Red Light (23 page)

Insane. The entire situation was driving me insane. I had to talk with her about the things that bothered me, explain to her, make her understand that I didn’t need to add someone else to my life and that she didn’t need to fuck me half to death to keep me. If that didn’t work, didn’t help, I had to break it clean, I theorized as I slipped my finger under the envelope flap.

But when I pulled the contents out, I didn’t think about any of that, because as of that moment, all bets were off. I read the letter once, I read it again, and my fingers shook as I read it a third time. My name had come up in the lottery, and I had to report for a written and a physical exam to enter the next academy class.

Assuming those went well, I was invited to the next six-week class: I’d start the second week of January.

Identify priority patients: is the pt.
C
ritical,
U
nstable,
P
otentially Unstable or
S
table? Apply spinal immobilization as necessary, consider the need for ALS. If the pt. is
C
ritical,
U
nstable, or
P
otentially Unstable, begin packaging during the rapid assessment while treating life threats and transport ASAP. Notify as necessary; continue evaluation en route.

Trace and I never did have the discussion I’d wanted, because the moment I’d said, “Trace, I really need to talk with you,” at the door to her apartment, she started to cry, silent tears that made her eyes almost colorless.

“You don’t want to see me anymore,” she said quietly.

The tears and the words made me want to crawl, because I’d considered that possibility, because I didn’t want to see her cry, and because I’d really wanted simply to see if we could work something out, something that had a direction, something that didn’t leave me feeling so fucked up.

I spent all of ten seconds trying to explain, then I ended up trying to reassure her, which became an attempt to comfort her, and that inevitably became sex.

One really strange, fucked-up incident occurred after Trace and I had that aborted conversation. I’d taken a week off between work and the academy, we’d gotten fucking trashed at her place, and I remember…bleeding. Bleeding and fucking anyway. I remember my left forearm had been sliced nicely somehow—something broke, I think, a glass, maybe a bottle, I don’t really know, but I had a two-inch gash that still itched…and then…I remember…not much.

I don’t even know how I got home whenever I did, the next day, two days later, whatever it was, which I admit was a dangerously stupid maneuver on my part, but I do know that I’d gone to the house instead of my new apartment, and that after I’d finally gotten clear of the
worst
, the absolute
worst
hangover I’d ever had (I actually vomited four times, which had never,
ever
happened before) my brain had unfogged, completely.

I was more than vaguely embarrassed when I noticed the gash on my arm had been neatly cleaned and wondered how much of a mess I’d been in when I got home and whether Nina or Samantha had fixed me up yet again. After I’d showered and dressed, I found Samantha making one of the largest breakfasts I’d ever seen and, come to think of it, that’s when she’d buttonholed me to a time for sparring, then invited me to join her and Nina upstairs for breakfast. I happily accepted.

We watched some silly movies together and joked about a bunch of things, and I noticed, really noticed, that Nina was finally starting to show—and she was absolutely stunning. Her eyes were almost completely blue, the silver a thinner, luminous ring around the edges, with that something, that indefinable something so obvious that I understood exactly why Samantha couldn’t keep from touching her all the time. I could barely restrain myself.

She laughed when I asked, but allowed me to take her vital signs anyway, because I was curious to see if they were in range, and because, well, she still looked pale.

Sam flashed an unquestionably concerned glance my way, but everything I found was normal. We all settled down again, and as we laughed at the on-screen antics and teased each other about who was getting what for Christmas, I couldn’t help but ask myself why I hadn’t spent more time with them. This was the longest Nina had been home in years, and I’d been wasting time doing what? Fucking? Where in the hell had my head been?

I don’t know what did it, but suddenly, I was fine with Trace, with everything—it was supposed to be about sex, healthy, consenting adult sex—that’s all it was supposed to be, exactly what she had said in the first place.

Maybe, just maybe, I’d figured it out because I was finally able to start sparring with Samantha midmornings before I left for class, though that was a misnomer. Our sessions were more like martial arts lessons.

Maybe I’d had time to think because I had a three- or four-hour commute each day to Queens, added to an eight-hour day, or maybe it finally hit me that the first and not the second thing I’d done when I’d gotten that letter was to call Bennie’s cell, then Roy’s—not Trace’s.

They’d both gotten letters too, and we arranged to travel to Fort Totten, Queens, together for the written and the physical. Although I had a few anxious moments afterward, both exams were relatively easy and we were informed that we’d start the afternoon classes in eight days, from three p.m. to eleven p.m., and I wondered what schedule Jean’s medic class was on, since our sessions overlapped by a few weeks.

But whatever it was, I realized I’d mistakenly thought what Trace and I had was actually a relationship, and I chalked up that error in judgment to having recently come out of one. And…I’d discovered something.

So I was three weeks into a six-week stint at the academy and fucking my brains out because I’d already done my clinical rotations, seen my first two of what would be too many gunshot wounds, one emergency childbirth, several car accidents, and a dozen epileptic attacks, and now had an entire weekend free.

I’d done my rotations in Brooklyn, and since University North’s emergency room was designated trauma, that’s where one of the gunshots and two of the more severe car-accident patients went—and Trace had been on the crash team for all of them.

It had been easy to pick her up after the shift, easier still to drive to her place and, revved from the night I’d had, reach under her jacket to pinch and roll her nipples in my fingertips as she tried to open the door, simpler still to undo that knot that held her scrubs up and slide a hand down, down under the soft cotton and into those tight, hot folds, her clit hard and pulsing under my fingers as I dragged that slickness back and over that firm pulse and pressed my cunt against her ass.

“Get the door open,” I hissed into her ear as I did her hard and slow, jamming my hips firmly against her, “unless you want to come out here—the first time.”

I heard her sharp gasp as she shuddered against me, her hips jerking to my hands.

I bit her ear, scraping the tender flesh between my teeth. “C’mon, baby, don’t you want my dick inside you?”

“Huh…” she breathed and kissed me, a fierce, hungry kiss, as her clit throbbed under my fingers.

“You coming, baby?” My voice was thick as it came out of my throat, my own clit swollen to pounding urgency as my cunt buffed her ass.

“Yeah…” she choked, her cunt a hot flood.

This…was what I’d learned. If I was amped and took the edge off by touching her first, we’d fuck the rest of the night, day, afternoon, whatever, without my being too marked up after. Yeah, she’d still scratch and bite, but she’d do it impaled on my hands or my cock, and I was fine with that. She was fucking hot and fucking good, and so long as I set my alarm on my cell and didn’t stay there, we were fine. This was not a relationship—I couldn’t let myself go there with her or I’d get fucked up again.

Trace seemed to be absolutely fine with that; in fact, things seemed to have gotten much better, friendlier even, because we actually talked about things, mostly work. Then…we’d fuck again, eat, come a few more times, and I’d leave.

I also refused to drink with her at all. I told her it was because we got tested all the time at the academy, which wasn’t exactly true, but it seemed that’s where all the “issues” with her had started, and the not drinking appeared to make them go away.

Besides, even though I really couldn’t remember how it got there, I had a clear red line on my arm to remind me I could have killed myself or hurt some innocent civilian and…I hadn’t forgotten Jean’s words: there was no way in hell I was going to let things go there, no matter how hot a fuck Trace was.

I let her rest for about twenty seconds to catch her breath and find the right key, then moved over her clit again, her cunt now really slick and wet from coming, and her hard-on growing under my fingertips. Neither one of us knew then it would be the last time we’d fuck.

“Jesus Christ! What are you doing to me?” she asked.

“Getting you ready,” I drawled.

She got the door open and it took no time at all to get where we needed to go, which was naked, in her room.

We were both on the thin edge of insane when I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her down onto me, onto my cock, the force of her body on mine driving deep.

I held on tightly to her hips so that she moved to my rhythm, and she jerked me off as she came. I blew my load about a minute later, and then it was time for the next one.

“Christ Tori—don’t stop—don’tfuckingstop!” Trace gasped under me, her fingers digging into my lower back, tearing the skin in burning strands that sang as they stung, and I drove my dick into her.

Unable to speak as my lungs worked with my thrust, I drew in air to shove it back out, hot and harsh along our sweat-drenched skin.

“Coming…” she gulped and scraped her teeth along my neck, her breath catching as she slammed up to meet me and I fucked her hard, the way she liked it in those final moments.

I was still hard, but didn’t think I was going to come again, until she stroked my clit. “Shit…” I groaned as the combination of the firm, knowing touch and the fuck did me in.

“Come, baby,” Trace murmured throatily into my ear, “come inside me.”

I leaned harder into that touch, my clit burning and my cock so deep in her as I moved she cried out again.

I couldn’t even breathe anymore, never mind speak—choking for air, body shuddering, every neuron twitching in time with the spasms that racked my cunt.

“God…” I finally muttered as I rested my head on her shoulder.

Trace chuckled. “Didn’t expect that, did you?” Her fingers outlined my neck and skimmed along the slope that led to my arms.

“No, actually,” I breathed finally and kissed her neck.

“You’ve really got great shoulders,” she purred, and massaged the muscles. Her touch felt so good I didn’t want to move, and Trace’s legs relaxed around me in a sensual embrace that smoothed along my legs while I nipped lightly at the soft skin of her throat.

“Thank you,” I murmured as we shifted again to lie even more comfortably and I dragged the comforter over us. She kissed my head as we lay there, quietly drifting as she drew repeated soft patterns through my hair and down my back.

My cell phone went off about half an hour later, and Trace kissed me drowsily as I got up. I grabbed my clothes and stumbled into the bathroom to shower and dress.

“Coffee ’fore you go?” she asked as I stepped out of the bathroom.

She looked great with her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail and wearing one of my T-shirts and, from the way her breasts were outlined under the cotton, nothing else. She had fabulous legs and my shirt barely covered her anywhere. Fuckin’ sexy.

“Yeah, sure,” I grinned, “one for the road.”

We chatted for a bit, about my rotations, about technical aspects of dealing with sucking chest wounds, and she gave me a friendly kiss and hug when I shrugged my jacket on.

“Call you?” I asked as I stood in the door.

“Whenever you want.” She smiled.

*

As I drove home I was really glad it was early evening; I wanted to spend time with Nina, and I wanted to speak with Samantha.

Something…I don’t know…something wasn’t
right
. I just couldn’t nail it down. Nina’s vitals were fine, and I tried not to annoy her every time I saw her with how-are-you? and how-are-you-feeling?, but it was hard.

As I drove, my cell phone rang and I hit the loudspeaker key.

“Scotty.”

“Tori?” It was my sister Elena, and she sounded very upset.

“Elena, what’s the matter?”

“Tori, it’s Mami—she says it’s heartburn, but she’s all gray and sweaty. Tori, she’s got her hand pressed to her chest and she’s in pain—she doesn’t look right.”

I checked my mirrors to see where traffic was going and set my turn signal; they lived on the other end of the Island, and the hospital was near them.

“Elena,” I said slowly and carefully, “I want you to call 911, tell them everything you’ve told me, and tell them you’re family of a member of service, okay? Do whatever they say, call me back if you need to—you can leave the phone on speaker, all right?”

“Tori, I don’t know what to do!” Elena’s voice was edged with tears. “Should I get her some water?”