Burn (L.A. Untamed #2) (22 page)

He pushes me away far enough so he can turn me toward him. “Trisha, I love you too, and that’s why I want you to come with me. What can I say to make you believe me?”

I’m feeling like such a pussy that my cheeks heat up.

“I believe you,” I whisper. “I’m sorry for being so emotional.”

“Don’t be sorry. Being vulnerable around the people closest to you is part of being strong.”

“I much prefer being the badass version of strong.”

“Believe me, you’re still badass. And you shouldn’t think twice about it. When it comes to strong women, you own your own category.”

I sniffle. “Oh I like that. You’re not just saying that?”

“Nope. I mean it.”

I tilt my face up and kiss his jaw. “Thank you.”

“Sure thing.”

“And I’ll go wherever you and Betty go, and you won’t have to lock up the knives. Okay?”

He grins and pulls me close. “Deal.”

Chapter 18:
The Walking Dead

Don’t be afraid your life will end. Be afraid it will never begin. ~Grace Hansen

Two weeks later it’s a low-key evening in the firehouse. A bunch of us are in the lounge watching the latest episode of
The Walking Dead
. I’m not into zombies too much, but naturally Bobo is, and he won the coin flip.

We all groan when at a really suspenseful part of the show the dispatch tone goes off and starts getting louder. So much for zombies.

As we climb in the truck Jim asks, “What’s the call?”

“Reported possible suicide in North Hollywood. We’re the closest so we’ll be the first responders. Step on it Henderson.”

We’re silent on the short ride to an apartment complex on Oxnard. We pull up to a tan stucco box of a building that looks like every other apartment building on this street. It’s an usually warm night, the air thick with the scent of blooming orange blossoms.

As soon as we come to a full stop, Joe and Jim jump out of the truck and hurry to the upstairs apartment where the apartment manager is waiting for them with the door wide open. Meanwhile, Bobo and I grab the medical kit and equipment. We’re halfway up the stairs with the gear when Jim steps out the door. “McNeill,” he yells, “we can’t get a gurney in here. Hurry and grab the long spine board.”

My eyes widen, wondering what the scene is inside. But I nod and run back to the truck.

When I return and finally pass through the front door I stop in my tracks.
Holy hell.
Whoever lives here must be the neatest hoarder we’ve ever seen—and we’ve seen all kinds. Pristine moving boxes are stacked floor to ceiling. To add to the problem, furniture covered with moving blankets is bunched up in some weird puzzle around the boxes, leaving only a narrow path through the apartment.

“I’ve got the board!” I call out, but there’s a flurry of activity in the back so I wait for more instructions.

A minute later Jim steps into the path from what I assume is the bedroom and takes the spine board. “Is the person alive?” I ask.

He nods. “Just barely. Pills. Damn good thing we got here when we did. We just intubated him.”

When Bobo finishes using the radio to contact the hospital, I turn to him. “Who called this in?”

“Apparently the dude called his mom and was saying stuff that made her suspicious. She called the apartment manager to check on him, and then we got the call.”

I nod, feeling sorry for the poor guy. “A cry for help.”

“Sounds like it. What a sad loser. The guys almost have him ready to go but they’ll have to get him through this narrow path first.”

He lifts up a frame that’s face down and perched on the edge of a stack of boxes like it could fall into their path. He turns it around and stands it upright on a shorter stack of boxes out of harm’s way.

From where I’m standing, and the look of the black and white shapes, I assume it’s a wedding picture. Jim leans into it to look closer and then pulls back, glances over at me, and leans down to look at it again. My stomach falls when his face pales, like the blood has drained from it. He carefully turns it back face down.

“What?” I ask, pointing to the frame.

His doesn’t look at me but his eyes are bugging out. “Um, nothing, T. Rex. Just a picture.”

My gut is telling me otherwise and I march over and grab the frame before he can stop me. When I turn it around it almost slips from my fingers and my breath catches in my throat.

This picture has haunted me before and it all computes instantly. How can I forget the damn cascade of starched curls that the perky wedding coordinator talked the hair lady into doing to me? I hated it . . . I looked like a fucking poodle standing next to Mikey looking all proud and debonair in his tux on our wedding day.

Mikey always insisted that I looked beautiful that day and kept the fancy framed portrait hanging in this office. What straight guy does that? Just another gay clue that I managed to be oblivious to and now apparently we’re paying dearly for.

I feel an imaginary blow to the gut and I almost lose my footing. My stomach lurches and I choke back the bile as my wave of guilt roars over me.

Oh my God . . . What if Mikey’s in the next room on the razor’s edge between life and death because I abandoned him when he needed me? What if we can’t save him? Or what if we got to him late enough that the liver and brain damage has set in?

Pressing the frame to my chest, I barrel toward the bedroom.

From inside the bedroom, Joe looks up with an alarmed expression and points my direction. “Stop her!” he yells at Jim who turns to block me before I can pass through the door. When I see Mikey pale and lingering in the shadow of death the picture slips out of my hands and crashes on the floor.

Joe barks at me as he rushes forward. “McNeill!”

I struggle to push past Jim who seems equally determined to keep me back.

“Let me pass!” I cry out.

Joe grabs my shoulder. “Wait outside, Trisha. You don’t want to see this.”

I shake his hand off of me. “I’ve got to, so get out of my way! He’s my husband, for God’s sake, and he needs me right now.”

Joe’s expression falls but I don’t pay attention as I push past he and Jim until I’m at the head of the bed with Mikey. I reach out and place my hand on my husband’s cold forehead, feeling almost out of my body as if I’m observing the macabre scene from above. Scott is rechecking the breathing tube as the other guys strap him on the board. I’m hearing commands somewhere in the back of my consciousness.

Tears sting my eyes.
No. No. No.
He can’t die.

“Mikey,” I cry out as I lean in close to his ear, “I’m here. It’s Trish. Listen to me . . . you need to hold on and fight. I’m here . . . I’m here.” I brush my arm across my face, wiping my tears away.

I vaguely hear gasps around the room.

“Jesus,” Bobo chants. “He’s her husband?”

“Yes,” I wail. “You gotta save him.”

“We’re doing our best, McNeill,” Scott replies breathlessly. “Heading down, ten-four,” he says into the radio.

There’s a rumbling voice which breaks through my daze. “Someone get her out of here!”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” I growl, warning all of them.

I’m running my hands through Mikey’s hair over and over and chanting commands to him. I’m the only one he ever really listened to, so I’m making sure he’s going to hear me loud and clear.

“Fight, Mikey! Fight!” I cry out as he’s lifted to be evacuated. Right before they carry him out I look up through glazed eyes and my gaze connects with Joe. He’s staring at me like I’m a stranger, and a deranged one at that. It’s all too much being in Mikey’s bedroom with my lover trying to save him. I blink several times and reach out to the bedpost to steady myself. When I look up again Joe has turned away as they carry Mikey out of the room. I rush up behind them. “Hurry! Hurry!”

They ignore me, being well-trained to stay focused and not drawn into the drama of freaked out family members. I’m now one of them, on the outside looking in.

The tunnel of boxes and furniture we rush past have new meaning now that I realize that Mikey tried to fit our entire house into this small, bleak apartment. All the things he loved so much, tumbled together like a discount chain’s sorry warehouse. Our life together once had meaning and now it’s just a cardboard jungle of lost dreams.

When the ambulance with Mikey, the attendant, Scott, and Joe pulls away the sirens ring in my ears as I retch into the gutter, my dinner coming up violently mixed with my tears and snot. When I’m done Jim hands me a towel and bottle, so I can rinse out my mouth and wipe my face. I nod with gratitude.

“Damn shame,” I hear Bobo say to Jim.

I silently follow them onto the truck with my head down.

We’re almost to the station when I turn to Jim. “Can you drop me off at the hospital? I don’t think I can drive right now.”

He glances nervously over at Bobo. “Sure thing, Trisha.”

“Thank you,” I whisper as I close my eyes and focus, praying for Mikey the rest of the ride.

“When was the last time you talked to him?” Jim asks as we pull out of the station driveway in his SUV.

My brain is so numb I can’t even remember. When? When? I left him that message recently, but he never responded. Then I recall my birthday and Mikey showing up with my favorite flowers and the awkward and angry scene that followed. “It was weeks ago. I should’ve realized that something was up. He wasn’t getting back to anyone and he’s normally really on top of stuff.”

“Weird,” he says, probably just trying to be conciliatory.

“He told me that he didn’t want a divorce.”

“Damn, that’s messed up. What did he expect, considering?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know. Apparently he was conflicted.”

“Shit like this ain’t always black and white,” Jim murmurs.

I nod silently.

We’re almost to the hospital when I realize that I can’t be alone. I call my brother, Paul, and he assures me he’s on his way.

Jim hesitates when he drops me off at Providence Saint Joseph’s entrance. “You okay, McNeill? I can wait with you ’til your brother gets here.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it but you should get back to the station. I’ll be okay.”

Since I’m in my gear I play it professional as I approach the admissions desk so I’m directed right back into emergency. I’m about to pass through the doors when Joe approaches from the other side. He puts his hand on my shoulder and pulls me aside.

His expression is troubled, and his face haggard. “About back at the scene . . . I’m sorry about snapping at you.”

“Don’t be. You were doing your job, Joe. It was necessary.”

His shoulders soften a little, sagging down.

“What’s happening now?” I ask, nodding toward the ER.

“They just finished pumping his stomach, and he’s still sedated. He was breathing faintly before we intubated him, so I imagine his brain is okay.”

I shudder. “Thank God.”

He nods and looks down at me with a concerned expression. “How are you doing?”

“Not so good. I’m feeling really shitty . . . like why did I have to be such a bitch to him? If I’d known he was so frail—”

“But you didn’t know,” Joe points out.

“Still . . .”

Joe seems pissed and folds his arms over his chest. “What about what he did to you, Trish?”

My head drops and I shrug. “I know. I haven’t forgotten.”

“I haven’t either,” he says.

I don’t want to think about all that right now so I focus back on the situation. “Once he’s stable, do you think he’ll be going to a psych ward?”

“Probably, at least for a few days. They have to evaluate him first.”

I jam my hands in my back pockets. “You should get back to the station.”

“I don’t want to leave you here. He’s in good hands, Trish. Come back with me. You need to be around friends right now.”

I shake my head. “I can’t leave him here alone.”

Joe studies at me, his eyes clouded with concern. “What about you? This has been a fucking nightmare.”

Straightening up. I square my shoulders back. “Joe,” I say in a tone that warns him to let it go. He can say whatever he wants, I’m not leaving Mikey here alone.

He glances over my shoulder and squints and I turn to see Paul walking toward us.

“You called your brother?” Joe asks with a frown.

“He said he’d stay with me.”

“I see,” Joe mutters, sounding hurt, like he should be the one.

“I knew you had to get back to work.”

Paul steps up to us and slides his arm over my shoulder and pulls me against him, then reaches out to shake hands with Joe. He looks pale, his hair uncombed and wild. He must’ve gotten out of bed to come here.

“How’s he doing?” he asks.

“He’s stable,” answers Joe. He rubs his chin roughly and studies me one last time before looking up at Paul. “Well, now that I know Trish is in good hands, I’m heading back to the station.”

I step close enough to him to give him a hug. When his arms tighten around me, it’s the first warmth I’ve physically felt since everything unraveled after seeing Mikey and my doomed wedding picture.

“Thank you, Joe,” I whisper.

He silently nods, tips his head to Paul, and then walks out the door. He doesn’t look back and I watch him as he descends until he fades into the darkness of the moonless night.

After I check in at the nurse’s station I rejoin Paul. He glances around and then gestures toward the waiting area. I follow him and we take a seat on the side of the room as far from the droning television as possible. I couldn’t give a damn about the evening news. My life is dramatic enough.

“I made Elle stay home. She wanted to come,” Paul says as he squeezes my shoulder. “She’s worried about you.”

“I’m okay. It’s Mikey I’m worried about.”

“Oh, so are we, Trish. I mean, holy hell. I never would’ve expected this from him. He’s full of jacked-up surprises lately.”

I nod, and lean forward with my face in my hands and my elbows on my knees. “I can’t help but feel like this is my fault. He could never handle it when I was angry with him, and I’ve had nothing but rage since our marriage blasted apart.”

“But you’ve had every right to be furious. He lied and cheated on you.”