Trauma Alert

by Radclyffe

  “You’re shaking,” Beau whispered.

  “You knock me out.”

  “Not yet.” Beau brushed a line of kisses over Ali’s breast until she reached her nipple. She slicked her tongue over it and Ali stiffened. “But I’m going to.”

  Ali massaged the back of Beau’s neck, rubbing her nipple harder against Beau’s mouth. “God, that feels good. And that’s all we’re going to be able to do. I need to go to work.”

  “Just a few more minutes.” Beau bit down on Ali’s nipple and Ali cried out.

  “Beau,” Ali protested weakly. But when Beau moved lower, trailing kisses down the center of her body, she opened to her, and when Beau took her into her mouth, she gave herself to her.

  *

  Ali wrapped a bath towel around her chest and walked into the bedroom, half expecting Beau to be gone. But she wasn’t. She’d dressed while Ali was in the shower and now leaned against the window frame across the room, her hands tucked into the pockets of her dark trousers. Her gray silk shirt was wrinkled, the snow that had soaked it having dried overnight. Even rumpled with thin smudges of fatigue under her eyes, she took Ali’s breath away. And instantly aroused her. Even though Beau had made her come twice with her mouth just a short while before, moisture quickly pooled between her thighs.

  Ali had to look away. She was out of time and a little—no, more than just a little—disconcerted by the hunger that rose in her every time she was near Beau. This need, this physical ache, wasn’t her.

  “Do you have time for coffee?” Beau asked. “I could make it while you get dressed.”

  “I’m going to have to hurry—I’ll get something at the hospital. Thanks, though.” Ali busied herself pulling a shirt and pants off hangers in her closet. She pulled on plain black cotton panties and sorted through her drawer for a bra. She tried for a laid-back morning-after tone. “You don’t have your car. I’ll walk with you to the trolley.”

  “Okay. When can I see you again?”

  “Why don’t you check with me tomorrow?” Ali suggested as casually as she could, considering her body was screaming at her to walk across the room and kiss her. Just a taste. God, she was totally out of control. “I know we had planned to go out, but—”

  “Last night didn’t change that,” Beau said immediately. “And I can’t wait until tomorrow night. If I hadn’t known you needed to get to work, I would have joined you in the shower.” Beau walked up behind Ali, put her hands on her shoulders, and kissed the back of her neck. “Just thinking about you in there, remembering the way your body looked with the water running all over it, got me so excited I had to come again. Took about thirty seconds.”

  “You’re going to break something if you don’t stop that.”

  Beau laughed. “Not if you kiss it and make it all better.”

  Ali closed her eyes tightly and arched her neck, a silent offer for Beau to keep kissing her. She trembled when she felt teeth graze her throat. Spinning around, she drove her hands into Beau’s hair and kissed her hard, tasting the hot wild flavor that was uniquely Beau. “You’re driving me crazy.”

  “Ditto,” Beau gasped, skating her hands down Ali’s back and cupping her ass. She pulled Ali tight against her crotch and sucked on Ali’s lower lip. “I want to make love to you again right now.”

  “You have to wait.” Ali pressed her palms against Beau’s chest and pushed her away. “I have to get some clothes on and you have to stay far away from me.”

  Beau grinned. “Don’t trust me?”

  “I don’t trust myself,” Ali muttered, amazed that it was true and more than a little frightened by the thought.

  *

  When Ali walked into the trauma bay at 7:00 a.m., Wynter was inflating a tourniquet on the right arm of a middle-aged man whose hand was swathed in bloody bandages. Although the other treatment tables were empty, both instrument stands held used suture packs and the floor was streaked with blood.

  “Good morning,” Wynter said with a weary smile. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

  “Busy night?” Ali asked as she donned a cover gown.

  “Nonstop,” Wynter said.

  “You should have called me,” Ali chided.

  Wynter shrugged. “Nonstop but steady. We kept up.” Her eyes went to the laceration on Ali’s temple. “I figured you could use the downtime. How are you feeling?”

  Ali knew she was blushing and quickly turned away to pull on gloves. How did she feel? Like she’d woken up in someone else’s body. Hell, maybe even in someone else’s life. Even now, with ninety-nine percent of her concentration focused on what she needed to do for this patient, she could still recall the heat in her breasts pressed against Beau’s back. Still taste Beau. Still feel her in every cell. She hoped her reaction was a temporary response to some very excellent sex and would diminish once the physical uniqueness wore off, because she was feeling damn uncomfortable. “I’m fine. What do you have?”

  “Snowblower,” Wynter said, carefully peeling back the gauze covering the heavily sedated man’s hand. Three of his four fingers had been cleanly amputated just below his knuckles.

  “Probably the first of many of these,” Ali said softly. Every time it snowed, they got two or three cases just like this one. “Who’s on hand call?”

  “Plastics. They’re on their way.”

  “Do we have the digits?”

  “Two out of three.” Wynter indicated a plastic container of iced saline on the counter. “The small finger is in pieces. The other two are in pretty good shape.”

  “Do we know what he does for a living?”

  “Not yet. We’re trying to locate his wife. Apparently she’s out of town.”

  “Okay,” Ali said, re-bandaging the hand. “We’ll let plastics decide to replant or not.”

  Wynter grabbed the patient’s chart, rapidly scribbled a note, and passed the paperwork to the clerk at the workstation. Then she said to the trauma nurse, “We can hold him here until the replant team evaluates him.”

  “Sure,” the nurse said, placing a pillow under the patient’s arm.

  “Why don’t you head home,” Ali said, tossing her gloves into the biohazard trash container. “I’ll make rounds in the unit by myself.”

  “Pearce is picking me up at eight. I might as well tag along until then.”

  “Sure? You look a little tired.”

  “I’m good.” Wynter retrieved her lab coat from the wall rack just outside the door and waited while Ali found hers and put it on. As they started down the hall, she said, “How are you really feeling? You’re looking a little tired yourself.”

  “Really, I’m doing fine,” Ali said self-consciously.

  “I know something’s wrong. Headache? Are you having problems with your vision?”

  Ali punched the wall button to open the double doors into the main part of the hospital and, once they were through, drew Wynter out of the mainstream of foot traffic. Checking to be sure no one was close enough to overhear, she said, “I didn’t get much sleep last night. Nothing to do with the head wound, so don’t worry.”

  Wynter narrowed her eyes. “You’re being awfully cagey.”

  “Damn it,” Ali sighed. “I spent the night with Beau.”

  “Hold it. Back up a step.” Wynter’s eyes glinted madly. “You spent the night—as in spent the night in bed—with the woman you refused to even admit was hot?”

  “I never said she wasn’t hot,” Ali muttered. “I’ve got eyes, don’t I?”

  “Oh my God!”

  “Quiet.” Ali looked around. “Can we not take out an ad?”

  Wynter laughed. “Oh my God. You’re shy!”

  “I am not shy. I’m private.”

  “I’ve never seen you show up for work after a date the night before looking like you’ve been ravished.”

  “I do not look ravished.” Ali shoved her fists into the pockets of her lab coat. “Do I?”

  “Actually, you look great. Was she great?”

  Ali didn’t
even try to pretend her face wasn’t flaming. She wasn’t embarrassed, she was fighting the arousal that rose completely unbidden every time she even thought of Beau. “The sex was great.”

  “Uh-huh,” Wynter said slowly. “That’s terrific. So you like her?”

  “Well you know how these things go.” Ali remembered being frantic when Beau hadn’t called, fearing she’d been hurt or worse. She thought of Beau holding her when she’d awakened from another nightmare about Sammy and of Beau’s tears when Beau had told her about Jilly’s illness. Beau made her feel so much, maybe too much. Searching for safe ground, familiar ground, Ali said, “She’s hard not to like. Come on, let’s make rounds.”

  Wynter didn’t call her on being vague and Ali was grateful. She wanted to immerse herself in her work, where she understood the boundaries and knew how to prevent being ambushed by unwanted emotions. Exactly what she wasn’t able to do with Beau.

  *

  “How are you feeling?” Beau asked Bobby when she walked in the front door and saw him stretched out on the couch with a pillow behind his head and a coffee mug balanced on his chest. He wore sweatpants, a PFD T-shirt, and a shit-eating grin. The television was tuned to one of the holiday parades.

  “Not bad. Not as good as you, though.”

  She hung the dark brown leather bomber jacket Ali had loaned her on a peg inside the door. It was a little too small for her through the shoulders, but she liked wearing it nonetheless. It was Ali’s, and she liked having something of hers to prove to herself she was going to see her again. Ali had been quiet on their walk to the subway and when they parted, she had walked away too quickly for Beau to kiss her good-bye. She couldn’t quell the uneasy feeling that something was bothering Ali. Especially when Ali had avoided confirming when Beau could see her again. She rubbed at the sudden pain in her midsection.

  “Are you taking the medication Ali ordered?” Beau asked.

  “No choice. Jilly saw the bottles and has been bugging me to make sure I do.”

  “Good. Where is she?”

  “Kitchen,” Bobby said. “So, I guess I owe you money.”

  “You don’t owe me anything.” Beau started toward the kitchen. That fucking bet again. God.

  “You mean you spent the night there and you didn’t nail her? Man, a hot piece like—”

  “Hey!” Beau spun around, so furious she was shaking. “It’s a goddamn good thing you’re laid out on that couch or I’d lay you out myself. You don’t ever talk about her that way.”

  Bobby’s eyes widened. “Jesus, Beau. I’m sorry.”

  “Fuck,” Beau whispered, rubbing both hands over her face. “Look, I’m sorry for jumping on you. It’s just—”

  “No,” Bobby said, holding up his hand. “It’s cool. I just didn’t know.”

  Jilly walked in from the kitchen, a dishtowel slung over one shoulder, a worried look on her face. “What’s the shouting about?”

  “Just me being an asshole,” Bobby said, pointedly staring at the television.

  Beau didn’t say anything.

  “Come with me.” Jilly grasped Beau’s arm and pulled her through the dining room into the kitchen. She pointed to a high stool. “Sit.”

  Beau sat, leaning her elbow on the kitchen counter and her head on her hand.

  Jilly poured coffee and passed it to her. “Are you all right? You don’t look so good.”

  “Yeah. I didn’t get much sleep. Rough night.”

  “Why were you yelling at Bobby?”

  “Guy stuff.”

  Jilly flicked the dishtowel at Beau. “Don’t give me that crap. What’s bothering you?”

  “It’s nothing. Really. He just…said something about Ali, but he was only joking around.”

  “He looked upset. So do you.”

  Beau pushed the coffee mug away. “I slept with her.”

  “I’m not sure what to say to that,” Jilly said with a small smile. “You’ve never been a kiss-and-tell kind of person, so I won’t ask. But why do you look so worried?”

  “I love her, Jilly.”

  “Oh, well.” Jilly dropped the dishtowel on the kitchen table and hugged Beau. “That’s wonderful.”

  “I don’t know.” Beau looped her arms around Jilly’s waist and rested her cheek on Jilly’s shoulder. “I’m not sure Ali’s looking for anything serious. And I’m already in over my head.”

  Jilly rested her chin on Beau’s hair. “I think sometimes love finds us when we’ve stopped looking. Then it takes us a while to catch up. Just give her time.”

  “I will,” Beau said fervently. “If she lets me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Shortly after midnight, Beau finished cleaning and restocking the rig from the previous run and alerted dispatch their unit was back online. She was half out of her bunker pants when the pre-alert tone sounded through the station. Five seconds later her radio beeped and the dispatcher relayed a call for an ambulance response. She yanked up her pants, grabbed her jacket off a nearby peg, and climbed into the front passenger seat of the ambulance just as her shift partner, Lynn Dean, got behind the wheel. Lynn, a willowy blonde with killer green eyes and a smile to match, was about Beau’s age and something of a mystery. In an environment where everyone was in and out of everyone else’s business all the time, Lynn was notoriously private. Some of the guys who had struck out with her swore she was a lesbian, but Beau had never seen her with a woman, so she thought that might be just wounded male egos talking. She didn’t work with Lynn very often, since the station captain usually scheduled her and Bobby to ride together. But Lynn was filling in while Bobby was recovering, and so far she’d been friendly and good to work with.

  As Lynn pulled the rig out into the nearly empty streets, Beau checked the call details.

  “Unresponsive victim—that’s all we’ve got.” Beau shook her head. Probably the 911 caller had disconnected before the dispatcher could get any other information beyond an address. She hated these blind calls—they could be walking into the middle of a gang war or a domestic violence situation or any number of other potentially dangerous situations. The address deep in the heart of West Philadelphia was one of the rougher neighborhoods in the sector.

  “Crappy area,” Lynn said.

  “Yeah.” Beau settled her shoulders against the seat, watching the traffic ahead, checking the cross streets as they approached each intersection to make sure oncoming traffic was slowing. They were running with lights and siren, but that didn’t necessarily mean other vehicles would yield for them. When Lynn turned onto the 5900 block of Cedar, the street looked quiet. At least a quarter of the buildings were abandoned, the rest in serious disrepair. “Don’t see any police.”

  “That’s 5920 up ahead,” Lynn said, slowing in front of a partially boarded-up, darkened building. The door stood open on sagging hinges. “Crap.”

  “Shooting gallery?”

  “Looks like it. Or a squatters’ nest.” Lynn double-parked and looked at Beau. “Do we go or do we wait?”

  “If somebody in a place like that was worried enough to place a nine-one-one call, then the victim’s got to be in bad shape.” Beau opened her door. “I’ll check it out. You get an ETA for uniform backup.”

  “No way are you going in there alone,” Lynn said, reaching for the radio.

  “Catch up to me.” Beau hopped out, grabbed a med box from the storage compartment on the side of the truck, and headed up the walk toward the dilapidated three-story, semidetached building. What had once been large double-hung windows on the first level were boarded over with plywood. The glass panes in most of the upper-story windows were broken out. She thought she saw lights flickering behind some of them. Candles or portable butane stoves. She unclipped her Maglite and switched it on as she shouldered through the warped wooden door.

  “Fire rescue,” she called, sweeping the debris littered hallway in front of her with the light. Soiled rags, garbage, and moldy newspapers lay in untidy heaps against the walls. Tiny spots
of bright red reflected in her flashlight beam before disappearing. Rats. “Fire rescue. Anybody here?”

  No one answered and she started down the hall, shining her light into high-ceilinged rooms that had once been elegant but were now stripped of everything of value. The carved wood molding around the doorways and ceilings had been removed, the walls gouged out so the copper and iron pipes could be cut out and sold, and the hardwood floors ripped up. A toilet lay on its side in what had been the kitchen. She didn’t see any signs of recent habitation.

  Returning to the front hall, she played her light up the wooden staircase leading to the second floor. The railing was gone and several risers missing. She tried the first stair, balancing her weight on it. It creaked but held.

  From behind her, Lynn said, “ETA on the patrol car five minutes. Anything?”

  “No. I wonder if the call is legit.” Beau walked up another few steps. “I’ll just take a quick look upstairs.”

  “Right behind you.”

  Beau proceeded cautiously, testing each step as she went. When she reached the second floor, she started down the hallway, methodically inspecting each room on one side while Lynn checked the other. She thought she heard footsteps overhead and called out once again. No one replied.

  “Jesus,” Lynn muttered. “This place gives me the creeps.”

  “Why don’t you wait at the top of the stairs for the uniforms?”

  “Why don’t you stop acting like you’re the only one with a dick?”

  Beau laughed. “I stand corrected.”

  “Over here,” Lynn said, shining her light into a room at the end of the hall.

  Beau followed her in. What had once been a spacious bedroom was now a dormitory for the damned. Filthy blood and excrement stained mattresses covered the floor, surrounded by scores of empty crack vials and piles of discarded rags that might once have been clothes. The only occupant was a half-naked woman lying curled in a fetal position on one of the makeshift beds.