The Men On Fire: A Complete Romance Series (3-Book Box Set)

by Samantha Christy

  God, I’m pathetic.

  “Okay. Now!” Lt. Franks shouts, motioning for us to check the victims while he stands back to make sure the blocks under the bumper can hold our weight.

  “We’ll have to access from the back,” Nolan says. “Grab the window punch.”

  I run back to the rig and get it, thinking it’s just our luck the rear window was the only window that didn’t shatter.

  Nolan climbs up into the trunk. “I can’t see any backseat passengers. We’re clear to break the glass.”

  Once the glass is gone, he squeezes into the back seat and assesses the victims, then comes back out.

  “The driver’s in bad shape—I can barely feel a pulse. I don’t see how we can get either one out through the back, because the sides are smashed in, pinning them to their seats. We need to try and turn the vehicle to access from the driver’s side.”

  “Can’t we just winch it back completely and pull it off the edge?” I ask.

  The lieutenant shakes his head. “It’s in there pretty good, and if we pull it back, we risk rupturing the fuel line. It’s stabilized where it is. Let’s try and pivot around to the right, enough to get access to the driver.”

  “What about the passenger?” I ask.

  “Possible head injury,” Nolan says. “Can’t get a good look at her. Get in there with a collar and keep her covered while we cut the driver out.”

  I look back at the paramedics. “Shouldn’t they be the ones to do this?”

  “Get your head out of your ass, Andrews,” he says. “Paramedics aren’t trained for this shit. Get your ass in there and try not to fucking puke on someone.”

  I grab a blanket and a collar and take a few deep breaths before I crawl through the back window, shaking the entire time.

  I take one look at the driver, whose head is mangled and twisted in my direction, and I get the feeling they’re doing a recovery, not a rescue. But we can’t be sure, and we have to rescue the most critical case first. I hold back the bile rising in my throat and focus my attention on the passenger. I can’t fully see her because I’m behind her, but she’s still screaming.

  “Miss, I’m here.”

  Her hand comes up, flailing around as if to try and grab on to me. I offer her my hand. She holds on to it like she thinks she’s about to topple over the side of the bridge.

  “It’s okay,” I tell her. “We’ve secured the car. You’re not going over. Please don’t move your head.”

  I try to take my hand back so I can slip the collar around her neck, but she won’t let go.

  “Miss, I need my hand for just a second. I have to put a cervical collar on you to protect your neck.”

  She still won’t let go.

  “I promise to give you my hand back. Please let me help you. I need to keep your neck stable.”

  I feel her hand reluctantly release mine and I quickly slip the collar behind her head and secure it. Then I keep my promise and put my hand back in hers.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  She’s squirming around, trying to free herself.

  “Can you move your legs?”

  “I—I think so.”

  “Good. That’s good.”

  “Oh, my God!” she screams bloody murder when the car shifts sideways.

  “It’s okay,” I tell her. “They have to move the car a bit to get to your friend.”

  “Friend?”

  “What’s her name?” I ask.

  “I … I … What happened?”

  “You’ve been in a car accident. It’s okay. We’re going to get you out, but we need to help your friend first.”

  The woman is silent and her head slumps to the side as much as it can with the collar on. I think she’s passing out.

  “Miss. Miss. You have to stay awake.”

  I reach my other hand over the passenger seat and put down the visor so I can see her face in the mirror. I angle the mirror so she can see my eyes.

  “Miss, stay with me. Look at me.”

  Her eyes find mine, but they’re glassy. She’s in a daze. I momentarily avert my eyes from hers to see that she has a substantial head injury. She’s got a long laceration on the right side of her head where the car buckled in on her. My guess is that she’s got other major injuries like broken hips and legs, based on the fact that the side of the car has her squished in like a sardine.

  I press my hand against her scalp to try to stop the bleeding, and when I do, I feel her head pulsating. I’m no paramedic, but that can’t be good.

  “Can you tell me your name?”

  She finds my eyes in the mirror and all I can see is my mother looking back at me.

  “Sara,” she says with a weak and shaky voice. “Sara Francis.”

  I turn my head and vomit all over the back seat of the car.

  Chapter Two

  The guys outside tell me they’re going to cut steel, so I remove my hand from hers just long enough to cover us both with the blanket.

  “You’re going to hear a loud noise, Sara. Don’t be scared. It will only last a minute. I’m here and I won’t let go.”

  She squeezes my hand when she hears the saw power up. Then her hand goes limp in mine right before she starts shaking. I think she’s crying, but then I realize she’s convulsing when I feel her tense up and lash against the headrest. I try to yell to the guys, but the saw is too loud. And by the time the saw cuts out, her seizure is over and I work my fingers under her collar to feel for her pulse.

  “Lieutenant!” I yell over my shoulder after shrugging the blanket off. “She had a seizure. Thirty seconds. Pulse is getting weak and thready.”

  “Try to keep her talking if you can,” he says. “We’re having trouble extracting the driver. It’s taking longer than we thought.”

  The car shifts violently, and there’s some commotion outside. For a moment, I wonder if the chain snapped or the blocks failed and maybe we’re about to plummet over the edge. And suddenly, I know what it feels like to know you’re about to die.

  I squeeze her hand harder, knowing neither of us should be alone if we go over.

  Then the car jerks back. They’ve secured it again and are working feverishly to get to the driver.

  I try to ignore my fear as I look at Sara again. “Sara? Are you with me?”

  She looks at me in the mirror but doesn’t say anything. I get the idea that maybe she can’t speak, even though she could just a minute ago. I try to put more pressure on her wound.

  “I’m right here. Keep looking at me.”

  Her eyes look desperate—more desperate than I’ve ever seen anyone look—and I wonder if she thinks she’s going to die. Maybe she even knows she is.

  Her eyes start to close. I try to think of anything to say to keep her attention.

  “Sara, open your eyes.” They flutter open. “You have to stay strong. I can tell you are strong. Do you know how I know that? Because your last name is Francis and the strongest woman I’ve ever known was named Francis. She was larger than life. Loving and kind, yet she was a force to be reckoned with. She was run ragged by her unruly twins, but she never let it get to her. She loved them and her husband fiercely. I can see those same qualities in your eyes, Sara. You are fierce and strong, but also kind. You have so much you want to accomplish that you haven’t done yet.”

  Her eyes close again. “Sara … Sara, open your eyes.”

  She opens them and wrinkles her nose in disgust.

  “I know it smells bad in here. That’s my fault. I guess I have a weak stomach. You want to hear a funny story? When I was growing up, I was really good at baseball. I played on my school team as well as a travel team. Every coach wanted Denver Andrews to play for them. But I threw up a lot. Like at every game. Sometimes more than once. I would get so nervous when I went up to bat that before I walked up to the plate, I would duck behind the dugout and vomit out of sheer stress. Then I would hit doubles, triples, and even home runs.

  “Sara, keep your eyes on me.
That’s right. Look at me.

  “Anyway, maybe that’s why I got sick tonight,” I lie. “I was nervous. I’m still new at this. I just graduated from the fire academy two months ago. But don’t let that scare you. I’m good at what I do.” I look over my shoulder at Nolan, who is still working to get her friend out. “Not everyone believes that. But I’m hoping I can prove them wrong. Help me prove them wrong, Sara. Stay with me.”

  “She’s free,” Nolan says of the friend before crawling into the driver’s seat so he can get a better view of Sara. While assessing her, he gets a whiff of my accident-scene contribution. He looks over into the back seat and eyes the puddle of vomit. “Jesus, Andrews.”

  He cuts Sara free of her seatbelt and is able to jimmy her out of the seat and onto a backboard just as she starts to convulse again.

  I back myself out of the rear window and watch as the police put a blanket over the head of Sara’s friend. Then I run over to the ambulance where they’re loading Sara. “Is she going to be okay?”

  “Hard to say,” the paramedic says. “She hasn’t regained consciousness after the seizure. Looks like a brain injury for sure. Only time will tell.”

  I nod, wondering if anything I did even did any good. She looks dead, but unlike her friend, she’s not covered up yet, so I guess there’s still hope.

  God, I hope the last thing that woman ever hears is not my story of vomit. What was I thinking?

  I watch the ambulance drive away, weaving through traffic with its lights and sirens on.

  Lt. Franks comes up behind me and puts a hand on my shoulder. “We can’t save them all, Andrews.”

  My shoulders slump. “You don’t think she’ll make it?”

  “Miracles happen every day. Come on, let’s clean up and let NYPD do their job.”

  Miracle. He thinks it will take a miracle to save her? She was moving. And she was talking. But my EMS training has me understanding that with head injuries, they get worse before they get better. The blood. The swelling. The seizures.

  Then I remember that a miracle didn’t save my parents. Why should Sara be so lucky?

  On our way back to the station, Nolan decides to get into it with me.

  “You had one job to do, rookie,” he says. “Not to puke on the scene. You couldn’t even do that right, could you?”

  I feel a vein in my forehead throb. “My job?” I say forcefully. “My job was to assess the victim and keep her calm until she could be rescued. I did my fucking job.”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  “Nolan,” the lieutenant warns from the front seat.

  “What? He’s a wuss, Lieutenant,” Geoff says. “He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be anywhere in FDNY.”

  “Don’t be such a prick, Nolan,” Lt. Franks says. “The kid is right. He did his job. Give it a rest, why don’t you?”

  Nolan shakes his head, looking at me in disgust. I turn and gaze out the window, trying not to think that I just might have been the last person ever to talk to Sara Francis.

  Then I pull out my phone and text Bass, knowing he’s about to get off shift too.

  Me: Drinks at Donny’s Bar?

  Bass: Meet you there in an hour.

  ~ ~ ~

  The waitress puts a tray of shots in front of us as soon as I sit down across from Bass. I question him with my eyes.

  “Figured you’d need these,” he says.

  “Why is that?”

  “Because the only time you want to meet for drinks right after work is when you’ve had a bad shift.”

  I lower my head in realization. “Damn. I do that, don’t I? I was wondering why you agreed so quickly. Don’t you have a wife and kid to get home to?”

  “I do. But at the moment, this seemed more important.”

  I throw back a shot.

  “I hate being on detail,” I say.

  “What’s to hate?” he asks. “Unlike most rookies, you never have to cook or do scut work. As far as the firehouses are concerned, you’re a guest. Most guys would kill for that.”

  I laugh at his attempt to sugarcoat it. Then I take another shot. “That’s crap and you know it. I don’t give a shit about cooking and cleaning. Hell, I want to do that stuff. What I wouldn’t give to be treated like a regular probie and not some leper. Being on detail and floating from one company to the next isn’t what I want to do. I want to be part of the family. The brotherhood. But it just feels like I’m the unwanted step-child or something.”

  He nods his head in sympathy. He knows exactly why I haven’t been offered any permanent position yet. Everybody does. There isn’t much he can say that I don’t already know.

  He throws back a shot of his own and then pushes the rest of them over to me. “Want to tell me why we’re really here?”

  I stare at his empty shot glass for a minute.

  “Do you remember the car accident right after Aspen’s wedding?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, the one I just came from was far worse.”

  He lets out a long sigh. Being Aspen’s best friend, he knows the whole story of how our parents died.

  “I’m sorry, man.”

  In between shots, I tell him the whole story, right down to my puking in the back seat. “I just don’t want to believe that I was the last person she ever got to see or hear.”

  “So don’t believe it. Go to Med and check on her.”

  My eyes snap to his. “Go to Med? I thought we weren’t supposed to do that.”

  “Come on, you know as well as I do that it happens.” He gets out his phone and makes a call. “Debbe, can you do me a solid and check on the status of a patient brought to Med earlier today by …” He looks at me with raised eyebrows.

  “Forty-five,” I tell him.

  “Bus 45,” he says. “Name’s Sara Francis.” He nods, listening into the phone. “Okay, thanks, Debbe.” He puts his phone down. “She’s on it.”

  “Have you ever done that?” I ask. “Checked on a rescue?”

  “I think we all have at one time or another. Usually, I only do it when kids are involved. But a few months ago, there was a guy pinned under a piling down on the dock. His legs were broken and his chest was crushed. The water was rising and he thought he was going to die. I thought he was going to die. He told me all the things he didn’t get to do, like propose to his long-time girlfriend. They were childhood friends and high school sweethearts. He made me promise to find her and tell her about the ring he kept in his locker at the gym. For two hours, I had to talk the guy through his panic. He was unconscious when we finally got him free.”

  “So what happened? Did he live? Did he propose?”

  He nods. “Last I heard, he’s still in a wheelchair and going through physical therapy. I got a wedding invitation in the mail two weeks ago.”

  “So, you think I should check on her?”

  “If it will give you closure—yes.”

  “But what if she’s dead?”

  “I don’t know. Are you prepared to find that out?”

  “Maybe you should have asked me that before you called Debbe.”

  He laughs. “Yeah, maybe I should have.” He looks down at his vibrating phone. “Speak of the devil.”

  He answers the call. His face gives nothing away as he listens. He thanks her and puts down the phone. “So, do you want to hear about her or not?”

  I close my eyes briefly and nod.

  “She’s not at Med. They had to transfer her to the level one trauma center in Midtown.”

  “So, she’s alive.”

  “Barely.”

  “Do you think they would let me see her?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “But HIPAA.”

  “You rescued her, Denver. They’ll let you see her.”

  I push the tray of drinks away from me and throw some money on the table.

  “Now?” He looks at me, surprised.

  “I—I have to.”

  He puts a hand on my arm before I walk awa
y. “She’s not them.”

  “I know. I still have to.”

  Chapter Three

  I shove a stick of gum in my mouth to cover up the smell of alcohol on my breath as I walk through the emergency bay doors. I purposefully kept my FDNY shirt on so I would look more official. I walk up to the admit station.

  “Hi, I’m here to check on a patient.”

  The nurse looks up from her computer. “Are you family?”

  I shake my head. “No. I’m one of the firefighters who rescued her.”

  She eyes my t-shirt, obviously contemplating her next move. Then her eyes move to my arms and up to my face. She’s appraising me. Not like a nurse. More like a woman looking at a picture from a dating website. “Name?” she asks.

  “Denver Andrews.”

  She types on her keyboard. Then she bats her eyelashes at me. “There isn’t anyone here by that name.”

  I roll my eyes at my stupidity. “Sorry, it’s Sara Francis. My name is Denver Andrews.”

  “Well, Denver Andrews, I’m Nora Goodwin. Let’s have a look, shall we?” She keeps glancing at me as she tries to locate Sara in the system. “She’s been moved to the ICU. Let me see if I can get someone out here. Give me a second.”

  She gets up from her desk and walks away, looking over her shoulder at me to see if I’m watching her leave. I am. But not for the reasons she might think. Getting into someone’s pants right now is the last thing on my mind.

  A minute later, Nora returns with a doctor in tow. He offers me his hand. “Dr. Kyle Stone,” he says. “I was here when Ms. Francis was brought over from Med.”

  I shake his hand. “Denver Andrews. Nice to meet you.”

  “This way,” he says, inviting me into the back hallway.

  “Catch you later, Denver Andrews,” Nora says as we turn the corner.

  Dr. Stone studies me. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”