Page 2 of Bleeding Hearts

A horn blasts behind me, catching my attention. When I glance up in my rearview, the young kid waves for me to move, as if he thinks I’m driving slow or something. I’m not. Myspeedometer reads I’m going ten miles over the speed limit, so he can hold his horses while I pass the cars next to me.

I’m barely past the blue truck when he honks again, riding my ass. “Look, asshole. Calm your tits. I can’t just pull over in front of him.”

Once I’ve confirmed it’s clear, I flip on my blinker and merge into the other lane. But apparently it isn’t fast enough for the jerk-wad behind me because he tries passing me before I’m halfway into the other lane.

In the blink of an eye, he clips my bumper and the car spins. My heart thumps against my ribs like an angry storm as I fight to regain control, with no luck. All I can do is close my eyes and pray that today isn’t my last.

The car tips, rolling at speeds I know aren’t safe—not that it’s ever safe to flip over. It tosses me around inside like a rag doll who’s properly buckled in but does nothing to control my loose limbs. All the seatbelt does is prevent my body from bouncing around like the groceries I loaded in the back from Sam’s. All that money wasted on the quick dinners I bought. The mess they have to be making getting tossed around like this makes me cringe.

The tumbling goes on forever, like being thrown around inside one of those human hamster balls, leaving me dizzy. My head bounces between the driver’s side window, the headrest of my seat, and the airbag. I thought that thing was supposed to protect me, but when it went off, the searing pain that rips through me from the bone-jarring impact, was like hitting a brick wall, instead of a soft cushion the damn thing is meant to be.

When it finally stops, I’m at an odd angle.

Smoke spills from the engine.

Aware of the throbbing pain coming from every muscle in my body, two thoughts hit me at once—my boys need me, and,I just bought this car and now it’s totaled.

Fuck.

Chapter 2

Nolan

The calm atmosphere of our firehouse breakfast shatters when the blaring alarm goes off, stopping us in our tracks.

“Attention stations 2, 10, and 11 fire rescue. Special attention TRT teams. Respond to an accident near Harry Truman Parkway at the Whitefield exit. Two vehicle accident. One rollover, wedged in the trees. Other vehicle minor damage to sides and front. Unknown injuries. Time out 08:23.”

Dispatch pauses briefly before repeating the message while we get ourselves ready. Breakfast will have to wait until later. It’s a truth that first responders have come to accept—some days are like that.

While we’re leaving, I secure my seatbelt when dispatch breaks in with an update.

“Attention to those responding to Harry Truman. Update. Vehicle in trees reports injuries. Legs trapped. Driver’s drifting in and out of consciousness. Vehicle unstable. Please be advised traffic is backing up. Use the Whitefield exit to gain access. Off-duty police officer on scene. Time out 08:28.”

Our captain responds, “Attention dispatch. TRT unit 2 entering Harry Parkway now. No other way around. Traffic is cooperating. Advise the officer our ETA is five. Time out 08:30”

“Attention TRT unit 2. Officer has been advised. EMTs just arrived. Update. Passenger in minor damage vehicle doesn’t require medical. Other vehicle passenger coherent but in need of an extraction. Vitals stable. Vehicle has shifted and now stabilized on its side. Time out 08:36.”

My leg trembles from the rush of adrenaline helping me keep my mind firmly in the present. Memories I prefer to forget always resurface when responding to motor vehicle accidents. I already feel the weight of it approaching, looming over me, knowing tonight those demons will haunt me. Since this one is worse than most, I’ll need time to regroup before heading home to the girls. A quick visit to the cemetery will be added to my routine.

“You good, Archer?” my partner, Sam, asks keeping a close eye on me.

“Fine.” I stretch my neck, trying to get a better view from my seat in the back. “I have visual.”

“What are we looking at?” Mitch, our unit driver, pipes in.

“Stabilizers. Jaws. Chainsaw to remove a few branches,” I report. “Might be tricky, but nothing the two of us can’t manage.”

“Damn straight.” Sam shifts in his seat, getting ready to jump out as soon as we reach our destination.

As a first responder, one crucial skill is maintaining a calm demeanor in high-pressure situations. A steady, quick pace is more beneficial than rushing, as rushing leads to chaos. Having been on the job for ten years now I’m still working on it.

Mitch parks at an angle on the side of the road, forcing traffic to move to the far lanes to give us more room to do our jobs. Parking behind us, our captain heads to the back of the truck, where Sam and I are assembling the gear.

Shari, the newest Technical Rescue Team member, swiftly makes her way down to the vehicle, eager to offer a moreaccurate assessment. On arrival, she calls in a radio report. “Female driver. Laceration on her left leg. Her dress near injury soaked in blood. Paramedic applied a pressure bandage, but because of the angle she’s resting it’s only slowing it down. Her left arm appears wedged against the door, and the steering wheel’s pressing against her chest. The good news is that she’s awake and alert.” The squeak of metal echoes through the radio, telling us she opened one of the vehicle’s doors. “Hey, honey. How you doing?”

My head jerks toward the mangled mess when I hear a familiar voice respond. “Peachy. This is exactly how I planned to spend my morning.”

The dark gray Acura my spunky neighbor drives, rests on its side, barely recognizable. She bought it less than two months ago after a big promotion. Her twin boys are not allowed inside unless they’re squeaky clean. I’ve heard her warn them more than once that if they get it dirty, she’ll make them clean it with a toothbrush. It always made me chuckle, because teenage boys can make a mess without even trying.

---