I'm sorry it's taken a while to update. I've been so busy getting the horses ready for the biggest show of the year and just not had time to sit down and write.
Wow, I can't believe how many people have reviewed. Thank you, it means a lot. :)
Some of you asked about Catherine – Hopefully this chapter will answer some of your questions. Finally, I really hope none of you are too disappointed by what I feel is the natural progression of Chloe and Steve's relationship. Hopefully you'll bear with me...
What better way to start the working week than with a fatal heart attack? I'm sure it's not the start Alan Davis and his family envisioned, either, when they decided to spend the morning at the beach; fifteen minutes into an impromptu game of volleyball Alan Senior suffered a massive heart attack and collapsed. A passer-by flagged down a passing patrol car, which happened to contain Sargent Duke Lekela. He performed CPR until we arrived, but in the end there was nothing we could do to save Mr. Davis. What was supposed to the holiday of a lifetime ended with Daddy Dearest being pronounced in the middle of Waikiki Beach while the world and his mistress looked on.
Mrs. Davis is kneeling beside her husband, Heather's arm around her shoulders as she struggles to pull herself together long enough to say goodbye to her husband of twenty-three years. Her children stand behind her, shielding their mother from the prying eyes of the tourists wandering along that part of the beach. Once they've said their goodbyes, the eldest Davis' body will be transported to the ME's office and his family will be left to arrange for their loved one to be repatriated. To make things a little easier, Sargent Lukela has very kindly arranged for an officer to drive the Davis' back to their hotel and then onto the consulate in Bishop Street.
I'm packing away the defibrillator when Steve appears. He nods to the uniformed office standing guard behind me before ducking under the 'police line, do no cross' tape that Duke strung up to keep the rubberneckers away. It's been a few weeks since that night at the hospital and, so far, I've managed to avoid spending time with him. Of course, him flying off to play Battleships for a week as part of his reserve drill helped, as did the flu bug that sent me to my bed for three days and kept me off work for a further five. But while Steve looks happy, healthy and tan, my skin tone still resembles that of the recently deceased. Betty Boop looks positively bronzed in comparison.
It wasn't until I forced myself to walk away that I realized the strange feeling in the pit of my stomach was jealousy. Wanting something you can't have is torture, pure and simple; I spent so much time lusting after Eddie in the weeks after he dumped me that I drove myself crazy wondering what I had to do to make him love me again. Watching Steve lean down and kiss the top of his girlfriend's head made me feel the same way. That's why I've been doing my best to avoid him. Except that there's no way for me to do that right now. Sighing, I shove the pressure cuff into my bag and zip it shut.
"I wasn't aware that a tourist dropping dead from a heart attack required Five-0's expertise," I say as I swing my kit bag up onto my shoulder. It feels heavier than normal and the strap cuts into my shoulder as I stoop down to grab the equally heavy drugs box but I ignore it as I start walking towards the car park where we were forced to abandon the rig. Steve jogs after me, his annoyingly long legs eating up the space between us until we fall into step.
"It doesn't. I had some paperwork I needed Duke to sign before I meet with the governor this afternoon," he says, nodding to the uniform as he lifts the cordon to for me to duck under it. My bag slips down over my shoulder when I bend and the strap catches the skin in the crook of my elbow as it falls to the sand with a muffled thud. It hurts and I suddenly feel the urge to throw my bag and the drugs box away in a fit of rage because I'm tired and I don't want to face up to the fact that I have a ridiculous school-girl crush on the man who's gently tugging my bag strap from my hand.
"Thanks," I mutter as he swings it onto his shoulder like its weightless. The sand shifts to grass beneath our feet as we climb the small incline separating the beach from the parking lot and I spot Steve's – at least, I assume it's his - silver Camaro parked next to one of the squad cars just along from the rig. Detective Williams is leaning against the hood with his hands in his pockets, talking to Sargent Lukela, and he lifts his chin in greeting when Steve and I walk past.
When we reach the bus, I grab the fold-down chair to pull myself up into the back of the rig and use the key on my belt to unlock the safe. "You can just leave that bag there, thanks. I'll get it in a minute," I tell Steve as I shove the bright yellow drugs box into the locker and secure it. Turning, I raise my eyebrows when I find him standing behind me with the green kit bag in hand.
"Or I could just hold onto it," he says with a shrug, holding the bag out to me. Resting a hip on the wall at the foot of the stretcher, he folds his arms over his chest and watches as I stow it in one of the lockers. It's really uncomfortable, the way he's staring at me. When I can't take any more, I turn to him and snap, "What, Steve?"
"Did I do something?" he asks after a moment's silence. Glancing down at the floor, he toes at a mark on the gray lino-style flooring and continues, "You've been kind of off with me the last couple of weeks and I was wondering if maybe I'd done something to upset you. I haven't, have I?"
"You haven't upset me."
I've just decided that it's easier on my feelings if I pretend we were never friends, I think as I slip past Steve and jump down from the back of the rig.
"Okay." He nods and steps down from the back step as Detective Williams wanders over to join us.
"Hey," he says, nodding in my direction. Turning to his partner, he asks, "What the hell took you so long, huh? I've been waiting for you for like, fifteen minutes. Your paperwork's in the car, by the way."
"I was helping Chloe with her equipment," Steve replies, sounding – if my ears aren't deceiving me - slightly defensive. He turns to look at me and opens his mouth to speak but before he can, the shrill ringing of a cell phone interrupts. Huffing out a frustrated-sounding sigh, Steve lets his chin drop to his chest, apparently defeated. He hold up his index finger, motioning for us to wait, as he digs his cell phone from his pocket.
"I have to take this," he mutters, glancing down at the screen. Turning smartly on his heel, he presses the phone to his ear and I hear him say, "Governor Denning, sir," before he walks out of earshot.
While Steve prefers a more casual working uniform, Danny, in his dress shirt and silk tie, looks like a banker rather than a detective. It's not the most appropriate choice for an island where the humidity averages in the high-seventies year round.
"How are you not melting?" I ask, nodding at the navy and silver striped noose around his neck as I slam the rig's doors shut. The back of my own shirt is damp with sweat already and it's not even ten AM. Even in the shade, the heat is suffocating. I don't know how Danny can stand it.
"What is it with you people and ties, huh?" Danny snarks. "I like to look professional, okay? In Jersey, and every other city on the planet, this is what a detective looks like. I got 87 homicide cases under my belt looking like this. And just so you know, this is my favorite tie. Grace gave me this tie for Father's Day."
Judging from the rant I've just been subjected to, I'm guessing he feels rather strongly about the more relaxed dress code favored by the detectives on the island. I bet island time drives him crazy.
"Speaking of Grace," Danny continues, leaning back against the side of the rig. "I never thanked you for taking care of her when SuperSEAL got hit by that car. She told me you made her feel safe so… Thank you."
I reach out to squeeze his arm. "She's a great kid."
Danny chuckles. "Yeah, she's something else. She had that Neanderthal over there wrapped around her little finger about two minutes after meeting him. I don't think Steve realizes that it's possible to tell her 'no'."
That makes me laugh. Steve spent six months in BUD/S and made it through the psychological and physical torture of Hell Week. The Navy should be very worried if all it takes to turn one of their best to mush is one calculated look from an eight-year-old girl, puppy dog eyes or not.
"He obviously adores her," I say, shoving my hands in my pockets as I lean back against the side of the rig and rest one foot against the rear tire.
"He does," Danny agrees. "He's a giant goof but I suppose that's better than subjecting my daughter to the trigger-happy control freak who never lets me drive my own car." Glancing over at his partner, who's wearing a line in the dirt with his pacing, Danny shakes his head and fixes me with a cryptic look that makes my stomach twist. "No, he's been acting kind of goofy recently, even for him, but it wasn't until something Grace said last night that I realized why."
I stiffen and drop my head, my posture going rigid as Danny's piercing blue gaze starts to burn a hole in the middle of my forehead.
"What? What's wrong?" he asks, confused. "You like Steve, right? And I know he likes you, so what's the problem?"
What's the problem, he asks. It's this little thing that begins with a G and ends with irlfriend. Don't get me wrong, part of me is relieved to know that Steve feels the same way even though nothing will ever come of it. But having been cheated on myself, there's no way I could ever knowing get together with a guy when I know he's already seeing someone else. Just thinking about Candace, Eddie the love rat's other woman, still makes me mad, even now.
"I bumped into Steve at Queens a few weeks back. He was there with someone," I tell Danny, staring at a spot on the ground next to my shoe. "They looked pretty cozy, you know?"
"Yeah, I do." Danny offers me a sympathetic smile and the Psycho ringtone suddenly makes a little bit more sense.
We stand in companionable silence after that, Danny watching Steve while I look towards the dunes at the edge of the parking lot, waiting for Heather to appear over the top of them.
"Hey, that girl Steve was with," Danny asks. "Would you say she was about this tall?" He holds his hand level with his chin. "Brown hair to her shoulders?" When I nod, he grins. "That's Mary. Steve's sister."
Oh… Right. Well, that would explain the touchy-feely moment I stumbled upon. If her last name is McGarrett, too, that could explain why her picture came up on a Google search. I'm still trying to process the sudden revelation when Steve reappears, shoving his cell phone in his pocket.
"Meeting's cancelled," he says to Danny, who mutters something snarky under his breath before stalking off across the parking lot towards the Camaro. When he gets there, he pulls his cell phone from the pocket of his slacks and leans against the door frame while he dials.
"Look, about the other week," Steve says, shifting his weight from left to right. "I wanted to thank you."
"You already did."
Steve shakes his head. "Not properly," he says softly. There's a slightly awkward pause and then he asks, "Come to dinner tonight?" When I hesitate, he takes a half step forwards. "Please, Chloe? Chin and Kono will be there, and Danny's bringing Grace."
"Are you sure they won't mind?" I squint up at him in the bright sunlight. "I don't want to intrude if you've already made plans."
"They won't," he assures me with a smile. "So, I'll see you tonight? Side Street, seven o'clock."
Biting my lip, I nod. "Yeah, okay."
"Great," Steve says, glancing over his shoulder to the Camaro, where Danny's standing in the gap between the door and the frame, his phone pressed to his ear. When Danny waves him over, Steve pulls his phone from his pocket. "Give me your number. Just in case we catch a case and can't make it."
"You better not leave me hanging, McGarrett," I warn him jokingly as I save my number under the heading 'Chloe EMS' and hand the phone back.
"Wouldn't dream of it," he grins. Pocketing his phone, he turns and jogs across the parking lot just as Danny sticks his head out of the window and yells at his partner to hurry the hell up.
Heather's still nowhere to be found so I lean back against the rig and watch as Steve slides in behind the wheel and quickly eases the car out into the mid-morning traffic on Ala Moana Park Drive. When the Camaro has disappeared from view around the corner, I pull my phone from my pocket and fire off a quick text to Katie before heading off in search of my own partner.
H50*H50*H50
I'm woken the next morning when the person lying beside me shifts and wraps their arm around my waist. It's probably Katie, I tell myself as I lie there with my eyes closed and allow the warmth lull me back to the verge of slumber. It's not unheard of for the two of us to share a bed. It usually occurs when one – if not both - of us has been drinking so I figure that I must have stumbled into Katie's room early this morning after sampling one too many cocktails at dinner and she either didn't hear me or couldn't be bothered getting up to herd me into my own bed.
I've been so busy with work recently that I've barely seen my best friend. Right now I'm two days into a block of three days and three nights. Katie always says I remind her of a zombie when I come off a night shift; I'm usually so tired that I have to drive home from the depot with the windows down and the AC on full blast to stop me falling asleep at the wheel. It's the one thing about my job that I really don't like.
Speaking of work, it must nearly be time for me to get up. Pushing back the comforter, I reach down to remove Katie's arm from around my waist and my fingers brush over something cool and hard – a watch, probably – before making contact with skin. The hair on my roommate's arm feels unusually coarse and, now that I think about it, I don't remember Katie ever wearing a watch, let alone something as bulky as the one beneath my fingertips. Forcing myself to take a deep breath, I slowly look down at the arm that's curled around my stomach. The person it's attached to is wearing one of those divers watches – you know, the kind that costs and arm and a leg, and, in most cases, never actually sees the ocean? Beneath the black and yellow face, the skin is tanned and covered in dark wiry hair.
Okay, definitely not my roommate, then, which sparks the question – if not Katie, then who the heck am I in bed with?
When I twist to look over my shoulder, I'm relieved to find that I'm at home in my pretty lilac-and-white Parisian-themed bedroom but at the same time, it's like my worst nightmare has just come true. Burying my head in my hands, I peer through the gaps in my fingers just in case I've got it wrong and the person lying next to me isn't who I think it is. But no, my one night stand hasn't miraculously transformed into Brad Pitt in the few seconds since I rolled over to find my lying, cheating ex-boyfriend, Eddie Ray, in my bed.
Oh, God… Burying my head in my pillow, I pound my fists against the mattress in frustration and let out the most almighty scream inside my head. Whilst it doesn't do anything to cure my raging hangover, it does make me feel a little less like putting my pillow over Eddie Ray's head and holding it there. Reaching out, I feel along the top of my bedside table for my phone and hold it up to my face so I can squint at the time on the screen.
"Shit!"
It's six thirty. I'm supposed to be at work by quarter to seven, latest. Throwing back the comforter, I leap to my feet and scramble for Eddie's clothes, which I take great pleasure in dumping on top of his head as I rush to get ready for work.
"Get up," I hiss when he finally pushes himself up on one arm. "You have to go before Katie finds out you were here and I have to go bail her out of jail."
I don't have time to wash my hair but I can't skip showering because my arms are sticky with alcohol (oh, God, please let it be alcohol) and I smell like I've bathed in a vat of the stuff. I have to settle for a sixty-second scrub down under the cold tap instead of my usual leisurely shower routine and twisting my hair up into a messy bun to hide my greasy roots. At least I shaved my legs last night.
Eddie's sat on the side of my bed pulling on his dirty socks when I rush back into my room to grab clean underwear from the chest of drawers in the corner. To hell with modesty - I don't have time to be shy and anyways, it's not like he hasn't seen me naked before, so I let my towel drop and step into my pants without a second thought. I grabbed the first thing my hand touched when I got clean underwear out of my dresser so my top half ends up wearing sensible, workmanlike beige cotton while my bottom half sports pretty lace and bows. I'm so frazzled that I don't realize I'm wearing odd socks until I'm by the front door hastily shoving my feet into my work boots. Fuck it, I think as I grab my keys off the hook and practically shove Eddie out into the corridor in front of me. Mismatched socks are the least of my worries right now; if I don't get my act together I risk getting a warning from work and that could affect my chances if I ever wanted to do my EMT-Intermediate or EMT-Paramedic qualifications.
Breakfast ends up being one of the blueberry Nutribars I keep in the glove box for emergencies as I pray for the traffic gods to take pity on me. Someone must be looking down on me because I hit green lights all the way and pull into the depot just as the first crew is driving out of the gates. Heather is in the garage, cleaning down the surfaces in the back of the rig, and I quickly grab the clipboard with the morning checklist from its spot by the door, and get started checking off equipment.
"Sorry," I mutter as I busy myself counting trach tubes and IV cannulas. Heather merely raises an eyebrow in response as she moves onto checking the defibrillator case is stocked with disposable razors, wax strips and the sticky pads the electrodes connect to.
It's another fifteen minutes before we tell dispatch we're ready to take calls. Heather stares out the window as I maneuver the bus through the depot gates onto Koapaka Street.
"Do you want to talk about it?" my partner asks, twisting in her seat to look at me across the cab. Clenching my jaw, I check my wing mirror, signal and join the on-ramp for the Queen Liliuokalani Freeway before I tell her, "No, not really."
"Okay," Heather says with a shrug before she turns back to the window, watching the scenery as we fly along the freeway towards Downtown Honolulu.
The lack of conversation means my mind ends up working overtime to fill the silence until we get called out to a fender bender in Diamond Head. Shortly after we're hit by a deluge off call outs; we stop at a service station to use to bathroom but that's it. It's nearly three pm by the time we get a chance to sit down and eat. Lunch today is tacos from a beachside café on Kalakaua Avenue and we take our meals outside, and sit in the shade of a giant palm with our radio on the table between us.
"Listen," Heather says once we've finished eating. "I know you said you didn't want to talk, so I won't push the issue. Just promise me you'll say something if you're struggling with anything – if not to me, then to one of the watch commanders. This job is hard enough without feeling like you don't have anyone you can talk to."
"I know I can come to you, or any of the guys at the station," I say, tossing my napkin down on the table. "Look, I appreciate your concern but I'm not stressed or overwhelmed, or anything like that. I love being a paramedic. I just…" I pull a face. "I did something really stupid last night and it's kinda thrown me for a loop, you know?"
"That's understandable. We've all done things that we regret," Heather reasons. "So are we talking I spilled nail polish on my favorite silk shirt stupid, or I got caught at the beach by my boss when I called in sick stupid?"
I chuckle humorlessly and lean forwards in my seat to grab my water. "Worse than that," I mutter as I twist off the top off the bottle. "I kinda hooked up with my ex."
