She spins away and storms off, those sleep shorts riding up to reveal the perfect curves of her ass.
“Sweet dreams,” I call out.
She flashes me her middle finger.
I’m up before dawn like usual, but I decide not to pick up where I left off removing the old dock planks. Even if getting Meg out of bed in those pajamas would be worth enduring another one of her tirades.
Instead, I grind through a workout in my home gym, making sure to fit in time for my rotator cuff rehab exercises, then leave Greta a note goodbye. Though she’s long past needing me to check on her, I’ll call her later, before Kelly picks her up for gymnastics camp. I won’t see her for a few days, and it’s already eating at me. The court-mandated family shrink we saw during the divorce process was quick to label this anxiety. Like I didn’t already have that figured out.
When you have a past like mine, attachments don’t work the way they do for normal people. When Greta was born, my love for her hit me like a tidal wave—all-consuming and unstoppable—but it brought on a whole new level of fear. Most people will never understand it.
At the station, Clearwater Fire’s battalion chief’s SUV is parked near the entrance. I inhale a full breath, hold it, then let it out.
That’s Vance’s rig.
After what happened with Kelly, it was obvious we couldn’t work together, and the crews were split. So they offered Vance a lateral with Clearwater. It still burns that he got a promotion out of the deal. But at least it means we rarely cross paths.
No such luck today. Must be their quarterly meeting.
I sling my gear bag over my shoulder and hurry into the first open bay door, past the crash truck and the engine. Inside the station, it’s noisy with the usual shift-change chatter and the occasional shout or burst of laughter.
I slip into the hallway, my boots heavy on the concrete, and head for the stairs. Before I can get there, Vance and his lieutenant swing out of the chief’s office. Vance and I lock eyes for an instant, and the air chills. Conversations die, or maybe I stop hearing them, because when I look at his smug expression, blood rushes so fast in my ears it’s like storm waves crashing inside my skull.
Breathe.
I force in an inhale and keep walking, giving Vance plenty of space, but somehow he still manages to tap into my shoulder as we pass.
“Sorry, bro.”
Bro? Vance used to be my best friend. Until I caught him fucking my wife.
I glare at him while every cell in my body surges with cold fury. Nobody gets in my space. Especially not him.
Breathe.
I keep walking. Vance and the lieutenant exit through the main door, and the noise around me kicks back up, like someone’s turning up the volume.
Halfway up the stairs, Scotty falls in next to me, “Asshole.”His gaze flicks to mine. “He failed his Officer Three exam, if that makes you feel any better.”
I shrug. The only thing that would make me feel better would be to break a couple of Vance’s ribs, maybe rearrange his face. But I don’t trust myself to stop, and I won’t give Kelly fuel to steal any more of my time with Greta.
After muster, we clean the station, wash and inspect the rigs, then the crews run a full morning of drills. The camaraderie and the focus required to complete the work is a welcome distraction.
The tones go off just as my crew is sitting down to lunch. Food abandoned, we hustle to the pole hole and slide down to the truck bay. I’m on the crash truck today, along with Scotty and our driver-operator Rob Hickman. I jump into turnouts and grab the rest of my gear and climb in. Sirens wailing, we pull out of the station behind the engine.
It’s an MVA on the highway, south of town. Evergreen Medical Center’s medic rig pulls in just after us, and Everett and the new guy, Troy Roberts, are already here, diverting traffic with their whistles and reflective gloves.
Looks like one car in the ditch, several parked on the shoulder, and one compact SUV with a smashed front end resting at an angle right side up.
From the radio chatter I already know my crew is assigned the SUV, so as soon as Hickman parks, I jump down. Scotty meets me on the way.
Inside the SUV is a nineteen-year-old kid. The airbags have deflated and he’s still locked down tight by his seatbelt. The entire dash has smashed in close. I glance into the well where his legs are pinned by the metal.
Shit.
Hutch and his partner hurry over and quickly take control of patient care while we get ready to extract the kid from the broken car. The engine crew deploys hose and, with the tow truckdriver’s help, dumps kitty litter to soak up the spilled fuel on the road.
The extraction takes over an hour, but the kid gets loaded onto a backboard and carted off in one piece. From overhearing Hutch’s assessment, I know he’s got a broken femur but good circulation to his extremities. A broken femur is no fun, but if he’s clear of spinal trauma, he’ll heal.
