On Call Collection

by P D Singer

  “Maybe an old friend or two.” He turned to study my neck briefly before nipping it. “I won’t leave you stranded—those vultures would pick you off before the song ended.” He thought. “What about you?”

  “Just you.” I didn’t even want to dance with Dante, but he wanted to dance, so I’d dance. Unless I distracted him first…“Let’s take care of the cat hair.” I caressed the side of his head before grabbing the sticky roller from the top drawer and rolling it over his slacks. Up and down his thighs, his lower legs, and I picked up enough fur to need to peel the top layer off. He turned to let me de-cat his butt, and then I turned him again, to roll over his groin. Teasing him with the roller made him hard, so I kept rolling over the hump forming at his crotch, wondering if he’d take the bait or stop me.

  “We’re going dancing, Keith,” Dante rasped, pulling me back to my feet. “Get your boots on!” He slapped my butt to get me to the closet. It had been worth a try.

  As we turned off the side street onto the main drag, Dante tried to reassure me. “If you think of dancing as really prolonged foreplay, you’ll like it a lot better.” Damn, he’d picked up on my reluctance. I thought I’d put on my happy face.

  “I’m good with that.” I was good with anything that put me back in bed with Dante.

  Shenanigans was down in Glendale, that enclave of singles and nightlife in the southern end of town—it was a fair drive to get there, made more pleasant with Dante’s hand on my knee. I drove my Acura, which seemed more appropriate for clubbing than Dante’s small SUV filled with cages. We stopped at a truly ghastly intersection, with three streets meeting, one at an odd angle that merged into the main thoroughfare, and that’s where it happened. The little Honda tried to make the light, the mid sized SUV had edged too far out, and someone else in a pickup didn’t stop in time and rear ended it. The night filled with screeching tires, tearing metal, and breaking glass. The horn started before the other sounds died off, and it kept going.

  I wrenched the Acura to the side of the street—Dante pulled his cell phone out. Half aware that he was calling 911, I eyeballed the traffic and tried to estimate which car to check first. The Honda had to have taken the brunt of it, so I’d go to it first, though what I could do for the occupants without equipment and supplies, other than clear airways and put pressure on wounds, I wasn’t too certain. I got across the street without becoming a pedestrian casualty.

  The driver of the Honda was slumped over the wheel, blood gushing from her nose. No air bag had deployed when she’d gotten broadsided, though she’d been pushed across two lanes of traffic. I felt for her pulse in her neck; it was thready and weak, but still there, making me wonder what was bleeding internally. She shouldn’t be moved until her back and neck were stabilized, which I couldn’t do for her, though the sirens that started up in the distance said that someone was coming who could.

  “Miss, can you hear me?” I implored her, though she didn’t respond. “Miss, stay with me, stay with us…” I kept talking, reaching through the broken window, trying to assess the degree of break in her nose, wondering if slivers of bone had pushed up into gray matter. She finally responded with a weak moan. “Stay with us, hang on, help is coming.” Wow, four years of medical school and that was the best I could offer? I wanted another pulse, and that was when I discovered that more blood was coming from her forearm at a frightening rate—a fountain leaped from her with every heartbeat. Other than some fast food napkins of dubious cleanliness floating around the car I had nothing to stanch it with—except the shirt off my back. I had the black silk padded against the wound and was applying pressure before she bled out in front of me.

  Dante came up behind me. “The paramedics are on their way. The guy in the pickup is walking around and talking, but the guy in the SUV needs you, Keith.”

  “Keep the pressure on here,” I told him. We scooted around to let him get his hand on the pad. “And keep talking to her.” He started his comforting spiel and I sprinted to the driver’s side of the tank that had stoved in the little car. This man was slumped back in the seat, blood pouring over an otherwise gray face, and he listed sideways. The airbag lay deflated in his lap, telling me some things about the injuries to expect. His face was clammy with sweat, making me worry that all his problems were not related to the accident.

  “Sir! Can you talk?” I asked, running my hands over his shoulder. The bone moved under my hand.

  “Elephant sitting on my chest,” he wheezed, which meant that injuries from the airbag were the least of his worries. I wanted to get him flat, but until the paramedics got there, which was, oh good, NOW, I couldn’t.

  “Sir, move out of the way,” a man in blue with a badge told me.

  “He’s having a heart attack,” I told the medic, sliding out of his path to the SUV’s door. “Chest pain, diaphoresis…” I rattled down the rest of my physical findings, “and a broken collarbone on the left side.”

  “Everyone’s a doctor,” he grumbled. Another medic inquired about movement in toes and fingers.

  “I actually am.” He’d probably run into a lot of amateur diagnosticians, so I wasn’t going to snarl. “Dr. Keith Hoyer, I witnessed the accident. This man needs nitroglycerin sublingual.”

  They lifted the man out of the vehicle and set him on a back board. “You always go around half dressed, Dr. Hoyer?” The slight sneer on “Doctor” set my teeth on edge—I dug into my wallet for a business card.

  “Only when my clothing substitutes for a gauze pad,” I retorted. “The girl in the Honda had an arterial spurt going. Dr. James is putting pressure on it. This guy needs some nitroglycerin, now.”

  “Oh, really?” sneered the first medic, but his partner barked at him.

  “Get the nitro, dumbass, and be glad you’ve got a doctor!”

  I watched him slip a tiny tablet under the man’s tongue before going back to secure the straps. My watch crawled along as I timed the response—they’d probably be well away before five minutes had passed and we’d know if he needed another. I scrawled the order and my cell phone number on the back of the card, which hopefully would keep the paramedics out of trouble for following an unknown’s directives, and handed it to the more reasonable of the paramedics before turning to see what had become of the girl. “His color is better already.”

  “It is,” the paramedic agreed, raising the stretcher to wheel the man to the ambulance. “Thanks for stopping.” His partner gave me a dirty look, but hey, there is a hierarchy and my dirty look outranked his.

  The young woman had been transferred onto a stretcher of her own. Dante was standing back from the other crew loading her into the ambulance. The cops were here. They’d blocked off the intersection while I wasn’t paying attention and now were looking around for people to talk to. Safety in numbers, I thought as I joined Dante; it would be better to be together, since I was half naked and we were both spattered in blood.

  “Tell us what happened here?” one of the uniforms asked. His tag said Ladzicka, and he proceeded to walk us through every detail we could recall of the accident while the tow trucks winched the vehicles out of the intersection. Traffic through here would be miserable for another fifteen minutes after the wreckage was cleared.

  “So, you’re a vet, Dr. James?” Officer Ladzicka took some notes. “Do you always treat humans?”

  Neither of us liked the antagonism in that question. Dante answered, “I was more of a Good Samaritan here, Officer.”

  “He was working under my direction, Officer,” I interrupted. “He did nothing to assist until I ordered it.” This was a sticky issue; Good Samaritans could get away with a lot more than could professionals who crossed species lines. I’d trust Dante with my life, but he was suddenly trusting me with his license. “Think of him as a Samaritan who knows the language.” I fixed the cop with my best “intimidate Nurse Ratchet” look.

  “Gotcha,” he said, recognizing an authority that didn’t have to answer to sergeants, lieutenants, and district
attorneys. “By the way, where’s your shirt?”

  As a comeback, it wasn’t nearly as effective as he’d hoped, because Dante held up the messy black silk, drops of gore falling from the hem into the street. The officer looked at the shirt, at me, and at Dante, before clearing his throat and asking, “How do I reach you, gentlemen?” We handed over business cards.

  “We’ll need copies of the accident report,” I told him. “For our records. And of course, we’ll want to know how the victims are doing.”

  Officer Ladzicka agreed to fax the paperwork over when he was interrupted by the tow truck driver.

  “Hey! There’s a dog in here! I can’t take this dog!” The driver stood at the open door to the SUV, staring in horror. “I think it’s hurt!”

  It would be odd if it wasn’t, given the violence of the crash. The poor mutt had probably been an unguided missile, flying through the cabin until it hit the dashboard. Dante was there in a flash, running gentle hands over the dog’s head, sides, and legs.

  “I won’t know exactly without x-rays, but I think there’s a break in one leg, and could be internal injuries.” He turned over his shoulder to me. “Keith, we need to get her back to the clinic.”

  “There’s a blanket in the trunk.”

  We bundled up the dog under the officer’s watchful eye and settled it in the back seat of the Acura. Dante handed over another card. “Officer, will you please make sure that man’s family knows we’ve got the dog, and why?”

  “I will. Thanks for dealing with it.” He waved us off with a smile, making me wonder how much effort he’d have gone to if we hadn’t intervened. The tow truck hauled the SUV away, green radiator fluid bleeding from beneath the crumpled bronze body, the last signs of what had destroyed the evening.

  I drove swiftly back the way we’d come, listening to Dante crooning to the injured dog. I expected some growling and snapping when he reached to the animal, but perhaps it recognized help, because it let him sit in the back seat without protest at a stranger being too near. “We’ll get you fixed up, girl,” and variations of that floated up to me, making me wish for sirens and flashing lights to get back to the clinic faster. The half hour drive seemed forever to me, and probably longer for Dante, who could do little other than comfort until he had more resources. The poor dog probably thought her world had turned into hell.

  Dante leaped out to unlock the door and prop it open before getting on the other end of the blanket. Together, we carried the dog in on the makeshift stretcher. It was a smallish animal, part Border Collie from the looks, and didn’t protest being moved around.

  “Stand on here with me,” Dante marched sideways to the big floor scale he used for dogs. “I need to know how much she weighs.” We did an awkward dance as we weighed the three of us, and then came back to weigh men and blanket after shifting the dog to the table. “Three milligrams per kilogram,” Dante muttered, calculating what to inject the dog with before taking x-rays. “Scrub up—I’m going to need your hands here.” As he’d predicted, one broken leg plus some cracked ribs. “Vital signs are good; I don’t think we’ve got internal injuries on top of it, but probably a concussion or she’d be snapping.”

  Clad now in yellow surgical gowns and latex gloves, we looked nothing like the spiffy club-goers of earlier in the evening, but we had to focus on the project before us. Dante’s concentration was intense as he exposed the musculature. I handed him things as requested so he could insert pins into the bone. “There you go, sweetheart.” He snipped the last sutures free of the needle. “They’ll give you wet food for a while. There has to be an upside somewhere, right?”

  Nothing else required surgical stabilization, though the cracked ribs would need careful monitoring for a bit. With the last bit of bandage wrapped over the splint, Dante pulled off his gloves and smiled at me in the first acknowledgement of success. “I think she’ll be okay.”

  “You do take being a Good Samaritan to new lengths,” I said, brushing my lips over his.

  “So do you, Keith. That was a new shirt.” Dante didn’t sound too upset.

  “I didn’t have anything else to use, sorry. I’ll replace it.” I hadn’t put on a scrubs top under the yellow surgical gown, and his hands were warm through the thin fabric.

  One arm was for me, the other Dante used to caress the still-anesthetized dog. “I’m worried about the girl. What do you think about back or neck injuries?”

  “She had a side impact, so it’s possible. Wonder what cut her up so bad?” I thought back to the blood shooting from her arm. “The window was tempered glass.”

  “I don’t know, but at least she didn’t bleed out on our watch. There was a lot of crap in the car; something could have been sharp enough to cut her.” Dante shrugged. “How about the SUV guy?”

  “He was having a heart attack, so going straight to the hospital was the best thing for him. The sooner treatment starts, the better the prognosis.” I helped him pet the dog. “But I am really sorry our evening of dancing turned into more work.”

  “You couldn’t have driven past that, Keith. We had to stop.” I got both arms and a taste of his lips now. “There will be other nights out. Let’s take Fi Doe upstairs for recovery.”

  Wondering how he knew the dog’s name, I pulled off my surgical gown and followed him up the stairs. Dante settled the patient into an empty bed on the floor and set up the toddler gates around her. Harpo had curled up in that bed six weeks ago to recover from the anesthesia after Dante had rebuilt his joint and he’d regrown some fur on the surgical site—now he leaped lightly over the gate to sniff the newest occupant.

  “You do good work.” My big gray tabby bounced back out of the recovery pen. “He’s jumping like nothing ever happened.”

  “This girl should do as well, if she isn’t addled from the concussion.” Dante brought a pan of water over.

  I watched him kneel next to the dog, check color on the inside of its mouth, and then go to the sink to wash his hands again. “Do you think you’ll get paid for the surgery?”

  “It won’t be the first pro bono work I’ve ever done if I don’t.” He came to join me on the couch. “But I probably will. You, on the other hand…”

  “That was first aid.” I shrugged it off.

  “Not that.” He grinned at me, eyes twinkling. “As an apprentice vet tech, you get the experience and that’s about it.” He pulled off his shoes, threw them in the corner, and wiggled his toes.

  “I get to learn from the best,” I said, laughing at the thought of submitting insurance claims for surgery on the dog. “Come here, Best, you can pay me with kisses.” His mouth was soft and warm under mine, and I was ready to nestle down and pull him on top of me when I decided that the lights were really too bright. “Let me up for a second.”

  His eyes followed me as I went to the switch and turned the dimmer lower. My nude upper body had to be contrasting against the black jeans; I strutted for him, putting a little shoulder movement into my stride. It was only spoiled a little by tripping over Domino, but Dante’s chuckle got turned into a rumbling noise of appreciation when I turned around. The situation would be further improved with some music, I decided. The bright screen of the MP3 player put a spotlight on my face and shoulders while I punched up a playlist. He’d been so eager to go dancing—I’d give him as much as I could of what he wanted in a situation that I could handle. No judgmental eyes would see how badly I moved, and I could control the music. Playlist accomplished, I put the player back on its dock and the first pulsing notes came out of the speakers. A quick scan for feline obstacles in my path, and then I strutted back to him, hips and shoulders rolling seductively.

  Putting my hand out to him, palm up, I purred, “Dance with me.”

  His eyes widened enough for me to see white in the dimness for a second before he took my hand and rose from the couch. “You do take my breath away,” Dante whispered, folding himself against me. The guitars throbbed—I pulled him close, hoping I could follow enough
of his movements to qualify as dancing. He steered us with his hands flat against the small of my back, our bodies rippling a little against one another.

  With my face against the side of his head, I murmured, “I think I see why you wanted to go. This is good.”

  “Oh, yeah,” he whispered back. “Real good.” His cock had already come up, right next to mine; we rubbed through our clothing with each shift of our feet and sway of our hips. “Take my breath away,” rumbled softly with the music in my ear as he nuzzled me.

  The song ended just after we’d made one slow circuit around the dim living room. More confident than I would have been at the club, I kissed him full on, having to bend a little to meet his lips. I still had the ankle boots on, which boosted me an unaccustomed inch taller than Dante. The bending excited me, and I imagined myself bending down to reach his lips when he lay on his back with his ankles locked behind me. I shivered and moaned, but there would be time to get to that. The next song started.

  Oops. I’d forgotten that this song sped up to a tempo I wasn’t prepared for. Trying my best to match the speed, I managed to step hard on Dante’s stocking toes.

  “Ouch.” He gave me a mock-stern look, but he couldn’t complain he hadn’t been warned.

  “Sorry.” I dumped a cat off the couch to make enough room to sit and pull the boots off. “Now you know.”

  “Get back here.” Dante put my hands on his shoulders and his on my hips, moving me. “Feel the beat,” he said, smiling from the not-quite-close-enough-to-kiss range. “Like this.” He added some back and forth steps, nothing fancy but still a challenge. My forehead creased with the concentration of making every body part go in some different direction. “Oh, Keith, you’re treating this like hard work.” He pulled me tightly against him. “Just hold still for a minute—we’ll find the beat again.” The kiss he gave me was a great way to reset my rhythm and maybe distract him, because it set my hips thrusting against his.