by Lara Adrian
Scott’s entire body was tense, the muscles in his neck rigid, his jaw clenched. The thought that he might be too late made him turn the handle even harder, sending more gas into the engine to make the Ducati go even faster. If the police caught him now, it wouldn’t matter. In a few seconds he’d be at the railroad crossing, and once they saw what was happening, they wouldn’t stop him.
“Come on,” he ground out and saw the yellow vehicle in the distance now as he cleared a slight hump in the road.
The street was almost deserted. No other cars waited at this side of the railroad crossing, the gates of which had already lowered. The bus blocked his view of the street on the other side of the crossing, making it impossible to see if there was anybody else on whose help he could count.
Just before the gates, Scott skidded to a halt, jumped off the bike, killed the engine and with the same movement, pulled the kickstand up. He didn’t bother taking his helmet off. There was no time for it.
Running between the middle of the gates, he charged toward the bus, pulling the wrench from the inside of his leather jacket and gripping it tightly with his gloved hand. When he reached the passenger door of the bus, he saw several kids kicking against the glass from the inside. Screams accompanied their fruitless efforts. Safety glass didn’t break that easily.
“Get away from the door!” he screamed, but realized they didn’t hear him.
He lifted his visor and tried again. “Away from the door!” He slapped his hand against the door and lifted the arm holding the wrench.
The kids finally looked at him and seemed to understand.
“Step back! Cover your eyes!”
The moment the kids had backed away from the door, he lowered his visor again and hit the glass panel with his wrench. The glass of the left panel shattered. Then he did the same with the right panel, until it too shattered. He gripped the frame and pulled it toward him to open at least one side of the door. He jerked it open with sheer force and willpower. He tried to do the same with the right side, but it was stuck and didn’t move an inch. The opening he’d created was narrow, but it would have to do. The kids would be able to squeeze through.
“Now all out!” he commanded, throwing a glance over his shoulder. In the distance there was a movement: the train.
“Quickly!” he screamed and reached for the first child, lifting the girl down. “Run to the side of the gates! Run!”
One child after the next he helped out of the train, while he continued to urge them to hurry. “Quickly! Faster! Get to the other side! Run, damn it!”
The kids were crying and screaming. He couldn’t avoid them cutting themselves on the glass shards as they tried to brace themselves while exiting the bus, but a few cuts and bruises were better than the alternative getting closer with each passing second.
In the distance he heard sirens approaching. Somebody had called 9-1-1. But they wouldn’t be here in time to help with the evacuation. Despite his helmet, he heard the radio from the bus. Stevie Nicks was still singing, but he was familiar with the song, and knew it was coming to an end. And once the radio announcers were speaking, Scott knew he only had a few more seconds until the train would smash into the bus.
“How many more?” he yelled.
“Three!” came the panicked voice of an adult. The teacher.
“Quickly!” Scott dragged the next child out of the train and shoved the girl in the direction of the gate. The next boy almost fell out of the bus, stumbling over his own feet. He righted him, making sure he had found his feet again, before reaching for the last one.
“Run!” he commanded, his voice hoarse now, his heart beating like the locomotive that was fast approaching.
Scott recognized the song reaching its last chords. “Shit!”
A young woman appeared on the top step, hurrying down. She turned sideways to squeeze through the narrow opening, and he reached for her and pulled, but met with resistance. His gaze flew to her face. Her eyes went wide in horror as she tried to pull free of the bus, but failed.
“Fuck!” he cursed behind his helmet and reached past her where her top had caught in a jagged edge left by the broken glass.
Suddenly the music stopped, and the announcer now spoke. “And that was Stevie Nicks from Fleetwood Mac. How’s that for nostalgia?”
He knew he had only seconds now.
Her eyes darted past him, and he didn’t need to look over his shoulder to know how close the train was.
“Run!” she urged him. “Save yourself!”
“No!” Scott yelled and tore at her top. Finally, it ripped free of the glass and the teacher almost fell into his arms. He whirled around, the next words of the radio announcer in his ears.
“And can you guess who’s going to be singing God Bless America…”
With the woman in his arms, Scott jumped to the side, landing beside the tracks. He rolled over her, shielding her, when a moment later, the train hit the school bus behind them. His helmet and heavy leather jacket—though it was open in the front—protected him from the flying debris while he covered the woman beneath him as best he could.
“Don’t move,” he urged her, though he had no idea if she heard him through his helmet.
But he knew she was alive. He felt her breathing against his chest, her hands holding on to his shirt in a death grip.
The screeching of the train braking was the next sound he heard. Only when there were no more sounds coming from the train, indicating that it had stopped, did Scott lift his head.
He took a breath, his first conscious one since reaching the bus, and felt his heart thunder. The teacher in his arms had her eyes squeezed shut.
“Are you all right?” Scott asked, but she didn’t reply. He jerked his helmet off and tried again. “Are you okay?”
Finally she opened her eyes. The first thing he noticed was that they were a vibrant blue. The second thing he realized was that for the first time he looked into a woman’s eyes and felt he could trust her with everything.
Shocked by the strange feeling, Scott pulled back and lifted himself off her, sitting back on his knees, flinching slightly as he did so. He’d hit the asphalt hard, taking the full brunt of the fall before he’d rolled on top of her. His ribs were bruised, but he knew nothing was broken.
“You saved my life.” She squeezed his hand and pulled herself up to sit. She turned her head toward the gate.
Scott followed her gaze and saw the kids standing there, dazed, in shock, but only a little worse for wear. Several cars had stopped in the meantime, and drivers and passengers were running toward the children.
“You saved all those kids.”
Her words made him look back at her. She was prettier than he’d noticed at first. Her shoulder-length dark brown hair had gentle waves, and her skin was bronzed, her lips full and red and a tantalizing complement to her blue eyes. If any of his teachers had looked like that when he’d been a kid, he was sure he would have liked school a lot more.
“Are you sure you’re unhurt?” he asked now.
She nodded, pressing her lips together, her eyes now growing moist with unshed tears. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“I was just there at the right place at the right time,” Scott answered and wanted to get up, but she suddenly slung her arms around his neck and hugged him to her so tightly he couldn’t resist putting his arms around her and hugging her back.
So much innocence and honesty lay in her embrace that he found himself caressing her hair and rubbing her back to comfort her. And oddly enough, the gesture comforted him. For the first time since he’d lost his father and mentor—and at the same time his purpose—he felt needed.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured into her hair.
5
Around her body, Phoebe felt the comforting arms of the stranger who’d rescued her. She could finally breathe again. The anxiety and mortal fear that had gripped her only moments earlier was seeping from her. For certain, she’d thought her final h
our had arrived. The train had been so close, and when her clothes had caught somewhere she’d seen her life flash before her eyes. At that moment she’d realized she hadn’t really lived yet. Nor had she loved.
“I’ve got you,” the stranger now murmured once more. His deep, melodic voice soothed her and made her tense muscles relax while her body suddenly stirred with awareness. She was pressing herself against a strange man who was practically straddling her. The intimacy of this position didn’t escape her.
Nor him, apparently, because he now peeled himself from her embrace and started to rise, lending her a hand to get up. “Are you all right?”
She stole glances at his face. His hair was dark, almost black, and a little longer than most guys wore their hair these days, but it appeared well-groomed, just like its owner. His green eyes were framed by long dark lashes and strong eyebrows. He was clean-shaven, and his lips were full and oddly tempting.
“Miss?”
She tore her gaze from his mouth, embarrassed that he’d caught her staring at him. “I’m fine. I’m all right,” she answered quickly. Her gaze drifted past him to where the children were gathered beyond the crossing gates. “The kids.” She had to make sure all of them were unhurt.
Her feet already carried her toward them, while her eyes scanned the area. An ambulance screeched to a halt and two paramedics jumped out, running toward the scene. A block away she saw lights flashing, accompanied by police sirens. The police car reached the railroad crossing at the same time Phoebe reached the kids.
“Miss Chadwick, Miss Chadwick,” some of them wailed.
“Is everybody okay?” She tried to look at all the kids individually, but they kept moving around in the huddle, anxiety rolling off them. “Is anybody hurt?”
She heard several kids crying.
“Just a few scrapes,” the voice of her rescuer assured her from behind. “Your pupils all got out safely.”
Phoebe turned her head halfway, but before she could thank him for his reassurance the paramedics had reached the group of kids and suddenly everybody was talking over each other.
The female paramedic caught her eye. “Ma’am, did everybody get out?” She motioned to the remnants of the school bus, which were strewn about the railroad crossing. Pieces of it were caught underneath the train’s wheels. The train had long stopped. The locomotive now stood several hundred yards past the crossing.
“Everybody got out.”
“Are you hurt?”
Automatically, Phoebe shook her head, but when she lifted her arm to point at the kids, she felt a stinging pain in her back, where her shirt had caught on a glass shard. “I’m fine. Check the kids first.”
“You’re bleeding.”
The words came from her rescuer and sounded like an admonishment.
“It’s nothing. Just a scratch.” She turned back to him just in time to catch him shaking his head, a soft smirk curving his lips.
“You’re an interesting woman.”
Phoebe tilted her head, not really understanding what he meant by that.
“Still, you should have it looked at.”
“Later.” She extended her hand. “I’m Phoebe Chadwick.”
He nodded and shook her hand without taking his glove off. “Scott.”
Her reporter instinct kicked in instantly when he didn’t offer a last name, and another question already sat on the tip of her tongue, but she didn’t get a chance to voice it.
“Are you the teacher?” an authoritative voice called out to her, making her whirl around. A policeman was approaching her. “What happened here?”
She nodded at the police officer. “I’m Phoebe Chadwick. I’m from the Daily Messenger. I was—”
“A reporter. How do you guys get here faster than we do?” The police officer was clearly annoyed.
“I was on the bus! I was chaperoning the kids,” she defended herself instinctively.
“You were on the bus? Where’s the teacher? What happened?”
Her heart beat into her throat as she conveyed in as few words as possible what had happened once she’d realized the bus driver had abandoned them on the railroad crossing. “And then this man here came and smashed the door in.” She turned to Scott, but he wasn’t standing behind her anymore. Her eyes searched for him.
~ ~ ~
A reporter! Shit! That was just his darn luck. Scott suppressed a curse and pushed his way through the crowd of kids and adults who had now started arriving—curious bystanders, neighbors, business owners, motorists, as well as more paramedics. A second ambulance had arrived already and another police car was approaching from somewhere, though Scott couldn’t yet see the car, only hear its siren. In a few minutes, the first parents would get here, concerned about their kids’ welfare. Considering the cell phones the ten- or eleven-year-old children wielded, it wasn’t hard to guess they’d already alerted their parents.
And in a few minutes the news vans would be flocking to this accident site with their cameras and microphones, interviewing everybody and anything that moved.
Scott knew he had to get out of here fast. He’d already stayed too long. The moment he’d rescued the woman who he’d believed to be the teacher—but who by her own admission was a reporter by the name of Phoebe Chadwick—he should have hightailed it out of here. He’d done what he considered to be his duty. He’d saved the children from certain death. Now he had to save himself from exposure.
Intrigued by Phoebe, he’d stuck around for a few minutes longer than he should have. From a teacher, he would have expected the kind of selflessness she’d displayed. She’d made sure all the kids had gotten out of the bus before her. From a reporter, her actions surprised him. She hadn’t even allowed the paramedic to treat her injury, more concerned about the children than her own wellbeing. Even from a female teacher he would have expected she’d at least have flinched at her injury and asked the paramedics to check it out.
Scott shook his head and stepped past a crying girl. Phoebe wasn’t his problem. So he did what he always did in situations like these. He kept his head down and avoided eye contact. A few more seconds and he’d be gone. He quickly retrieved his helmet where he’d dropped it after he’d jumped out of the way of the moving train with Phoebe in his arms.
From the periphery he noticed a news van park on the other side of the street and two people jump out. The woman was holding a microphone in her hand; the man carried a large camera on his right shoulder. They ran across the street, approaching the accident site.
“What happened here?” the female reporter called out. “Is anybody hurt? Anyone got killed?”
Scott scoffed. Yeah, that would have made quite a story, wouldn’t it? Dozens of school kids murdered by bus driver. Because that was what it would have been had Scott not interfered: murder. With only a shrug, Scott walked past the reporters. It was best never to engage with people like that. They would soon find somebody else who would answer their curious questions.
The kids seemed more than happy to reply to the reporters, as he could hear now from their excited voices. Scott continued walking, almost running into a girl who was sobbing uncontrollably. He hesitated for a moment and couldn’t resist running his hand over her hair in a gesture of comfort.
“It’s all right, little girl. Everything’s all right. Your parents are gonna be here in a moment. They’ll take care of you.”
She sniffed and looked up at him. Recognition lit up her face. “You saved me.” Unexpectedly she slung her arms around him, burying her face in his stomach.
He took her arms and gently pried them off him. It was time to leave before other kids got the same idea and tried to thank him.
“He’s a hero,” he suddenly heard a boy call out in Scott’s direction.
Scott snapped his head toward him.
The boy pointed at him, while he addressed the two reporters. “He saved us all.”
Shit!
The two reporters were staring at him. They were already moving
in his direction. “Sir! Sir! A word.”
But Scott spun around and charged toward his motorcycle, slipping the helmet over his head. He jumped onto the Ducati, kicked the stand back and engaged the engine. The reporters had no chance in light of his speedy escape.
He was racing down the main street and turning at the next corner before they could voice another question. It was unlikely the camera had even been turned on yet. And if they had really gotten a glimpse of him, it would have been with his helmet on. As for the license plate on his motorcycle, it was registered to a mailboxes place which couldn’t be traced to him, and as soon as he got home he would switch the plate out for another one. They wouldn’t be able to find him.
The only regret he had was that the moment of peace he’d felt with Phoebe in his arms had been just an illusion.
6
“Novak is furious!” Kathleen greeted her as Phoebe made her way through the group of excited colleagues who had stormed toward her as she’d entered the newsroom. The news of the bus accident—if it could be called an accident—was everywhere.
“What’s he got to be furious about? I was in a fucking train collision!” And still a little shaken by it.
“Yeah, over four hours ago!” Novak yelled behind her. “We’re going to press in two hours and we’ve got nothing!”
Phoebe spun around, facing her pissed-off editor.
“Why didn’t you call in with the story? You were on that damn bus! Firsthand account! Shit!”
Phoebe braced her hands at her hips. “Because the police dragged me down to the station to make a statement. And the paramedics insisted on treating me.” She pointed to her back, where beneath her fresh shirt she now sported a bandage over a superficial cut. “And by the way, I almost died today, so don’t mind if I take a few minutes to breathe, okay?”
Her heart raced now, and she noticed her colleagues surrounding them had gone quiet, listening to the heated exchange with her editor.
