Broken Protocol Page 7

  “Damn.” Troy shoved open the door to the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time. Stupid giant. Luke’s legs burned as he followed him up. His thigh ached from the stumble in the truck. There’d be at least one bruise when he peeled off his pants. Not that it mattered with the trouble still raging overhead.

  Late one night after a hard shift and one too many beers, Troy’d explained that he liked to listen to the fire. He swore up and down that he could actually hear the fire’s path in the crackling flames and creaking structures. Luke didn’t know if it was true, but Troy definitely had a gift for picking his way through the inferno.

  For Luke, the fire was a math problem. Every spark and flicker was another point of information on the graph paper in his head. He charted it all like a complex equation, and the farther it got from zero the worse things were.

  The higher up they got in the apartment building the more the number in his head grew. People passed them on the stairs, clutching at their most important belongings. A man held on to his computer like it held the answers to life itself. A blonde coed clutched at a sputtering cat. A sleepy-eyed woman with short ginger hair shouldered a heavy duffel. “Ms. Eva make it out?” she called on her way by.

  “Friend of yours?” Troy asked.

  “My great-aunt. Top floor, apartment 804. She’s a hundred years old if she’s a day. Mean as spit.” The woman didn’t sound particularly worried, but for a brief moment her eyes connected with Luke’s. She was crying. “She never leaves her apartment.”

  Hell. Luke gave a sharp nod. “We’ll make sure she gets out.”

  They climbed up another floor and a half before Troy spoke. “You shouldn’t have said that.”

  “I’ve still got breath in me.”

  “That’s not what I’m worried about.” There was a long pause. “You can’t promise people things like that. What if it’s too late? What if the old lady’s dead? You really want her blaming you—or the Department—because of something that’s already happened?”

  Sweat pooled at the base of Luke’s spine. Fire killed. He knew that as well as any other firefighter. His first week on the job he’d pulled an old man from the flames. He’d been burnt bad, but he could still make it. At least that’s what Luke thought at the time. Everything had seemed okay, but when he’d called the hospital later they’d broken the news. He’d been dead on arrival. He’d seized in the ambulance and there was nothing anyone could do.

  Ms. Eva wasn’t going to be like that.

  Please, let the old lady still be alive. His stride lengthened. He wasn’t thinking about the pain in his legs now or the feel of Dante’s lips against his skin. All his concentration was focused on one thing. Apartment number 804.

  Please, let her be okay.

  Troy made the eighth floor first, banging on one apartment door after another. No one answered. Good. The residents had done the smart thing and evacuated. Luke headed straight to 804. He thumped a hand hard against the door. Knock. He did it two more times. Knock. Knock.

  “Maybe she made it out,” Troy said.

  “Maybe.” The data points weren’t plotting out clearly. For a moment everything spun, and then he saw the thick layer of dust on the doormat. The woman in the stairs hadn’t been kidding. Ms. Eva never left her apartment.

  He was going in. He pivoted slightly, putting all the weight on one foot, and kicked the door in.

  The interior of the apartment was covered in pink-and-yellow wallpaper, but it smelled like cookies and the violet powder his grandmother used to powder her face. The floors were a cream-colored shag carpeting. “Ms. Eva,” Luke called out loudly. No answer. He raised his voice. “Ms. Eva!”

  “No sense in shouting, young man.” There was a solid thumping noise and then a pint-sized woman appeared in a doorway. Her white hair was impeccably curled. Her shirt-dress was a soft mint paisley. Her slippers were pink. She leaned on a multi-footed cane as she spoke. “I can hear you.”

  “Can you hear the fire alarm?”

  “Someone left a candle on.”

  “It’s not a candle.” And he didn’t have time to argue. He was an officer of the FDNY, and he needed her to move. “You’re going to need to evacuate, ma’am. Your niece is waiting for you down on the street.”

  Ms. Eva sighed. “Like Marjorie cares. She hasn’t visited me in months. She only calls when she needs something. Not that her mother was any better. She ran off to California once, didn’t call me for eight years.” Her lips pressed together in a thin line. For a moment it looked like she was going to object. Then she sighed. “I’ll need help going down the stairs.”

  “Sure thing. That’s why I’m here.” He radioed down to the captain that he’d be splitting up with Troy, and then waved the old lady forward. It’d be faster to carry her over one shoulder—he’d do it if he had to—but something told him the offer wouldn’t be appreciated.

  Now that she’d decided to leave, Ms. Eva moved with purpose. She might be small, but she didn’t let that slow her down. When she got to the hallway and saw the crackling flames, she let out a tiny gasp and abandoned her cane to lean hard against Luke’s arm. She was so damn light and delicate, like a hummingbird or a piece of antique china. If he moved too fast, she’d break into a million tiny pieces.

  If he didn’t move fast enough, the fire would catch up with them.

  The flames had jumped between floors now. Troy’s footsteps clanged as they started down. The stairwell was becoming increasingly thick with smoke. Luke’s lungs were screaming. His eyes were watering. Ms. Eva was starting to shake. From smoke inhalation? No, the stress was getting to her. She was starting to cry.

  There were still five floors to go.

  “Why didn’t she call you for eight years?” Luke asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Marjorie’s mother. You said that she didn’t call you for eight years. Why not?”

  Ms. Eva’s steps faltered. Her fingernails dug into his wrist. “Shouldn’t we concentrate on walking?”

  “Let me worry about that.” He kept moving downward, concentrating on the steps in front of them. “Why didn’t your sister call you?”

  There was a long pause and then, “Marjorie’s my great-niece. Her grandmother was my sister. Her mother was...troubled.” There was a little huff of air. “She got into trouble with a boy. That’s what we called it in my day, getting into trouble. My sister didn’t handle it well. The way she reacted, it was no wonder Patty ran off like she did. If you get told you’re a sinner long enough then you start to believe it, and Patty was good at sinning. She lost the baby—unfortunate, but things happen—and the boy left her as soon as they reached the West Coast. She could have come back, probably, but she didn’t even call. Not until she had Marjorie.”

  Ms. Eva’s voice softened as she talked about her family. She wasn’t shaking anymore, and her steps were even more determined. There wasn’t a question in Luke’s mind. She was going to make it.

  “But it had been eight years. That didn’t matter to you?”

  “Of course it mattered, young man.” She sighed. “But I wasn’t about to turn away family. Marjorie was such a sweet baby. I found them the apartment in this building, you know? Patty used to run her upstairs, and I’d babysit while she went to work. It was nice.”

  Luke tried to reconcile the woman next to him with the description he’d been given: Mean as spit. It didn’t make sense. “Marjorie doesn’t visit you anymore?”

  “Marjorie has her own life, and I’m nobody’s burden.”

  Luke could smell fresh air now, but he could also feel the building shuddering under his feet. There was no time to wait on Ms. Eva’s tender sensibilities. He wrapped an arm around her waist and lifted her up, carrying her forward as he finished hurrying down the last two flights and racing out into the sunlight.

  Muscles burned. Pain flared from an old wound i
n his thigh. He didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow down, not until he could hand Ms. Eva directly over to the waiting EMTs. “Aunt Eva!” There was a lone cry from the crowd. Marjorie broke through, hair flying.

  “Don’t fuss,” Eva snapped. “I won’t have fuss, girl.” She sat on the edge of an ambulance, her back rigid as Marjorie threw her arms around her middle. “And I won’t have you pawing at me. If you’re going to be so effusive, you can stay here.”

  Marjorie ignored her great-aunt entirely, smiling at Luke instead. “Thank you so much for getting her.”

  “Just doing my duty.”

  “Thank you,” Marjorie said a second time, pulling herself up until she was seated less than a foot from her great-aunt. She reached out to pat Eva’s hand. “Thank you so much. You have no idea how much she means to me—” her cheeks flushed “—even if she does spend all her time criticizing my hair.”

  Eva sniffed. “I still don’t know why you cut it. What do you call that?”

  “A pixie cut. I’ve told you a hundred times.”

  “I’m too old to remember worthless information.”

  “That’s called senility.”

  The sniping didn’t end there. If anything the pace picked up as the paramedics bundled them into the ambulance. Ms. Eva was going to be fine, they promised Luke. He’d gotten her out in time, but she was old, and it was better to check her out at the hospital. The last glimpse he had of her before the vehicle pulled away involved a tongue-in-cheek comment about Marjorie’s dating life, but both of the women were smiling. They might not always like each other—they might even occasionally hurt each other—but they were still smiling.

  Two hours later he was still thinking about them at the firehouse. His hair was wet and clean. His clothes were fresh. He was eating a bowl of chili from the big pot that had materialized on their arrival. It was even edible, so maybe the captain had cooked.

  He pulled out his phone and texted Dante before he could change his mind: I’ve got class at six. You want to grab dinner afterward to talk about our next move on the investigation? There’s a ramen place in Greenwich Village that’s off the chain.

  He winced. Damn. Could he sound any more like a teenager? If he wanted Dante to see him as an adult then he needed to change his behavior. He needed to man up. No more fantasizing about kisses that never happened or men who didn’t want him. He needed to accept whatever relationship Dante was willing to give him and be happy with that.

  His fingers kept moving: No one says off the chain anymore. I regretted it as soon as I pressed send. Please forget you ever saw it. ;)

  There was a long pause then three blinking dots. When Dante’s message finally arrived it was short and to the point: Never forget.

  There was another pause and then: Send me the address. I’ll meet you there at eight.

  Chapter Eight

  The New York City ramen scene was hard-core, from five-star noodle bars to street-corner carts on wheels. Dante searched the address Luke sent him online before changing for the night. According to the reviews it was a hole in the wall with homemade noodles, chicken-based broth, and melt-in-the-mouth gyoza. Some hipsters with too much time on their hands had posted pictures. Everything looked absolutely freaking delicious.

  But it wasn’t particularly fancy.

  He pulled on a plain white T-shirt, worn jeans, and a pair of thick wool socks. His boots were gleaming black leather. A black crewneck sweatshirt finished off the look. No one could accuse him of dressing up. This wasn’t a date; it was just two friends going out for a bowl of noodles. Two brothers. The thought might gnaw at his entrails, but it was a truth he wouldn’t soon forget. They were family. Brothers. He’d never be entirely comfortable around Luke, not like he’d been as a kid before he started fantasizing about soft lips and smiling green eyes, but if he could get through this night, maybe they could build a new relationship on the ashes of the old.

  He just needed to make it through one dinner.

  Dinner, not a date.

  That didn’t stop him from arriving ten minutes early to secure a private booth in the back of the narrow dining room. He ordered a bottle of beer and a double gyoza for the table. “What kind?” the waitress asked.

  Dante blinked. “There are different kinds? I thought it was a type of dumpling.”

  “Sure, but we’ve got, like, six different kinds of filling.” The waitress flipped open the menu to point out a list on the back that included pork, shrimp, chicken, vegetarian, and a few more esoteric options.

  Dante didn’t know how he felt about mushroom dumplings. He frowned. “What’s the most popular?”

  “Most people order the pork. Personally, I’m a fan of the chicken.”

  “I’ll take an order of chicken and an order of pork.” He drummed his fingers against the table. “Do you have a recommendation on the ramen? Something easy to pronounce.” He flushed. “The guy who’s meeting me is a regular. I don’t want to look like an idiot.”

  “First date?”

  “It’s not a fucking date, I—”

  “Doesn’t matter.” She snapped her bubblegum. “Order the special. It’s got braised duck and pork belly. I can’t really explain, but it’s freaking magic.” She made a notation on her pad. “I’ll put you both down for the special. Your not-date will think you’re a freaking genius.”

  Dante wasn’t sure about that. The last time he’d gotten food for Luke without double-checking the order, it had been a milkshake on a hot summer day. Luke had been twelve years old, full of teen angst and sarcasm. “Vanilla,” he’d snorted. “Really? You think I’m that boring?”

  It was too late to turn back now. The waitress had already walked away. Hopefully, Luke had grown out of giving people the silent treatment, otherwise dinner could get awkward fast.

  He stretched his legs out under the table and retrieved his phone from his back pocket. No text messages. No new emails. He thumbed open the web browser and checked the news just in case they were in the middle of an alien invasion.

  “Let me guess.” Luke dropped into the seat across from him. “You finally signed up for online dating. Your Tinder account is blowing up.”

  “Over my dead and rotting body.” Dante dropped his phone back onto the table.

  “Graphic.” Luke opened the menu and peered inside. “You been here long?”

  Dante double-checked the time. He wasn’t the only one who’d shown up early. “Five minutes.” He flushed. “I put in our order already.”

  There was a long pause. Dante forced himself to look up into Luke’s eyes, using their color as a barometer for Luke’s mood. Grassy green. Everything was going to be okay, maybe.

  “I got you the special,” Dante said. “The waitress says it’s magic.”

  Luke flipped the menu closed and positioned it on the edge of the table. “She say what’s in it?”

  “Braised duck and pork belly.”

  “Sounds yummy.” Luke grinned. “What about a drink?”

  “I thought I’d leave that up to you.”

  His grin brightened. “Smart man.” He slung his messenger bag off his shoulder and hung it off the back of his chair. “Class was a pain in my tuchus. My teacher thinks I’m an idiot.”

  “Then he’s misinformed.” Dante picked his napkin up off the table and spread it across his lap. “You’re the one who taught me algebra, remember. I thought I was going to fail out.”

  “It wasn’t that hard.”

  “You were ten.” Dante smiled. “You taught me calculus too. I never would have graduated from college if it wasn’t for you. Fuck. I probably wouldn’t have made it out of high school.”

  “Right, like Dad would have a dropout for a son.”

  “We weren’t all gifted with superior genetics. Some of us actually have to work to learn that stuff.”

  “These days,
I have to work on it too.” Luke wasn’t smiling anymore. His eyes were threaded through with gray now.

  Shit. Dante’d screwed up. He reviewed the conversation in his head, but he couldn’t figure out where he’d gone wrong. He didn’t say anything else. No sense in shoving his foot further into his mouth. He’d been overly optimistic to think they were going to make it through dinner together. If they lasted ten minutes it would be a miracle. Was ten minutes enough to build an adult relationship on? Probably not, especially when he couldn’t help but imagine teasing Luke’s lips with his teeth, kissing that smile back onto his face.

  After a few minutes the waitress came back with their dumplings and Dante’s beer. She grinned at Luke. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  Luke ordered, then speared a dumpling. He popped it into his mouth, bit down, and let out a happy little moan. Two quick chews. He swallowed and grinned. “Good choices.”

  Heat flared up low in Dante’s belly. “Glad to know you approve.” He picked up his fork and snagged a dumpling of his own. Pork. He took a bite. Juices exploded in his mouth. The wrapper was delicate pastry, pan-seared. The meat was sweet and tangy with just the right blend of herbs. Delicious. “We’re going to need more of these. A lot more of these.”

  “Hell, yeah.” Luke’s eyes were back to a light mint green that matched his soft wool cardigan. The color was bright against his gleaming teak skin. It was completely hypnotic.

  Dante frowned. He couldn’t remember exactly what Luke had been wearing the night before—a thick Henley maybe?—but the cardigan was definitely new. “Did you go all the way back to Long Island to change?”

  “No. Between my shifts at the firehouse and class, sometimes I don’t get home for days. I’ve got stuff stashed all over the city: in my locker at the station, a couple of different dry cleaners, a friend’s place.”