Fuck it! He had no time for philosophical musings. The burden he carried was not terribly heavy, either a small man or a teen.
“Mason!”
“Dammit, Shane, told you to get out!”
He followed his new partner downstairs, careful not to miss a step. He barely heard their heavy footsteps as they descended, the fire angry, hot, and all-consuming. At the bottom of the stairs, the smoke cleared just enough to reveal the reflective stripe on Shane’s coat. Ahead of him, he saw several more. Damn it, he’d ordered them all out. But then he would have done exactly the same. You didn’t leave anyone behind. Like in the military, you had each other’s six. You had their backs.
No one wanted a repeat of Michael’s death.
They emerged from the building and into somewhat clearer air. Mason stepped into controlled chaos as he and his team rushed away from the building. The legs dangling over his chest were bare. And shapely. Not a man, not a teen. A woman.
He hurried away from the building toward a corner of the asphalt parking lot and carefully lowered the figure to the ground, Shane right behind him. He removed his fire helmet and facemask and bent to examine the victim, unconscious and blackened with soot. Definitely a woman. Her skirt had hitched up to her hip, her previously white silky blouse torn and dirty. It was difficult to tell whether she was injured. Her face was smeared with soot, but as he bent over her, he felt a niggling sensation. A glimpse of a memory.
As Shane knelt beside him, speaking into his microphone and calling for an ambulance, Mason bent closer and swept hair from the woman’s face. Her head turned to the side—the delicate bone structure, the slightly upturned nose, the narrow jaw line. His heart plummeted to the pit of his stomach. He knew her.
2
Sloane
She couldn’t breathe. Her lungs struggled to obey her instinctual command to inhale, and when they finally reluctantly responded, the smell of acrid, chemical-tinged smoke made her gag. Voices sounded overhead, someone telling her she was going to be okay. Her eyes felt gritty, so she left them closed for now, floating in a haze of semi-consciousness. The terrible heat had left, and she was safe for the moment. She was lying on a hard surface. It was slightly damp. Fingers clasped at her wrist and then her throat. Checking for a pulse.
Her ears rang, but every so often other sounds filtered through: gushing water, shouts, the crackle of flames. Where was she and what the hell was going on? As the seconds ticked by, awareness slowly crept into her brain and pain flooded her body. Her chest hurt and her head throbbed.
“Open your eyes, Sweetheart. That’s it, open your eyes!”
She wasn’t sure she wanted to but the voice kept insisting. She really should pry them open, if only to find out what was going on around her. It was like she was half stuck in a nightmare, but was whatever was happening in reality any better? Her eyelids finally obeyed and so did her chest, rising in a desperate effort to get oxygen into her lungs. She coughed, and something was placed over her face. She struggled against it, until she felt the cool whoosh into her lungs. It was an oxygen mask.
“That’s it, ma’am, breathe . . .”
Ma’am? Who the hell was calling her ma’am? Her blurred vision slowly cleared and she found herself looking up into the face of a firefighter. That much was obvious by his gear. Above him smoke whirled through the air, some of it strangely tinted. With the oxygen mask it was much easier to breathe, but she still couldn’t understand where she was. Fear took hold and she tried to struggle against the hands holding her. The firefighter gazing down at her with a concerned expression spoke again, but the ringing in her ears had returned, bringing with it a stab of pain in her head with every beat of her heart. On her other side knelt another firefighter, in the process of removing his helmet and mask. He gently placed his hands around her skull and felt around it.
“What . . . what happened?” Her voice sounded funny. Hoarse, as if she had been screaming. She floated down into a more comfortable realm of semi-consciousness where the pain dimmed somewhat, along with her senses. She rode the waves of pain, telling herself not to fight against it. The pain switched back between numb and scared. She had no idea where she was, or how she’d gotten there. The only thing she knew was that something was telling her to fight. She tried to move even as the firefighter pressed a hand down on a shoulder and told her not to. “Let me go!”
At her panic, the hand on her shoulder moved and she was able to achieve a half-sitting position before an overwhelming fatigue took over and she erupted into a new fit of coughing. She instinctively tried to roll onto her side, to protect her vital organs, crying out softly as pain shot from her head all the way down her spine and into her hip. Oh God, was she hurt? Her heart raced in fear as, by bits and pieces, her surroundings became sharper, like flashes of a movie teaser focusing on a giant screen. The burning structure, the smell, the smoke, the blue and red flashing lights, the firefighters and their hoses. She turned her head, attempting to peer into the darkness beyond, but it was impossible. Frustrated, whimpering sounds issued from deep in her throat.
“Calm down.”
The order from the firefighter irritated her. Easy for him to say. She tried to speak but only managed another fit of coughing. Every cell in her body focused on one overwhelming thought. Where was she? How had she gotten here? Why couldn’t she remember?
“Ma’am, please, lie still. We’ll have the ambulance transport you to the hospital soon.”
She looked at the firefighter beside her. There was that word again. Ma’am. Such an old-fashioned word. She opened her mouth to tell him that she wasn’t a ma’am, that she was . . . that she was . . . oh, God, she couldn’t remember her name.
“You need to lie still. The EMTs are going to take you to the hospital to get checked out. Can you hear me?”
She stared up at him. Dark hair. Strong jawline. White teeth. High cheekbones. Why did he stare at her like that?
“Who . . . ?”
Before she could voice the question, the EMTs arrived and the firefighters backed away. Her gaze locked on the firefighter staring down at her as if he’d seen a ghost, looking at her in . . . what? Shock? He frowned, the slash of dark eyebrows lowered over dark eyes. She turned away from him as a light shone into her eyes, bringing with it a stab of pain. She winced and tried to turn her head away.
“Pupils equal and reactive.”
“Ma’am, can you tell me your name?”
There was that stupid moniker again. Who talked like that anymore, anyway? She racked her brain, but nothing came up. She wanted to tell them her name, to shout it out so they wouldn’t call her ma’am anymore. But there was just . . . nothing.
Beyond them, she saw a gurney. Beyond that an ambulance. She stared at the EMT and wanted to tell him to go to hell, to quit flashing that frickin’ light into her eyes. But she didn’t. His question had startled her. And then the truth struck her with a jolt. She had no idea who she was.
A blood pressure cuff was wrapped around her upper left arm. The sound of pumping air was quiet, distant. She felt fingers on the inside of her wrist, then hands on her, gently compressing her arms, then down her legs, and then her ribs just below her breasts.
“Stop—”
One of the EMTs turned her head, causing another bolt of pain to surge through her. She almost cursed. Almost, but lethargy flooded through her body, leaving her feeling almost . . . wilty. She couldn’t think of another word to describe how she felt. And then she closed her eyes, desperate to block out the sights and sounds and the fear enveloping her. She felt herself being lifted onto the gurney, strapped on, and then the gurney lifted. She heard the wheels lock into place.
“Wait, where are you taking her?”
That came from the firefighter who had first spoken to her.
“Memorial,” came the brusque reply.
She opened her eyes briefly as she was loaded into the ambulance and glanced down at herself. Grimy clothes that felt wet and stank of smoke.
What happened? What was she doing down here? She hadn’t recognized any of her surroundings. From the pain in her head, she had to have a head injury, but she couldn’t remember how it happened.
The ambulance began to move. Overhead, the siren whined as the vehicle slowly picked up speed, the gurney she lay upon jostling her on the thin plastic mattress. The sudden dip of the vehicle as one of the wheels struck a pothole, eliciting another burst of pain in her body.
“Step on it, Jerry,” a voice said above her. “Her blood pressure is rocketing.”
He spoke to someone over a transmitter, relaying her respiration and blood pressure and pulse stats. Something about her O-two levels being around eighty-five. Then she heard the guy telling her he was going to start an IV and give her something to ease her pain. His words floated in and out of her consciousness but she only half paid attention as he asked her questions that she had no answers to.
Why couldn’t she remember?
When she next opened her eyes, she was lying in a hospital bed. Her bed was by the window and she turned to look toward the doorway. The walls were painted a soft, buttercup yellow. It wasn’t a private room, but the other bed closer to the door was unoccupied. She didn’t move for several moments, assessing how she felt. She was lethargic, groggy, and her mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton. Her last memory was the EMT saying he was giving her something for the pain. After that, nothing. She didn’t remember arriving at the hospital, nor the emergency room, nor how she had ended up in this room.
She didn’t appear to be in an ICU, at least. An IV dripped some type of liquid into her right arm, the tube snaking upward to the bag of clear solution. No heart monitor. On her left index finger was a weird gadget that looked like a giant white plastic clothespin. Instead of the oxygen mask on her face that she recalled from earlier, a simple oxygen cannula pulsed a slow flow of oxygen into her nose.
She swallowed and winced. She must have an inhaled smoke or harsh chemicals. She still couldn’t remember. When she breathed through her nose, the acrid stench of smoke and soot flew her back to the scene . . . Where was that place and what had she been doing there? A flash of the structure was all she could remember. It looked decrepit and abandoned. Broken, dirty windows, an old mattress leaning against the far corner, a large, metal trash bin filled to the brim just around its corner. The only other people she had noticed at the scene were firefighters or other first responders. No cars parked in the parking lot, either.
She reached her left hand upward and touched the bandage wrapped around her head. While her head throbbed, the pain was manageable. Damn, why couldn’t she remember what she’d been doing there? Perhaps the memory lapse was due to the blow to her head. She glanced down at the identification bracelet around her left wrist.
Memorial Hospital. Patient ID number 1973206. Name: Jane Doe.
Oh, God, Jane Doe? She wasn’t a Jane Doe! She was . . . she closed her eyes and tried to relax, concentrating on remembering something, anything from beyond the most recent past. Nothing. Her memories started after she woke up on the asphalt in front of the fire-stricken building, the first thing she remembered the image of the good-looking firefighter who had seemed shocked by her appearance. Surprised that she had regained consciousness?
Fuck. There were too many questions. Exhausting questions that had her heart racing and her fears accelerating. She wanted to get out of there. Her injuries didn’t seem to be too serious, but she had yet to see a doctor or nurse. She slumped back in the bed. What was the point? Even if she got out of here, what would she do? Where did she live?
She blinked back the tears. No, screw that. She had to stay strong. Maybe if she quit trying to force her memories, they would come back faster. She closed her eyes, wanting nothing more than to rest, but when she did she saw the face of the firefighter hovering over her. Her heart skipped a beat. Handsome. When she had seen him, she had felt an immediate sense of safety and security. Now that was gone and she was just alone.
3
Mason
Mason hesitated only briefly before entering the hospital. The sliding glass doors swished open and he walked through, his heart thudding dully in his chest. Was he making a huge mistake? After all, their relationship had ended years ago. Still, he hadn’t quit thinking of her since he pulled her out of the burning building. Despite the dirt and soot smudges across her face, he’d recognized her immediately, even through his alarm from the trail of dried blood clumping in her hair and trailing down her cheek—a juxtaposition that marred her usually perfect features.
Sloane Maxwell. Had it really been ten years since he had last seen her? They’d both been in their early twenties when they met at the college campus, before his parents had died. Before he’d quit school and gone through firefighter training.
Sloane was a Seattle native, born and raised. Her lack of a Southern drawl had been the first thing he’d noticed about her. That and the fact that she had such smooth, flawless skin. He knew it sounded corny even as he thought it, but her shoulder-length blonde hair, her green eyes, and that soft translucent skin had reminded him of one of the Barbie dolls his friend’s little sister used to play with growing up. That and her perfect shape: perky breasts, not too big. Narrow waistline and incredibly long legs that he remembered wrapping around his head while he . . .
“Excuse me.”
The voice came from an older man brushing past him into the lobby. Mason headed directly for the elevators, smiling at the two older volunteer receptionists manning the reception counter at the front of the lobby.
Sloane Maxwell was no arm candy. She was extremely intelligent, sharp-witted and also sharp-tongued when she felt it was required. She was no pushover. He had been immediately drawn to her, had shamelessly flirted with her in a couple of classes they shared until one day she called his bluff. Before he knew it, he was buying her dinner at one of the fanciest restaurants in town.
What followed was the remainder of spring semester and a summer of passion after they shared their first kiss. He was no virgin and neither was she, but between the sheets he had felt like one. Looking at her you wouldn’t think she was so . . . exuberant. She wanted to try anything and everything. Young and brimming with testosterone, there wasn’t much that he wasn’t willing to try, either. He’d never been able to decide whether their intense passion in bed was merely the result of chemistry or if that chemistry had been driven by his unrelenting attraction to her, physically as well as mentally.
He thought back to the first time they’d had sex. Though not completely inexperienced, he had nearly blown his wad when she’d unbuttoned her blouse and shrugged out of it, exposing beautiful, rounded, perfectly sculptured breasts with dark pink areolas. He recalled the way her nipples slowly hardened and almost seemed to point toward him as he stared. She had pulled his face down to those lovely mounds and despite his impatience, he had nestled, suckled, and lathed those nipples with his tongue until she moaned with desire, pushing her hips against his, his hard-on pulsing desperately against the constraints of his zipper. And then she had slid out of her pants and he had—
A burst of laughter from a short distance away abruptly curtailed the memory as the doors of the nearby elevator opened, disgorging three nurses laughing at who knew what as he stood aside to let them pass. His dick had come to life while he was daydreaming and it stood at half-mast. He quickly entered the elevator, hoping that the doors closed before anyone else entered.
What the hell? Mason leaned into the corner of the elevator, legs crossed at the ankles, arms extended on either side and holding on to the shiny metal handrail of the car as the doors finally swished closed. The elevator dinged and rose toward the second floor.
Get it together.
He glared at his crotch and mentally ordered his arousal away. He and Sloane’s last argument ran through his head, turning out to be as effective as a mental splash of cold water.
Maybe this was a mistake. Why did he care? It wasn’t as if they�
��d left on the best of terms. Bottom line? She had wanted a commitment and he wasn’t ready to give her one. They were young, not even out of college. Just before the start of winter semester, she had transferred back to Seattle. As if his feelings didn’t matter. A curt goodbye, a slammed door, and then nothing. He hadn’t heard from her since.
So why did he care what she was doing in Georgia, or what she had been doing in an abandoned meth lab? It definitely wasn’t because he expected anything to come of this visit. He just wanted to check to make sure she was okay. “Sure, just keep telling yourself that,” he muttered as the elevator car came to a stop, settled, and the doors swished open.
Mason stepped into the hallway and glanced right toward the nurse’s station. He’d been to the hospital many times and he knew several of the nurses up here on the second floor, as well as one or two on the surgical floor upstairs. They held the operating suites, post-surgical recovery rooms, the ICU, and a small burn unit. Mostly, though, he was familiar with the emergency room staff and personnel located on the ground floor with its reception area, the curtained trauma bays, offices, and of course the main ER intake desk. Stairs just behind that desk led down into the basement where the medical records offices were located. And the morgue.
He hoped Sloane wasn’t in the ICU, but one of the nurses would be able to tell him, or at least he hoped so. He wasn’t family, and so maybe they wouldn’t give out any information at all. What the hell, only one way to find out. As he headed toward the nurse’s station, one of the nurses glanced up and then turned to smile at the other, who pulled her gaze away from a computer monitor long enough to stare at him a moment before she straightened, the look on her face already telling. Great.
From the Ashes (Southern Heat Book 1) Page 2
