by Selena Scott
He swung into his place between Russ and Carla. Ted, from his seat in front, hollered back at them.
“Looks like we got a pileup on the highway! Only about ten cars now, and highway patrol is marking it off, trying to redirect people.”
Maxim didn’t respond to the news. Not outwardly or inwardly. As first responders, they got all sorts of calls. And there was no reason to get his panties in a twist until they knew what they were really dealing with.
He’d run into burning buildings, fought forest fires at the edge of the suburbs, done CPR on people who’d overdosed, sawed a fence out from around a kid’s pudgy leg, you name it. Jacks of all trades. Firefighters deserved a hundred different names.
They were the second rig at the scene when they arrived. There was a semi truck on its side at the head of the crash, the furniture it had been hauling spread out like ship wreckage at the bottom of the ocean. Other, smaller cars, obviously unable to avoid the wreck, had either slid off onto the side of the road or piled up into one another.
The spring air was strangely light, delightfully cool, and charged with the fear and panic and pain of the people trapped in the cars. They could hear the sounds of the opposite side of the highway, whipping past on the other side of the wall. People yelled for help from the cars and firefighters from the other crew shouted instructions to one another. He could smell gasoline on the air. Not good.
Maxim and the rest of his crew hopped down from their rig, Ted immediately dividing up duties. Carla and Maxim raced to a bright red Impala, completely turtled and halfway down a ravine on the side of the road. The wheels were up and twisted at an angle.
Maxim braced his hand on the grassy bank and executed a controlled slide down to the passenger side. He thanked God that the car had tipped to one side so that the driver's side door was tilted up. If it wasn't locked, he'd be able to yank it free. The window was smashed into a cobweb of cracks, rendering it completely opaque. He could hear a woman's voice inside. But she wasn't calling for help; she seemed to be patiently, calmly talking.
"Miss! I’m opening your door now. Try to pull away from it if you can!" Maxim planted his feet and yanked open the door. It came open smoothly. And revealed a swing of turquoise hair. He allowed himself less than one second of momentary shocked surprise as he looked at her, belted upside down in the driver's seat. Her hair tumbled down toward the ground.
Forcing away the thoughts of who she was personally, Maxim went right back into firefighter mode. This was a civilian and she was in extreme danger right now. His heart clanged against his ribs, pumping him full of the adrenaline he would need to get both of them through this.
The smell of gasoline intensified. He'd have to cut her out.
"No!" she screamed, clawing at him. "My son first. Please! My son first!" Maxim stepped back from her in confusion before rushing to the seat behind her. He wrenched that one open, too, and saw a little boy, maybe three or four years old, belted into a kid seat in the back. Lucky for both of them, it was one of the good ones. The kind of car seat that firefighters referred to as an orphan maker, because the kids in these seats were usually the only ones in the family who survived crashes like this.
"I got her, boss!" Clara yelled, instantly moving forward to start cutting his mermaid out of the front seat.
"My son!" she screamed one more time. "Linc! Baby, it's okay. It's okay, baby."
Maxim drowned her out as the smell of gasoline seemed to bloom around them. He needed all of his concentration and he needed it now.
He was dimly aware of Clara dragging the woman away from the scene. She really didn't want to come without her son. He could hear her screams but he forced them to be impersonal. Just another sound that you'd hear at a site like this. He couldn't afford to let them claw at his heart the way they tried to.
He focused his attention on carefully cutting the straps holding up the little boy, then pulling him down while supporting his neck and back. Maxim used one of his own massive arms as an impromptu backboard for the little boy. He dragged him backwards out of the car, tugging against some sharp section of the car that tangled itself up in his gear. But then they were free and up the ravine toward the flashing lights of a newly-arrived ambulance.
"Linc!" the woman screamed again, clawing at Carla's arm and kicking to get to her son.
Linc.
Maxim looked down at the little boy in his arms and saw the woman's round features there. Pudgy cheeks, dark hair. And - thank Jesus - a little rising chest. He wore a Wonder Woman shirt and jean shorts with elastic around the waist.
Maxim clamped down on the tender, burning feeling that flung itself against the bars of his ribcage. He clomped the rest of the way up the grassy hill, legging for the ambulance.
He shouted information to the EMT who took the boy and laid him on a stretcher. Linc curled to one side, squeezed his eyes shut and moaned. Just one, weak, little cry. But it was enough to have Maxim gasping in relief.
The EMTs began wheeling the stretcher up into the back of the ambulance and Maxim lost his balance for a second as a turquoise blur pushed past him, knocking him to one side. He watched while his mermaid tore into the back of the ambulance.
"That's my kid!" she shouted, stopping only when the EMT held her back. "That's my baby. My Linc." Her voice was intense, but somehow steady. Tears were not even on the horizon.
"She's slippery, that one," Clara said, coming to stand by Maxim and wiping her brow. "I couldn't keep a hold of her."
Maxim grunted, watching his mermaid take a seat next to her son's stretcher and agree to get buckled in.
"Jesus, Max!" Clara yelped suddenly. "Your shoulder is all torn up!"
Maxim looked down at his arm, and sure enough, a long, deep gash was steadily leaking warm blood all over his fireman's gear.
"Shit," he growled, more annoyed than hurt. He felt a tickle that had him looking up, had his eyes locking with his mermaid's who couldn't seem to tear her eyes away from him. Her gaze fell to his shoulder before the ambulance doors were slammed shut and it pulled away.
CHAPTER TWO
Ivy curled like a cat at the foot of her boy's bed. They'd given up telling her to give him space and besides, the tiny little nugget only took up the top two feet anyways. She'd slept, she supposed, because there were parts of the last 15 hours that she couldn't quite remember, but she sure hadn't rested.
Her heart banged in her chest even now as she replayed the accident in her head over and over again. The noise. Jesus, the noise of it. And then the awful weightlessness of the car coming up through the air, spiraling off the road like a tinker toy. And the crunching slide into the grass that had sounded so much like bones breaking that even now, Ivy couldn't believe neither of them were wearing casts.
And then the silence. The horrible silence. She would have slit her throat to have been able to hear Linc crying in that moment. Screaming. Anything.
But he'd been silent and limp in the backseat and she'd been completely unable to get to him. Strapped into the front seat, upside down and dazed as hell. Even the adrenaline from the crash hadn't been enough. All she'd been able to do was grit her teeth, breathe deeply and try to talk calmly to her son, in case some part of him could hear her.
The policeman who came to talk with her in the night said they were only trapped in the car for seven or eight minutes by their calculations. But if you'd asked her, it had been more like seven or eight hours.
And then the firefighters had gotten there and everything had gone into super hyperspeed. She'd been so confused. So disoriented to see HIM there.
Him. The giant she'd hooked up with when she'd come solo to Spokane six months ago. Mr. Best Sex of her LIFE. Number one with a bullet. Secretly, she'd hoped that his gorgeous body, his heart-twisting face would be one of the last things she'd ever see before she died. That the universe would take mercy on her and show her a quick reel of those breathless sweaty moments that she'd stolen with him.
But then he was there,
in real life. In a firefighter uniform. Trying to save her life. Confusing to say the least. Ivy shivered against the hospital-issued blanket at the foot of her son's bed as she relived the moment she had looked back down the ravine. Saw him carrying Linc up toward the ambulance.
That moment did something to her. It felt like her stomach and her heart had switched places. Like someone had replaced her blood with ice water.
Linc was fine. A small concussion. He'd been awake, alert, and passed all the tests he'd needed to yesterday. Thank the good, frickin’, dancing, singing baby Jesus. They wanted to keep him overnight for observation. Which suited Ivy just fine. Just as long as he kept a lid on things and she didn't find herself having to explain his condition to anybody...
A slurping noise had her eyes snapping open. It was about five in the morning by her count and still dark outside the hospital windows.
Her head whipped up and caught the dim outline of her son snacking on a popsicle.
"Hey, baby.” She stretched and slid off the bed and to his side. "You're awake so early."
She fell gently onto him. Kissing his sweet, precious face. There he was, squinting his eyes at her and smelling, inexplicably, like a box of tissues. The way he always had since the day he was born.
Tears stabbed her eyes. Sharp needles of relief and release.
The weightless roll. The crunch. The silence. Still as a doll in a firefighter's arms.
She hugged him again.
"Mama, you're crushing my popsicle."
Indeed, she'd pressed the popsicle between their two cheeks, the cold spear of it a shocking reminder that they were both there, alive.
She laughed a watery little chuckle and leaned back, crouching next to him. "Where the heck did you get a popsicle at 5 in the morning, ace?"
"The firefighter gave it to me when you were sleeping. He said I shouldn't wake you up."
Ivy's blood moved slowly in her veins. Cold and hot all at once. She eyed the mostly frozen state of the popsicle. "He must have just been here, huh?"
"Yeah," Linc lapped happily at the melting treat. "I told him about my concussion. He got hurt, too."
Ivy pursed her lips. Fear and trepidation and remorse all rolled into a tight little ball in her stomach.
"Oh, yeah?" As the ambulance had pulled away, she'd seen how torn his shoulder was. She had no doubt that was gonna need some recovery time. Maybe even surgery.
Well, that was his job. She sniffed. Felt disgusted for being ungrateful. And she wasn't, really. She was deeply grateful.
The reflectors on his boots as he tromped up the hill. Her son wrapped in his giant arms.
She just didn't want to owe anybody anything. She couldn't afford to owe anybody anything. Not when she and Linc needed to keep to themselves as much as they could. At least until she figured out how to deal with Linc's condition. At this point, everybody had to be treated as a potential enemy.
It was just really hard to think of the man who'd saved Linc's life as an enemy.
Not to mention that he was the same man who'd skied her right over the edge of orgasm Everest. Jesus. She'd had aftershocks for days.
Ivy shook her head at herself. She didn't like that this guy knew which room they were in. And he probably knew their names by now. She needed to get out of plain sight. Out of the hospital and someplace where she could gather her thoughts in private. She needed to get back to the little house she was renting out on the edge of the woods.
She and Linc could recover there. Take a breath and try to figure out what to do next.
Feeling resolved, Ivy went and got their checkout process started.
It didn't take more than eight hours in the peaceful safety of their home for Ivy to realize that her conscience was never gonna let her get away without thanking him.
She'd barely had it in her to sneak out of his house that one night. And this was way, way worse than that. Gone without a trace again. And not even a thank you for saving her son's life. Ivy tossed and turned in her bed that night. Getting up damn near twenty times to check on her son. The next morning as she rose with the sun, Ivy decided to face facts.
She couldn't afford to make ties or connections in Spokane. Not with Linc's condition. But she also couldn't live with herself if she didn't thank this guy.
So she was just gonna have to do it without any messiness. A quick, heartfelt thank you and then they jet. No muss. No fuss.
Problem solved.
Ivy chewed her lip as she dragged herself out of bed. She didn't need to bother with getting all dolled up. Not that she usually did anyways. But she wasn't trying to entice this guy. She was trying to say thank you and then move on.
She braided her hair demurely down her back. Well, as demure as bright turquoise hair could ever be.
She slid into some mom jeans and a t-shirt and slid a cardigan over top. There. Her face looked tired, but that was just fine. It would be easier if he was repelled by her. Well, maybe just a touch of mascara...
"Mama!" The sticky, barefooted slap of Linc's little feet preceded him down her hallway. He was usually a very late sleeper, but the concussion had given him a headache that had woken him early the last two days.
"In here, ace!" she called, slathering toothpaste on her toothbrush.
"You're not in your pajamas," he said from the doorway, his face scrunched up like a little raisin. He'd shed the bottoms of his PJs at some point in the night so his Wonder Woman t-shirt matched his Wonder Woman underwear. He held his stuffed turtle, Staples, under one arm.
Ivy shook her head against the swelling of feeling in her chest. Her little guy. Her little, sweet, perma-sweaty baby. Jesus.
Her resolve hardened even further. Karma-wise, it would be really bad not to sincerely thank this firefighter for what he'd done. Because she was really, really thankful.
Linc crossed behind her and smacked up the toilet seat with all the finesse of Godzilla. Still clutching Staples under one arm, he started peeing. Ivy was extremely relieved to see that he'd apparently been working on his aim.
"We going somewhere?" he asked, eyeing her day clothes suspiciously. Generally speaking, they were pajama people.
"Yup." She spat her toothpaste in the sink and rinsed out her mouth. She waited until he was done peeing because she knew how excited he was going to be. "We're gonna go see the fireman who helped us."
"What!" Linc hopped up and down, furiously trying to pull up his undies at the same time. "At the firehouse? Please say at the firehouse!"
"Hands," she reminded him, sliding over his stool so that he could wash up in the sink. She hadn't thought of that. There was no way he'd be back at the firehouse already. Not with an injury like that.
Ivy chewed her lip. She did know where he lived. But showing up there seemed way too intimate. A line she did not want to cross. Suddenly, a loophole to her guilt-driven plan opened up like a light into the heavens. "Well, we'll go buy a present for him. To say thank you. And then you get to choose. We can either go see him, OR we can go see the firehouse and drop it off. Because he's not gonna be at the firehouse until his shoulder gets better."
Ivy bit back her smug smile; she'd beat her way around the bush, alright. She was gonna get to dodge the bullet, leave some kind of thank you basket and a nice note, do her due diligence, and not have to see this guy. And she could blame it all on her son wanting to see a firehouse. Perfecto.
"Him," Linc said without a second's hesitation. "I wanna go see him instead."
"What?" Ivy gaped at him. "You don't wanna see the firehouse?"
Linc pursed his face, considering for a second. "Nah. I've seen them on TV before." He galloped out of the bathroom, bare feet on the floor. "I'll change, Mama!"
Ivy stared at her own shell-shocked expression in the mirror. Her world had gone upside down in that car crash. And she wasn't convinced it had gone right side up again.
***
The woman slipped out of bed and immediately tugged a brush through her short blonde hair
.
"He'll have us killed, you know," she said to her lover in their native tongue. "I expect it any day."
"If he kills us then he won't ever get what he wants," the man replied lazily, smoking a cigarette and staring out at the gray sky beyond the window. “He’s too selfish for that.”
The woman, sick of the same argument, sick of her lover’s unruffled feathers, flung the hairbrush across the room, splintering a mirror into a spiderweb of cracks. "And what exactly is that?" she shrieked. "What is it that he wants?"
The man raised an eyebrow at her, unimpressed with her tantrum. "Overall? He wants the same thing he wanted when he started Navuka. He wants an army of shifters at his disposal. He wants ultimate protection from Russia. But more importantly, from his own people."
She stalked over to the desk in the small, dingy room they'd been reduced to. She remembered back home, when they'd been in the life president's good graces, the silks, the plush carpets, the china glasses. And now she was drinking out of plastic cups and smoking pasteurized cigarettes. It was all so disgustingly American.
"We've given him that, Sergei. You know this. We've created an army for him. What more could he want from us? Why won't he let us come home?"
The man ashed his cigarette and turned the full force of his gaze on the woman. She was asking questions she already knew the answer to and it annoyed him deeply. She insisted on ramming her head against the same wall over and over again.
"He wants to destroy the idiot reporter who tried to destroy Navuka," he spoke to the woman as if she were a child. "He wants the tigers back. They were rare jewels and good fighters, if not a little too strong-willed to be completely trained." Now he rose from the bed, aroused, despite the dull ache of disgust he felt for the woman, or perhaps because of it. He trailed a hand along her shoulder. Dropped his face to her neck. "And most of all, he wants what we want. He wants our pet back, our ultimate creation, our weapon. He wants Anton Malashovik."
