And he didn’t want to stop at her mouth.
Luke cleared his throat. Twice. “I’m not being a dumbass,” he said. “She is nice.”
His libido reached up and bitch-slapped him for the understatement. Big dark blue eyes framed by impossibly long lashes. Bow-shaped lips full enough to be both beautiful and distracting as hell. Long legs. Pretty, feminine curves that were evident even beneath her ho-hum paramedic’s uniform, and who was he kidding?
Quinn wasn’t just nice. She was totally fucking gorgeous.
As if Shae had zeroed in on Luke’s deepest, darkest brainwaves, she said, “You should ask her out.” And even though her delivery was purely matter-of-fact, his heart dumped into his gut. He needed to laugh, he knew. To make this into no big deal so he could change the subject. To not let Shae see that she was spot-on about his extra-curricular thoughts of Quinn.
“You don’t strike me as the matchmaker type,” he tried, putting a toe in the water with Diversion Tactic Number One: make it about the person you were talking to rather than yourself.
Not that Shae so much as nibbled on the line. “What can I say? Finding true love has made me squishy.”
“You threw actual elbows with Kellan over which one of you would get to rappel down here to be saved,” Luke pointed out, unable to help himself. “I’d hardly call that squishy.”
“It’s not my fault he didn’t look. I’m sure that black eye won’t last but a day or two.
Anyway”—Shae replaced the smile tugging at the edges of her mouth with a look of renewed determination—“if Quinn is so nice, why wouldn’t you ask her out?”
Luke gave Diversion Tactic Number One the old college try. “Would you date someone you worked with?”
Annnnnd oh-for-fucking-two. “A for effort, trying to shift the spotlight there. But my answer’s only ‘no’ because I’ve never been attracted to anyone I work with, and besides, we’re not talking about me.”
Shit. He shifted to Tactic Number Two: go vague to create distance. “Aren’t there rules against that sort of thing? You know, department-wide?”
Shae watched him seamlessly remove the pick-off strap from her harness, nodding her approval at his handiwork before conceding. “Inter-house relationships probably don’t make Captain Bridges want to do backflips of joy. But technically? They’re only against the rules if the parties involved are both on engine or squad together, and they want to get married. Paramedics are totally fair game.”
Luke bit back the pop of shocked laughter that wanted to emerge from his throat. This conversation had just gone from left field to bat-shit crazy in a few dozen syllables. It was time to tie it off, once and for all.
“Thanks for the primer on the RFD rule book, but getting on the captain’s bad side isn’t really on my wish list. Besides, Quinn and I are just friends.” He gestured to Shae’s safety harness, which was now tethered to his, prepped and ready for the next step in the drill. All that was left to do was release her original line and make the descent. “So should I keep going, here?” Luke asked, making sure he tied his manners into his tone. The last thing he needed was for Shae to think he was throwing shade. Dodging the topic was hard enough, thanks.
After a pause he might not have noticed if he hadn’t been funneling all of his attention into trying to boomerang the subject, Shae examined his work with a nod. “Affirmative. Nice job on that pick-off line. Now let’s see if you can get me safely to the ground, huh?”
“Copy that,” Luke said, his chest flooding with more than a little irony at the fact that focusing on being this high above the ground actually made him feel relieved. But since it was better than focusing on the topic he’d just managed to shake—not to mention necessary to successfully completing the drill—he dove in without hesitation.
Taking a minute to release the hardware attaching Shae to her own set of ropes, he did a lightning-fast double-check before barking out, “Slater to Command. Victim is secure on the primary line. Easy to lower.”
Gamble stared over the edge of the roof, thankfully oblivious to the conversation Luke had just skirted with Shae. “Command to Slater. Copy that. Easy to lower.”
He raised one hand overhead, looping his index finger in the signal to go. Slowly but steadily, Kellan lowered both Luke and Shae, who were now tethered to one another, all the way down until their boots made contact with the sunbaked asphalt below.
“Nice job not turning us into road pizza,” Shae said, slapping the top of his helmet with one hand and using the other to lift a big thumbs-up at Gamble, high above.
“Thanks.”
Luke’s cheeks prickled with pride. Just when he thought he was in the clear for good, though, Shae hit him with a stare that made him feel like a biology-project butterfly pinned to a board.
“And by the way, I’m not suggesting you marry her, rookie. But you keep to yourself an awful lot around here.”
Luke’s pulse stuttered, but despite the warning bells clanging in his head, he replied, “It’s nothing personal.” This, at least, was the top layer of the truth. Not that he was about to dole out the rest—not even to Shae, who was the closest thing he had to a friend at the fire house.
Arm’s length. Create distance. Right now.
“I like everyone at Seventeen, and I definitely like the job. I just don’t…hang out,” he finished quietly.
“Okay.”
Luke didn’t know what shocked him more—the no-bullshit reply or the no-judgment manner in which Shae had delivered it. “Okay?”
She lifted one shoulder in a non-committal shrug. “I’m sure you have your reasons for playing it close to the vest. All I’m saying is if you’re looking for someone to bridge that gap, Quinn’s a really solid pick. That’s all.”
But before he could answer, let alone process what Shae said, the shrill sound of the station-wide all-call sounded off from the speakers just inside the engine bay.
Engine Seventeen, Ambulance Twenty-Two, person down of unknown causes, nineteen-twelve Maplewood Avenue. Requesting immediate response.
“Ah, look at that, Slater,” Shae said, unclipping the carabiners from her harness and his with brisk, sure motions. “They’re playing our song.”
And then they were hustling toward the engine, all thoughts of anything either of them had said—or hadn’t said—summarily forgotten.
2
“Okay, Copeland. What’s it going to be? Blood, sweat, or tears?”
Quinn looked from the GPS on the dashboard of the ambulance to her partner, Parker Drake, a wry smile slipping over her lips despite the fact that they were hauling ass through city traffic in a vehicle weighing approximately as much as a full-grown African bush elephant.
“First things first,” she said loudly enough to compete with the siren. Adjusting her seat belt over the front of her navy blue RFD T-shirt, she settled in against the comfortably familiar backrest of the ambo’s passenger seat. “What are the stakes?”
They’d come up with this game about three months into their now five-year work partnership, and she’d learned early on not to give him so much as a millimeter of leeway. Parker was like the slightly annoying, overly cocky older brother she’d always wanted but never had. At least, that’s what Quinn imagined an older brother would be like. For as much good-natured crap as they gave each other, Parker seemed happy to fill the role. They’d been tight—and platonic, because even though Parker was objectively handsome, ew—from the beginning. Not that Quinn wasn’t close with everyone at Seventeen, because she really was. Heck, she could even get Gamble to crack a smile if she set her sights on it. But her and Parker? God, they’d probably still be riding around Remington, treating everything from hangnails to heart attacks when they were eighty.
Which was totally fine by Quinn, thank you very much.
“Stakes. Let’s see. How about house chores for a week,” he answered, prompting her to laugh.
“It’s so cute how you think I’ll fall for that when I know you’r
e on kitchen duty this week. I’ve seen that science experiment B-shift has going on in the back of the fridge with that leftover Kung Pao chicken. It’s a total biohazard. Try again.”
“Okay, okay.” Parker lifted his brows, since lifting his hands from the steering wheel was obviously not a spectacular plan. “How about loser takes the next cantankerous drunk who needs a banana bag?”
Cantankerous? Oh, that was just too good to pass up. Not that he didn’t use four-syllable words on a very regular rotation, but hell if she wasn’t going to give him a serving of shit to go with his high-pedigree vocabulary.
“Jesus, Drake. What are you, a Thesaurus with legs?”
Parker, of course, gave as good as he got. Which, come to think of it, was half the reason they worked so well together. “What can I say? I’m not just a pretty face over here. Now are you in, or not?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m in.”
Eyeballing the dashboard display to make sure no new updates had come through from dispatch on the call they were responding to, Quinn took a second to roll through her options and the odds that went with them. A person down of unknown causes could be anything from a sixty-year-old bank CEO who had choked on his caviar at the Plaza to an eighteen-year-old who had OD’d on heroin in a grimy alley, and there were a whooooole lot of in-betweens. She knew, because she and Parker had seen pretty much all of them. Hence the whole reason for blood, sweat, or tears.
To anyone who wasn’t a first responder, Quinn supposed the game might seem uncaring; after all, she and Parker could have someone’s life in their hands—literally—on any given call. But the gravity of those situations was heavy enough to sandbag even the most experienced paramedic. Compartmentalizing so you could stay sane and help people on their worst-ever days rather than letting the job scatter your marbles? Yeah, that was something Quinn had learned to do after her first shift.
She knew all too well how deeply no-holds-barred caring could hurt. And since she wasn’t about to stop caring or taking care of people who needed it, she’d take compartmentalization for the win. Hell, she’d take anything that would keep her on the proper side of sane so she could do her job.
Shaking her head, Quinn re-routed her thoughts. Person down of unknown causes, nineteen hundred block of Maplewood Avenue. Go.
“Okay. The nine-one-one call came in nine minutes ago, so I’m going to rule out blood right off the bat,” she said, thinking out loud. Dispatch stayed on the line with the caller whenever humanly possible, especially if they were right there with the victim. If the person down was bleeding badly, she and Parker would know by now.
“So no traumatic injury.” Parker took a hard left onto Palmer Boulevard. “That leaves sweat or tears. What’s your pick?”
“Hmm.” Sweat was their own personal shorthand for any sort of stress ailment, like an MI or overdose or a seizure. Tears were anything that could be categorized as a mental health issue, because God, of all the calls they handled, those were often the most heartbreaking.
Quinn took a slow, deep breath. Looked out the window. Hedged her bets and said, “It’s hot enough out today. My money’s on sweat.”
“Sweat it is. I’m taking tears,” Parker said. “First hell-hot day of the year? Always stirs people up.”
Ah, but he wasn’t wrong. Mother Nature could kill a person in a dozen and a half ways if she put her back into it. This time last year, they’d had to treat a guy whose wife had stabbed him in the neck with a barbecue fork because he’d overcooked the steaks she’d blown her paycheck on.
Okay, so maybe “stirs people up” was the teensiest bit of an understatement. Still, Quinn felt pretty good about her odds, and either way, she’d get to help somebody who needed it. “Sweat versus tears. Deal.”
A beat passed, then one more before Parker asked, “Hey, have you given any more thought to putting in for that lead spot opening up at Station Six next month?”
Her heart sucker punched her sternum at the swerve in subject, and damn it, she so didn’t want to have this conversation right now. Or, okay. Ever. Which he totally knew, otherwise he wouldn’t have blindsided her with the topic when they were on the way to a call and she was a captive freaking audience.
“Trying to get rid of me again?” Quinn finally managed, although the waver in her voice told her she hadn’t quite stuck the no-big-deal landing she’d been going for. Parker had already asked her—twice, but who was counting—about the opening for a lead paramedic at Six. Looked like he thought the trifecta would be the charm. Poor misguided guy.
“Actually, I am. Not that I don’t dig working with you,” Parker quickly added, probably in a pre-emptive strike against the seriously, what the hell? that had just formed hotly on her tongue. “You’re a kickass paramedic, Copeland.”
“Thanks, I think.”
Parker met her frown with one of his own. “That’s exactly my point, though. You’re good enough to be a lead, and spots like the one at Six don’t open up every day. I’m not saying I don’t want to work with you. But I am saying you deserve to run your own rig.”
An odd sensation, somewhere between a jab and an ache, spread out in the pit of Quinn’s stomach. She and Parker had had this conversation six months ago when a position for a lead paramedic had opened up over at Station Twenty-Nine. She was flattered that he thought so highly of her abilities—she busted her ass to be one of the best. But she’d spent her entire five-year tenure at the fire house they’d just rolled out of. She’d found her purpose there, not to mention the family she’d desperately needed when she’d walked in the door on day one. Her answer was still—and always would be—the same.
“I appreciate the atta-girl, Drake. But Seventeen is my home. I’m perfectly happy where I am, even if that means I’m not the lead paramedic.”
“Okay,” he said after a pause. “If you change your mind, I’m cool with writing you a letter of recommendation. I mean, hell”—he flashed her a sly grin while still managing to focus on the road in front of them—“you’re even getting Slater to warm up a little, and that is really saying something.”
Now Quinn’s heart clattered for an entirely different reason. “Slater’s a good EMT,” she said, and thank God Parker was as oblivious as an older brother when it came to things like sudden, out-of-control blushes.
“I’m sure he is. The city doesn’t certify dumbasses, and judging by all the extra shifts he’s taken since he started training, he’s sure gaining enough experience. He’s just a little, I don’t know. Reserved, don’t you think?”
Quinn hedged. It was true that Slater never hung out for after-hours beers at the Crooked Angel with the first responders and cops who frequented the place, just like he’d never gone to the Fork in the Road diner for the post-shift breakfast everyone at Seventeen usually indulged in once a week. Not that his no-show track record had ever stopped her from hoping he’d come around.
“Okay, so he might be a little quiet,” she allowed, because there was no denying that Slater wasn’t exactly the sharing-is-caring type. Still… “He’s not that hard to talk to once you get to know him, though. I actually like helping him study.”
“Do you, now?”
Parker’s dark eyebrows traveled halfway up his forehead, his smile edging dangerously close to smirk territory, and ah, shit. For all his big-brother lack of awareness regarding the fact that she was both female and heterosexual, he wasn’t dense.
And since Slater had neither made a move in the whole seven months they’d worked together, nor given her any overt sign that he’d be receptive if she made a move, it was time to save face by putting a cork in this conversation, stat.
“Don’t.” Quinn punctuated the word with her very best glare. “Or I’ll be forced to tell Gamble you’re the one who ate the last of the lasagna rolls Kylie brought in during last shift.”
Parker’s grin went on an instant sabbatical. “You wouldn’t.”
Okay, she probably wouldn’t. But a girl had her pride. Mostly. Sort of. Oka
y, fine. She was completely prideless when it came to her one-sided girl crush on Luke Slater. “Do you really want to try me?” she bluffed.
“It’s not my fault Kellan’s sister is an amazing chef and Gamble’s too slow on the uptake with the leftovers. Those lasagna rolls are ridiculous,” Parker pointed out.
“Are they worth Gamble’s wrath? Because slow or not, I’m pretty sure he’d—”
“I get it, I get it!” Parker said with a laugh that was half humor, half holy-shit fear he was trying to cover up with humor. “No questions about you and the rookie.”
“Because there’s nothing to question. I’m just helping him study,” Quinn said with finality. Sitting back against the contours of the passenger seat, she checked the dashboard screen one more time before looking out the window at the downtown buildings flashing by.
Nothing to question, her ass. He might keep to himself more than the rest of them combined, but Luke Slater was sexy as strong-and-silent sin.
Heat crept over her skin as an unexpected pull of attraction settled low between her hips. Quinn had heard enough horror stories from first responders at other houses to know that crossing the streams between work and play probably had “bad idea” scrawled all over it in permanent marker. But between Slater’s broad, muscular shoulders and the killer combination of his light brown skin and piercing blue eyes that were gorgeous enough to render a girl’s panties useless, she really couldn’t deny the truth.
The longer she and Slater worked together, the more she wanted to turn that bad idea into a very. Very. Good. Time.
The ambulance slowed, and the change in velocity kicked Quinn’s pulse into a completely different sort of go-mode. Hunger, thirst, exhaustion, even pain—they all fell by the wayside when she was working a trauma, as if her physiology just seemed to know that it was more important for her to take care of a kid who had been hurt in a car crash than to distract her with something as lame as a stomach rumble or a yawn.
In Too Deep: Station Seventeen Book 3 Page 2
