Red Light

by J. D. Glass

  “Lazy piece of shit,” Barbara grumbled. “That’s why Marco has no mister to his name.” Barbara glared at me, then just as suddenly smiled. Since her expression seemed to be directed past my arm, I looked behind me to see what had caused it.

  A woman walked past the dispatch window and through the door with an arrogant slouch, her hair a solid brown and slightly longer than mine, her belt hung just so over her hips, a sullen-red stethoscope flung around the collar of her jacket, and a bright orange tech bag slung over a shoulder.

  “Ah, Ms. Barbara, my love, when are you gonna tell that lazy-ass husband of yours about our hot affair and let me take you away in style?” she deadpanned as she signed in on a clipboard.

  “What? Leave all this glamour behind? Maybe when you get your big-time medic job with the city,” Barbara joked back as the phone in front of her lit up like fireworks on a hot summer night and each line screamed for attention.

  “Hey, as soon as they call me, I’ll come get you.” The woman laughed, then turned her attention to me. She appeared to be almost six feet tall and very fair skinned, with a dusting of sprinkles across her cheeks. She was very pretty, and I estimated her to be about twenty-five, maybe twenty-six years old. And boy, she had some shoulders—I wondered if she’d developed them on the job. The name tag above her breast said “Scanlon.”

  “Fresh meat?” she asked me, a friendly curve lighting her face. Dark brown eyes inspected me from an expression that read “good people.” I liked her right away.

  I shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “Nice Sprague, good color.”

  “Thanks.” I smiled and held out my hand. “I’m Tori Scotts.” I didn’t know if she had good hands yet, but she had a good handshake. “But everyone calls me Scotty.”

  “Well, Scotty,” she answered, “I’m Jean, and everyone will tell you I’m the psycho dyke bitch, so just leave me alone and we’ll be fine,” she said with a smile that told me not to take her words too seriously.

  A blond guy with a crew cut came through the door and trudged over to the sign-in wall.

  “Well, Jean,” I answered as he walked past me, “I’m just a dyke EMT.”

  “Cool.” She nodded, her smile even brighter. “Very cool.”

  “Oh, great, another one?” the guy muttered from the clipboard where he signed in.

  Barbara wheeled her chair over and shoved my cards back at me. “Chuck, you’re just jealous because she does better work with her pee-pee than you,” she snapped at him as I tucked my licenses back into my wallet. “And you? Just a dog.”

  I tried hard not to laugh when Jean barked, then snapped her teeth at him. Chuck just shook his head and scowled.

  “You, Ms. Scotty, you ride with Ms. Psycho-Bitch Scanlon and Up-Chuck here,” Barbara jerked a thumb at him, “and I want you back tomorrow for the ten a.m.”

  “Okay, sure.”

  “Oh, Barbara, I thought it was you, me, and my pee-pee tomorrow at ten,” Jean teased with a dramatic eye roll.

  “I’ll pick the position, you pick the color.” Barbara grinned at her, then glanced around at all of us. “Well?” Her expression changed instantly from mirth to mock fury, “What are you all still doing here? Get out of my office!” she snapped, and we hustled out as the phones rang madly.

  *

  The days passed quickly, and I crawled into bed at the end of every shift, grateful to sleep. Most of the work consisted of medical transports, dialysis patients that needed to be monitored to and from their appointments, hospital-to-hospital transfers (and some of those were very interesting because of the complications involved), as well as true emergencies from nursing homes or the occasional flag-downs from MVAs.

  I met some of the other crews on a few shifts and worked with quite a few of them as I rotated through. Chuck had been right: just about all the girls were gay, and at least half of the guys too. It was amazing to watch: affairs ran rampant between crews, within crews, inter-shift, and high drama exploded whenever certain pairs ran into others, gay or straight, either in the emergency room or at a dialysis center.

  The day crews tended to be circumspect about who was with whom, but those overnight crews? You could always tell which new pairing had formed and which had ended by watching the schedule change: a new person to the day with weepy eyes over the next week or so, contrasted with a happy new person on an overnight. Well, it didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out the logistics. Besides, the overnights were almost dead quiet, which left plenty of time for two bored people to become friends, and more, if that’s what they were into.

  A night rig could park almost anywhere it wanted, so long as it wasn’t too far from the base or out of range for a call from dispatch.

  One night during dinner I told Trace about the crazy relationship dynamics at the base; I’d picked her up after her shift and had the next two days off.

  “It’s a lot like junior high school, but instead of who held whose hand, it’s sex,” I said.

  “So, anyone you’re interested in?” she asked with a sly smile.

  “What?” I was incredulous and certain my reaction reflected in my voice, if it wasn’t obvious on my face.

  She put her fork down and slid out of her seat to glide over to me, her hips a dangerous sway as she neared. My heart began to pound, and I wasn’t completely certain if I was afraid or aroused.

  She threw a long leg over mine and sat down.

  Her touch was delicate when she took my chin in her hands. “I don’t care,” she said softly, then kissed me, “who you fuck,” she finished as she first rolled my now-hard nipple under her palm before she let her hand rest on my crotch.

  My clit was even harder under the pressure of that hand as she unzipped my pants for access, then began to jerk me off in earnest as her tongue tangled again with mine.

  I couldn’t help myself or my reactions, because she had me so wet and so ready, and I reacted automatically: reached for the knot of her scrubs, eased my hands beneath the thin cloth to stroke her clit with one and explore her more intimately with the other, and slipped my fingers along the sodden furrow and gently teased her.

  “Really?” I asked breathlessly, “you don’t care?”

  “God…” she groaned as I entered her fully and her cunt held me, a suck on my fingers that made me swell under hers. “I don’t,” she whispered hotly in my ear as she played my clit expertly and teased me in return, making me squirm beneath her while I pumped her firmly, “so long as you think of me—”

  Oh, my God, she was making me wait, wait for her to fill me. “Trace…” I growled in her ear. “You’re killing me—”

  “Yeah?” Her voice was a harsh whisper as she slid partly into me. “You want this, baby?”

  I inhaled sharply and pushed against her, then stilled my fingers slightly. “You stop…I’ll stop,” I promised as her cunt tightened around me, urging me to continue.

  “Mmph…can’t have that.” Trace shifted her hips off me and slammed back down, on me, in me, grinding her hips against my thighs.

  “Shit…yeah!” I agreed because she felt good, everywhere.

  She rode me in earnest and I stayed buried in her cunt while her clit slicked along between my fingers and she took me where I needed to go.

  “Gonna come…” The words ripped out of my throat.

  “Good,” she groaned. Her cunt tightened around me further, and I swear her clit throbbed harder, bigger, as she fucked me.

  “Come…come any way, with anyone, you want,” and she breathed between each word, “just think of me.”

  “Thinking of you…right now,” and I did.

  *

  We managed not to wreck any furniture, and Trace had me again before midnight, flat on my back and riding my dick, and this time, she held my arms back over my head as I fucked her, which was…different. It wasn’t bad, it wasn’t bad at all, but I still had that faint red bruise on my chest, and this time when she bit me, in the hollow next to my collarbone, she drew blood
.

  I still came and so did she, before I did, anyway, something which left me both glad and relieved. Coming before she did always made me feel…wrong…but despite that relief, something was…off.

  “You’ll like that even better next time,” she promised as she lay on top of me, my cock still inside her as she ground slowly against me.

  I didn’t mind the break because this had been our third or fourth time; I was starting to get sore. “Yeah?” I was still enjoying the aftershocks and the rebuild of the tension, the slick ride of her skin on mine, and the renewed tightening in my groin that hardened my clit.

  “Yeah.” She kissed me, her mouth tasting of my blood as her fingertips scratched up, along the sensitive skin of my arm. “I want to fuck you,” she said in my ear as she held my wrist firmly.

  “What?” I wasn’t sure I’d heard her, because the easy glide and the embers it sparked had already blazed, had become a burn, an almost urgent thrust, the red heat threatening to become something I couldn’t control, while the pain that shot through me equaled the thrill.

  “Fuck, Tori,” she whispered hoarsely, “I want to fuck you, fuck you until—”

  I’d never been so relieved to hear my cell phone ring.

  “I’ve got to get that,” I breathed, and twisted to reach for my pants. That’s when I realized she’d tied my wrist. My first instinct was to panic, but instead, I forced myself to breathe.

  “Trace, I have to answer that.” I kept my voice steady as my phone chimed again. “This late at night it can only be my family or work.”

  “Can’t you call whoever it is back in a little while?”

  All I could feel now was the discomfort deep inside, and a rising sense of frustration. “No. I can’t.” I clipped my words so I could control them, contain the emotion. “If it’s my family, someone’s ill. If it’s work, I’m still per diem—I have to answer.”

  Trace kissed me, the metallic iron taste still on her tongue.

  “All right,” she sighed, grabbed my phone, and held it up to my face.

  “Scotty.”

  “Hey, Scotty, it’s Marco. I need you to come in as soon as you can. We’re down a medic on the overnight team, and we can still ride them with an EMT. Figure you’ll end about eight or nine a.m.”

  “Sure, give me an hour to get there.”

  “Great,” was the last thing I heard him say as Trace took the phone back and snapped it shut.

  “You’ve got to go.”

  “Yep.”

  Her nipples brushed past my face as she untied me, and we exchanged no words as I stumbled for the shower. While part of me couldn’t believe I had to go back to work, because my muscles screamed with exhaustion, I was also more relieved than I can ever remember being that I could leave without making any excuses.

  As I washed off, I could really feel how sore everything was. Parts of me were too sensitive to even touch, and when I did I noticed a red smear.

  Blood. She’d left me bloody. I should have stopped hours ago, I thought, angry with myself as I painfully rinsed.

  I dressed quickly because I had an extra shirt there and walked out into the living room, ready to go.

  “Hey, this is for you,” Trace said as she came out of the kitchen and handed me a paper bag, “because you can’t find anyplace to eat this late.” She kissed my cheek tenderly.

  I’d been ready to say good-bye, to find a reason to maybe not see her again quite so soon because whenever the sex twisted like that I always felt so odd, but the kiss, the considerate lunch, and the hug she wrapped me in softened my edges, muted my emotions to a hazy confusion.

  I kissed the top of her head and hugged her back. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  It was cold outside, and I was glad my uniform jacket had a lining when I got into my car and keyed the ignition. Fuck. My car wouldn’t start. I tried again, and after some hopeful sounds, it died again.

  Trace knocked on my window. “I’ll drive you.”

  “Fuck,” was all I said, shaking my head in disgust at my car. I checked the dummy lights on the dashboard. Nothing. My battery had probably died.

  “Come on,” Trace urged, “we’ve got twenty minutes to get there.”

  I checked my watch: she was right. I had no other option.

  “Thanks, thanks a lot,” I said as we pulled up.

  “Don’t mention it.” She patted my thigh.

  I hefted my orange tech bag from the backseat and got out, slinging that familiar weight behind me.

  “Don’t forget your food,” Trace said as she came around the car, once again handed me the paper bag, then caressed my neck and shoulders.

  “Be careful?” Her face was pale, almost ethereal, in the streetlight, her eyes dark, dark pewter and her mouth a bruise against her skin.

  “I’ll be fine. We don’t get a lot of flag-downs or things like that.” Irresistibly drawn, impelled, I kissed her, I couldn’t help it, and her lips were baby soft against mine, her tongue tender and sensual in my mouth.

  “Hey, hey, hey, if you’re gonna do that, you have to share,” Marco’s voice cut in.

  I waved him away behind my back.

  “Marco, this is Trace,” I said when we finally stopped for air. “Trace, Marco.”

  Trace held her hand out. “Pleased.”

  Marco took it in his and, instead of shaking it, he bent over and kissed it. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

  I backhanded his shoulder. “Hey! I don’t share!”

  I glanced at Trace, who seemed amused as Marco rubbed his arm.

  “Hope lives on.” He smirked. “Hope lives on. Okay,” he clapped his hands, “say good night and get your ass in here, Scotty. You’re riding with Jean. Nice meeting you, Trace.” He grinned at her and disappeared into the garage. “Jean!” he bellowed. “Where the hell are you?”

  Trace pulled my collar up around my neck to keep me warm. “You don’t have to share, not if you don’t want to,” she murmured into my ear, “but I can. Do whatever you want.” Then she kissed me again.

  “I’ve got to go,” I said finally. “I’ll pick up my car later.”

  “Want me to pick you up after your shift? I can call in late.”

  I considered her offer for about half a second. No, as much as I enjoyed kissing her, I knew that if she picked me up, we’d end up fucking, and I wasn’t ready to go through another round just yet, which in some ways was really strange, because I was almost always up for sex. Kerry and I had gotten along so well mainly because we’d matched each other in appetite.

  “I’ll get a ride with one of the rigs. I’ll be fine.”

  “All right.”

  “I’ll phone you after I get off,” I called as she opened her car door.

  Trace flashed me a smile, that wicked gleam of white I liked so much. “Just think of me when you do!”

  I shook my head and went inside.

  Jean, who was a medic, had already completed the “one hundred.” Those who provided ALS, advanced life support, used the same general equipment as those who gave BLS, basic life support. But medics carried additional machinery, needles and IV fluids, and, more importantly as well as dangerously, drugs. Occasionally someone jumped and rolled a crew in a rough neighborhood, hoping to find morphine for recreational use.

  However, as an EMT I just had to sign in, jump aboard, and tuck my tech bag in the back. I stowed the snack Trace had made for me in the front console.

  “You don’t mind if I drive as long as everything’s quiet or the calls are all BLS, do you?” Jean asked before we climbed into the cab.

  “No, not at all, works fine for me.” I got into the passenger seat. “I prefer to tech anyway.” That was true. I preferred patient care. If I’d wanted to drive all the time, I could have gone for a commercial truck license.

  “Cool, cool.” Jean nodded and keyed the mic. “Hey, Marco, we’re gonna go sit off the Belt Parkway, under the Narrows Bridge, okay?”

  “Yeah, cool. Bring me coffee when
you come back to base.”

  “With or without sugar?”

  Marco grumbled something. “Light and sweet, please, just like you in the morning.”

  Jean laughed. “Yeah, right. Ten-four.”

  The ambulance swung out of the garage into the night.

  We didn’t get many calls, but the ones we did get were strange. An elderly female patient, approximately eighty, from a nursing home had a prolapsed uterus. She’d borne eight children, and she was old, nothing else.

  Transporting her was a bit difficult because we had to find her a comfortable position, well, that and we had to cover the exposed organ with dressings moistened with sterile saline so it wouldn’t be abraded by contact with anything. Apparently, that sort of prolapse wasn’t uncommon in women past a certain age, especially not in those who’d had four or more children, but it was still strange to see.

  Next a male patient had somehow managed to fall out of his bed in the hospital and fracture his hip; his family understandably wanted him transferred to another facility and were so upset by the mishap that they wouldn’t let anyone, not the nurses, not the doctors, care for the patient, aged fifty-three. His left hip bulged, he writhed in pain and cursed while his wife and someone we assumed was his son wrung their hands and looked on. They wanted him out, and they wanted him out now.

  Since this was a hospital transfer, neither Jean nor I had expected to do anything other than evaluate vitals and monitor them, and had brought up only our tech bags and portable oxygen. Jean ran back down to the rig for the appropriate splints while I performed the initial evaluation.

  The way this relatively young man cursed everything and everyone, we knew his airway was fine, but I checked everything in case I discovered something overlooked or hidden. He’d fallen hard enough to break a bone, and he could have hit his head and didn’t remember, could have cracked a rib, or anything else.

  When Jean returned we immobilized the fracture, and as Jean took tension from me on the injured site so I could fasten the first tie-down, I noticed, good hands. Jean had good hands.