In Too Deep: Station Seventeen Book 3

by Kimberly Kincaid

  He didn’t have a choice.

  14

  Quinn sat in the tastefully decorated office in the middle of downtown Remington and wished she could be anywhere else, including hell in the summertime and possibly even the mall on Black Friday. Sitting through a detailed re-hashing of the kidnapping with both Bridges and the intelligence unit had been bad enough, even though she’d known it would be necessary. But now she had to go round three with the department’s brain peeper so she could get back to work like a normal person?

  Fucking ugh.

  The door beside her opened, and she fought the urge to try and make a jailbreak.

  “Quinn, I’m Dallas Garrity.” The guy extended a hand, and huh, can’t say she’d been expecting the whole decently handsome, under-forty, polo shirt and chinos, doesn’t-look-like-Freud-or-Satan thing.

  Not that it made her want to be here for even another nanosecond. “Quinn Copeland.” She shook his hand, eyeballing the door he’d just closed and angling her chair between it and his desk as she sat back down.

  “How are you doing today?” he asked, and Quinn bit back the irony welling in her throat.

  “Fine, thank you.”

  The doc took her answer in stride as he sat not behind his desk, but in the other chair on the “client” side of things, adjusting it to face her. “I’ve talked briefly with Captain Bridges and Sergeant Sinclair about the circumstances that have brought you here. Maybe we should start with you giving me your point of view.”

  Quinn’s pulse tapped out a steady stream of no, no, no, oh look, more no. “If you’ve already gotten the story from them, then you’re totally up to speed. My version isn’t any different.”

  “Okay,” he said, surprising her by not pushing. “If you don’t want to talk about what happened, we can try talking about how you’re feeling right now.”

  She stared at the carpet, focusing on the subtle, swirly pattern in the dark blue fibers. “I already told you. I’m feeling fine. Ready to get back to work.”

  Dr. Garrity nodded, but didn’t look convinced. “You know, it wouldn’t be unusual for it to take a little while to get your wheels spinning properly again.”

  “My wheels are fine. Great, actually. Just like the rest of me.”

  “You look like you want to leave.”

  “I’m sorry?” Her lips parted in genuine surprise, but the doc didn’t bat so much as a single, sandy blond eyelash.

  “The way you’re sitting,” he said, gesturing to the chair she’d repositioned the second she’d been ushered into his office. “Most people who come to see me sit facing the desk, but you’re a bit of an exception. You’re turned toward the door, like you want to leave.”

  Quinn lifted a shoulder halfway before letting it drop. “I’m a first responder. We like to know where all the exits are.”

  “I know.” Dr. Garrity gave up a smile, and not the run-of-the-mill variety, either. “I was a firefighter myself.”

  Whoa. Talk about a plot twist. But come to think of it, that explained the whole broad-shoulders, alert-demeanor thing. “Oh. What made you decide to do this instead?”

  “That’s a long story for another day,” he said, so easily that Quinn got the feeling he’d used the line more than once. “But we’re here to talk about you.”

  Quinn trapped her sigh between her teeth. “Okay.”

  After a five-second pause for excruciating silence, Dr. Garrity said, “As your assigned psychologist, I’d like to tell you that if you’d prefer a female therapist, I can arrange for that.”

  “Why?” Her mental light bulb flashed a second later. “Because my kidnappers were all men?”

  “Not to put too fine a point on it, but yes. That’s exactly why.”

  Quinn had given enough people medical attention to know the whole gender preference/comfort zone thing was very real. Still… “I assure you, Dr. Garrity. I’m fine with you and your maleness. In fact, I’m fine with the whole situation.”

  “It’s Mister, actually. Or Dallas, if you like. I don’t quite have my PhD yet. And you’re fine with having been kidnapped at gunpoint?”

  “Dallas, then. And that’s not what I meant.”

  “Okay. Why don’t you tell me what you did mean?”

  Oh, well played, Dr. Phil. Well played. “Look, no offense. I’m sure you’re great at your job, and I know there are lots of firefighters and paramedics who need therapy. I just don’t happen to be one of them.”

  Dallas didn’t even budge, and God, the guy had some serious staying power. “Your assault was pretty brutal, Quinn. Considering the circumstances, it would be perfectly understandable if you were experiencing anxiety. Trouble sleeping. A loss of appetite.”

  “I wasn’t assaulted,” she said, because it was so much better than admitting he’d hit the trifecta. But if she could just get back to work and take care of people and be normal again, all the other crap would go away.

  “You weren’t physically hurt,” Dallas agreed. “But you were violently threatened. What happened to you falls under the umbrella of assault.”

  He said the words as gently as possible, his tone as soft and non-confrontational as a litter of kittens. But Quinn’s stupid, treasonous heart slammed anyway.

  “Let me guess. You talked to Luke about the whole…you know, thing.”

  Of course Luke had probably told Dallas all about how Damien had pressed his gun to her forehead and made her believe she was going to die horribly. How he’d also shoved that gun in the spot between her shoulder blades hard enough to brand her with a nasty bruise that still ached every time she freaking moved. How Ice had let it all happen, then threatened to turn every word of Damien’s posturing into reality. How she’d believed him, and still did.

  But Luke seemed to have mastered the normal that Quinn desperately wanted. Luke, who had been so smart and calm and rational when he’d told her what she’d already known this morning. Luke, who’d had the good fortune of having his appointment with Garrity first. Luke, whose arms she wanted to curl up in so she could forget the rest of the shit show that was her universe right now.

  Jesus, maybe she did need therapy. Or at the very least, to get laid.

  Dallas cleared his throat, reminding her not only where she was, but that she’d just had inappropriate and errant sex thoughts in front of a man who was trying his damnedest to hone in on her brain waves.

  “Those are all very normal side effects a person can experience after a traumatic event,” he said, dodging her question to maneuver back to the thing that made her look scared and weak, and before Quinn could check herself, she snapped.

  “How would you know?”

  Regret flooded through her almost instantly, heating her cheeks even though the office around her was nice and cool. “I’m sorry. That was really rude of me. What I meant was—”

  “You want to know if I’m patronizing you with a bunch of pages from a textbook or if I actually know what the hell I’m talking about.”

  The wry smile lifting one corner of his mouth told Quinn he wasn’t offended, and she exhaled in relief. “Yeah, maybe.”

  “I’ve talked to a lot of people who experience post-traumatic stress, and by a lot, I mean hundreds. Those three side effects seem to be the most common. If you’re experiencing any of them, I can try to help you find the best way or ways to cope with that,” Dallas said.

  Annnnd welcome back to Square One. “I’m good, but thanks.”

  “So you feel like you’re ready to get back on your rig and treat patients?”

  Quinn nodded, making sure to look him right in the eye as she answered, “Absolutely. I’d really like to get back to normal and take care of people who need it while the police do their thing.”

  “Ah. You like taking care of people, then.” Dallas leaned forward to scribble something on the legal pad he’d propped on one khaki-clad knee. “No wonder you want to get back to work.”

  Her unease slipped. If he wanted to talk shop, she could do that for
days. “Yep. I’ve been a paramedic for five years and only missed two shifts, so I guess you could say I like taking care of people.”

  “Only two, huh?” Dallas gave up a crooked grin that took another chunk out of Quinn’s nerves. “Mind if I ask what for?”

  “My partner, Parker, and I went on a call for a woman who was having trouble breathing. Turned out she, and the six other people living in her apartment with her, had a really nasty strain of tuberculosis. A handful of patients who had been diagnosed with the same strain had also been vaccinated, so we had to sit out the incubation period, just in case.”

  “You had to hole up for five days?” Dallas asked, his expression growing more curious at the face she’d made over the mandatory time off. “Some people would love a week-long excuse to catch up on Game of Thrones. Not you?”

  Quinn laughed, her throat nearly forgetting how to let go of the sound. “I get enough gore on the job, thanks. Anyway, I’m a way happier camper when I’m at the fire house.”

  “So you’ve always wanted to be a paramedic, then.”

  “Ever since college,” she said.

  They spent the rest of the session talking about her dad and the job, two topics Quinn didn’t usually mind going full-tilt on sharing. Dallas mostly listened, but she supposed that’s what he’d signed on for. At the end of their time, he walked her back to the lobby, where Addison was waiting to take her back to the precinct so she could meet up with Luke and the captain and finally get back in service where she belonged.

  “Hey, Quinn. You good to go?” her friend asked. But before she could answer with a great big hell yes, the woman behind the front desk cleared her throat in a bid for attention.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Copeland? Before I can sign off on your temporary release, I’ll need to schedule your next appointment.”

  Something twisted, deep beneath Quinn’s ribs. “I’m sorry?”

  “Your next appointment. It says here that your work release is contingent upon a follow-up visit next week,” the woman said. “I apologize, did Mr. Garrity not explain that to you?”

  Oh, that sneaky son of a… “No,” Quinn replied through her teeth. “He must’ve forgotten to mention it.” Or known Quinn would’ve pushed back on the decision with all of her might. Damn it!

  “I see. I’ve got a nine thirty open next week on Monday, if that will work for you.”

  Knowing she had no choice, she tacked a too-tight smile to her face and said, “That would be great. Thanks.”

  Addison, being both a kickass detective and one of Quinn’s closest friends, made the direct translation of her tone to I’d rather have a root canal on my lady bits in about two seconds flat. “Don’t worry,” Addison said as they left the office and headed down the hallway toward the elevator. “I’m sure Capelli can make it look like an official something-or-other in the system. Even if this a-hole Ice is watching, the appointment will just pop up as your random drug screening, or whatever. Anyway, spending an hour with Dr. McHot Hot might not be all bad.”

  Relieved that Addison thought the safety factor was what had fueled her hesitation, Quinn nodded. She was going to have to get used to keeping this whole thing under wraps anyway. Might as well start now, no matter how weird it felt to hide her feelings from her friend.

  After all, it was better than coming out with, “I keep trying to be fine, but I’m too busy being scared of my own freaking shadow”.

  “You think the psychologist is hot?” Quinn asked, shielding her eyes from the mid-afternoon sunlight with one hand as she followed Addison through the main door of RPD’s headquarters.

  “You don’t?” Addison flipped back, but only after she’d given their surroundings a brief yet thorough three-sixty. “I mean, between that smile and the way he filled out those dress pants, I could eat those buns every night for dinner, if you know what I mean.”

  Quinn made a noise that meant to be a laugh, but it thudded way short of the mark. “I’ll take your word for it until he’s not my shrink.”

  She kept up with the conversation—notably about topics that didn’t involve her case or her do-over trip to Dallas’s office next week—as best she could, inserting enough mmm-hmms and oh-reallys and manufactured laughs to get by. They made it to the precinct, where Luke and Captain Bridges were standing by for the trip back to Seventeen.

  Mashing down on the ball of dread that seemed to have made a permanent home in her stomach, Quinn climbed into the back of the Suburban and curled up on her side. Luke followed a second later, and really, how on earth did he smell so good?

  “Hey,” he said, his enviably steady voice making her heart pound even faster. “How did it go with Garrity?”

  “Fine,” she said by default, but God, she was really beginning to hate that fucking word. “How were the mug shots?”

  Luke waited for Captain Bridges to slam the rear door and get the Suburban rolling before he answered. “I was able to ID Damien, Jayden, and the other guy, with the baseball hat.”

  “Me, too.” That’s good news, she told the dread ball, but funny, the stupid thing only seemed to dig in deeper. “Did you, um, get full clearance to go back to work?”

  Quinn felt Luke’s ice-blue stare on her even though she couldn’t quite meet it, focusing instead on the spot where his cheekbone met his temple, up by the dark shadow of his hairline.

  “I had to talk to Garrity for an hour so he could make sure I’m okay,” he said. “But yeah. He signed off on the paperwork Cap asked for, no problem. Why? Didn’t you?”

  “Yep.” The lie weighed a thousand pounds, but Quinn managed to scrape it past her vocal cords anyway. “I sure did. Like you said, no problem.”

  Then she closed her eyes and pretended she was anywhere but there.

  15

  Luke looked around the common room and tried like hell to process his thoughts. He and Quinn had been back from their “routine mental health screenings” for a couple of hours. She’d claimed a headache and headed to the bunk room not long after they’d arrived, and he hadn’t seen her since. A not-small part of him had wanted to march a straight line down the hallway and not stop until he’d reached her, to talk to her or hold her or—fuck—whatever it took to erase the fear she was trying so hard to cover up.

  But that was a terrible idea for several reasons, not the least of which was that Luke remembered in vivid detail how Quinn’s body felt pressed against his. He knew how sweet she tasted, how sinful she sounded when he slid his thumbs over the tight peaks of her nipples with just enough friction to make her moan.

  Christ, he was a jackass. No, scratch that. He was the high lord of jackasses.

  Because despite how wrong, how dangerous it was, he still wanted Quinn.

  Badly.

  “Slater.” Gamble stopped in front of the spot where Luke had camped out at one of the smaller side tables with a dog-eared study guide in one hand and a green highlighter in the other. Not that he’d used either since he’d parked himself in the chair. “Taking your assignment to ambo seriously, I see.”

  “Yes, sir,” Luke said, grateful as shit that he’d mastered the art of the poker face before his eighteenth birthday. Had he seriously been thinking about Quinn’s nipples right here in front of God and everybody?

  “Come on, Gamble. Don’t you know that geek is the new chic?” Shae called out from her perch on the arm of the couch.

  “Says the woman whose boyfriend practically invented higher intelligence,” Dempsey cracked, arching a dark brown brow at her. “You’re maybe just a little biased on the whole geek thing, don’t you think, McCullough?”

  Shae, being Shae, just amped up her grin. “Uh-huh. Why don’t you give me shit when you’re not sleeping solo every night, okay? I might be biased, but at least I’m getting laid.”

  A chorus of “ohhhh”s rippled through the common room as Dempsey gave Shae a single-finger salute, both of them laughing too hard for any ill will to stick. Gamble rolled his eyes, although Luke caught the twitch of his
lips that signaled as much of a smile as the guy ever gave up. The rest of the afternoon, then the evening, passed in a series of similar smartass remarks, along with more studying and fire house chores. Quinn kept her distance while Luke kept the loaner ambulance stocked and ready to go for calls that oddly never came, and when he finally turned in, he stared at the high, darkly shadowed ceiling in the bunk room, unable to shake one thought from his head.

  Quinn might be a few dozen feet from him and everyone else at Seventeen, but right now, the space between them might as well measure a thousand miles.

  Twelve hours after shift change, Luke was pretty sure time had come to a rudely screeching halt. He’d agreed not to pick up any extra shifts at other fire houses for the sake of both ease and safety, but damn, the down time was driving him up the plain white walls of his apartment. How could he stick to normal when half of his routine had just been taken off the table and the other half had been shaken like a top-shelf martini?

  Shit, he could use a drink.

  Taking a deep breath, Luke sat down on the couch in his small but functional living room and palmed the new cell phone he’d picked up a few days ago instead. Although Hayley had already left for school when he’d driven by the house after his shift this morning, he’d texted her on the pretense of making sure she had his new number even though he knew damn well she did, dropping a subtle enough reminder for her to stay alert and safe. She might be a smart kid, and Momma Billie a tough lady, but Hayley’s deafness added a layer of vulnerability he didn’t like to contemplate.

  Someone could sneak up on her and she wouldn’t hear. Her vocal cords hadn’t been used in a decade. Would her throat even remember how to scream?