thank you." I taped the needle in place.

"Is it—" She looked at her hand, then at me. "I didn’t

even feel that."

I smiled. "Good."

"How does he do that?" Cindy whispered to Leon. He just

shrugged.

We put Mrs. Wellman on the stretcher and wheeled her

out of the apartment. As we headed down the sidewalk, I
glanced at the ambulance.

"Leon, did we leave the doors open?"

"What?" He looked over his shoulder. "Oh for crying out

loud…" He let go of the stretcher and went around the back of
the ambulance. "Hey! Get away from there!" A second later,

258

shuffling footsteps disappeared into the night. Leon called after
him, "Next time I catch you in there I’m going to put a

goddamned boot up your ass!"

"Why’s everybody shouting?" Mrs. Wellman slurred.

"Nothing to worry about, ma’am," Leon said. Then he

looked at me and lowered his voice enough that only I could
hear him. "Fucking junkies."

I rolled my eyes. "Again? Did they get anything?"

"Doesn’t look like he got very far," he said. "Come on,

let’s get her out of here." We wheeled Mrs. Wellman around to
the back of the ambulance and loaded the stretcher. Cindy got in
with me, sitting on the opposite side of her mother while I

secured everything.

Leon slammed the doors behind us.

"We’ll be there in a few minutes, Mrs. Wellman," I

said.

"Just—"

"Hey, what did I tell you?" Leon shouted. "God damn it,

get the fuck away from my bus, you little shit!"

"He sure has a filthy mouth," my patient said.

I tried not to laugh while Leon got into the cab, still

muttering curses under his breath. As he started the engine and

we left he scene, I looked at her. "Sorry about him, he’s a bit—"

Clang!

Something metal smacked into the back of the

ambulance, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. I caught a
glimpse of a long, thin bar of some sort, perhaps not as thick as
a crowbar, bouncing across the blacktop in the beams of a

streetlight. Behind us, someone ran down the street as if he
somehow thought to catch us on foot.

"What the fuck was that?" Leon said.

"I don’t know, just drive." I shook my head and focused

on my patient. "And watch your mouth, Leon."

"Sorry, Mom."

Cindy laughed behind her hand. I glanced at her and

shrugged apologetically. She gestured out the back window.
"What was that all about?"

"Who knows?" I looked back at the person in the street.

He’d stopped, still standing in the middle of the road, shaking a
fist at us. Probably screaming something, as if we stood any
chance of hearing it. I shrugged again. "Just some junkie, no

doubt."

"Seems to be commonplace in this shit hole," she

muttered, shivering.

259

"Cynthia," her mother said.

"Sorry, Mom. It is, though. You need to come stay with

me. This neighborhood is a shit hole."

"I’m not moving out. I like my apartment." Before her

daughter could continue persuading her, Mrs. Wellman gestured

at me. "He’s a looker, Cynthia, you should—"

"Mother!" Cindy covered her face with her hands.

"What? He is. Look at him."

I must have been as red as Cindy, and thankfully, I had

an IV and blood pressure cuff to hold my attention.

"Jesus Christ, Mom." Cindy rolled her eyes and mouthed

'sorry' to me.

I just smiled.

Mrs. Wellman grabbed my left hand and inspected it.

"And he’s not married." She looked at me. "You’re not gay or

anything, are you?"

Leon howled with laughter, and Cindy and I both braced

ourselves as the ambulance swerved.

"Would you pay attention to the road?" I called over my

shoulder.

Mrs. Wellman released my hand, shaking her head and

giving a theatrical sigh. "All the good-looking ones are."

Not all of them. Just the ones that count. My stomach

fluttered as I remembered Andrew was waiting for me back at

the station. All we had to do was turn our patient over to St.
Mary’s, then haul ass back to the station.

Leon accelerated much faster than he should have down

Jackson Street, and I couldn’t help smiling to myself.

260

Twenty Eight

With Mrs. Wellman safely under the care of the

emergency room staff, Leon and I climbed back into the
ambulance.

"Homeward bound," he said as he buckled his seatbelt.

"Thank God." I buckled my own belt and laid the reports

from this call across my lap. Then I picked up the radio and
called into Dispatch as Leon steered us out of the parking lot.

"Dispatch, this is Twenty-seven Alpha leaving St. Mary’s en
route to Sixteen, over."

"Copy that, Twenty-seven Alpha," the dispatcher said.

"But I’ve got a code two in Masontown. Elderly woman with
chest pains and difficulty breathing. Can you respond? Over."

I glanced at Leon. He shrugged and switched the turn

signal from left to right. To the dispatcher, I said, "Affirmative,

what’s the location? Over."

"Jackson and Sixteenth. Building four one nine, apartment

three six two, over."

"Can’t it ever be someone on the first floor?" Leon

muttered a few profanities. "Too many damned stairs."

I chuckled. "On our way to Jackson and Sixteenth,

building four one nine, apartment three six two, over."
"Ten-four."

I put the radio back on its hook. "The stairs will be good

for you."

"Good for me?" He snorted. "By the time we get to the

top, I’ll be the one having chest pains and trouble breathing."

"Well, maybe if you—"

"Shut up, Swain."

laughed.

"Man, it’s a busy night in Masontown, ain’t it?" he said.

261

I tried not to shiver. "Yeah. Busy night."

A few minutes later, Leon parked the ambulance and we

went to work. The stretcher clattered onto the pavement, the
sound echoing down the empty street and alleys. It was a quiet
night in Masontown, thank God, even if its residents all seemed

to need medical attention.

While I grabbed the jump kit and an oxygen tank, Leon

looked up at the complex, brow furrowing.

"What’s wrong?" I asked.

He nodded in the direction he’d been looking. "Whole

damned building is dark."

"It’s almost midnight. Most sane people are asleep right

now."
"Yeah,

but

it’s

dark."

I looked up. He was absolutely right. Most of the other

buildings on the block had a few signs of life in some of the
windows. The flicker of a television. The warmth of a single
lamp. The faint cyanotic glow of an aquarium.

Building four one nine was pitch black.

"Well, hopefully we won’t be in the utility truck’s way

when it shows up." I put the jump kit and tank on the stretcher

and strapped them into place. "Come on." I grabbed the front
end of the stretcher, looking at Leon with raised eyebrows.

He gave the building one last, uncertain glance, then

picked up the other end. "Creepy goddamned buildings," he
muttered under his breath.

I just laughed and started up the steps, fixing my gaze on

the cement at my feet rather than the darkness ahead. My gut
told me this was a bad idea. Something about the call and the
darkness and this entire damned place raised the hairs on the

back of my neck. The only problem was I’d long since lost track
of what was paranoia and what was genuine, instinctive fear
that shouldn’t be ignored. That’s the problem with fear. It
doesn’t go away when the threat does. Shawn was in jail, but

being scared was a habit that refused to die.

It didn’t matter, though. The elderly woman having chest

pains and difficulty breathing in apartment three six two needed

help, I had a job to do, and I’d already been accused once of
letting someone die because I was a racist. I wasn’t letting this
one die because I was habitually scared, whether I needed to be

or not.

So I pulled the front door open and tried to ignore the

way our footsteps and clattering wheels echoed up the silent

262

stairwell. I watched the stairs in front of me instead of the
shadows that tried to trick me into thinking someone was there.

My eyes tried to find movement where there wasn’t any, my
mind superimposing people where there was no one. There was
a flashlight in the jump kit, but that would have offered just a

narrow beam of light while making all the phantom-populated
shadows even deeper.

"God damn, couldn’t they invest in an elevator?" Leon

said, huffing and puffing as we started up another flight.

"Wouldn’t do us a lot of good with the power out, would

it?"

"You and your logic," he muttered.

"Just walk, you big baby." I chuckled in spite of the

scorpions tap-dancing along the length of my spine. Something
isn’t right.

The inky blackness in one corner threatened to lunge at

me, but when I got closer, it was just a void. The footsteps I
was sure were coming down to meet us were only the echoes of

Leon’s and my own. Someone lurked just beyond a blind corner,
but when we turned that corner, only emptiness waited.

I shrugged the scorpions away and told myself again and

again that I was just being ridiculous.

By the time we reached the third floor, I'd convinced

myself not to worry about the shapes and movements my mind

insisted were in the shadows. They were just irrational signals
from a trigger-happy, jumpy, paranoid brain.

So I thought nothing of the flicker of movement in the

blackness in front of me until it was a split second too late.

In the space of a heartbeat, shadow became substance

and knocked me back with a blow to my chest. I grabbed the

railing to keep from falling, losing my grip on the stretcher in the
process. Something solid—a bar?—hit my side, forcing a grunt
and most of my breath out of me.

Leon shouted a curse, and the shadow lunged past

me. A second later, metal clattered. Both the stretcher

and my partner tumbled down the stairs. Before I could go after
him, something was across my throat. Something solid. Cold.

Metal. Pulling. Strangling.

"Fucking murderer." Jesse’s hysterical voice would’ve

made me suck in a breath had I still been able to inhale. "You

killed Chelsea, you fucking killed her—"

He stopped talking when I tried to elbow him but he

stayed just out of my reach. Throwing my weight to one side, I

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slammed him against the wall. He grunted, momentarily
loosening the bar across my throat. I had just enough time to

draw a much-needed breath before he tightened it once again.

I clawed at the bar, trying to get my fingers under it,

trying to pry it away while we struggled, slamming each other

into walls and doors.

"Nick!" Leon’s voice was miles away. He shouted for help

in between calling my name, but his voice faded as Jesse pulled

harder against my throat. White sparks crackled at the corners
of my vision. My lungs burned. Can’t breathe. I threw him
against the wall again, then again. The third time, he must have
been expecting it because he took advantage of my momentary

imbalance to throw me to one side. I nearly dropped to my
knees, but the weapon across my neck kept me upright. White
light smeared my vision and panic tightened my chest. Can’t

fucking breathe. The room spun around me, the floor lurched
under me, air rushed past my face, and my hand caught the wall
in front of me a second before my face met plaster.

The first blow stunned me.

A door opened somewhere and a shout made it past the

pain-wracked air-starved fog of my mind. "Hey, what the hell is

going on out here?"

The second blow broke my nose.

Oscillating light briefly illuminated the streak of blood on

the wall in front of me.

"Hey! Hey! What the—Gretchen, call the cops!"

The third blow…

~ * ~

Warm liquid trickled along my upper lip and across my

cheek. I was on my side on a hard floor, pain and voices coming

from every direction. My throat protested when I tried to
swallow, and I felt more than heard myself groan. Something
cold and solid pressed painfully against my face, and when I
tried to push it away, someone else’s hand stopped mine.

"He’s coming around," a female voice said.

Movement beside me added to my confusion.

"Nick? You still with me?" Leon’s voice grounded me.

Brought me back to reality and familiarity. "Can you hear me?"

I nodded as much I could, wincing at the pain from that

simple movement. The front of my neck felt like someone’s foot

was pressed against it. Wearing a golf shoe.

"How do you feel?" Leon asked.

"Like hell." The words tasted like salty metal. A quick

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sweep of my tongue confirmed that at least all my teeth were
intact. "What happened?"

"Don’t know, man. Fucker got away, though."

I groaned again, as much from pain as fear and

frustration. A memory flickered through my mind— " Code two

in Masontown. Elderly woman with chest pains and difficulty
breathing…"

"The patient." A surge of panic jolted me completely

awake. Trying to sit up, I moved too fast, and fresh pain
ricocheted off the inside of my skull. I groaned. "The patient.
How is she? Where—"

"Easy, Nick." Leon put a hand on my shoulder to keep me

down. "There was no patient. It was a false alarm."
"Huh?"

"The call was fake. Now just relax. I’ve got backup

coming, and we’ll get you out of here as quick as we can." He
leaned away, taking in a hiss of breath and cursing aloud.

"You ‘ kay?" Why am I slurring so badly?

"Think I busted my ankle going down those stairs. I’ll be

all right. Don’t you worry about me."

Going down those stairs. It all started coming back, blurry

memories mapping out every ache and pain and reminding me
how I ended up like this. Leon and the stretcher falling. Attacker
coming out of the shadows. Strangling me. Slamming me face

first into the wall. Again. Darkness.

Someone grabbed my hand.

"Squeeze my fingers," Leon ordered. When I did, he

moved to my other hand. "Again. Any loss of sensation
anywhere?"

"No." The word was quieter than I intended. Clearing my

throat, I tried again, managing a slightly more audible whisper.
"No, none."

He laughed dryly. "Bet you wish you couldn’t feel a few

things right now."

I tried to laugh, but my lungs wouldn’t release enough

air. Didn’t have enough air to release. When I inhaled, it took
work. Too much work.

"How’s the pain?" he asked. "Scale of zero to ten."

The golf shoe pressed harder. Drowning. Feels like

drowning. What’s happening?

"Nick? The pain. How bad is it?"

"Eight." The word came out as a cough, and that cough

ratcheted the pain in my throat up to an eleven.

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Leon exchanged a few hushed words with the woman,

who I realized was kneeling beside me. Whatever was pressed

against my face moved away and warm air touched my cold
skin. An ice pack, that must have been it. The beam from a
flashlight flickered across my vision, sending fresh pain

careening through my eyes and into my pounding head. Then it
was gone and the only remaining light was the dim, milky glow
from some unseen source.

"Bleeding’s under control," Leon said, probably more to

himself than me. He shifted beside me. Voices murmured and
something rattled, but all I could think of was that golf shoe
across my throat. The air I tried to breathe was thicker every

time I tried to get it from my mouth to my lungs. Gelatinous.
Couldn’t get enough to my lungs.

"I’ll be right back." Leon moved away, the darkness

swallowing him up, but I grabbed his arm. He came back into
view. "Nick, I just need to get—"

"I can’t breathe." The words barely fit through my throat.

Oh God, I really can’t breathe.

He leaned close to me, the dim light emphasizing the

concern in his eyes. "Take a breath," he ordered. When I did,

my chest aching with the effort, his lips tightened. He put a
stethoscope on and something thumped against the thick

vest beneath my shirt. Leon cursed.

"Let’s get this damned thing off," he muttered. He pulled

my shirt open, letting the buttons pop apart. With shaking
hands, I fumbled with the Velcro straps on the vest. He eased it

off, as much as he could while I was on my side, and I tried to
breathe now that I had nothing to restrict me.

"Any better?" he asked.

As much as my neck would allow, I shook my head, less

afraid of the pain than the strangled sound of my own voice. I
tried to cough. Some air moved. Some. Not much.

He put the stethoscope under my T-shirt. "Try to take a

deep breath."

I tried to, but didn’t get nearly enough air in exchange for

my efforts. Panic flooded my veins with cold water and my heart

raced. When I pulled in another breath, I may as well have been
trying to draw tar through a drinking straw.

Commotion and movement nearby made the floor

beneath me vibrate, but the only thing I could focus on was the
air just beyond my lips. The unmoving air beyond my reach.

Leon moved, leaning away from me but keeping a hand

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on my shoulder. "Up here!" he called to some distant place. "We
need to get him out of here now."

Other people were around me. Feet shuffled. Clothes

rustled. Equipment clattered. Voices barked orders. But the air
wouldn’t move.

A hand slipped into mine and squeezed gently.

"Nick, can you hear me?" The blurry face that appeared

wasn’t the person gripping my hand, and even as he kept talking

to me, I searched the shadows around him for the face I couldn’t
see.

"Talk to me, Nick. Can you hear me?" The light

illuminated his features just enough for me to recognize him.

Bentley. It was Bentley. But he wasn’t the one I was looking for.
There was someone else.

Another face appeared, and the briefest wave of relief

cooled my panic for a split second as Andrew said, "Nick,
squeeze my hand twice if you can hear me."

I squeezed his hand once, then again, letting that effort

distract me for a second before I can’t breathe fuck this hurts
can’t breathe…

"Fuck." Bentley raised his head and spoke to someone

outside of my line of sight. "His throat’s swelling. I need an oh-
two mask."

"His nose is broken," another voice said. "How are we

going to put a mask on him?"

The light dimmed and the shadows around me swam into

deeper, darker blackness. Sounds faded, reaching me only in

fragmented echoes.

"…needs to be intubated…"

"…not here…"

"…not much time…"

"…stretcher…"

"…Nick, are you…"

~ * ~

The world was moving, the ground listing and tilting. My

head spun and when I opened my eyes, blinding light invaded
my senses. Something dug painfully into my nose, and after a

moment I recognized the shape of an oxygen mask. It hurt like
hell, but there was air coming out of it. Air that hit my face, my
tongue, the back of my throat, but refused to go farther.

The nauseating, jarring movement jerked to a stop. Metal

clanged against metal, sending odd vibrations through the floor
on which—

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Wait, I’m not on the floor anymore. I was still on my side,

but the surface beneath me had changed. This was softer, if not

by much. Cautiously, I opened my eyes again. The light was
gentler on my eyes, and when I could get the twin images in
front of me to almost come together as one, I recognized the

interior of an ambulance.

Ambulance.

Stretcher.

Someone sat directly in front of me— Andrew, thank God

you’re here—and others moved around me. A diesel engine
roared to life and sirens screamed somewhere far away. The
world shifted again.

Someone touched my shoulder.

"We’re almost there, Nick," Bentley said. "Just hang in

there."

Andrew’s face swam in and out of focus and he squeezed

my hand. "You’ll be fine. Just stay with me." His other hand
stroked my hair, his touch soothing even through the confusion

and panic that came with every breath I couldn’t quite draw.

"Keep talking to him," someone else said.

Andrew leaned closer to me and did so, the sound of his

voice giving me something to focus on. Giving me something to
keep me here, even when darkness was so, so tempting.

Beyond his low, gentle voice, others occasionally dipped

close enough to reach through the haze.

"…still getting enough…"

"…they’re going to tube him anyway…"

"…not while he’s awake…"

"…getting worse…"

"Nick, look at me." Andrew’s voice pulled my attention

back. "We’re only a couple of minutes from the hospital, you’ll
be all right." The tremor in his voice could have been my
imagination. The tremor in his fingers as they combed through
my hair was not.

My chest burned with the need for air, and I tried to

cough, as if that would somehow dislodge whatever choked me,
but my throat just closed tighter around that cough. The next

breath was even harder, and the high-pitched wheeze of futile
inhalation sent fresh panic rushing through me.

People came to life all around me, hands on me, voices

urging me to stay calm, urging me to hang in there, but all I
knew was air, air, not enough air.

Faces swimming in shaking light. Darkness. Light. "Nick,

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stay with me." Darkness. Pain. Spinning. Hand squeezing mine.
Pain. "Hang in there." Can’t breathe. Pain. "Just a few more

minutes." Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Can’t…

269

Twenty Nine

Pain.

Pulsing, sickening, bright red pain.

The fury of every hangover I’d ever had united into one

motherfucker of a headache and drilled itself right between my

eyes. Relentless throbbing radiated from my forehead and the
bridge of my nose, claws extending over my cheekbones and
into the deepest recesses of my skull.

The world rocked beneath me like a ship, my stomach

turning each time my equilibrium shifted, righted itself, then
shifted again. Even as I swam out of the disoriented darkness of

unconsciousness, the ground refused to stop swaying.

My chest ached from exertion and my neck hadn’t

forgotten the invisible golf shoe. Air moved freely and easily
now, though, filling my lungs and assuring my mind that yes,

yes, I could breathe. Faint remnants of panic still glimmered at
the outer edges of my consciousness, but faded with each
breath.

Also calming my terror-fatigued nerves was the

knowledge that I wasn’t alone. Andrew’s arm was draped over
my waist, his slow, steady breathing tickling the side of my

neck. I was only wearing boxers, so his warm skin was right
against mine. Our combined body heat beneath the thick
comforter bordered on too hot, but I wasn’t about to shrug him

away.

I swallowed, wincing when I realized how raw my throat

was. I vaguely remembered Bentley’s voice uttering the word '

intubation', so I guessed they’d done just that at some point. I
didn’t remember anything after the ambulance, and no matter
how much I tried to search through the cobwebs, all I found was

a blurry haze of lights, fear, pain, and voices. Pieces to the same

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puzzle that refused to come together. Either I’d passed out or
they’d sedated me. Maybe both. Somehow or another, I’d gone

from then to now, there to here.

Where was ‘here’, anyway?

Slowly, carefully, I opened my eyes. Light flooded my

surroundings, only adding to the gap between my last memory
and the present. My last semi-lucid thought had been in
darkness, my first was in daylight. How many hours or days had

passed in between, God only knew.

I couldn’t quite focus my eyes. No matter how many

times I blinked and tried to focus on the black lacquer
nightstand beside me, there was a vague phantom outline just

beside it. An echo of the real image. It was the same when I
tried to make out the holster on the dresser, the outline of the
picture frame on the wall, my own hand when I turned it in front

of my face.

The longer I tried to focus, the more my head hurt.

Closing my eyes didn’t help. Even the darkness behind my

eyelids seemed to double.

Andrew stirred slightly. The arm over my waist moved,

and a second later, his hand found mine.

"You awake?" I said.

"Yeah." He moved again, this time shifting away to give

me some room as I rolled over. Once I was on my back, I

swallowed hard and closed my eyes until the tilt-a-whirl stopped.
I thought I heard myself groan, but wasn’t sure.

When everything settled enough to be bearable, I opened

my eyes. Andrew had propped himself up on one elbow and let
his other hand rest on my shoulder.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"I have a strong suspicion," I said, the hoarseness of my

voice startling me, "that it could be much, much worse."

He laughed softly and nodded. "Yeah, you could say that."

I reached up to rub my tired eyes, but stopped when the

throbbing in the bridge of my nose warned me that wasn’t such
a good idea. "So how bad is it?" I asked.

Andrew took a breath. "Moderate concussion, hairline

fracture to your nose. They were concerned about some

soft tissue damage to your neck, but it sounds like once the
swelling goes all the way down, you’ll be all right." His fingers

laced between mine and he managed a genuine smile as he ran
his thumb across the back of my hand. "And just in case your
neck or the concussion get worse, I’m under strict orders to stay

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with you for at least seventy-two hours."

I laughed. "I’m surprised they didn’t admit me."

He shrugged. "There was some talk about that, but the

swelling went down enough you could breathe on your own."

"How did I even get back here?"

"You were up and walking, but you were pretty doped up.

No great shock you don’t remember much. It’s probably just as
well we didn’t have to go up any stairs besides the front porch."

I had to suppress a groan. I hated that he’d seen me that

way.

He raised our hands between us and kissed mine. A hint

of discoloration on the back of his hand caught my eye. When I

looked closer, as closely as I could with double vision, it was a
bruise extending an inch or so past the juncture between his
thumb and forefinger.

"What happened here?"

He flexed it gingerly and shrugged. "Just a little collateral

damage."

"Meaning?"

He looked at his hand. "They had to intubate you before

the drugs had fully kicked in. Your airway was closing too fast,

you weren’t getting enough air." Raising only his eyes, he looked
at me through his lashes. "That was from you."

I cringed. "Jesus, I’m sorry, I—"

"No, no, don’t be sorry." A grin tried to form on his lips.

"It’s not the first time you’ve left a mark."
"Andrew—"

"I’m serious. To be honest, I wouldn’t dream of

complaining about that bruise. It’s…" He dropped his gaze and
let the words trail off.

I touched his face. "What?"

"As long as you were squeezing my hand like that, you

were still with me." Clearing his throat, he met my eyes.

"It was when you let go that I started freaking out."

I swallowed hard.

"What happened, anyway?" he asked. "I mean, was it

just—"

"Jesse."

Andrew tensed. "What?"

"It was Jesse." That name brought all the scorpions back

to life, and I shivered. "I didn’t see him, but I’d know that voice
anywhere."

"Fuck." He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "All

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this time, we thought it was Shawn. Why didn’t I listen to Macy?
Fucking hell, we could have—"

"Andrew, it’s done." I cleared my throat, wincing. "You

didn’t know. We know now."

"Yeah, I know." He didn’t meet my eyes. "But after last

night…" He trailed off, shaking his head. Rolling onto his back,
he rubbed his eyes and swore under his breath. "Christ, I can’t
believe I never thought it was Jesse. I know he’s a loon, but I

never thought he’d be capable of something like…" He looked at
me. "Of something like that."

"I’m surprised he didn’t shoot me." With those words, it

occurred to me just how easily things could have gone down

differently.

"At least you had a vest on."

"Wouldn’t have protected my face." I swallowed hard.

Instead of trying to shove me down the stairs, that moving
shadow could have been a flash in my face, followed by nothing.

"You’re assuming he had a gun."

"Well, that’s a safe assumption, considering I’ve had it

against my skull before."

"And in that neighborhood, a firearm will buy someone a

shit load of rock," he said. "If he didn’t have it, he probably sold
it."

I never thought I’d be thankful that my stalker was a

crackhead, but his penchant for crack could very well have been
why I was still alive. And at the moment, that was all that
mattered. In spite of Jesse’s best—if cracked out—efforts, I was

alive.

"What time is it?" I asked.

He eyed me. "Last time you asked me that, you jabbed a

knife into my hand."

I cocked my head. "I did?"

"Yeah, remember? When I got that piece of crab shell in my
hand?"

It took a second, but the memory came crawling back.

The concussion had probably just pureed my short and

long-term memory recall. Temporarily, I hoped. "Right, right. I

remember," I said. "And no, I wasn’t planning to stab your hand
with something this time."

Andrew chuckled as he craned his neck and looked past

me. "It’s almost four."

"In the afternoon?"

He nodded, offering a hint of a smile. "You’ve been out for

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hours."

"Feels like it’s been days." I ran a hand through my hair

and sighed. "Wait, what are you doing still in bed at this hour?"

He laughed softly, but the humor didn’t make it to his

worried eyes. "It was a long night for me, too."

"Hell, I don’t remember anything after the ambulance

ride."

Andrew shuddered.

"What?"

"You don’t remember," he said, touching my face so

lightly I almost didn’t feel it. "But I do."

It was my turn to shudder. Though I was sure my

memory recall would improve, I hoped a few blank spots
remained.

"How did you get there, anyway?" I asked. "To the

apartment where he attacked me?"

"Jumped on the ambulance with the other guys," he said.

"I was at the station when the call came in, remember?"

That piece fell into place. Of course he was at the station.

Of course he heard the call come in. How did I not figure this
out? It’ll come back. Give it time, it’ll all come back.

Andrew ran his fingers down my arm. "I was going to go

make some coffee. You want any?"

"Yeah, thanks." I started to sit up, closing my eyes as

the dizziness tried to keep me from moving.

Andrew put his hand behind my shoulders. "You sure

you’re okay to stand?"

"No, but I need to get up and move around."

"I don’t know, I kind of like you confined to my bed."

We exchanged grins. Then, with his help, I sat up slowly.

"If you want to confine me to your bed," I started, "we

can break out the handcuffs when I’m back in one piece."

"I am so taking you up on that." Our eyes met and we

both laughed.

The simple acts of sitting up, then standing, were glacially

slow. Just turning my head was enough to throw off my
equilibrium. It wasn’t the first concussion I’d had, but it was

definitely the worst. And I’d forgotten how much they sucked. I
just hoped I could get through this one without throwing up. The
queasy, seasick feeling in my gut and the back of my throat

weren’t terribly promising, though.

Eventually, I made it on to my own two feet. Andrew

went into the kitchen to see to the coffee while I went into the

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bathroom to see how bad the damage was.

Resting my hands on the gunmetal-cold porcelain sink, I

scrutinized my reflection as much as my doubling vision and
aching head would allow.

A few straight bruises cut across my neck, marking every

place Jesse had pulled that bar against my throat. The darkest
was just above my Adam’s apple, with a few others of varying
shades of red and purple crisscrossing my skin from my jaw to

my collarbone. Irregular, vertical lacerations scored some of the
bruises, probably where I’d dug my own nails in as I tried to get
my fingers under the bar, the scratches creating the appearance
of crudely drawn sutures.

My face wasn’t much better than my neck. The bridge of

my nose was discolored and swollen, though less than I
expected. The jagged cut was glued together, and above that,

my forehead was scraped and bruised. In a few more hours, the
dark circles beneath my eyes would probably be full-blown black
eyes.

I looked like hell. I felt like hell. Still, I could think of

worse things than staring at the double image of my own
battered face and neck in Andrew’s bathroom mirror. Worse

things, like staring sightlessly at the inside of a body bag.

Andrew appeared in the doorway. A cautious smile lifted

the corner of his mouth. "I guess purple is your color. Really

brings out your eyes."

I laughed half-heartedly. He stepped behind me and put

his arms around my waist. As I clasped my hands over his, he

kissed the back of my shoulder and met my eyes in the mirror.

"You had me scared out of my mind," he whispered.

"You aren’t the only one." If one memory from last night

was clear, it was the fear. Of Jesse, my unseen attacker. Of the
bar across my throat. Of not being able to breathe again. I
dropped my gaze, avoiding his reflected eyes and my own.

Last night was one of those nights that I, as a paramedic,

had never wanted to tell him about. I never told my ex-wife, my
ex-boyfriend, anyone. Even though Andrew and I had started
opening up to each other about this kind of thing, even though I

knew he saw many of the same things I did in his own line of
work, I hadn’t been ready for him to see it firsthand.

Not when it was me on the stretcher.

Not when I looked like this.

Andrew ran his thumb along the side of my hand. "You

okay?"

275

"They let me out of the hospital, didn’t they?"

"That wasn’t what I meant." He kissed my shoulder again,

lifting his eyebrows in a silent echo of his question.

I swallowed, the resulting flinch only partly from the pain

in my throat. He’d seen me without the calm façade that had

held me together the day we met. He’d seen me stripped down
to everything I’d wanted him to believe I wasn’t. In the sparse
light of a handheld flashlight on the floor of a dark apartment

hallway, my boyfriend had seen everything I’d hoped to hide
from him. He’d seen me at my very weakest and most
vulnerable—terrified, bleeding, choking, drugged out of my
head—yet he was still here. Still here, and as afraid of losing me

as I was of losing him.
"Nick?"

I swallowed again and turned to face him, putting my

arms around his waist. It shouldn’t have surprised me that
Andrew didn’t look at me differently now. I looked like hell, but
no revulsion appeared in his expression. Desire and passion still

existed in the air between us, and had I been in less pain, we
might have acted on it. I desperately needed his touch, but that
had to wait until my body could handle it again. Like never

before, I needed that release after a rough day, but physically,
there was no way. For now I was content to settle for his
fingertips carefully brushing my face.

It occurred to me that, aside from going into the kitchen

for coffee, he’d kept a hand on me nearly every moment since
he woke up. A gentle, affectionate touch, but contact. I’m here.

You’re here.

I smiled. "Yeah, I’ll be okay."

He returned the smile, but it was tentative.

I touched his face. "You’re thinking something." I half-

expected one of his usual smartass responses, and I hoped that
was what was coming, but the furrow between his eyebrows was
devoid of humor.

"I think, to be safe," he paused. "And I’m not ordering

you, I’m telling you as both a cop and your boyfriend, you
should stay here for a while."

I let out a breath and dropped my gaze. "I can’t ask

you—"

"You’re not asking. I’m offering. I want you to be safe,

and it’s not like we don’t enjoy each other’s company."

"But I—"

"Nick, need I remind you that you’ve had a gun to your

276

head, death threats, a bullet on your dashboard, and last night
you were very nearly killed?"

My stomach lurched. "You don’t have to remind me."

"Then put your pride on a shelf and let me help you."

I chewed my lip, avoiding his eyes. "And what if Jesse

follows me here?"

"Then we’ll both stay somewhere else." Andrew ran his

fingers down the back of my arm. "But he hasn’t followed you

here as far as we know, and even though he doesn’t know where
you live, I don’t want to take any more chances. Please?"

"You’re sure you don’t mind?"

"Of course I don’t mind."

Pride didn’t do a dead man any good, so I closed my

eyes and nodded.

"I doubt anyone will find you out here," he said. "But to

be on the safe side, we’ll park your car inside, too."

At that, I looked at him. "There’s only room for one car in

your garage, though."

He gestured dismissively. "I can put a cover over the

‘Vette. Being outside for a little while won’t hurt her."
"Andrew,

she’s—"

"I don’t care about the car, Nick." He touched my face.

"Don’t be stubborn about this. It’s not a crime to need someone,
you know. You’re about as strong as people come, but you’re

human." He raised my chin, gently encouraging me to look him
in the eye. When I did, he whispered, "If you need to lean, then
for God’s sake, Nick, lean."

I swallowed. "Okay." Finally I met his eyes and smiled.

"Thank you."

He returned the smile. "Don’t mention it."

"I should probably go back to my place and get some

clothes, things like that."

"I’ll go with you," he said. "You can’t drive right now

anyway, but just to be on the safe side, I want to go in with you

and make sure there’s no one there."

"Do you think it’s safe to go there, then?"

"Most likely. I don’t see how it wouldn’t be. But I’ll go

with you. And you’ll wear a vest, just in case."

A memory flashed through my mind of Leon getting my

vest off in the dark hallway. "What happened to mine, anyway?"

He made another dismissive gesture. "Don’t worry about

it. I have more than one and I can get another from the station
if I need to." He ran the backs of his fingers along the side of my

277

jaw. "Coffee should be about ready."
"Sounds

good."

"Can you make it out to the kitchen, or do you want me

to bring it in here?"

I grinned. "Are you just trying to keep me confined to bed

again?"

He put his hands up, shrugging innocently. "I’d do no

such thing."

"Well," I gestured at my face. "Not when I look like this,

anyway."

"Oh, please." He kissed me gently. "I’d take you to bed

right now, but something tells me that will have to wait."

I laughed. "Yeah, I’ll have to take a rain check."

"Well, when you feel normal again," he said, some of the

playfulness leaving his voice. "I’ll be here."

Squeezing his hand, I whispered, "So will I."

278

Thirty

The next morning, we drove to my apartment. Since it

was well after the work day’s customary start, the parking lot
was deserted. I usually loved that about this complex. There was
next to no one around whenever I was sleeping off a late shift.

Today, it was a bit too empty for my taste.

Andrew parked the car and turned off the engine. I closed

my eyes and took a deep breath, as much to calm my nerves as

settle my stomach. I was still queasy from my head injury, and
nervousness wasn’t helping.

"Ready for this?" he asked.

"No."

He squeezed my leg gently. "It’ll be fine. We’re just being

extra cautious."

I sighed, opening my eyes and flinching at the bright

sunlight. "I know."

"Let’s go over this once more before we go in," he said,

shifting from boyfriend to cop. "When we get inside, stay behind

me and watch my back. We’ll go through the whole place, one
room at a time, make sure it’s empty." He paused, and when he
spoke again, he’d switched back to my boyfriend. "And it most

likely will be."

I chewed my lip. "Let’s go, then."

Andrew took the pistol from his shoulder holster and

dropped the magazine, making sure it was fully loaded. Then he
put it back in and pulled the slide back. When it snapped
forward, a shiver ran down my spine. A gun hadn’t sounded so

ominous since the one pressed to the back of my head weeks
ago.

I swallowed hard.

Andrew put the gun back into the holster and pulled his

279

jacket over it. Then he rested his hand on my leg again. "Like I
said, we’re probably just being extra cautious over nothing."

"After the other night," I said. "I don’t think there’s such

thing as ‘extra cautious’ anymore."

"I know. But we’ll get the little fucker one way or

another." Nodding at my apartment, he added, "And we’re miles
from Masontown."

"So is the Riverside Convention Center."

"And the media announced when and where you would be

that day."

"Then tell me again why we’re going in with a gun

drawn?"

Andrew dropped his gaze for a moment, then met my

eyes again. "Because after the other night, I’d rather not take
any chances with your safety."

We got out of the car and went into the building. Outside

my apartment door, Andrew again drew his gun. He clicked off
the safety. I shuddered. The gun in his hands did nothing to

settle my nerves. It was one thing to have it there, present,
safely in a holster in case it was needed. It was another thing
entirely to have it drawn, ready, and anticipating.

"Unlock the door and push it open, but stay off to the

side." He leaned against the wall on the other side, gun pointed
at the floor. "Once it’s open, stay clear of the doorway."

Standing off to the side as he’d ordered, I turned the key.

The deadbolt clicked into place like a round sliding into the
chamber.

I turned the knob and Andrew toed the door open. Then

he checked the room from the safety of the doorway. Once
satisfied it was clear, he signaled for me to follow him as he led

with his gun.

In my mind, I knew this was my home, but it didn’t feel

anything like home right now. Irrational though it was, my
subconscious superimposed images all over the place: Unseen

faces hiding in the shadows. The fleeting movement of a
phantom intruder disappearing through a door or down the hall
just when I turned my head to look. Footsteps behind me,

beside me, around me. I kept expecting to see an ominous,
deliberately placed bullet sitting on a shelf, or a table, or beside
my computer.

"Anything out of place?" Andrew asked, keeping his voice

low.

I looked around. As near as I could tell, nothing had

280

moved. Nothing stolen or disturbed, no bullets added to the
benign landscape. "No, everything looks fine."

He nodded. "Good sign."

We continued into the kitchen. There, my scrambled

memory and unrelenting paranoia scrutinized every inch, certain

something was wrong. Something somewhere was out of place.

Hadn’t I left my MP3 player on the kitchen counter after

my last run? No, I must have plugged it into the computer to

charge. Or left it in my gym bag. That was it: gym bag. Nothing
to worry about.

The silverware drawer was open a little. I searched my

mind for the last time I’d closed it. Had I made sure it was

closed all the way? Maybe I’d been in a hurry and hadn’t paid
attention when I closed it. That must have been it.

With the kitchen, living room, and dining room cleared,

we started down the hall, the same hall we’d gone down so
many times with a completely different goal in mind.

We shouldn’t have come here.

I shivered, trying to ignore that growing feeling of icy

dread in my gut. There was no one here, we were just being
cautious. We’d check all the rooms, get a few things, and go

back to the safety of Andrew’s place. It was just the gun in his
hands that made me nervous. There was nothing here to shoot
but shadows.

"Nick," he said. "Did you leave your bedroom door open

or closed?"

"I don’t know. Probably closed." I looked past him. The

door was ajar.

"Stay up against the wall."

I did, pressing myself against the wall as he approached

the door. He nudged it open with his foot, and the familiar creak
of the hinges made my spine straighten. For a moment, Andrew
was still. I couldn’t tell if he was even breathing. I sure as hell
wasn’t.

When he did move, he took a single step and stopped.

Then another.

We shouldn’t have come here.

Time slowed down. Hours elapsed between heartbeats.

The daylight beyond the doorway swallowed Andrew up—

Movement. Somewhere else. Not Andrew, not me, not

here. Somewhere beyond us. Ahead of us. Ahead of Andrew. We
shouldn’t have come here. Something was wrong. I started to
take a breath to tell him to step back—

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Two explosive blasts shoved time back into motion.

Andrew grunted and stumbled backwards. I grabbed his

shoulders to steady him, but my balance was too far off to keep
both of us upright, so we went down.

Using the wall for balance, I scrambled to my feet.

"Andrew, are you okay?"

"The gun." Andrew coughed, then spoke through clenched

teeth as he gripped his upper arm, "Get my gun."

When he’d dropped it, it fell a foot or so beyond the

doorway. There was no way I could reach it without being
vulnerable to his assailant, but Andrew still had one other gun
on him. I took the revolver out of his ankle holster and stood,

leaning against the wall, away from the open door.

For a moment, I held my breath, waiting for the attacker

to make another move. I glanced down at Andrew. He sat up,

gripping his shoulder and wincing. Blood seeped between his
fingers, but it looked like the bullet had done little more than
graze his shoulder. Though he needed medical attention, it

wasn’t critical. The other had hit him in the chest, and thankfully
the vest kept it from doing more than tearing his shirt and
knocking the breath out of him.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God," a hysterical voice, an all too

familiar voice, turned my knees to water and took me back to a
moment I’d already relived too many times.

Get away from her.

Make him stop hurting her.

Fucking murderer.

I gulped, forcing back the nausea and the flashbacks.

"Jesse, put the gun down," Andrew called out. He

closed his eyes and grimaced as he took a deep

breath.Then he moved to his knees. "Jesse…"

"I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry," came

the shrill, shaky response. "I didn’t mean to, Mark, I didn’t—"

"Jesse, just calm down." Andrew kept his voice low and

calm but it was still edged with pain. Then he dropped his voice
even lower. "Nick. His gun. It’s on the floor." He nodded toward
my bedroom. When I looked, sure enough, the gun—my gun?—

was on the floor a few feet away from the bed.

But I couldn’t see Jesse, and I didn’t know if he had

another weapon.

I looked back at Andrew. "What do I do?" I mouthed.

"Just stay there. Aim the gun at the doorway."

I cocked my head. "Aim the—"

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"Just do it. He goes anywhere near either gun, do not

hesitate to fire."

I nodded. Without thinking about it, I drew the hammer

back.

Click-click-click. Oh God. My stomach turned, but I did as

ordered, adopting the stance Andrew had taught me and aiming
his weapon at the empty space beyond my bedroom doorway.

"Jesse, move where I can see you," Andrew ordered.

"No, no, I can’t, it’s—"

"Jesse, move where I can see you. Now."

Tentative, unseen movement shuffled across carpet.

"Jesse, I’m not fucking around." Andrew moved a little

behind me, probably standing, sucking in a breath as he did.
"Get in front of the doorway with your hands in the air and don’t
touch that gun. Come on, Jesse."

Another step.

"Can you see him?" Andrew asked.

"Not yet," I said.

"Come on, Jesse," Andrew barked. "Now."

"Please don’t shoot me," came the shrill voice from the

other side. He was crying now, I could tell, taking great heaving

breaths between whimpers.

"I’m not going to shoot you unless you reach for a gun," I

said. "Come out now, or I’m coming in."

"Okay, okay," Jesse said.

And with one more step, we faced each other over the

sights of Andrew’s gun.

Jesse.

Jesse Kendall.

Wild-eyed, cracked out, Jesse Kendall with his blond

haystack hair.

His hands were up and his face was red, vertical streaks

marking where tears had cut through the dirt on his skin. He
fought to keep his breathing even, struggling between sobs.

Then he looked past me and must have seen Andrew.

"Oh, God," he moaned. "I’m sorry, Mark, I’m sorry…" He
whimpered like a terrified dog, brushing frantically at his arms

as if trying to sweep away unseen insects while he rocked back
and forth on shaking legs. That wasn’t a good sign. He was
probably coming off a high, maybe even a binge, and if there

was a time when a crackhead was volatile and dangerous, this
was it.

I tried to inject some calm into my voice. "Jesse, put your

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hands back up."

His hysteria shifted to fury when he glared at me. "Fuck

you. I wanted to hit you, not…" He looked at Andrew again, and
his expression crumpled into devastated sobs. "Mark, oh God,
I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I’m so..." The rest was

incomprehensible, just slurred mumbling and crying. His knees
buckled and he started to sink to the floor, dangerously close to
my gun.

"Stand up, Jesse," I said sharply. "Stand up and put your

hands where I can see them. Now."

He stood, looking at me, and went from tears to fury once

again. "You killed Chelsea." His voice cracked and he blinked

rapidly, eyes flicking back and forth between the gun on the
floor and me. "You killed her, I saw you, I saw you, I tried to
save her…"

"Jesse, I didn’t kill anyone." I tried to focus on him

through doubled vision, tried to hold the gun steady with
shaking hands.

"Listen to him, Jesse, he didn’t kill anyone." Andrew’s

voice was taut with pain. He was on his feet now, moving as
slowly as he spoke. "Chelsea’s alive. She’s fine."

"No, she’s not," Jesse said. "I’m not stupid, Mark. I saw

her. I fucking saw her."

"And you damn near killed me," I growled.

"Because you…" Grief "…she’s dead because…" Rage

"…you killed her, you killed her…" And he broke down sobbing
again, his hands brushing at his arms so frantically he was

almost hitting himself.

The double vision was bad enough, but even without it,

my mind couldn’t decide who I was looking at. The psycho who

put a gun to my head while I tried to help Macy? The intruder
who’d just shot my boyfriend after nearly strangling me? A
mentally ill kid who numbed himself from his own warped
version of reality because there was no other way to make the

world tolerable?

I didn’t know whether to pity, fear, or hate him. Taking a

deep breath, I willed myself to stay calm. "Jesse…"

"Chelsea is not dead, Jesse," Andrew said.

"You’re both lying." Jesse’s voice climbed a little higher as

hysteria kicked back in. He tore at his own hair, wavering back

and forth as if his body wanted to pace but his legs couldn’t
remember how. "She’s dead, I saw her, and they moved
everything out of her house and took it all away, and—"

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"Jesse, I can call her," I said. "We’ll let you talk to her.

She’s alive, I promise."

He clutched his hair and shook his head as he fidgeted.

"You’re lying. You’re lying. I’m not stupid, Mark, I’m not stupid
and she’s dead, I saw her, I saw what he did to her, I saw it,

you—"

"She’s not dead, Jesse," I said.

"You’re lying!" he screamed. He lunged for a gun and,

without thinking, I fired. Both sound and recoil were physically
painful, turning my vision white for a second and knocking me
off balance. I grabbed the doorframe, trying to stay upright and
anchor myself on this violently shifting floor.

Jesse was on the floor, howling in pain. I took a deep

breath, trying to keep nausea and unconsciousness at bay—

"Nick! The gun!"

All at once, everyone was in motion. Jesse went for the

gun. The world spun as Andrew knocked me off balance.
Someone fired. As best I could with my vision swimming into

blurry triplicate, I aimed and fired. Jesse fell back, moaning, and
Andrew collapsed to his knees.

"Oh, fuck," he whispered, screwing his eyes shut.

I put my hand on his shoulder, as much to steady him as

myself. "Are you—"

"Get the gun," he said through his teeth.

I looked at Jesse. He was down, but alive and conscious,

and my gun was still in his trembling hand, his finger resting
precariously on the trigger. I forced myself to my feet and

stumbled toward him, keeping Andrew’s weapon trained on
Jesse in case he made a move. I put my foot on his wrist, but he
barely noticed, nor did he fight me when I pulled the gun out of

his hand.

"Oh, God," Andrew groaned.

I turned around, moving just a little too fast, as Andrew

slumped forward. I got to his side as quickly as I could.

"Easy," I said. "Lie back." He exhaled sharply as I eased

him onto his back. Behind me, Jesse moaned. Two victims. One
medic. Shit. I hurried into the bathroom and grabbed a few

towels. Then I pulled my phone out and called for help while I
triaged Andrew and Jesse.

I cradled the phone on my shoulder while I pulled Jesse’s

shirt out of the way. The world changed speed, just as it always
did when I triaged a scene, but compounded this time by my
fucked up head. Everything was happening too fast, but I moved

285

in slow motion while rapid-fire seconds ticked by. Even the
ringing on the other end of the line seemed to take forever.

"Come on, come on—"

"Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?"

"I need paramedics for two shooting victims at Seventeen

Kingsley Place, apartment two twelve. Shooter is neutralized and
I have an officer down." I put a towel on each of Jesse’s wounds,
securing them as best I could for the time being.

"I’m sending help right now," she said. "I need you to

stay on—"

"I need to go, I can’t help them while I’m talking to you."

I got up and moved to Andrew’s side. "Just send

police and medics."

"Help is on its way, sir, but I need you to stay on the

line—"

"Look, I’m a paramedic and one of these guys might be

bleeding out. I need both hands to do this. Just send help and
send it now."

She hesitated, then let me go. I shrugged my phone

away, letting it clatter forgotten to the floor while I wrapped a
towel around Andrew’s wounded arm.

Andrew had his earlier wound and now a through-and-

through on the same arm. Though he was in pain, the bleeding
wasn’t as serious. Jesse was bleeding profusely from the center

of his chest and just below his shoulder. There were major
arteries and organs nearby, and the blood flowed too fast to
ignore. As much as it sickened me, he needed my attention

more than Andrew.

"Keep a tight grip on this and hold it against your side." I

guided Andrew’s free hand to the towel around his arm. "It’s

going to hurt like hell, but don’t let go of it."

He gripped the towel and flinched. "Fuck, that hurts."

"It’s going to. But don’t let go."

He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Then he

looked around, and I’ll be damned if a grin didn’t play at his lips.
"Looks like you’re fucked for your damage deposit."

I stared at him in disbelief, then shook my head. "And I

thought I had a dark sense of humor." I nodded at his arm.
"Keep holding that." I started to get up, but he reached for me.

"Wait, where are you going?" The humor was gone from

his face, replaced by fear.

I gestured at Jesse. "I have to help him. He’s bleeding

badly. I’m not going far and help is on its way."

286

"Nick…" He looked at me with a mixture of pain and fear.

The same don’t leave me like this I’d seen on plenty of faces

when I’d had to walk away to take care of a red tag. On the face
of my boyfriend, it was this close to unbearable.

Calling on every second of training I’d ever had, I forced

myself to turn away from him to help Jesse.

Jesse whimpered as I pressed the towel against his

wounds. He shook badly, murmuring things I couldn’t

understand. I couldn’t tell if it was related to his drug habit or
the injuries, though. That would be for the emergency room to
decide. For now, all I could do was slow the bleeding and keep
him still.

"Andrew, how are you doing?" I called over my shoulder.

"This is bleeding bad," he said, slurring slightly.

"Just keep putting pressure on it." I cringed. There was

nothing I could do for him without walking away from a more
critically wounded victim, but every second my back was turned
to Andrew was killing me.

Jesse’s bleeding was profuse, enough that I couldn’t

afford to take the pressure off, but thankfully it was less than I
expected. Though there was still a chance some major organs

had been damaged, or an artery had been severed, he wasn’t
bleeding out yet. Not as bad as I’d expected, anyway.

"Talk to me, Andrew," I said. "How are you holding up?"

He groaned, the quiet, feeble sound making me shiver.

"Andrew?"

No answer.

"Andrew, say something." I turned around and my heart

dropped. "Oh no…" I looked at Jesse, then back at Andrew.
Fuck. Fuck! Jesse’s bleeding wasn’t yet under control, but the

pool of blood beside Andrew was as alarming as his fading color.

I hesitated to leave Jesse, but didn’t have a choice, and

hurried to Andrew’s side. He only loosely held the towel on his
arm now, so I gently pushed his hand away. My heart sank even

lower. The towel was soaked through. Almost completely
saturated. When I realized just how much blood there was, the
truth hit me in the chest: the bullet must have cut his brachial

artery.

Jesse wasn’t bleeding out. Andrew was.

"Oh God, no, Andrew," I said. "Can you hear me?

Andrew, talk to me, come on."

He moaned, stirring slightly. I gripped the towel as hard

as I could, putting as much pressure as possible on the wound

287

to try to slow the bleeding. He moaned again, his brow furrowing
slightly as he made a weak attempt to pull

away. At least that meant he was still here.

"I’m so sorry," I murmured. "I am so, so sorry, Andrew.

Just hang on, help is on its way." The bruise I’d left between his

thumb and forefinger caught my eye, and I looked away. Guilt
like acid rose in my throat. I hadn’t abandoned him, I told
myself again and again. I was triaging. There were two of them

and one of me. I could only treat one of them.

And the last time I’d triaged like this, Jennifer Thompson

had died. Please, God, don’t let Andrew die, too.

Someone banged on the door at the other end of the hall.

"Back here!" I shouted. I’d left the door unlocked, hadn’t

I? Please tell me I did, please tell me I did. A second later, the
door opened. Footsteps down the hall allowed a rush of relief

beneath the cold sweat on the back of my neck, but no one was
out of the woods yet.

Medics burst through my bedroom door with jump kits

and cooler heads than mine.

"What happened?" one asked.

I nodded at Andrew. "Two gunshots to the anterior upper

arm. I think one may have damaged the brachial artery."

The medic nodded and I moved back to let him do his

job. I stood, leaning against the dresser and watching them go

to work on Jesse and Andrew. When they unwrapped Andrew’s
arm, the gush of fresh blood turned my stomach.

Oh God, no…

Jesse was still semi-conscious—moaning and shaking

while they worked on him—but Andrew was almost completely
still and silent.

Someone touched my shoulder and I looked up to see a

pair of uniformed patrol officers. One of them flinched, probably
surprised by the bruises across my face and neck, if not the
blood all over my shirt.

"Mr. Swain?" the other said. "I’m Officer Bechtel. This is

Officer Kennedy. Why don’t we go in the other room so you can
tell us what happened?"

I gave Andrew another look. I was useless to him now, so

I followed them out of the room. We went into the kitchen. The
officers leaned against the counter while I went to the sink and

ran hot water over my hands. I couldn’t get it hot enough,
couldn’t get the blood off fast enough.

"We just need you to run us through what happened,"

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Kennedy said. "From the beginning."

"If I start at the beginning, we’ll here all day." My voice

trembled as badly as my hands.
"Okay,

well—"

"Look, I have reason to believe Jesse Kendall’s been

stalking me for a while now." I turned off the water and faced
them while I dried my hands. I gestured at my own injuries. "He
did all of this to me the other night."

Their eyes widened and they glanced at each other.

"Okay," Bechtel said. "So how did all of this happen

today?"

"Andrew—" I paused. "Detective Carmichael came with

me to make sure there was no one in the house. When we got
into the bedroom, Jesse was there and had my gun." I ran them
through every detail I could remember. Once I’d been through

it, they started on the questions, but I barely heard any of it
over the rising urgency in the voices in the bedroom. I didn’t
know whether I was hearing those beside Andrew or Jesse, but

someone was in bad shape and worsening by the second. At
some point, I must have trailed off, listening to the sounds in
the other room instead of talking to the officers.

"Mr. Swain, we know this is difficult for you, but we need

you to focus," Bechtel said. "We need—"

He paused and all three of us turned when the medics

wheeled one of the stretchers past the kitchen doorway.

It was Andrew. Oh God, Andrew. The sick feeling in my

gut had nothing to do with my concussion. He was unconscious,

his face far, far too pale beneath the oxygen mask.

Officer Kennedy summoned my attention again. "Mr.

Swain, we…"

The rest of what he said faded behind my pounding heart

as the medics wheeled the stretcher across the living room to
the front door. Watching the double doors slam behind Macy a
lifetime ago had nothing on the moment the stretcher carrying

Andrew disappeared through my front door. My knees buckled
and something in my gut lurched.

A hand on my arm brought me back to the present, but

couldn’t mute the clattering stretcher wheels that echoed down
the hall outside. My stomach turned. Hard.

"Mr. Swain, we—"

"Just a minute." I hurried out of the kitchen and back

down the hall. Clenched teeth and held breath kept me from
getting sick before I made it to the bathroom, but just barely.

289

Once there, a presence darkened the doorway. Thankfully, the
cop had the good graces to keep his back turned.

When I was sure nothing else would come up, I leaned on

the bathroom sink, taking a few deep breaths in between rinsing
my mouth out.

In the hall, stretcher wheels clattered again. Jesse’s voice

was weak now, but he still sobbed and slurred something I
couldn’t understand. I didn’t look when they wheeled him past

the bathroom doorway. Instead, I made the mistake of looking
in the mirror. Of meeting my own accusing, guilty eyes. The
angry bruises on my face and neck weren’t enough to counter
the acidic truth.

I’d shot someone.

I’d made a bad triage call.

I’d nearly killed someone.

I’d quite possibly killed someone else.

Andrew. I may have killed Andrew.

"Mr. Swain?" The officer in the doorway had turned

around. If the hint of green in his face was any indication, he
hadn’t turned his back for my benefit.

"I’m okay." I followed him out into the hall.

Officer Bechtel approached me. "The detectives are on

their way. Until they get here, we’re going to have to take you
into custody."

I nodded, but gestured at my bloodstained shirt. "Do you

mind if I at least change out of this?"

One of the officers led me into my bedroom—a crime

scene, now—to let me get a clean shirt. The closet was on the
other side of the room, so they weren’t concerned with me
disturbing anything.

Walking through the room, I looked anywhere but at the

blood on the carpet. My open gun case caught my eye on the
nightstand. I shuddered, wondering how long Jesse had

been here, how long he’d looked before he found the gun.

I took my shirt off and let one of the officers put it in a

biohazard bag. I was so used to washing bloodstained clothes,

but suddenly it wasn’t just something to be laundered. It was
evidence. Evidence of what, I didn’t know, but he insisted.

I hesitated to take my vest off, some residual paranoia

questioning whether or not every possible threat was
neutralized. Once I’d convinced myself I didn’t need it anymore,
I handed the blood-tinged vest over to the officer.

290

While I buttoned my clean shirt, I glanced at the

nightstand again and did a double take. Beside the gun case was

a lighter and a spoon. A spoon with burn marks on it.

I shuddered again and turned away. Once I’d changed,

Bechtel led me into the living room. He didn’t cuff me,

thankfully. He just asked me to have a seat while a couple of
officers were posted by the door. Standard procedure, I was
sure. I doubted they thought I was going to try to take off. I

could barely walk in a straight line. Running wasn’t on my
agenda any time soon.

Once I was seated, Kennedy looked at me. "You have the

right to remain silent…"

291

Thirty One

About twenty minutes after Jesse was wheeled out of my

apartment and I was taken into custody, a pair of plainclothes
detectives showed up. They showed me their badges and
introduced themselves as Detectives Rand and Wilson.

Detective Rand sat on the couch, facing me as I sat in the

recliner, and I couldn’t help but remember sitting like this with
Andrew the night we met. Those were some decidedly different

circumstances though. Unlike that night, I wanted to be
anywhere but here. Specifically, I wanted to be at the hospital
with Andrew. God, please be okay, Andrew, please—

"Mr. Swain?" Rand’s eyebrows lifted.

"I’m sorry," I said. "What was the question?"

The inquisitive lift became a suspicious—or maybe

impatient—furrow. "Mr. Swain, are you taking any medications?"

Oh, Christ, now they think I’m high. "I’m not on drugs,

I’m just distracted."

"Are you sure?"

"Look at my face, Detective," I said. "Of course I’m taking

medication. I have a prescription for Percocet if you need to see
it."

"No, no, that’s quite all right. I just want to make sure

you’re focused here."

I sighed. The throbbing between my eyes once again

warned me against pinching the bridge of my nose. Percocet
wouldn’t be nearly strong enough to counter the resulting pain
of that simple movement. "Listen, I’m not trying to be

uncooperative here. As you can imagine, today hasn’t exactly
been the greatest day of my life."

He chuckled, a hint of sympathy registering in his eyes.

"Yes, I understand that. Now I realize you’ve already explained

292

everything to the other officers, but I’d like you to walk me
through what happened. Everything that happened since you

and Detective Carmichael arrived at this apartment." Now that
the impatience had vacated his tone, he spoke with smooth
persuasiveness, the 'I’m calm to encourage you to be calm' way

that Andrew often did. It was impossible not to feel at least
somewhat at ease with someone who talked like that.

For the fourth or fifth time, I explained everything that

had happened. Walking into my apartment. Inspecting every
room. The initial gunshots. Jesse going for the gun. Firing.
Andrew pushing me aside when Jesse fired on us again.
Shooting Jesse. Every time I spoke the words "I shot him," I

thought I would be sick again. Justified or not, I’d shot someone.
I’d fucking shot someone.

Detective Rand shifted a little, looking at his notes for a

moment. "Now, what is Detective Carmichael’s involvement with
this case?"

I blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Why was an off duty detective escorting you here?"

"We’re friends. After what happened to me the other

night—" I gestured at my face "—he didn’t want me coming

home alone."

"I see." He nodded and kept looking at his notes. He

seemed to buy that answer, at least enough to keep him from

probing for clarification about what 'we’re friends' really meant.

Officer Bechtel approached us. "We found this in Mr.

Kendall’s jacket." He handed me a plastic bag marked 'Evidence'

and containing a tattered piece of paper. I blinked a few times,
working the letters on the page into focus.

It was a receipt for an oil change from several months

ago. At the top, my name and address. My heart pumped cold
water into my veins and an all too recent conversation replayed
in my mind:

Mr. Swain, this is everything from your glove

compartment. Is anything missing?

As far as I know, it’s all here.

As far as you know?

Do you know every scrap of paper you leave in your glove

box?

I swallowed hard and made a mental note to not only

start using a post office box, but to keep every last piece of
personal information out of my car.

"Mr. Swain?" Detective Rand said.

293

I looked up. "Sorry, what?"

He nodded toward the paper in my hand. "Do you know

how he obtained that?"

Handing it back, I said, "Someone broke into my car at

the Riverside Convention Center. He must have gotten it out of

the glove compartment."

Rand made a few more notes. Then he looked at me.

"Will you excuse us for a moment?"

I nodded. What the hell did he expect me to say? No, how

dare you move until you tell me I’m free to go? He and Bechtel
stepped out of the room along with Rand’s silent partner.

I let my head fall back and stared up at the ceiling.

Without the distraction of Rand’s questions, Andrew’s face
haunted me. The look when I’d walked away. His pallor
contrasting with the blood-saturated towel. Completely

unconscious beneath the oxygen mask before they took him to
the ambulance. I shuddered. All those images flickering through
my mind added up to the unrelenting fear that that would be the

last time I saw him.

I understood now why Andrew didn’t look at me any

differently after seeing me vulnerable, terrified, and bleeding the

other night. On my bedroom floor beside him, I hadn’t seen the
blood, the sweat, or the pallor. All I saw was the man I might
never see again.

I don’t care how vulnerable you were, just don’t die on

me. Please, Andrew, stay with me. Deep down, I was afraid this
was some sort of divine retribution for leaving Jennifer

Thompson to die.

"Mr. Swain?" Detective Rand’s voice startled me, but not

enough to make me sit up too quickly, thank God.

"Yes?"

"You’re free to go," he said. "The D.A. may elect to

charge you, but I don’t see any reason to believe this was

anything other than defense of others and property."

I exhaled. "Thank you."

He gestured down the hall. "We’re still going to need to

keep this as a crime scene until everything is documented and

we can get the hazmat team in to clean it up. Do you have
anyone you can stay with for the time being?"

Andrew’s name started to roll off my tongue, but I

stopped myself. I cleared my throat, flinching. "I’ll figure
something out." I paused. "Listen, if it’s not too much trouble,
would you mind taking me to St. Mary’s?" Alarm flickered across

294

his face, so I quickly added, "To check on Detective Carmichael."

"Oh, right." Rand shrugged. "Yeah, sure."

On the ride to the hospital, Rand and Wilson shot the

breeze about… something. I was aware of their voices, of their
casual business-as-usual moods, but I didn’t pay attention to

what was said. Everything from the muffled road noise to my
own pulse just repeated Andrew’s name over and over again,
driving me within an inch of madness while the two detectives

carried on like nothing was amiss.

I couldn’t blame them. If they took every case to heart,

they’d go insane. Leon and I did the same thing. But at least we
keep it out of earshot of our patients, I thought, grinding my

teeth.

Rand pulled up in front of the emergency room and

stopped. "Here we are."

"Thanks for the ride." I couldn’t get out of this car fast

enough.

"Not a problem," Rand said. "Take care of yourself. I’ll be

in touch if there’s any issue with the D.A."

"Thanks," I said. "And thanks again for the ride."

"No problem."

As they drove off, I walked into the emergency room, the

all-too-familiar smells of alcohol, latex, and sanitizer making my
skin crawl. With as much time as I spent going in and out of

hospitals, I wondered if I’d get used to this atmosphere again.
Otherwise I’d be about as useful as a fast food worker who had
flashbacks triggered by the smell of grease.

I went to the triage desk. A middle-aged woman

looked at me over thick, green-framed glasses.

"I’m looking for Andrew Carmichael," I said. "He was

brought in via ambulance an hour or so ago."

She hit a few keys, then scanned the screen that reflected

off her glasses. She looked at me over the frames. "Are you a
family member?"

"No, I’m—" I paused, swallowing. "I’m a friend."

The upward flick of her eyebrow told me she’d read

between the unintentional lines of that pause. "I’m sorry, sir, I

can’t give out any information about a patient’s condition unless
you’re a family member."

I sighed. I knew the rules as well as she did. "Would you

at least tell him I’m here?"

Her expression was non-committal. "Can I get your

name?"

295

"Nick Swain."

She scribbled my name on a Post-It pad. "I’ll let him

know when he’s awake."

"When he’s—" I searched her eyes. "When he’s awake?

He’s still out?"

She pursed her lips. "I’ll let him know you’re here. I can’t

give you any information about his condition."

Now it was me reading between unintentional lines. The

computer would have told her where he was, whether he was in
surgery, recovery, intensive care, or anywhere else. The only
thing I couldn’t determine was whether she’d simply said 'when
he’s awake' so that I couldn’t bother her to go tell him now, or if

he was truly unconscious somewhere.

There was no point in asking, though, because she legally

couldn’t answer, so I just thanked her and went into the waiting

area. Sinking into a chair, I rubbed the back of my neck, as
much to relieve the tension as to give my hands something to do
so I wouldn’t accidentally touch my face. A disconcerting prickle

of déjà vu worked its way up my spine, taking me back to this
very waiting room the day I met Andrew. Please don’t let this be
the day I lose him.

This was even less comfortable than being grilled by the

police. Now I had no one firing questions at me except my own
mind, no one second-guessing my judgment except my

conscience. In releasing me and leaving me here, the officers
had turned the microphone of suspicion over to my
emotions.

There was no pendulum this time. No ebbing, no flowing.

The guilt was as constant as the fear, both twisting my gut into
knots. I couldn’t tell where the nausea from my concussion

ended and the queasiness from everything else began.

I got up and paced until dizziness forced me to sit, sat

until restlessness demanded I pace. No matter how much I
stopped and started, the clock on the wall wouldn’t stop moving.

Fifteen minutes. Thirty. Forty-five. An hour. With every lap of
the second hand, the knot in the pit of my stomach sank deeper.
The nurse I’d spoken to had been back and forth through the

double doors numerous times, but she hadn’t said a word to me.

The double doors dividing the waiting room from the

emergency room opened and closed every couple of minutes.

Occasionally a nurse would stop, look at a clipboard, and call out
a name, at which point someone would rise and follow her down
the hall.

296

Every time, every damned time someone stood there with

that clipboard, my lungs refused to work until she’d summoned

the person she came for. The population of the waiting room
stayed about the same, with new people coming in as others
left. Like the madness of a mass casualty triage, everyone

moved around me at lightning speed while I stood still. They
came. They went. I waited.

Another hour passed. I hoped to God that only meant he

was too sedated to ask for me. He couldn’t have been in surgery
this long for an injury like that. I wanted to remind the nurse I
was here, but I was afraid she’d bypass the privacy regulations
and look at me with rehearsed sympathy. " I’m so sorry, Mr.

Swain…"

I swallowed hard and watched the double doors.

Over and over, I relived everything that had happened in

my apartment, trying to be objective about it. Had I made the
right call? Could I have known Andrew was that severely
wounded compared to Jesse? I tried to see their injuries again in

my mind’s eye, reevaluating my decision, but every time, all I
saw was the look in Andrew’s eyes when I walked away from
him. When I’d walked away and left him to bleed while I treated

Jesse.

Treated Jesse for the wounds I’d thought were more

serious.

Treated Jesse for the wounds I’d inflicted.

Oh God. My stomach turned. Oh God. I shot someone.

Twice. What if he dies? What if he lives and Andrew dies? What

if they both die?

Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. There isn’t enough room in my

head for all of this.

Bile rose in my throat and I closed my eyes, taking long,

deep breaths and rubbing the back of my neck. Assuming he
survived his injuries, Jesse had warrants out for at least two
counts of attempted murder, one of breaking and entering, and

God only knew what else. I highly doubted he’d be out of jail
any time soon.

And strangely, I pitied him. I felt genuinely sorry for him.

Though he’d quite possibly killed my boyfriend less than forty-
eight hours after trying to kill me, he wasn’t malicious. He was
delusional. His sense of reality was eroded by the drugs he did

and, I guessed, the lack of drugs he needed.

I wanted to hate him for this, but I couldn’t.

The double doors swung open again and I looked up as

297

the nurse furrowed her brow over a clipboard.

"Nick Swain?"

"Yes?" I flew to my feet far too quickly. The entire room

shifted violently to one side, then the other, and I grabbed a
chair for balance. A hand grabbed my arm and another held my

shoulder. When the room stopped moving, the gentleman who’d
been sitting a few chairs over was beside me, holding me
upright.

He cocked his head. "You all right, son?"

"Yeah," I said. "Just, dizzy. I’m okay."

His expression asked if I was sure, and when I gave him a

reassuring smile, he released my arm, then lifted his hand off

my shoulder.

The nurse regarded me with the same concern.

"I’m fine, I’m fine," I said. "How is Andrew?"

She blinked, glancing at her clipboard as if she’d forgotten

why she’d called me in the first place. "I assume you’re Nick
Swain?"

I nodded.

She gestured for me to follow her. "Mr. Carmichael is

asking to see you."

The relief that came with those simple words was greater

than the moment I’d no longer had Jesse Kendall’s gun against
my head. He’s alive. I can breathe again.

"How is he?" I asked on the way through the double

doors.

"I don’t have any details beyond that." She didn’t look at

me, just flipped through some pages on the clipboard before
tucking it under her arm again. "I’d just come on shift and he
was asking for you."

I nodded and followed her into the elevator. That was

probably the stock excuse for avoiding questions, since it was a
bit less confrontational than 'that’s confidential' or 'I can’t
discuss it with you because you’re not listed as next of kin.' Leon

and I had our own such prerecorded responses. I didn’t care,
though. Andrew was alive and he was conscious. I couldn’t ask
for more.

The elevator lurched, as did my stomach. I closed my

eyes and leaned against the wall, gripping the railing and trying
not to groan.

"Are you all right?" the nurse asked.

I swallowed hard and nodded slowly. "Elevators and

concussions don’t get along very well." My face and neck

298

probably raised even more questions, but she didn’t ask.

After we’d gotten out of the elevator and I’d regained my

balance enough to follow her, we continued down the hall. I tried
to ignore every sign we passed that said 'Intensive Care Unit',
reassuring myself they wouldn’t have let me in at all if his

condition was that bad. The 'family members only' policy was set
in stone for most ICU wings.

When we reached the end of the hall, the ICU sign

pointed left, but we turned right. We passed a few doors, then
she stopped and gestured inside.

I stepped into the room and the nurse closed the door

behind me, severing the noise and activity, leaving me with only

my heartbeat and the quiet beeps of machinery.

And there he was.

He was semi-reclined and looked like he’d fallen asleep.

His heavily-bandaged right arm was in a sling, the left connected
to an IV. His fingers were loosely wrapped around a morphine or
Demerol pump. He had more color than he had earlier, though

he was still pale. The electrocardiogram’s rhythmic beeps were
faint, but they were there, confirming he was alive. Yes, he was
alive. Thank God, he was alive.

As I came closer, he stirred, blinking a few times. When

our eyes met, he smiled.

"Hey you," he said, barely whispering.

"Hey." I slipped my hand under his, careful not to disturb

his IV or jostle the pump. Even as clammy as his skin was, there
was just enough warmth to dislodge the icy fear that had taken

up residence in my chest. The fear was gone, but guilt held its
ground.

"How are you feeling?" I asked.

He smiled, if weakly. "I think I’d rather be pepper-

sprayed."

"That bad?"

"Worse."

"Well, I’m glad you’re okay." I leaned down to gently kiss

his forehead, thankful just to feel the warmth of his skin. As I
started to stand again, he eyed me, a grin tugging the corners of

his slightly pale lips.

"Come on, now," he said, "my mouth isn’t broken."

"I don’t know, that might fall under your restricted

activities for a while."

"I can think of a few things that do, but kissing you isn’t

one of them. Now get down here."

299

I laughed and kissed him. It was just a light, gentle kiss,

but we both drew it out for a moment. I ran my fingers through

his hair, and at least for a little while, relief pushed the guilt
aside.

When I stood, the room shifted. I grabbed the bedrail,

taking a deep breath as the world righted itself for the millionth
time.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Just a side effect of beating my head against a wall," I

muttered.

"You and that gallows humor." He chuckled. "Might be

more comfortable if you sit."

There was a chair beside the bed, but that wasn’t quite

close enough to him, so I took a seat on the side of the bed. He
didn’t mind; he let the pain medicine pump lay

across his chest and put his hand over mine on my leg.

For the longest time, neither of us spoke. The ECG made

its noise in the background, but between us, there was silence.

Eventually, Andrew said, "How’s Jesse?"

I shrugged, avoiding his eyes. "He was still conscious

when they brought him in. I’m guessing he’ll pull through." He

was going to pull through from the beginning, my conscience
reminded me. He’d had better odds from the start. His injuries
weren’t nearly as catastrophic as I’d thought. Andrew’s were

worse than I’d thought.
"Nick?"

I didn’t realize how long the silence had lingered until he

broke it with my name. My eyes flicked up, meeting his.

"You okay?"

I managed to look him in the eye. "Back there, at my

apartment…" I swallowed. "That was the hardest thing I’ve ever
had to do."

"Treating the guy who tried to kill you?"

"No." I forced myself to look at him. "Walking away from

you."

"Nick." He squeezed my hand. "You made a judgment

call."

"I know." I avoided his eyes again. "But I can’t help

thinking it was the wrong one."

"Jesse and I both made it, didn’t we?"

I bit my lip and nodded.

His thumb ran along the side of my hand. "Then it was

the right one."

300

I still couldn’t look at him as I whispered, "You both made

it, but that doesn’t mean I made the right call."

"You won’t always make the right call," he said.

"Remember, that’s how we got into this whole mess to begin
with. I made a bad call and left Macy uncovered." A smile played

at his lips, and the tip of his thumb made a circle on the side of
my hand. "Though, not everything that came out of that was a
bad thing."

I laughed. "Okay, I’ll give you that." Then I gestured at

his sling. "Looks like you won’t be driving the ‘ Vette for a
while."

He glanced at his arm and chuckled. "Yeah. Guess

not."

"Maybe I’ll have to keep her exercised for you."

He glared at me, then smiled. "Well, maybe I’ll let you

take her out. With adult supervision, of course."

"Hey now."

He winked. "You know what this means, right?" He

nodded at his arm again.

"No hand jobs for a while?"

" Pfft. You know I can do just as well with my left hand."

"This is true. Okay, so what does this mean, then?"

He grinned. "Now I’m going to have a cooler battle scar."

"That’s what you think."

"What?

Why?"

"I told the surgeons to patch you up nice and neat. I think

they even brought in a plastic surgeon to make sure all the

seams healed almost invisibly."

"You bastard." He shot me a glare that was completely

negated by the curl of his lip. "If this fucker doesn’t have a scar

that’s worth showing off, there’s going to be trouble."

I shrugged, trying and failing to play innocent. "Well, if it

doesn’t, you could always show people where that crab claw
attacked you."

He laughed. My God, it was good to hear that sound

again.

Deep down, I knew my conscience would nag at me for

some time. The nightmares would come, as would the cold
sweats and second guesses. But we’d both made it to the other
end of all of this. We’d gained a few battle scars, some

memories we’d just as soon forget, but we were alive.

Andrew shifted a little, then winced and closed his eyes as

he released a long breath.

301

"You okay?" I asked.

He nodded, but the pained expression didn’t change.

"Hurts like hell."

"That’s why they gave you this, remember?" I picked up

the painkiller pump.

"I know, but that shit knocks me out."

I ran my thumb across his fingers. "It wouldn’t kill you to

sleep, you know."

"Yeah, I know, but…" He trailed off, some unspoken

thought creasing his forehead. His fingers curled around mine,
and in his eyes I recognized the ghost of the look he’d given me
before I’d walked away.

"Just get some sleep," I said. "I’ll still be here when you

wake up."

"You sure?" His lips curved into that asymmetrical grin I’d

so grown to love. "Could be a while."

"Yes, I’m sure. But I’ll be here." I gestured at my head.

"I’m not allowed to drive, remember?"

He laughed. "Fucker."

I smiled and squeezed his hand. "Really, though I’m not

going anywhere."

He returned the smile. "Well, in that case…" His hand

moved and the button clicked on the pump. "…can’t promise I’ll
be much of a conversationalist."

"How will that be different than usual?"

He laughed again. In minutes, the drugs kicked in. His

voice slurred and he struggled to keep his eyes open. Finally, he

gave in, and drifted off to sleep.

The only sound in the room was the electrocardiogram as

it announced every beat of Andrew’s heart. Beyond the closed

door, voices murmured, carts rattled, papers shuffled. In here, it
was just us. He’d be out for a while, but I stayed anyway, my
fingers loosely laced between his.

For the first time since the day we met, I could really,

truly exhale. Shawn was in jail. Jesse would be once he got out
of the hospital. Andrew and I were both still alive. Where we
went from here, I had no idea, but hopefully now, we could look

forward instead of constantly glancing over our shoulders.

The future would work itself out. For now, the only thing I

knew for sure was the only thing that mattered: When Andrew

awoke, I’d be here.

302

About L. A.

L. A. Witt is an erotica author currently living in Okinawa,

Japan, with her husband and two cats. She also writes

heterosexual erotica under the name Lauren Gallagher.

Visit our website for our growing catalogue of quality books.

www.carnalpassions.com

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