“Didn’t work out how?” Amy slanted a glance full of intrigue at her.
“I basically seduced him and tried to stay as emotionally neutral as possible. I was only looking for something physical.” Savannah sipped her cider. She recoiled from the memory of Emmett stilling beneath her, his slightly sickened expression as he’d separated them and put her away from him. “Anyway, he, um, he stopped us right in the middle. I went home, and we didn’t talk again until today.”
“Wow.” Eyes wide, Amy looked at her over the rack. “What a totally bitchy thing to do to someone, Savannah.”
“Thanks.” She injected a heavy note of sarcasm into her voice, although she acknowledged that Amy was right to call her on the behavior.
“Sleeping with him won’t get you over Gates.”
The simple statement sent her irritation into anger. She narrowed her eyes at her little sister. “Like you would know. You’ve only been with Rob.”
“That doesn’t make me stupid.” Amy didn’t give at all, her expression intent. “I love Rob, the way you loved Gates. If I lost him, going to bed with some other guy would not fill the void. That is stupid. What were you thinking—never mind. You obviously weren’t.”
“Are you finished?”
“Temporarily, yes.” Amy lifted the ivory top along with a skinny, spangled tank in turquoise. “I need to pay for these.”
The transaction provided only a temporary reprieve. On the sidewalk, Amy fixed her with a stern expression. “Why were you seeing him in the first place?”
“I don’t know anyone here—”
“The real reason.” Amy paused, waiting. “What were you looking for?”
Savannah dropped her half-empty cup in the nearest waste receptacle. “Stop doing that.”
“What?”
“Interrogating me.” She glared at her sister. “I’m not one of your suspects.”
“I don’t have to interrogate you.” Amy sketched an airy gesture between them. “I already know why. You’re lonely, the way I’d be without Rob.”
“That is—”
“Right and you know it. You can bullshit him and you can bullshit yourself, but you can’t snow me. Losing Gates changed you, and not necessarily for the better.” Sudden sympathy softened Amy’s eyes. “You saw something in him that would give you back part of what you lost—not Gates, but yourself. You’re simply too stubborn to admit it.”
Savannah sucked in a shaky breath. “I hate you.”
“I hate you more.” A gentle smile curved Amy’s mouth.
“I cannot be in another relationship, Amy.” The panic tried to take control of her breathing, to constrict her throat, and she shoved it down, breathing through it. “I can’t.”
If anything, the sympathy in Amy’s gaze glowed brighter. “I think you already are.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Savannah spun on one heel and walked into the nearest shop, blind to the merchandise and people around her. This conversation was definitely over. Amy didn’t have a clue what she was talking about, and Savannah could prove it. She wouldn’t make the same mistake with Emmett twice, but she could definitely keep him in his designated spot in her life. Phone in hand, she tapped out a dinner invite for the following evening.
“What are you doing?” Amy frowned, her sympathy morphing into concern.
“Proving you wrong.” Savannah held the phone aloft as a terse yes came back as a response. “I can spend time with him, and it doesn’t mean anything.”
Mouth slightly open, Amy stared at her, then laughed quietly and lifted an Egyptian-style golden collar from a display of costume jewelry. “Here, you need this.”
“What?” Savannah scowled at her. “Why?”
“Because, sister dear, you are definitely the queen of denial.” Amy’s mirth died a quick death. “I only hope you get over that before you do some serious damage to him or yourself.”
Chapter Five
Savannah erased the just-discharged patient’s name from the board. Two slow days in a row, filled with more primary than urgent care. The hours had dragged, and she was ready to put this one to bed. Thirty more minutes, and she’d be on her way to dinner with Emmett. Down the hall, the emergency radio crackled and Mackey’s voice murmured in a tense exchange. The skin along her neck prickled in response to the stress in his low tone.
“Mills.” He strode down the hall to grab a paper gown from the shelf. “Multiple trauma victims en route. ETA two minutes.”
She snagged her own gown and pulled it on while following him to the ambulance bay. The two nurses on duty were already gowning up and pulling supplies. “Auto accident?”
“No, two with multiple GSWs.” Sirens whupped closer and closer, competing with his voice. A police siren wailed long and low in the background.
The first ambulance barreled into the bay. The EMT driving jumped down and ran to aid his partner in unloading the patient. The second ambulance jockeyed into position. A marked sheriff’s unit flew into the lot.
The pair of medics jogged up the ramp with the gurney. The shorter of the pair—the young paramedic Savannah had treated for a sprained ankle last week—called out patient stats. “Twenty-nine-year-old male, multiple gunshot wounds to the torso, intubated on scene, saline IV in place, pulse is 82, pressure is 90 over 40, decreased breath sounds on the right side, patient is not responsive, hypovolemic class two—”
“Take that one. I’ve got the next one.”
Savannah nodded and met the gurney, ready to assess the situation. Her throat closed. Blood spattered a blue emergency-medical-services uniform, sliced open to reveal occlusive dressings covering a pale chest. The same South Georgia Ambulance blue uniform she’d seen Gates put on countless times, the same uniform she’d taken off him as many times.
The same uniform he’d worn the night he died, when the blue fabric had turned purple with spilled blood, just as this one was.
She slammed the memories away. Her patient didn’t have time for those remembrances. As they entered the ER, she rattled off directions to the nurse. “Haley, type and crossmatch, CBCs, and start four units of whole red cells. Need a complete lab workup.”
One nurse. Damn it, she had one nurse when she needed at least two. She glanced over the gurney at the paramedic. “Can you start a Foley catheter?”
“Can I start a Foley catheter?” He snorted around a grin, although stress and concern dimmed the attempt at humor. “Watch me.”
“Thanks.” She palpated the chest and abdomen. “Haley, call radiography. We need a chest and abdominals. There’s fluid in his abdomen, so maybe a liver or spleen laceration. Let’s decompress the stomach, then surgery will need to know he’s going to be on his way after radiography.”
With the paramedic’s help, she placed the nasogastric tube to remove the patient’s stomach contents.
“Radiography’s backed up with two Labor & Delivery patients, plus Mackey’s just went up.” Haley hung up the phone.
“Okay. We’ll do it ourselves.” Savannah ground her teeth. Frustration curled through her. She jerked her chin at the medic. “There’s a sonogram machine in exam four. Can you wheel it in here?”
Hours later—longer than she liked—her patient was finally evaluated, stabilized, and on his way to be prepped for surgery. She peeled off her bloody gloves and gown and shoved them into the biohazard container. God, she was tired.
The paramedic—Dempsey, according to his nametag—had hung with her and Haley the whole time. He tore off his own gloves and went to the sink to wash his hands.
“Thank you for staying with us, Dempsey.” She snapped on another set of clean gloves and started clearing the debris. “You were amazing.”
“I always am. Ask anyone.” He grinned at her over his shoulder, but the smile morphed into a puzzled frown that she was too exhausted and on edge to deconstruct.
After she’d restored the room to order—Haley was down the hall, aiding Layla with a patient presenting
with chest pains—Savannah used the desk phone to call surgery and check on the injured EMT. He had major tissue damage and associated internal bleeding, but the prognosis was positive. She propped her elbow on the desk and pressed her forehead against her fist. Her eyes burned, and she blinked hard.
He was going to be okay.
That was good.
“Do you know anything?” Dempsey’s terse voice carried from down the hall, growing closer, and she straightened. Nobody was going to witness her moment of weakness.
“Pinpointed the shooter’s position from the cell signal. He—or she—was on the bridge. Crime-scene techs didn’t find anything—no footprints, no vehicle tracks, no shell casings. Bet he used a brass catcher, so the son of a bitch knows what he’s doing.” Rob turned the corner with Dempsey and Troy Lee. “We have the recording of the call, but I swear it sounds like one of those voice-changing apps. The cell is another throwaway, I guarantee you.”
“Guess that rules out it being somebody’s stupid kid.” Troy Lee’s mouth was set in a tense line. His leather gun belt creaked as he rested his hips against the desk pushed against the opposite wall.
“The 5.56 rounds rule out it being somebody’s stupid kid.”
“I’m not feeling good about going back to work here, guys.” Dempsey leaned on the counter across from Savannah.
“Don’t get out of that bus without your vest from now on.” Rob paused, his concerned gaze lingering on Savannah. She looked away. He’d know what was going on in her head, and she couldn’t handle any tender emotions. “Are you headed home?”
She nodded, her throat too tight for words. She lifted a hand in silent farewell and walked away from the conversation. She didn’t need to hear any more.
Once the side-entrance door closed behind her, she sank onto the rough concrete step and rested her face against her hands. She would not cry. Simply one moment to get herself together, then she’d go home.
* * * * *
Emmett pulled the bow across the strings, wincing at how out of tune his violin was. He fiddled with it and tried again. Fine-tuning the instrument helped keep his mind off how damned mad he was, how damned tired he was of Savannah’s games. Invite him to dinner, then blow him off—first not showing up, then not responding to the text he’d sent to make sure she was okay.
His common sense tried to whisper that, hey, she worked in the damn ER. Stuff happened. She was busy and had been held up, that was all.
The hotheadedness that came out whenever he was hurt shouted that he seriously didn’t need this shit in his life. He didn’t need her in his life. He recognized the irrational nature of that voice and tried to calm it down. Hotheaded, hardheaded—neither of those traits ever led to anything good for him.
Her car purred outside his door, and he set the violin too roughly in its case. If she’d been held up, fine, but she couldn’t text or call before leaving the ER? At least he’d picked up that basic courtesy from his mama. He was just pissed enough to tell her he didn’t need her or her shit in his life, too, but he wanted to be reasonable, to give her a chance to explain. The rumble of a pickup and brakes squealing to a stop halted his hand on the door. Frowning, he flicked the blind enough with his finger to be able to see out.
A white Ford F-150 sat crosswise behind Emmett’s own truck. Rob Bennett slammed the driver’s side door and strode around the hood. Savannah shoved open her car door and left it standing wide open. She ran into Bennett’s arms.
He caught her to him in a close embrace, enfolded tightly against him. He lowered his head, mouth near her ear, and Savannah pressed closer, arms about his neck.
Son of a bitch.
Emmett couldn’t quite process what he was seeing, but the basics were plain enough. Savannah was wrapped up with another guy, another married guy at that. They stood in a long embrace, Bennett stroking his hands over her hair, her back, and back up again.
With Bennett’s arm around her, Savannah’s arm about his waist, the pair turned and walked toward Savannah’s apartment, close enough that her hip bumped against his. Bennett lowered his head to brush his mouth across her forehead. Emmett let the blind slat fall into place and stepped back. Fury detonated in his chest, sending heat up his neck and across his shoulders.
He really didn’t need this shit in his life.
Her door closed with a quiet thump, and silence reigned. His imagination did a dandy job of creating scenarios of what was happening next door, Savannah touching Bennett the way she had Emmett, Bennett carrying out what Emmett had called to a halt. The mental images only served to fuel his anger.
The silence beat against his ears.
This time, he was done.
* * * * *
Somehow, Savannah held it mostly together until Rob left. Oh, sure, she’d cried on his shoulder, but she held the maelstrom inside until the door closed behind him and his truck rumbled away. Once she was finally, completely, safely alone, she leaned against the door and let the emotions have their way.
The grief and anger slammed over her in a tsunami of memories. She needed something to supplant the images, to get the overwhelming smell of blood out of her nostrils. Although she knew the scent wasn’t really on her hands, it remained all she could smell. She flattened her palms against the door and pushed away from the steel-core slab to stagger down the hall to her bedroom.
She smeared tears from her face, nose running, and swung the closet door open. In the dimness, she crouched on the floor and tugged her phone from her pocket. She let it fall to the carpet and pawed through the small stack of storage boxes. She drew the blue floral box onto her lap and removed the lid. With sobs tearing at her chest and throat, she ran her fingertips across the plastic bag and the black T-shirt folded inside it. She lifted the bag and held it close to her chest. Eyes closed, she tried to pull up an image of Gates’s face. In her mind, it blurred and shifted, the sharpness of memory dulled by time and pain.
Still weeping, she peeled apart the zipper strip sealing the bag and lifted it to her face. Nothing, only the sharp aroma of plastic. Panic seared her throat and bloomed into deeper sobs.
Why couldn’t she smell him?
She dragged the shirt free of its plastic casing. That night, the shirt had waited for her, tossed carelessly on the foot of their bed where Gates had discarded it. She’d been able to smell him everywhere then—on their pillows, in their sheets, on this shirt. Desperate to preserve the sensory memory, she’d sealed the shirt away, only taking it out when the grief got too strong.
And now she couldn’t catch any hint of his aroma at all.
Another scent wafted to her, a distinct male note blended with soap.
Emmett.
Wiping fresh tears from her cheeks, she glanced around, gaze falling on her discarded black dress, crumpled on the floor next to the wall where she’d kicked it off the other night. She lifted it for a moment, Emmett’s smell filling her nostrils. Fury charged through her and she flung the garment out of the closet, onto the bedroom floor. Lifting Gates’s shirt to her face, she moaned into the well-worn fabric. Huge, gulping sobs shook her, her chest so tight she couldn’t breathe beyond the heaving.
Some part of her recognized the anger as irrational, but having Emmett’s sensory imprint present when she couldn’t find Gates’s any longer infuriated her. She didn’t want to examine the implications too closely, any more than she wanted to entertain Amy’s assertion that she and Emmett were already in a relationship.
Because they weren’t. They never would be.
She fumbled for her phone. Through tear-blurred eyes, she scrolled through her saved voicemails until she found the last one that mattered.
“Hey, baby. Looking forward to seeing you tonight.” She listened to Gates’s voice, clutching the shirt that no longer smelled like him. She didn’t bother to wipe away the tears, letting them drip onto her scrubs. “I love you so much, Savannah. I cannot wait for Saturday.”
Voices in the background, a radio call.
“Listen, baby, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you.”
She buried her face in soft fabric and found no trace of him.
Somehow Emmett’s clean scent lingered in the closet, and she hardened her heart. She would not let him take Gates’s place. No one could do that.
Just as she’d planned, she’d keep him in his designated slot in her life. Friendly company. Sex. That was it.
With slow, painful movements, she resealed Gates’s T-shirt in the plastic bag and packed it away.
Now, his voice, telling her how he loved her, was all she had left.
* * * * *
The following morning, eyes gritty and heavy, she dragged herself through the routine of getting dressed. She’d promised her mother weeks ago she’d attend this baby shower. Life went on, right? Even when she didn’t want it to.
She locked the door behind her and fumbled for her sunglasses. The bright sunlight hurt her eyes. Keys and sunglasses in hand, she turned, and her heart plunged to her feet. Emmett sat in his Adirondack chair, coffee mug on the arm. He gazed across the parking lot, a brooding expression on his face.
Oh, shit. She’d stood him up, and in the emotional backlash, had completely forgotten their plans. She hadn’t even texted him. Remorse joined the lingering stress, making her feel worse.
Keeping him in his place and treating him badly were two different things. He was supposed to be her friend.
“Emmett.” She hefted her bag on her arm and put on what she suspected was a sickly smile. “I’m sorry about last night.”
A brief nod was his only reply. Silence hovered between them.
Something about that nod and the silence bothered her. She frowned. “Emmett.”
He lifted his gaze to hers, the blue depths cold. “I saw you with Rob Bennett.”
Confused, she shrugged. “Yes, he came over for a while. There’d been—”
“I can do the fuck-buddy thing, Savannah, but I won’t be one of a crowd.”
“Excuse me?” Was he saying what she thought he was? A leftover tendril of her anger from the night before stirred to life. Any remorse she’d experienced died a rapid death. “You think—”
All I Need (Hearts of the South) Page 7
