Line of Fire (Southern Heat Book 5)

by Jamie Garrett

  Line of Fire

  Southern Heat Book 5

  Jamie Garrett

  Wild Owl Press

  Contents

  Copyright and Disclaimer

  1. Charlie

  2. Shane

  3. Shane

  4. Shane

  5. Charlie

  6. Shane

  7. Charlie

  8. Shane

  9. Charlie

  10. Shane

  11. Charlie

  12. Charlie

  13. Charlie

  14. Shane

  15. Charlie

  16. Shane

  17. Shane

  18. Charlie

  19. Shane

  20. Charlie

  21. Shane

  22. Charlie

  23. Charlie

  24. Shane

  25. Charlie

  26. Shane

  27. Shane

  28. Charlie

  29. Shane

  30. Charlie

  Also by Jamie Garrett

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright and Disclaimer

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Jamie Garrett

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. All requests should be forwarded to jamie@jamiegarrett.com.

  Connect with me on Facebook: http://facebook.com/JamieGarrettBooks

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  Cover design by The Final Wrap.

  Editing by Jennifer Harshman, Harshman Services.

  1

  Charlie

  Charlotte “Charlie” Roberts sped out of the hospital emergency room, her partner, Shane Parker, trailing close behind.

  “Charlie, wait up!”

  She briefly paused but then continued walking toward their rig, her heart still pounding, her hands still trembling. This wasn’t like her. She couldn’t remember how many runs she’d been on as an EMT over the years, but it must number into the thousands. Why had this one hit her so hard?

  She knew why. She just didn’t want to admit it.

  “Charlie!”

  She stopped and spun around so quickly that Shane didn’t have time to react. He nearly barreled into her and only prevented her from falling by reaching out and clasping her close to him, arms wrapped tightly around her shoulders. At only five foot five, her head banged briefly against his chest; his broad, well-defined, and hard chest. The chest and the aroma of his aftershave distracted her, albeit briefly, from her heightened emotions. That brief contact triggered other emotions that she refused to contemplate at the moment.

  She liked Shane. She liked all the guys at Engine 81, and was secretly happy that she’d been rotated through their company so soon after last time. But there was something about Shane, over and above his wickedly good looks, that attracted her to him. The genuine concern he showed to each and every one of their patients, no matter the situation. His ability to calm not only their fears, but the fears and panic of their loved ones. His ability to function under dangerous and often oppressive conditions.

  That was his job. It was her job, too. Was he as impressed with her skills as she was with his? Not that it mattered. Well, yes, it did, but only on a professional level. She was damn good at her job. That’s why she’d been designated a floater, an experienced EMT who was often assigned to partner up with paramedics from other fire stations in the county. County funding was stretched thin. First responders were feeling the pinch. They did what they could; hence she, as an EMT, was paired with paramedics attached to engine companies through the county.

  Confident in her abilities, not intimidated by working at different fire houses or with different partners—or primarily with men—she prided herself on her versatility and ability to adapt to most if not all situations she faced.

  Besides, Engine Co. 81 was located in Monroe, as was her apartment, just south of town, which made it especially convenient.

  Charlie quickly stepped back and away from Shane’s protective embrace. Not because she didn’t like it, but because she couldn’t. As one of the few female first responders in the county, including police, sheriff’s department, state patrol, and the fire department, she couldn’t afford to get too cozy with any of the guys. Despite gender equality and advancements and all that, the industry was still testosterone-fueled, and she wasn’t about to hobble her career by getting involved with a fellow workmate, and certainly not out of the same company. Even one as good-looking and kind as Shane.

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  She glanced up at him with a frown. “Nothing, why?”

  “Because you’re acting funny.”

  She knew exactly what he was talking about, but wasn’t about to let him know that this last run had hit too close to home. She shrugged and pulled her gaze away from his handsome features and continued to make her way back to the rig.

  As she climbed into her seat on the passenger side—Shane always drove—she berated herself for allowing her emotions to show on this call. Usually, she was able to maintain her calm regardless of the emergency she responded to. She took pride in her ability to make fast decisions under intense pressure, amid the often-panicked pleading and shouts of loved ones and bystanders, and of course, the fear she always saw in the eyes of her patients.

  Until this afternoon, when she looked down into the familiar blue eyes of Cody Severs. For the fourth time in the last five months, she had responded to his first-floor apartment in the weekly or monthly motel at the edge of town. How many times would he attempt suicide before he actually succeeded? She didn’t think he really wanted to, or he would have by now. He was a troubled veteran struggling with PTSD. As a former soldier, he knew how to shoot a gun. If he really, truly wanted to die, wouldn’t he just put the gun muzzle to his head and pull the trigger?

  It was another cry for help, a nonverbal one, but one nonetheless. Cody, like other veterans returning home from multiple combat tours with physical and mental wounds, was too proud to admit that he needed help, or to ask for it. From what she gathered, he had twice been admitted for seventy-two-hour psych holds, but that was it.

  The rig dipped slightly as Shane climbed in and took his seat. He glanced at her as he shoved the keys into the ignition, took the vehicle out of park, and slid it into reverse. The high-pitched beeping that warned they were backing up reverberated through the interior.

  “We got to him in time.”

  She nodded but didn’t look at Shane, turning instead to look out the passenger window at the front of the hospital as he slowly pulled away from the sliding glass doors of the emergency room. She couldn’t understand it. Why couldn’t they help him? Why didn’t Cody want to be helped?

  This was the third time he overdosed on pills combined with booze. No matter how he managed to get his hands on the stuff, Xanax, Ambien, and Jack Daniels made a bad combination. She had looked down into those blue eyes of his again, glazed with alcohol and unshed tears. She shook her head, fighting back her own rush of emotion, wishing desperately that she could help him, that she could say something that would
give him the comfort he needed or the boost that would convince him to get help. Help for issues he couldn’t verbalize.

  “Shake it off, Charlie.”

  She knew Shane was right. She couldn’t get personally involved in the lives of her patients. Rule Number One. But some patients, no matter how hard she tried, stuck with her. Over the years, there had been a handful that she thought about often. With Cody, things had gotten a bit more difficult. Though troubled, he had obviously managed to figure out when she was on shift. The last three times that she had responded, not always with Shane as her partner, Cody had seemed relieved to see her. At least that’s the impression she got when his tense muscles eased, his hands that had been balled into fists relaxed, and the tough-guy attitude dissipated a bit, coupled with a wry grin of . . . of what? Surrender? Despair?

  “The chief’s not going to be happy.”

  That got her attention. “We were the closest unit. What were we supposed to do? Ignore the call?”

  It hadn’t taken long for the battalion chief, as well as the 9-1-1 dispatch center to realize that Cody Severs’ suicide calls tended to match Charlie’s shifts. Monroe wasn’t that big. It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Sometimes, those in need often formed symbiotic attachments to a first responder, be it a cop, a firefighter, or an EMT/paramedic. Other than transferring out of the county, which she certainly didn’t want to do, she didn’t see any way around it. The chief might’ve preferred it, but she really couldn’t understand why it mattered to him so much.

  Dispatch, more than familiar with Cody’s address, would often send another unit, but not if Charlie and her partner were closer. That would never happen. She couldn’t understand why they even bothered.

  While she was certainly concerned about Cody, she wasn’t about to get personally involved in his private life. Her job was to save their lives, not solve their problems. But one of these days, if things continued the way they were, she knew that inevitably there would come a time when a unit didn’t respond to his address in time. A moment where Cody, his brain addled with alcohol and pills, would simply slip over the edge, unaware and maybe even not caring what he’d done to himself.

  Such a shame. Such a wasteful shame.

  She watched out the window as Shane drove the unit back to the fire station, not commenting or asking why he took the long way around on the frontage road rather than heading onto Main Street. They would be off shift in less than thirty minutes, and unless they got another call, all they had to do before signing out was to restock the unit, give it a wipe down, and call it a day.

  “Got any plans tonight?”

  She turned from the window to glance at Shane, secretly admiring his profile: dark brown hair, almost appearing black at times, the high forehead, straight nose with slightly flared nostrils, and that mouth. God, that mouth, those lips that looked so tempting, the way one corner turned up, a hint of a dimple near the outside edge. He had a strong chin and jaw line, his profile vaguely reminiscent of the hint of Cherokee blood way back in his family line, or so he claimed.

  But Shane was more than a handsome face. He was a generally nice guy and she had a feeling that he liked her. Liked her more than just a partner and fellow first responder. Nevertheless, she couldn’t let anything come of that, no matter how much she was tempted. He turned to her, caught her staring, and grinned. That damned, devil-may-care, I-know-you-were-watching-me kind of grin that triggered a blossom of heat to burgeon upward. She managed to turn back toward the window just before the heat of a blush warmed her cheeks.

  “Well?”

  “No,” she said. “Maybe just some TV or a good book. You?”

  “Oh, I dunno. I think I may go have a beer with the guys. Wanna come along?”

  She shook her head, sighing heavily as they drove along the frontage road, catching a glimpse of the river in between the trees. It was nice of him to ask. He always did. Always thoughtful, always trying to include her into the after-hours lives of the crew, in spite of her polite refusals.

  “Charlie . . .”

  He drove a few hundred yards further before pulling the ambulance off the highway and into a dirt turnout. She frowned and glanced at him, eyebrow lifted in question. He remained silent as he put the vehicle in park and turned off the engine before calmly turning toward her. He leaned against his door, his left arm braced against the steering wheel, the other extending to drape along the back of the bench seat.

  “What you doing? Why are you stopping here?”

  “We need to talk.”

  She stared, playing dumb. “Talk about what? Come on, shift’s almost over and we still have to clean up the rig.”

  He shook his head. “Not until you tell me what got you so upset. We’ve been on suicide calls before, more than one. What is it about this guy that gets to you?”

  She tamped down annoyance. “What made you think I’m upset?”

  “We’ve worked together long enough for me to pretty much read your emotions, Charlie. And believe me, you’re not nearly as adept at hiding your feelings as you seem to think you are.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, then clamped her lips shut. Why was he doing this? And why today of all days? Not today, not today, not today! Today was her brother’s birthday, and she just wanted to go home, nuke something in the microwave, pour a glass of wine, and dig out the photo albums. To remember better times. Happier times. She didn’t want to think about Cody trying to destroy himself, and she certainly didn’t need Shane pressing her. She stiffened her shoulders and looked at him, her tone challenging. “Did I make a mistake?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then leave me alone, Shane. I’m fine. It’s just been a long day, okay?”

  2

  Shane

  Shane sighed, watching Charlie. He’d always liked her, from the moment they met—probably . . . no, way more than he should. He had told her the truth; he knew her well enough now to know when something was really bothering her. And something was definitely bothering her. That perpetual frown and that almost haunted look in her eyes proved it.

  “Talk to me, Charlie. We’re partners, right?”

  She glanced at him and grimaced. “Of course we’re partners, Shane, but there’s just some things—”

  “Actually, there aren’t. I know if I had a problem with something or difficulty working something out, I could talk to you about it, right?” She nodded. “I need you to feel the same way about me. You don’t have to worry about me blabbing anything, or judging, or criticizing, or . . . well, anything negative.”

  She said nothing and he shifted position to glance out the windshield as a car passed, shaking the rig with its blast of air and throwing up dust that spattered against the windshield. He turned back to Charlie. “You can rely on me. Really. So what’s going on? Why did that nutjob have such an effect on you? Why all teary-eyed?”

  “He’s not a nutjob!”

  Her face reddened with emotion, startling him. That kind of response was not triggered merely by his not-so-kind assessment of their patient. That came from somewhere deeper. Could she possibly be embarrassed or so hesitant to share her feelings with him? She glanced down at her hands, idly picking at a hangnail. Finally, she turned and looked at him.

  “That nutjob back there reminds me of my brother.” He frowned as she turned to look at him with a lame smile and a shrug. “Today’s his birthday.”

  “Oh? How old is he?”

  “Jason is perpetually twenty-three years old.” Before he could question her about that, she continued with another shrug. “Anyway, Cody reminds me of my brother, Jason.”

  Shane frowned. Why had he never heard anything about a brother? “How so?”

  She didn’t reply, but he wasn’t going to let that one go. He shouldn’t have called their patient a nutjob, but he was a repeat offender, so to speak. He tried to talk it out. “Cody is bent on self-destruction. If he really wanted to kill
himself, he would have already done it.” He paused, thinking of a way he could possibly ask the question without appearing even more like an asshole. “Is that what you mean, Charlie? Are you telling me that your brother is suicidal?”

  God, he hoped that wasn’t so. The thought of Charlie having to deal with that kind of emotional trauma . . .

  “No, Shane, my little brother isn’t suicidal. He’s dead.”

  She said it so matter of factly, without any emotion behind it, that at first he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. His heart skipped a beat. Dead? Why hadn’t she ever told him about a younger brother?

  “Charlie, I’m sorry . . . did he . . . did he kill himself?” he asked gently. She didn’t look at him but kept staring at the hands in her lap, her eyes glazed with tears. She lifted her head, blinked back the tears, and then offered a small shake of her head, staring out the windshield.

  “No, he didn’t kill himself, Shane. He died. In Iraq.”

  Oh, God. Her brother was military. He—

  “I grew up in a military family. My grandfather served in the second world war, my dad in Vietnam, and my younger brother in Iraq.” She turned to him. “He was in a Humvee and his truck rolled over an IED. He didn’t die right away, though.” Her voice grew softer. “It ripped most of his arm off and caused massive internal injuries. They managed to get him to an aid station, but he was too badly wounded . . .”