What the hell was I thinking? Ariana chided herself as she strode down the hall toward the bus barn where they’d parked after their last call. Some five-year-old left alone had swallowed bleach and was in critical condition upstairs, his mother allowed nowhere near him. Sal was still talking to Social Services, and she’d gone and made the incredible error of checking in on Vince Larson.
He’d already done his best to offend her with his crude remarks in the ambulance. In fact, he’d proven that everything Ariana hated about bikers was valid, with one exception – she’d snuck a peek at his chart, and his tox screen was clean. Hallelujah, she thought bitterly, the guy has one redeeming quality. It did nothing to make her feel better about him.
“Ariana!” Someone was yelling her name. When she turned and saw that bastard limping down the hall as quickly as his bloody leg would carry him, a chill went down her spine. What did he want now? How many more lewd remarks could one man make in an evening? She was tempted to turn around and leave.
But something glued her in place—perhaps that same morbid curiosity, she thought with chagrin. As he approached, she asked, “How can I help you now, Mr. Larson?”
A bit breathless, he came to a halt, and this time, his smile wasn’t so damned cocky. “Look, I wanted to apologize for being a little crass tonight. I’m not a bad guy. It’s just… a rough night for me.”
She nodded toward his leg. “Obviously.”
He shook his head. “No, that’s the thing. This—” he gestured to the injury, “happened because I was already having a rough night.” He turned away from her, staring at nothing in particular, and Ariana scowled as she noticed a muscle twitching in his cheek. “Tonight’s the anniversary of my wife’s death, and my head was somewhere else, not on driving.”
All the wind rushed out of her as if someone had socked her in the gut. She’d known it had been about that long, but she would never have guessed the woman’s overdose had happened a year ago to the day. She felt like a heel for giving him such a hard time. Even if she knew nothing else about Vince Larson, she knew that woman had meant everything to him.
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Larson,” she said softly.
“Dammit—please stop calling me that. Vince. My name is Vince.” He ran a hand through his dark brown locks in frustration, releasing a shower of dirt and grass onto the floor. “I just… I thought I owed you an explanation.”
Ariana’s shoulders slumped. Maybe it was his looks, or maybe he had a certain charming appeal. Whatever it was, she couldn’t hate him, regardless of the fact that he consorted with the scum of the earth. He’d thought enough of her to offer her what seemed like a sincere apology and tell her the truth. He didn’t have to do that; he didn’t owe her anything. It wasn’t like she’d saved his life or anything. And yet…
“Thank you, Vince,” she told him, wanting to smile but not quite sure it was appropriate. She wasn’t awkward with people very often, but she didn’t really know how to address him. She shifted her weight back and forth from one foot to the other, feeling like some preteen admiring the bad boy from across the schoolyard—only Vince Larson stood just a few inches from her.
Vince laughed, a nervous sound, and it was truly endearing as he rubbed his head again. “So, are you on your way out? I mean, if you’re busy, I can just…” He waved in the other direction, and Ariana assumed he was offering to leave her alone.
“No, actually, my partner’s busy right now, and we’re not on call until he’s done with this other business. I’ll probably be here for another hour or so.” The boy had cozied up to Sal and told him a lot of things Ariana hadn’t heard that she was sure the police and the social worker would want to know. She’d seen this before, and these interviews could take a while.
“Do you smoke?” he asked.
She laughed. “Um, no, I don’t, but I’m guessing you do.”
“Yeah, and I haven’t had a cigarette in hours. Where can I go to get some fucking nicotine into my system without bringing the wrath of God down on me?”
Losing the resolve she’d had to stay away from him, Ariana pointed toward the door she had been getting ready to exit. “I’m heading out to the bus barn.” His confused look amused her. “It’s where we park the ambulances after we drop off the patients when we know we won’t have time to get back to the firehouse before the next call. Anyway, once you’re in that parking lot, you can light up all you want. Just watch out for open buses. They have oxygen tanks inside.”
He looked so relieved, Ariana thought he might collapse. She watched him closely as he limped out the door with her, gazing around him as they made their way toward the row of ambulances. They crossed a red painted line, and Ariana gave him the thumbs-up. His cigarette and lighter were already in hand, and he didn’t waste time lighting up.
He took a deep drag and sighed with pleasure. “God, that was a long time coming.”
Ariana couldn’t help but giggle. “As a medical professional, I should tell you—”
“I don’t want to hear shit about how badly I’m fucking up my lungs. We all have to die somehow, sometime, right?” He took another drag. “Tonight wasn’t my night, and I’m going to enjoy my smokes in celebration.” His determination would have been admirable under any other circumstances.
“Suit yourself, but lung cancer is a very painful way to go.” She checked her watch, antsy for Sal to get back and tell her how it went. “Where are your friends, by the way? The ones who were in the room with you.”
“Waiting for me,” he grunted.
“Maybe you should go then,” she suggested.
“They’ll wait.” He dropped the cigarette and stepped on it. “Son of a bitch!” he cried, and Ariana looked down to see his bare feet. She wanted to laugh, but that sort of burn had to be excruciating on the bottom of a foot.
“Come on, I’ll take care of it, dumbass,” she told him, walking toward her own bus and unlocking the back.
She motioned for him to climb in, and he cursed as he dragged his leg inside. She turned on the lights and rummaged through the burn kit, taking out the necessary supplies. He sat quietly, but obviously fuming, until she finished her work, his foot resting in her lap. When she looked up at him, she gasped.
His eyes were different; the way he looked at her made her go perfectly still, as if the clock had stopped.