Page 3 of Going Down

“Eat it and I’ll take over and put the stamps on the stack.” Dash scoots the bento tin closer.

I lift a brow. It looks like a regular brownie and the chocolate smells a zillion times more tempting than usual.

“Do you like spicy food?”

“Sometimes. What’s in it?”

Chocolate and currents. A little tabasco for a kick. Otherwise all normal baking ingredients.”

“Who made it?”

“Me,” he says in an obvious tone.

“Whatelseis in it?” I ask skeptically. Our first responder positions aside, I don’t put it past anyone to lace brownies with extra ingredients.

This makes Dash bark with laughter and clap. “Cool if it’s yours, but that’s not my bag, Kat.”

“Pot’s legal in this state.” I point out to see if I can catch him off guard.

Dash shrugs. “It is in many places. Doesn’t mean I added it. None of my shrooms are for medicinal purposes either.” He motions to the thermos that contained his lunch. It hadn’t smelled that awful.

I pick the bite up between two fingers and inspect it. Dash takes a stamp from the roll and puts it in the right corner of the postcard.

“Do you drink?” I ask. His “say no to drugs” stance when paired with his appearance is too perfect. Judging a book by its cover pisses me off. After all, I have an olive complexion and am sporting two-tone hair. I shouldn’t have preconceived notions of Dash, but I’ve been burned before.

“Hell, yeah.”

I’m not sure why I trust his quick and honest response, but it has me popping the brownie into my mouth. “Oh, my gosh…This is amazing!” I thank him for sharing.

His blue eyes narrow as he watches me chew. “I’ll bring you more tomorrow.” Dash stands and pats his flat belly. “Can’t eat them all myself.”

Seriously? I witnessed the man devour his entire lunch and all but a bite of a massive brownie. He could put away an entire six-layer cake and still be trim. Physical exertion keeps him in shape.

“Kat, Dash, you’re up!” Chip’s voice breaks the calm we’ve enjoyed. “Snowboarder. Basin. About a quarter of the way down the run. Caller states she has a possible ankle injury.”

Our chairs nearly tip over as we jump to put our helmets and gloves on and zip up our red jackets on the way outside. Dash takes the driver’s seat of the two-person snowmobile. I place a hard ski boot on the running board and whip my other leg over to hold onto his middle. My skis are on the back. Dash pats my hands. “Go,” I say, smelling the gas and hearing the hum of the tracks spinning and the snow hitting the flap behind me when Dash hits the throttle.

It takes a few minutes to get up the mountain. The group of teens I’d encountered by the snack bar steps are gathered around the prissy girl who bumped my arm. She’s laying on her back in the snow. Her pink goggles have been moved and although she’s trying not to cry, a thin line of wetness trails from the sides of her eye back into her white helmet towards her ears.

“Hey, sweetheart. Tell us what’s goin’ on.” Dash says with a drawl, flirting with the girl in a serene and conversational manner.

I unhitch the backboard from the snowmobile and move it closer to the patient, surprised her buddies are eager to help.

“She zigged, I zagged. We crashed and my board hit her boot.” One of the boys supplies for his friend.

“Simple enough.” Dash nods. “So where’s it hurt?”

“My leg. Low, more by my ankle.” The girl’s voice is a whisper.

“Anyplace else?” Dash is checking her over in case.

“No.” She shakes her head and whimpers, touching the front of his coat like he’s the resort’s personal rock star.

“Okay, Kat and I are going to unstrap your snowboard so that we can get you on the backboard. Then we’ll take you down to First Aid. Don’t worry, bud.” Dash pats her on the shoulder. “We’ll have you catching air again before you know it.” He looks at me and smiles. I see a wink under the orange tint of his goggles and catch a tilt of Dash’s chin. More than likely, the girl’s got a broken ankle. We’re trained EMTs who stabilize before the ambulance paramedics arrive on scene. Similar to the next crew, part of our job is keeping the teen’s spirit up.

Dash stays on point, talking to the girl about where she’s from, what grade she’s in, and how long she’s been snowboarding. All of the safety patrollers are good at their jobs, but Dash’s friendly demeanor makes what he’s doing seem effortless. An obvious flirt, he uses it to his advantage, happily chattering away. The girl responds to his questions faster than she would mine.

About the time it starts to bother me, Dash tugs at my sleeve, flashing me a lopsided grin that I’ve caught from him all day long. The sparkle in is blue eyes isn’t dulled by his glasses and it has begun to make my lower belly flip-flop. Something tells me Dash is a ladies’ man, but the real reason he’s paying attention to the patient is to keep her distracted.

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