by Tina Reber
“Ignore it,” Chelsea gasps, pulling my hand back up to her tits.
“I ca—” I start, just as Dean’s palm slaps into the back of the truck.
“Warren, get out of the back. We’ve got a call,” he yells, his voice tinged with panic. “Hurry up Warren, I mean it!”
I nip once more at Chelsea’s neck then pull my pants up.
“We’ll continue this another time, darlin’.”
Chelsea nestles her tits back into her bra, slips her dress on, and pouts. “Promise?” she asks.
I don’t promise shit. Ever.
Dean has had enough and uses his key on the outer lock of the door.
“Get. Out. Now,” he says, his mouth in a grim line, his eyes narrowed to slits. He tosses the bag and monitor in.
“Come on, good-lookin’, I’ve got lives to save,” I say, patting her ass and lending a hand to help her down.
Chelsea hops out of the truck and walks back to her house with one quick wave over her shoulder for me. I climb into the passenger seat and finish getting dressed as we speed off, lights and sirens blaring.
“What’s the call?” I ask.
“10-15,” Dean says, smugly.
I nod. “Where?”
“Fifth and Rampart.”
“Alright, buddy, slow down there. It’s just around the corner. And it’s a seizure, not a code.” I finish buttoning my shirt and clip my name tag back on. Dean takes the next turn so hard and fast, it slams me into the door. The way he’s trying damn hard not to grin lets me know it had to be intentional.
This guy is a living, breathing version of the paramedic oath we all took. This shift can’t end quickly enough. And I make a mental oath of my own to annoy the shit out of Dean so much that by the end of it, he’ll be calling our Operations Manager begging for a new partner. Being back on a truck wasn’t what I wanted, and I have no reason left to make the best of it.
I’ll come to work. I’ll punch a clock. But I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to stay out of jail and count down the hours until I can uncap a cold beer.
Period.
“You missed your turn, dipshit,” I mutter.
Purchase Golden Hour to continue reading.
Amazon