First Responder on Call

by Melinda Di Lorenzo

  “Wendy DeLuca speaking,” she said, her voice curt.

  Relief hit Remo in the gut, so hard that he had to sit down. He hadn’t realized how truly worried he was until right that second. He didn’t get a chance to respond and tell her, though, before she spoke again.

  “Oh!” she said. “Scotty Armitage. Is that you?”

  Surprised, Remo answered carefully. “Yes. It’s me.”

  Scotty Armitage had been his best friend in high school, and had moved to Toronto right after graduation.

  His mom let out the smallest of breaths. He knew she’d recognized his voice.

  “Not that it’s not nice to hear from you,” she said. “I just wasn’t expecting it. But I guess you’ve been watching the news, like everyone else.”

  “A little,” Remo replied cautiously.

  “Well, yes. And before you ask, what you saw is true. The police are looking for Remo.”

  “Are they.” His words came out flatly—an unimpressed statement rather than a question—but his throat was tightening with concern.

  “That’s right,” his mom said. “So if he calls, please, please ask him to do the right thing.”

  “I will.”

  “Thanks, Scotty. I can’t say much else about it.”

  “I understand.”

  “Talk to you soon.”

  Remo dropped his hand to his lap and stared down at the phone. Obviously, someone—undoubtedly the same men who’d been there when they’d made their escape—had been listening in on her end. Equally obviously, they were using his mom to find him. It meant her life wasn’t directly in danger, and that was a good thing. The comment about watching the news, though...that worried him.

  Eyeing the TV that sat atop the dresser, he stood up, then moved over to it and flicked it on. He didn’t have to try hard—or at all, really—to find what he was looking for. The screen zapped to life, and his own image immediately filled it. An unseen female broadcaster spoke overtop of it.

  “...and later died in hospital. Now, in connection with the fatal hit-and-run, police are seeking this man, Remo DeLuca. He’s described as six foot four, a hundred and ninety pounds, with dark hair and blue eyes. And now we go to our on-scene correspondent.”

  With dread building in his gut, Remo watched as the news channel cut to a live feed of two men standing in front of the hospital. One was obviously the reporter, microphone in hand. The other was someone Remo knew just enough to make him grit his teeth.

  “Thanks, Carrie,” said the reporter to the disembodied broadcaster. “I’m here with paramedic Isaac White, who both attended the victim and works with the alleged perpetrator. What can you tell us about the situation, Mr. White?”

  Remo gritted his teeth even harder as his coworker opened his mouth. He knew the man had likely been selected by the board to give a statement. Isaac’s penchant for following rules often made him the “correct” choice for representing the everyday hospital worker. He was also sure he wouldn’t like what his fellow EMT would have to say. Sure enough, his little speech didn’t disappoint. Isaac described Remo’s presence at the car accident as a “weird coincidence,” and also gave a nice outline of Remo’s lack of ability to play by the rules. He described the whole thing as tragic. His words were matter-of-fact and disappointed rather than accusatory, and no one but Remo himself would know the whole thing was a dig.

  “Thank you very much, Mr. White,” said the reporter. “Back to you, Carrie.”

  Now an overhead picture of the car accident took the place of the hospital exterior, and the unseen woman spoke a little more, describing the probable sequence of events. Remo stared at the screen, his fists clenched. The horrific pieces of Celia’s shattered car were on display. So was his own vehicle, fully intact, set at a strange angle, with skid marks trailing out behind it.

  As the announcer again said how tragic the loss of life was, and asked for anyone with information regarding Mr. DeLuca’s whereabouts to call the tip line, Remo reached over to turn the TV off. As he did, a little gasp cut through the air. He turned and found Celia standing in the doorway, her horrified gaze fixed on the now-silent television.

  “They think I’m dead,” she said, stepping into the room. “And they think you did it. They think you forced me off the road.”

  “They do,” he agreed grimly.

  “What about Xavier?” she asked.

  “No mention.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It could mean the so-called cops are keeping it quiet.” He shook his head, not really wanting to say what his thoughts were.

  She came to her own conclusion, anyway. “They don’t want anyone to know about him, because that way his father can just...” She swallowed, panic filling her eyes. “We have to go. We have to hide better. People know we’re here. Your friend. And if someone saw you and saw the news...oh, God. The front desk guy. Or the bus driver.”

  She turned back to the door, but Remo quickly put his hand on her arm. “Wait, Celia. They’re telling people you’re dead. Think about that. It means they’re going to make sure you are. That they’re confident they can make it happen.”

  “I’m not just going to sit around, waiting to let them do it.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to. But I think we’re safe here for the moment. The front desk guy was more interested in his phone than he was in us, and if anyone asked, he’d probably describe us as a family. That’s not who they’re looking for.”

  She didn’t let it go. “What about everyone else who saw us at the hospital? Any one of them could turn you in.”

  He slid his fingers to her palm and gripped it reassuringly. “They won’t.”

  She opened her mouth, closed it again, then sank down onto the bed, still holding his hand. After a moment, he joined her. He didn’t mention his concern for the lives of the people who were aware of Xavier. He knew she’d figure it out on her own, but he didn’t want to add guilt to her already heavy burden.

  “We’re stuck, aren’t we?” she finally said.

  “A little,” he admitted. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t keep figuring things out.”

  “How?”

  “Technology.” He nodded toward the TV. “That thing’s equipped with the internet. We’ll look you up. We’ll dig a little more about Neil Price. We’re not going to give up just because we’re backed into a corner.”

  Her eyes came up. “You know...before you came along, I was taking care of us on my own.”

  He touched her cheek. “I know you were. If I’m trying to do too much or stepping on your toes...”

  “No. It’s not that.”

  “What, then?”

  “I just can’t imagine doing it without you now.”

  He offered her a little smile. “The beauty of it is that you don’t have to.”

  “It’s crazy, though, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe? You’re not going to tell me it’s not crazy? Maybe try to argue that it’s normal?”

  “Normal and crazy aren’t mutually exclusive.”

  “They’re not?”

  “Not when you’re talking about falling in love.”

  “Is that what this is?”

  “That’s what I want it to be. In spite of the crazy. Or maybe because of it? I don’t know. But since the second I found you on the side of the road, my whole life has been flipped over.”

  “That was only yesterday,” she reminded him.

  His smile widened. “Okay. Crazy it is, then.”

  “Remo.” She brought her hand to the back of his neck and tipped up her face, expectation and desire clear in her eyes.

  Remo dipped his mouth and gave her the lightest dusting of a kiss before pulling back and murmuring, “Xavier?”

  She brought her mouth up and ran her tongue o
ver the edge of his lower lip. “Sound asleep. And once he’s out...he’s out.”

  It was all Remo needed to hear. He jumped up, padded silently across the floor to lock the door, then turned back to Celia and took her in his arms.

  * * *

  Falling in love.

  The phrase ran through Celia’s mind, again and again. Like a song stuck on Repeat. Only the song was somehow both brand-new and her favorite at the same time. And she never wanted it to stop.

  Falling in love.

  As they peeled off each other’s clothes.

  Falling in love.

  As they kissed—hard and soft, and everything in between. As they murmured about risk and life being short.

  Falling in love.

  As they gave in to recklessness and quickness for the sake of not losing the chance. As he filled her, physically and emotionally. As she bit back a need to call out his name at full volume, and settled for a whisper instead. And as they collapsed onto the bed together, breathing heavily and laughing a little. And finally, as he propped himself up on one elbow and stared down at her, his eyes shining with warmth.

  Falling in love.

  It was crazy and unrealistic and utterly true at the same time. If Celia could have formed a coherent sentence, she would’ve told Remo as much. But instead she had to settle for simply watching him as he watched her. And it was he who spoke first—not breaking the spell, but just putting it on hold.

  “I think I’ve found my new favorite way to spend the afternoon,” he teased, running his fingers over her arm in a way that warmed her and made her shiver at the same time. “But...”

  She sighed. “But with less bad guys, cops, and newscasters hunting us down?”

  “Yes. All of that. So...we should probably put on some pants.”

  “Okay. But for the record? At this exact moment, I hate pants.”

  He laughed, low and sexy, then lightly kissed her mouth. “Same. And I’d gladly dive into the research rabbit hole without them, but there’s a little boy on the other side of the door who might have some questions if he knocks and we answer in a pants-less state.”

  “Right,” Celia said, pulling the sheet to her chin and studying the long, muscular lines of Remo’s back as he sat up, then bent over and snagged his clothes from the floor. “Remo...”

  “Yeah, sweetheart?”

  “Should I feel bad?”

  “About what?” He cast a little frown over his shoulder, then stuck his feet into his boxers, stood up, and pulled.

  “Xavier.”

  “Why would you feel bad about Xavier?”

  She gave him a look, and he flopped back onto the bed beside her, shirtless and so breathtaking that she almost forget her worries. Again.

  “Which part are you feeling bad about?” he asked. “What we just did? What’s happening between us in general? Mom-guilt over starting a relationship without discussing it with your son?”

  “Yes to all of that,” she replied, then shook her head. “But I don’t feel bad. Well. Except for feeling bad about not feeling bad.”

  He chuckled. “I can’t argue with you about it. I feel too damned good myself.”

  She gave him a lighthearted swat. “I mean emotionally bad.”

  His face abruptly turned serious, and so did his tone. “So do I, Celia. You know that, right? I don’t want some quick fix. Or something that’s going to end before it can even really get started. And if having your son in the other room made you uncomfortable in any way—”

  “No, it’s not that.” She paused. “I mean, yes. It is that. But I don’t have any regrets. And if someone asked me to go back in time to an hour ago, I’d make the same choice. I just... I don’t know. How can something so fresh already feel so permanent? How come I think that if I were to walk out there, wake up my kid, and tell him that you—a man we both only just met—are now my boyfriend, he’d just give me one of his ‘no duh, Mom’ looks and ask when the pizza’s coming?”

  Remo’s oh-so-blue eyes brightened, and he leaned over and gave her a slow, heated kiss, then pulled back and said, “I’m going to assume that it’s because your son is a genius who knows when something is meant to be.”

  “Very funny,” Celia responded breathlessly.

  “Oh, I’m deadly serious,” he said. “That doesn’t mean we can’t take things as slow as you want. Tell him whatever you think he needs to be told, whenever you think is the right time.” He kissed her once more, then swung his legs to the side and sat up again. “But right now, I’m going to order room service, then indulge in some cyber stalking. Care to join me?”

  “I’m starving. And Xavier will be, too, when he wakes up.”

  “Perfect,” Remo said, tugging his shirt over his head. “How about you boot up the TV while I get room service?”

  “Sure. Sounds good.”

  She watched him tiptoe toward the door, then open it in practiced silence. She stared after him for a second, held captive by her own overwhelming feelings.

  Falling in love.

  As the thought came back again, even more forceful now than it had been before, a pleasant blush crept up her cheeks, and she had to tamp down an urge to wake up her son right then and there to tell him that Remo DeLuca was going to be a big part of their lives. She forced out a breath and distracted herself by hastily tossing on her own clothes, then grabbing the remote and flicking through until she found the internet search option. Unsure where to start, she opted for punching in her own name. It didn’t surprise her when nothing familiar popped up. She was sure she wouldn’t have put her and Xavier in danger by creating a traceable presence online. But she scrolled through the list anyway, searching for anything that popped out. She obviously shared the name with a few others—a number of social media profiles showed the other Celia Pollers around the globe—but there was nothing of note on the first or second page of search results. On the third one, though, a listing did catch her eye.

  “‘Celia Poller,’” she read aloud. “‘Graduate of the Home Care Attendant Program at Vancouver Medical Career Center.’”

  She clicked, and a whole row of photos filled the TV screen, her own included. Beside each was a year, a name, and a program major. There was no other information. No address, no phone number, no catchy quote. But it was a relief to know that she’d been right about what she did for a living.

  “Now if only I knew how that connected to Xavier’s dad,” she murmured, scrolling through the other names and pictures slowly, and sighing when once again nothing looked at all familiar.

  Remo stepped back into the room then, speaking in a low voice as he shut the door. “Kid’s still asleep. But I ordered his pepperoni pizza anyway. And garlic bread. And wings. Possibly a salad and a lasagna. I might be hungry.” He eyed the TV. “You find something?”

  “Nothing big,” she said. “It’s just a list of everyone who finished school at the same time as I did.”

  “But that’s still something.” Remo joined her on the edge of the bed. “Can I see the remote?”

  She shrugged and handed it over, and a second later, he’d clicked quickly through to another screen. It was pictureless, but full of names and email addresses. Another scroll, and Celia’s own name was highlighted beside one of them—ccpoller@VMCC.edu, it read. Remo tapped it with the pointer, clicked, and a new window prompted the user to enter the password associated with the email address.

  Remo turned her way. “Well?”

  Celia shook her head. “I don’t...”

  She trailed off. Because suddenly she did. She knew. It wasn’t the email she used in her daily life, but it was an email she’d used in the past. For school. For making work contacts. And for Neil Price.

  She held out her hand, and when Remo placed the remote in her palm, she quickly tapped in the password, and up came the proof. The emails were all at least s
ix years old, and Neil’s name was in the From box of every one of them.

  “I’ll be damned,” said Remo.

  Celia laughed a little nervously. “Do I want you to see these?”

  He met her eyes. “Can’t say I’m excited to read love notes from him, but I’m a grown man. I can handle it.”

  But his possible jealousy and Celia’s own worry were both unfounded, anyway. As she opened the first email on the list, it brought up a thread of back and forth messages, all related to a job. They scanned the notes together in silence—all nineteen of them, and when they were done, it was Remo who spoke first.

  “So you met because you took care of his uncle,” he said.

  Celia nodded, wishing it was memory rather than just a logical conclusion. “At least we know I’m not making it up. Or completely insane.”

  He put his warm hand on her knee. “We already knew that.”

  “Did we?” She meant it to be a joke, but it came laced with bitterness, and she gestured toward the screen. “Shouldn’t this jog something for me? Anything?”

  “It’d be helpful if it did,” Remo admitted. “But we’ll just keep working with what we’ve got.”

  “You’re maddeningly positive, aren’t you?”

  “No one likes a doomsday paramedic.”

  She made a face, then moved to click the email account shut. Except as she did, a line in one of the correspondences made her pause.

  Great, it read. I’ll get you the direct deposit information tomorrow.

  That was it. Nothing huge. But it prompted her into autopilot mode. First she closed the email server. Then she opened a new browser window and typed in “West End Savings.” The link to the credit union website appeared right away, and she selected the customer log-in option from one of the drop-down menus. Vaguely, she heard Remo ask what she was up to, but she ignored him in favor of typing in a user name and password that she didn’t even know she knew until right then. As soon as she hit Enter an account came to life.