Phoenix (Own The Skies Book 2)

by Emma Nichole

  Phoenix

  Own the Skies #2

  Emma Nichole

  “Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear, not absence of fear”

  -Mark Twain

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Emma Nichole

  Follow Emma

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2018 Emma Nichole

  All Rights Reserved

  In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any

  part of this work without permission of the author is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual

  property.

  This story or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the

  expressed written permission of the author except for brief quotations used in a book review.

  This short story is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s

  imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual

  persons, living or dead, events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  The use of actors, artists, movies, TV shows, and song titles/lyrics throughout this book are done so for

  Storytelling purposes and should in no way be seen as advertisement. Trademark names are used in an

  editorial fashion with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.

  This short story is intended for adults only. Contains sexual content and language that may offend some.

  Suggested reading audience is 18 years or older.

  Dedication

  SS – You inspire me daily with your words and beautifully perfect imagination. You are true author goals that I can only dream of.

  Prologue

  Case

  I’m dying.

  That’s the only thought in my head.

  Lungs burning. Can’t breathe. My limbs are flailing about, searching for the surface but only meeting plastic.

  Chlorine is starting to overtake my senses. All of them. Not just taste. It’s burning my skin, filling my mouth and nose, stinging my eyes, while the silent roaring of the water is pulsing in my ears.

  The darkness is coming even as I thrash and fight against it.

  I don’t want to die.

  I’m not ready.

  Don’t make me.

  Please. Help me. Someone.

  Please. Please. Please.

  I feel it. A hand grasping my ankle in the cold water. It’s pulling me down, dragging me into the abyss to keep me forever.

  It hurts. Its claws are digging into my skin and fighting me. I’m losing my strength. I can’t make it.

  Darkness.

  Black.

  Nothing.

  Death.

  “No!!” I shout into the darkness as my eyes pop open.

  Sweat is beading on my brow and pouring down my back.

  A nightmare. Another fucking nightmare.

  With shaking hands, I reach to the nightstand for a bottle of water and slowly take a long sip, letting the coolness coat my dry mouth.

  I thought I was past this. I’m a grown-ass man. I shouldn’t be dealing with this shit.

  I toss back the covers, sit up, and scrub my hand over my face.

  The sun is just barely peeking through my curtains, casting a slightly orange glow over my bedroom, telling me it’s likely six or seven in the morning.

  I move on autopilot now, preparing to do the one thing I know helps me work off this feeling.

  I pull on a pair of shorts and a sweatshirt, pulling the hood up to cover my face and slip into my running shoes.

  My therapist suggested this to me years ago, and I’ve done it ever since.

  Running.

  I don’t even grab my cell. I leave as I am and hit the pavement. My shoes collide with the hard surface over and over until my legs ache.

  I will run until my limbs burn and bleed into numbness.

  I will run until I’ve chased the demons away.

  Chapter 1

  Nora

  “I’m fine. I promise.” I clutch my cell between my shoulder and my ear as I make a cup of coffee in the breakroom. It’s shitty and bitter, even with the cream and sugar I add, but the caffeine makes it all worth it.

  “You know I’ll always check when I’m on the road like this. I don’t like leaving you alone,” my brother’s voice comes through my cell phone.

  “I’m a grown woman, Marco. I think I can manage. I tell you this every time you leave.” I add in six packets of sugar and a heavy pour of creamer.

  “I’m your big brother. I can’t turn off my worry. Call me a control freak. And I know that’s my name, but no one calls me that...ever.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, you big baby, but I’m not calling you Falcon like everyone else. I refuse.” I sip my coffee and pull a face. Bitter as fuck.

  “Why not? It’s a bomb-ass nickname, and you know it. Oh, hey, will you be able to watch the fight tonight?” he asks.

  “I’m pulling an overnight, but I’m recording it. Good luck out there. Give him hell.”

  “Always, Little Sister. Always.”

  We kill the call and I shove my cell into the back pocket of my scrub bottoms.

  Marco was fourteen when our parents died. I was ten. He’s been my rock ever since.

  We didn't have any family outside of our parents. Neither one of them had much of a relationship with their respective families, so it was always just the four of us.

  Until it wasn’t.

  After we lost everything in an apartment fire, including our mom and dad. We were all out safely. We were together; then my father decided to be the hero and my mom went in after him.

  I’ll never forget screaming at them to come back as they disappeared into the building... and that was the last time I saw them.

  We were lucky enough to be placed in the same foster homes over the years; having Marco with me was the only way I stayed sane. My brother and writing.

  Losing my parents was how I discovered poetry. A guidance counselor at my school suggested it and it really seemed to work. It helped me channel my feelings into something so I could avoid the chaos happening around me.

  The foster system is a joke.

  Most of the families are neglectful and after the money that comes with housing displaced children. We were only given the bare minimum and always needed more, so Marco took matters into his own hands.

  At sixteen, he began fighting for money. In underground clubs, fighting rings, anywhere he could.

  Any money he won, we kept to buy extra things we needed, and what we didn’t spend, we saved.

  When he turned eighteen, he took custody of me and got me out of the hellhole of a foster home we were in. He took our savin
gs and set us up in an apartment.

  He took on the role as my guardian without missing a beat.

  And he kept fighting. He was too good and the money was too consistent to pass up.

  Then the UFC came calling when he was twenty-two.

  The rest, well, that’s history.

  “Nora?” The voice of my coworker, Trina, pulls me from my thoughts.

  “Hmm?” I turn around to face her. “Yes, I’m sorry. I’m coming. I just needed a minute. I needed to recaffeinate before I take over.” I sip the coffee and it’s still garbage.

  “I don’t know how you stomach that mess,” she says, with her hand on her hips.

  Trina is my work mama. She’s in her sixties and so feisty. The patients love her. The doctors love her. I love her.

  “It’s the lesser of two evils sometimes. Caffeine or no caffeine.” I tap my pocket to make sure I have my phone. I pat my chest to make sure my badge is there, and I touch my neck to verify my stethoscope is there. “I'm all set.”

  “I appreciate you swapping shifts with me next week. I want to be fresh for Casey’s school program the next morning.”

  “It’s no problem at all. I don’t mind. Tell Casey I said hello.” If I know anything about Trina, it’s her grandchildren are her whole world.

  “I will. She adores you, child.” She pats my hand then gives it a squeeze. “Ready to tackle the evening? Friday nights are always entertaining. Maybe we’ll see a cucumber stuck in a rear or two.”

  “Trina!” I laugh out.

  “What? It keeps an old lady entertained. Plus, this is a learning experience for them anyway. We all know nothing can replace a dildo.”

  “Oh. My. God. You did not just say that.”

  “I’m old, Nora. Not dead.”

  “I’ve got your discharge papers here, Mr. Holdings. Just remember to take your antibiotics to completion, even if you start feeling better.”

  “Thank you, Nurse. I’m glad I had a nurse as pretty as you to help me out this evening. Some of the other ER nurses are just not as nice to look at. If I were forty years younger, I might even make a pass at you,” Mr. Holdings speaks from the bed as he sits up.

  “I’m flattered and honored, but I’m just not sure I could handle you. You’re too much of a man for me,” I tease back with a smile, passing him his papers, but taking my copy first.

  “You make an old man feel good about himself.” He releases a throaty laugh.

  “You have a good night, Mr. Holdings.”

  I leave the room and head back to the nurses’ station and plop down in front of the computer, releasing a heavy sigh. I wish I loved my job as much as I used to. In fact, I think I hate it.

  I haven’t always hated my job, in fact, sometimes I still love it, but those moments are coming few and far between.

  Luckily, Mr. Holdings was one of those moments. He was so sick, but so funny and enjoyed making our jobs easier.

  That’s not always the case, though. Some shifts test my patience, my nerves, and my ability to cope.

  I stretch my arms above my head and extend my fingertips upward, stretching the muscles in my back. Then I slide my hands through my hair, pulling the blonde locks into a messy bun and begin the process of inputting and saving all of Mr. Holdings’ treatment information.

  It’s a mostly quiet night here at San Diego University Memorial Hospital. I can even hear the ticking of the clock above my head. Sometimes, I even make little songs to the tune of the ticking. That’s me. Nora Masen. Clock singer.

  3:46 a.m.

  Three hours and fourteen minutes to go.

  “You hungry? I thought about ordering something to eat from that diner down the street,” Trina asks from across the desk.

  “I could eat. Surprise me and tell me what I owe you.”

  “You, don’t owe me a thing. My treat,” she says.

  “You’re too good to me sometimes, Trina,” I say, rising from my seat. “I think it’s even time for a coffee refill.”

  “That’ll have to wait, ladies,” our colleague, Courtney, says as she hangs up the phone. “EMS is on the way. They’ll be here in ten minutes. Severe burn. Housefire. Child.”

  The air in my lungs feels as if it suddenly transforms into smoke, thick and burning, as memories of that night come rushing back.

  Memories I want to wash away from my mind.

  “Nora, you don’t have to—” Trina starts, but I stop her with a hand up.

  “No. It’s all hands on deck. A child is hurt. We all need to help,” I say, then head toward the trauma units.

  This is a routine we all know too well, though I’m sure we wish we didn’t.

  We prep the room for everything we think we will need to assess and help the incoming patient.

  Fluids, cannulas, breathing tubes, meds, dressings, and so many things it’s hard to even keep track in the chaos.

  I have to stay focused on the task at hand to keep any and all anxiety at bay.

  Dealing with burns, especially this kind, has never been easy. It’s never been something I relish doing.

  “Breathe, Nora. You can do this.” Trina squeezes my arm reassuringly.

  She knows what happened to Marco and me. She knows how hard it is to be around things like this. She’s always willing to step in when I can’t handle it. She’s been my saving grace many times.

  “It’s harder when it’s a child, Trina.”

  “It’s always harder when it’s a little one, but we have to do our jobs without emotional attachment. It’s the only way. It’s how lives are saved.”

  I simply nod. “I can do it. I have to.”

  “Don’t let the memories win, Nora. Battle them and let’s save this baby’s life.”

  No sooner does she finish her sentence and the doors from the ambulance entrance burst inward.

  Paramedics wheel the patient through the doors, rattling off the information we need to know: they share the boy’s name and age first, Brendon—ten years old—followed by his vitals en route, the circumstances surrounding how they found him, and the treatment they provided on the way. Nothing is left out as we get him into the trauma bay and transferred from their gurney to ours.

  Then we begin.

  Brendon is alert and speaking right now, and the cries leaving him over the amount of pain he’s in are loud and heartbreaking.

  Trina and I work quickly to get him hooked up to our monitors, securing his pulse oximeter over his right index finger, connecting his oxygen tube to our machines, and I secure an additional IV line to run fluids and pain meds through.

  I step up so I can look down on his face and introduce myself to him, explaining everything that’s been happening and that’s going to happen next, and trying to comfort him as best as I can.

  I listen as the EMTs pass information along one of the nurses, and I hear the words I never I want to in these situations.

  Alone. Parents haven’t been recovered.

  “Sweetie,” I look down at his face and his eyes meet mine, wide in terror and confusion. “My name is Nora. Can you tell me your name?” I want to keep him alert.

  His bottom lip begins to tremble, but he softly gives me his name, “B-Brendon.”

  “Hi, Brendon.” I watch his breathing closely to make sure it’s steady. “I’m here with my friend, Trina,” I say, nodding her way, “and we are going to help you feel better, okay? But to do that, we need to cut these clothes off of you so we can see if you need help anywhere else on your body. It’s going to be a little scary, but I promise, you’re in good hands.”

  I am fighting every trigger inside of me that’s telling me to cry, to break down into hysterics, and run away from the reminders, but seeing his scared face...I have to do my job.

  “I’m...I’m scared. It hurts. I want my mommy.” His voice is scratchy and deep, no doubt from the smoke he has inhaled.

  “I know you’re scared, but we are here for you and will do all we can to help you.”

  “Am I goi
ng to die? I don’t want to die. Please...please...I don’t want to die.” He begins to hysterically sob now.

  My hands begin to shake as my heart shatters into a million pieces. I know his pain. I know his terror. I know what he feels.

  “Brendon...” I touch his head and then say the one thing we are never allowed to say to a patient, “I promise you...I won’t let you die.”

  While I’m talking to him, Trina works to cut his clothes off. This part is always tricky. If the clothes are burned to his skin, it’s going to be very painful, excruciating, but we must do it. It gives us better access to him and lets us evaluate his condition. We need to see how much of him is burned and how severe it is to determine what sort of fluid resuscitation he will need.

  I’m listening to him, trying to keep him distracted, and trying to keep an ear to what Trina is reporting to Doctor Larson, too.

  As the begin to slice into his clothing, I do my best to distract him.

  “Where do you go to school, Brendon? What grade are you in?”

  He doesn’t seem to understand me at first, but then he answers, “Saint Anthony’s. I’m in...f-f-fifth grade. OW! NO! Please stop.”

  “Brendon, look at me. It’s really important that they get these clothes off of you, okay? We need to see exactly where you’re hurting so we can help you better. Okay?”

  He nods. “I’m so scared.”

  “I know, sweetie. I know.”

  While we talk, I notice his oxygen level is dropping steadily, so I remove the cannula and place a mask over his nose and mouth, hoping it will help bring his levels back up. I also notice singeing around his nostrils and darkened skin around his mouth that was missed before, and suspect he took in a lot more smoke than initially reported, so I alert Doctor Larson immediately to the changed status.

  He’s scared, crying, and in unimaginable pain. Trina’s removal of his clothes didn’t help any of that, but it did reveal most of his left side is burned from his arm and shoulder, down his side, and to his mid-thigh. They’re deep, full thickness burns. It’s bad.

  The smell is something that cannot be described, yet it’s a smell that haunts me nearly every day. It almost smells like a grill on a summer day, but mixed with coppery scent of blood and the unyielding smell of burnt hair.