Thanks to my beta, Elizabethwriter, for the gentle nudges when I couldn't see the light for the trees.
My days off go by far too quickly. After Commander McGarrett – Steve - kicked me out, I took a cab to the ambulance depot and picked up the rusting old banger I bought the same day I moved here. True to my word, I had pizza and a six-pack of Longboards waiting when Katie walked in the door a little after 8pm, and we spent our girl's night watching weepy romances and trashy chick flicks (The Notebook, John Tucker Must Die… The classics.) whilst lamenting the severe shortage of available men on the island. Available, good-looking and unlikely to run off with another woman – we weren't looking for much, really.
Of course, Katie took great pleasure in grilling me about my latest close encounter of the SEAL variety and her brow furrowed as she contemplated the most recent twist in the Chloe vs. Steve McGarrett saga.
"He told you to call him Steve?" She asked, helping herself to another slice of Ham with extra Pineapple. She raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow. "Well, you know what that means…"
"It doesn't matter what it means," I told her, taking a long draw from my Longboard. "He has a girlfriend." According to Google, anyways. The picture showed a pretty brunette with long hair that curled just as it hit her shoulders.
"Typical," my friend muttered. "You finally meet a decent guy and he's already taken."
I go back to work on a rainy Wednesday morning. Heather is already sitting at one of the tables with a cup of coffee when I walk into the break room, trying - and failing - to wring what feels like half of the pacific from my hair and my clothes. I really need to buy an umbrella for the days when I have to leave my car in the parking structure across the street; two minutes outside and I look like a drowned rat. It's not pretty.
"Morning." Heather smiles at me over the rim of her steaming mug as I finally admit defeat and twist my wet hair into a messy bun. "We didn't manage to scare you off, then?"
"Nope." I shake my head, pull out the chair opposite her and sit down. "Sorry, but you're stuck with me for the foreseeable future."
It's going to take more than losing a patient to scare me off now that I've had a few days to come to terms with what happened to Sadie's mom. I've come to realize that it's not possible to save everyone, no matter how much we want to. It doesn't matter how hard we try, either. Life sucks, sometimes.
"Good girl." Heather gives my shoulder a squeeze on her way to dump her coffee dregs down the sink. Her hand must come away wet because she pulls a face and hastily reaches for the dishtowel that's draped over the back of an unoccupied chair.
"Sorry," I mutter, peeling my damp uniform shirt away from my equally damp skin. "I haven't gotten round to putting a spare in my locker just yet."
I really should get on that ASAP because the thought of being forced to wear clothes soiled with body fluids – blood, vomit, urine - is enough to make even the strongest stomach twist. Just… yuck. I'd rather go to a scene wearing just my bra. I'm probably not going to have a choice if I don't get on top of things soon.
"You need to get that sorted out." Heather echoes my thoughts as we make our way to the garage to prep our rig for our shift. "You never know when you're going to need a change of clothes and a shower in between calls."
I really hope it's not today.
We have a relatively slow morning and by quarter past ten we're parked up in our usual spot just along from Kamekona's famous shrimp truck. My shirt is practically dry now, thanks to liberal blasts of warm-ish air from the rig's air-con in between calls. The rain is off for the moment but there are thundery-looking clouds rolling in over Malama Bay. It won't be long before the next deluge hits.
It's Heather's turn to buy so I roll down the windows and slouch down in my seat as she ducks into the back of the rig to pull her purse from our 'personal' locker. While I wait, I find my gaze being drawn to the spot where Commander McGarrett was injured a few days back. There's nothing to suggest someone was knocked down by a car except the echoes of Gracie's terrified screams and the sickening thud of metal colliding with flesh and bone that I hear when I close my eyes.
I jump when Heather thrusts my coffee in through the open window. She gives me a strange look as I take the cup from her but she waits until she's settled in the passenger seat with Kamekona's famous spicy shrimp plate balanced on her knee before calling me out.
"What's with you?" she asks around a mouthful of plastic wrapping. She uses her teeth to tear open the little packet plastic of cutlery and manages to send her salt and pepper packets flying. Cursing, she sets her lunch down on the bench seat and ducks down into the foot-well to retrieve them. "You were away with the fairies just there," she continues, decanting the salvaged pepper sachet onto her shrimp. "Is that little girl's mom still bothering you?"
Shaking my head, I blow on my coffee and take a careful sip before lying through my teeth. "No, I bumped into my ex the other day." I'm not sure why I don't just tell her the truth but now that I've started the lie, I kind of feel obligated to continue with it. "Candace was with him," I continue. "He's asked her to marry him."
That last part is actually true; Katie saw the announcement in the paper the other week and called Eddie every name she could think of before turning the picture of the smiling couple into confetti.
"I take it the breakup wasn't exactly mutual?" Heather asks as she attempts to stab a shred of lettuce with her fork.
"He broke up with me in a text message. It's okay, though – I'm over it." I shrug and then hold my thumb and index finger a few inches apart. "He wasn't exactly Harry Styles, if you know what I mean."
"Ouch…" Heather pauses to swallow and then reaches for her bottle of water. "He sounds delightful. You're better off without someone like that, Chloe."
"I know." I reach over to steal a shrimp from her takeout tray. "Candace is welcome to him. I'm sure they'll be very happy together… At least, until Eddie gets bored and moves onto the next one." I don't quite succeed at keeping the resentment from my voice but Heather laughs anyways and checks the rig's dispatch interface for incoming jobs.
"Are you finished?" she asks, pointing to my paper cup. There's a new job flagged up on the interface screen and Heather looks like she's itching to get back to work so I nod and start to gather up the trash from the front seat.
"Where to?" I ask as I fasten my seatbelt and turn the key in the ignition. I wait for Heather to buckle up putting the rig into reverse. I even double check I'm in the right gear before I release the handbrake. Heather reads the information coming through from dispatch out loud as I inch out of our parking space.
"Waialae-Kahala. Twenty-four year old female with a GSW to the right arm."
"Through and through?"
"Doesn't say. We'll go on blue lights, just in case," Heather says, reaching over to flip on them on. "HPD is already there.
Kahala is an affluent neighborhood on the south side of Oahu, boasting palm-lined streets and sprawling beachside mansions. It's home to some of the most expensive properties in the entire state of Hawaii; the average house here sells for around 1.4 million dollars. Well out of my price range. As we scour the street for the right address, Heather points out a lone marked police car that's parked a little ways along the road.
She silences the sirens as I pull up to the curb.
The property is sizeable and surrounded by an eight-foot wooden fence, and there's a CCTV camera mounted on one of the gateposts. The residents are either extremely security conscious or they're up to no good. Either way, the camera doesn't appear to have done much; the wrought-iron gates are lying wide open and there's a car-sized dent in the spot where the two halves meet. A silver Camaro with extensive damage to its front bumper is sitting in the sweeping driveway with its doors lying open, and a red Cruze and a black Traverse have been abandoned in a similar fashion behind it. Heather and I are forced to squeeze past them and a stunning green Audi R8 to get to the front door of the house, which looks like something you'd see on MTV Cribs.
"Officer Kalakaua is upstairs," the uniformed officer on the door says, pointing us towards the sweeping, curved staircase in the corner of the hallway. "Last door on the left. Lieutenant Kelly is with her."
Officer Kalakaua turns out to be Kono, the model-like brunette I met at the bar the night I had my little emotional breakdown, and I recognize Lieutenant Kelly as the older man who was sitting in the booth with Detective Williams. They're both Five-0, which explains the car-as-a-battering-ram stunt. It's the sort of thing McGarrett would do. He's obviously a bad influence.
Kono is sitting on the floor with her back against the side of the bed when we walk into the master suite and Lieutenant Kelly is kneeling beside her, holding a white towel against her upper arm in an attempt to stem the bleeding. Despite the bloodstains on the carpet, my eye is automatically drawn to the bulletproof vests – Kono's is lying on the floor but the Lieutenant is still wearing his - and the guns holstered at the two officers' hips.
Despite having been shot, Kono manages a small smile as I move her discarded Tac vest off to one side and set my equipment down. I haven't treated a gunshot wound before so I'm not quite sure what to expect. Sure, there were photos in my textbook, but it's one thing to be able to look a picture and another to be able to deal with, not only the sight, but the smell and the emotions that go with it. So yeah, nervous just about covers it. I just hope that I can keep my cool if Heather makes me the lead on this one.
Heather nods when I look over at her and then bends down to pull the blood pressure cuff and her stethoscope from her bag so I squeeze into the small space between Lieutenant Kelly and the bed, and carefully lift the towel away from the wound. It appears to be graze, rather than the through-and-through I was expecting but there's so much blood that I can't really tell how much damage has been done.
"I going to give this a quick clean so I can see what's going on," I say as I pull a pack of gauze and a squeezy bottle of saline solution from my kit bag. The towel that was used to stop the bleeding is folded and I get Lieutenant Kelly to hold it under Kono's elbow so the run-off doesn't destroy the carpet further. It looks like it could salvageable in its current state so adding pink-tinged saline to the mix probably won't make me very popular with HPD's cleanup guys.
A minute or so later, I've cleaned the majority of the blood from her arm. The wound itself is not what I imagined it would be. In simple terms, it looks like someone has taken a spoon to Kono's arm and scooped out the flesh. Like the opposite of a welt, if that makes sense?
"The doctor will want to give that a good clean to make sure there's nothing foreign in there," Heather tells Kono as she unwraps the pressure cuff from Kono's arm and stuffs it back in her bag. "You'll probably get a week or two's worth of antibiotics to take on top of the painkillers."
The treatment Heather's just described doesn't exactly scream gunshot wound, does it? Whenever I hear those words, my brain automatically conjures up images of bloodied surgical gowns and nights spent sitting vigil in the ICU, whereas this one won't even need stitches. Just Hibiscrub and Penicillin. If only all of our cases were that simple.
I press a wad of gauze against the wound and use a cohesive bandage – a funky colored crepe-like wrap that sticks to itself – to hold it in place while Heather gathers up the plastic wrappers and soiled pieces of gauze; the wrappers go in the bin in the en-suite bathroom, the gauze in a yellow biohazard bag that will go in the incinerator when we get to the next hospital.
I tuck in a loose corner and sit back on my heels to survey my work as Heather disappears along the landing with the oxygen tank and portable ECG monitor - they're one of the first things we grab when we arrive at a scene and every time they go back on the rig unused I put a few coins in the collection box at whichever hospital we end up going to.
"Okay, you're all set. Do you need any pain relief before we head downstairs?"
Kono shakes her head so I close the lid of the yellow hard-shell drugs box and lock it. The key gets attached to the D-clip on my belt so it doesn't get lost; we have to hand it in at the end of every shift along with a detailed list of any medications we've dispensed, and the amounts.
Lieutenant Kelly helps Kono to her feet and guides her towards the stairs while I swing my kit bag over my shoulder and grab the drugs box. The bulky drugs box bumps against my thigh but I ignore it as I hurry to catch up with the two Five-0 officers. The uniform on the door steps to one side as we approach him and I let Lieutenant Kelly and Kono go first, and then follow them out onto the front step.
There are now two marked cars parked across the entrance of the crowded drive and their occupants are hovering in the space between the R8 and the Camaro. I spot Detective Williams standing over a dark-haired young man whose hands have been cuffed behind his back. The back of the detective's shirt is damp with perspiration. The guy in the cuffs must have tried to make a run for it.
As I pick my way between the cars on the drive Steve appears dragging a second young man in cuffs with him. Actually, make that cable ties. Boy Scout 101 - always be prepared, right?
"Move," he barks, shoving his prisoner forwards. He's got a gloved hand fisted in the back of the guy's dress shirt and the other wrapped around his suspect's wrist as he propels the guy across the lawn into his partner's arms. "Book him, Danno."
"That wasn't funny the first time you said it," the detective grumbles as he slips a proper pair of cuffs around the guy's wrists. "Sit there and don't move." He directs the young man to a spot on the ground and waves over the uniformed officers as the young man grudgingly sinks to his knees.
McGarrett jogs over to us as we squeeze through the gap between the damaged Camaro and the black Traverse and he eyes the bandage on Kono's arm with concern. I'm guessing he missed the immediate moments after the shooting to give chase to the two suspects as they hightailed it outta there. I don't blame them for running; the commander looks even more intimidating than usual with the holster strapped around his thigh and his tac vest on. The semi-healed road rash on the side of his face only adds to the whole 'dangerous' vibe he's giving off.
"You okay?"
Kono nods. "Yeah, I'm fine," she tells her boss with a shrug and a small smile as Detective Williams wanders over to join the group. "It's just a graze."
"I'm sorry, 'just a graze'? You've definitely been hanging out with McGarrett too long," Williams huffs as he shoves his hands in his pockets. When the man in question grins, he snarks, "That's not a good thing, Steven."
I don't take it personally when Kono decides that she'd rather have Lieutenant Kelly take her to the Emergency Room than go with us in the ambulance.
"I'm fine and you're needed elsewhere," she tells me. "Chin will drive me. Right, Cuz?" She kind of has a point - every extra minute spent here means that someone who needs our help may go without, so it does makes sense for her cousin – I assume they're related, and that she wasn't using it to mean that they're close friends - to take her.
"Make sure you get that looked at," I instruct, pointing to the bandage on Kono's arm. Shifting my kit bag higher onto my shoulder, I say, "Nice to meet you, Lieutenant," to her cousin and smile at both Williams and McGarrett as I pass them on my way out to the street.
"See you around, guys." To McGarrett, I add, "Try to stay out of trouble, huh?"
Williams snorts. "Like that's going to happen," he calls after me. "Trouble is Steve's middle name."
When I get back to the rig I pass the drugs box up to Heather, who immediately locks it in the safe at the back of the bus.
"Where is she?" my partner asks when the young woman doesn't appear behind me.
I let my kit bag slide down off my shoulder. "Her cousin's going to drive her," I reply, handing over the bright green backpack.
"Fair enough." Heather shrugs and shoves my bag in next to hers before jumping down from the back of the rig. As we climb into the cab and fasten our seatbelts, I ask, "Do you know where the nearest service station is? We should probably go get gas while its quiet."
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. It's one of those unwritten rules that you never mention how quiet is it. Ever. It usually comes back to bite you in the ass and then you end up longing for a few minutes respite so you have time to grab a drink or go to the bathroom. So yeah… Mea culpa. My bad. I flash my partner an apologetic look before I indicate and pull away from the curb. That'll teach me to think before I open my mouth.
Unsurprisingly, the rest of our shift passed in a blur of calls. We got called out to a RTA just after two pm – a tourist bus had gone off the road and flipped over, sending bodies and belongings flying. We spent hours triaging, prepping the critically injured for transport by air and road, and then treating and comforting the walking wounded. Crying children huddled under blankets at the side of the road while Heather and I picked our way through the scrub to wherever we were needed next.
By the end of my shift, I was cold, wet and muddy, and desperate for something to push the afternoon's bloodshed from my mind. I met Katie for a late dinner at the Hilton Hawaiian Village and afterwards we went for a walk along the beach. Katie slipped off her shoes as we wandered down to the shoreline and let the waves wash over her feet while we strolled towards the jetty a little ways along the sand. We were nearly back at the hotel when she yelped, swore and started hopping around on one foot. I found a shard of glass the size of a quarter embedded in her sole when I used the flashlight on my phone to see what was going on. So much for a quiet evening.
"I can't believe you have a piece of glass stuck in your foot," I grumble as I flip on my indicator and turn into the parking structure at Queens Medical Centre. Katie is sitting across the back seat of my car with her right foot elevated on a stack of towels borrowed from the hotel.
"It's not like I did it on purpose," Katie snaps back. I can see her glaring at me in the rearview mirror as I reverse into a space and kill the engine. I know it's not her fault but I can't shake off the annoyance that I'm feeling. I blame PMS. I turn into a fire-breathing dragon the week before I'm due.
Turning in my seat, I shoot Katie an apologetic look over my shoulder and give her my best puppy-dog-left-out-in-the-rain impression. "I know, I'm sorry. Do you forgive me?"
Katie rolls her eyes dramatically but there's a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. "I suppose so," she sighs. She uses the armrest on the door to push herself up and then pauses as she tries to work out how she's going to get out of the car without standing on or knocking her foot. What she plans on doing once she's upright, I don't know. It's not like she'll be able to walk and there's no way I'm carrying her.
"Stay put just now," I tell her as I pull the key from the ignition and unbuckle my seatbelt. "I'm going to go find a wheelchair."
It takes some wrangling but Katie eventually manages to unfold herself from the backseat. She drops into the wheelchair with a relieved sigh, propping her feet up on the footrests as I push her towards the bank of elevators at the opposite end of the floor.
The nurse at the sign-in desk points us towards a row of blue plastic seats once she's taken down Katie's full name (Katherine Elizabeth Lawson-Brent), date of birth (21 April 1988, a mere five days after mine) and the reason for her visit. The waiting room is almost empty and I selfishly hope that means Katie will be called quite quickly. I've already spent more than enough time in the emergency department today.
I park Katie's wheelchair in the corner facing the wall-mounted TV and drop into the chair beside her. There's a Keeping Up With The Kardashians repeat on - Katie's hooked but I don't really understand the attraction, if I'm honest. It's a reality show about a woman who's famous for having a sex tape and not much else. I mean, what kind of example does that set? My family would disown me, not invite a camera crew in to follow their every move.
"I kinda feel sorry for Bruce Jenner," Katie mutters under her breath as she watches the gold-medal Olympian leave his Calabasas mansion for several days without anyone noticing. Poor old Bruce - Kris is too busy being a 'Momager' to even notice that he's gone.
Thankfully, it doesn't take long for the triage nurse to call Katie's name. I grab my bag and unlock the brakes on Katie's wheelchair as the nurse – an older man in blue scrubs - points us towards one of the triage rooms. He asks the usual questions – does she have any medical conditions or allergies? Is she pregnant? – then checks her pulse, blood pressure and temperature before removing the bandage from around Katie's foot. He looks a little surprised when he finds the doughnut ring I had to MacGyver a from a bunch of drinking straws and some Scotch Tape to stop the bandage pushing the glass shard further into her sole (See, McGarrett's not the only one who can think on his feet).
Once he's is happy that Katie isn't going to bleed out or pass out from blood loss, we're sent back to the waiting room to wait for the doctor.
"I don't know if I can go through with it," Katie whispers as I push her back over to the row of chairs near the TV. She's hunched over in the chair, knuckles white where she's gripping the armrests. The triage nurse told her the gash on her foot is going to need stitches to close it. It wouldn't have been such a big deal if Katie wasn't absolutely terrified of needles.
"Why can't they just glue it?" She fixes me with wide, scared eyes. She's got herself up so worked up that I reach over to peel her hand off of the armrest and grasp it in my own. Her skin is surprisingly clammy and there's a slight tremble running through her hand as I squeeze it tight.
"They won't stitch it if they don't have to," I soothe. "Try not to think about it."
Easier said than done. Katie's face is white long before a second scrub-clad nurse appears to escort us to a cubicle in the Minor Injuries Unit. I can feel her shaking when I take her arm to help her up onto the exam bed and she fidgets nervously while we wait for the doctor to make an appearance. As luck would have it, the doctor just happens to be the same small Hawaiian woman who treated Steve McGarrett after his run in with the Jeep Cherokee a few days ago. She smiles at me over the rims of her glasses and then sets her clipboard down on the counter.
"I'll give you a shot of local before we take this out," the doctor tells Katie once she's poked and prodded the area around the protruding glass shard. "I need a few minutes to get everything together and then we'll get started. Any questions?"
"She's terrified of needles." I feel the need to point that out before the doctor comes back with a vial of Lidocaine, a hypodermic needle and a suture kit, but thankfully she's sympathetic to Katie's plight.
"I'll give you something to take the edge off, dear," she tells Katie kindly as she gathers up her clipboard. "Try not to worry."
That something turns out to be Valium. Fifteen minutes after swallowing the little blue pills, Katie's slumped back against the bed and the doctor is injecting the last of the local anesthetic into the skin around the wound. Her grip on my hand is surprisingly strong considering she's technically been sedated, but sacrificing the feeling in my fingers is a small price to pay when Katie barely flinches each time the needle goes in. I feel like shouting 'Atta girl!' every time she doesn't react. It only takes a few minutes for the stitches to put in. The doctor ties off the last suture and then goes off to organize a set of crutches while we wait for the Valium to wear off enough for Katie to be able to use them.
"How are you doing?" I draw Katie's hair away from her face and she offers me a drowsy smile in return.
"M'sleepy," she mutters. "S'there water?"
"I'll go get you some. I won't be long."
In the waiting room, I feed a dollar bill into the vending machine and watch as the motorized arm plucks a bottle of water from the bottom shelf. I also buy a bottle of coke for myself because I can feel myself starting to fade. I've been on my feet for over fifteen hours and I just don't have it in me to drag myself all the way to the cafeteria for that much-needed caffeine fix. Coke will have to do.
I tuck the bottles under my arm and drop my purse in my bag before turning to head back to Minor Injuries. Only, instead of walking across the waiting room towards door by the sign-in desk, I run smack bang into something solid. And warm.
Steve McGarrett grabs my shoulders to steady me when I bounce off his chest and the bottles under my arm are sent rolling across the waiting room floor. The Kevlar and thigh holsters are gone, and the badge that normally sits at his hip is missing so I'm guessing he isn't here on official business. Ducking down, he grabs the runaway bottles and holds them out to me.
"Here."
He's close enough that I can smell the spicy warmth of his aftershave and I'm forced to tilt my chin to meet his gaze. He smiles but he looks tired, and his usually piercing blue eyes are slightly dull, and obscured by bags that Vuitton would be proud of.
The mother hen in me wants to lecture him about the dangers of not getting enough sleep and then tuck him into bed for the night.
"What are you doing here?"
'Hello' or 'thanks' would probably have been a better choice but it would appear that the combination of Calvin Klein Obsession and the firmest chest I've ever felt (and I've felt a fair few since starting this job) is having the same affect on my brain as Kryptonite on Superman. Steve's brow furrows in response and he lets his hands drop down to his waist. The movement causes my Coke to bubble and fizz, and turn to foam near the neck of the bottle.
"I could ask you the same thing," he says, nodding down at my pink and orange boardies. When he catches sight of my Hello Kitty flip flops – a present from my brother, Jack – he grins. "Nice slippers. I think Grace has the same ones."
"Uh, yeah…" I glance down at the plastic feline decals on my shoes and cringe. "My brother apparently still sees me as a chubby three year old in pigtails and dungarees."
I've actually been meaning to buy myself another pair but then I became a paramedic and my social life pretty much went out the window. When I'm not working, I'm studying, and if I'm not studying, I'm sleeping. I can't tell you the last time I went shopping for something other than groceries. The only thing benefitting from my new career right now is my bank account.
"Commander McGarrett?"
We both turn to look at the nurse standing by the door into to treatment area. "You can come through," she tells Steve as she swipes open the swinging door into Minors. Propping it open with her hip, she busies herself with the paperwork on her clipboard while she waits for Steve to join her.
"You'd better go," I say, holding my hands out for the bottles Steve's still holding. "Trust me when I tell you it's not a good idea to keep the nurses waiting – they're the ones with the needles." It's a really lame joke but he smiles at it anyways and, dear lord, those dimples… Where the hell did they come from?
He's still there when I look up from sliding my bottles into my bag and I roll my eyes before giving him a gentle shove. "Go…"
He seems to hesitate but then he drops his head and nods. "See you around," is all he says before he turns on his heel and walks away, leaving me standing in the middle of the corridor. It's only when the door into Minors swings shut behind him that I realize I still don't know why he's here. It's really none of my business but as the nurse behind the desk buzzes me in through the door, I can't help but wonder. Is he ill? Is he here because of the injuries he sustained when he was hit by that car?
Rounding the corner, I come to an abrupt halt at the beginning of the long row of cubicles lining the back wall. There's a gap in the curtain of the cubical in front of me and, wouldn't you know, it's just wide enough for me to see Steve lean down and hug the woman sitting on the bed. She clutches at him, burying her face in his chest. When he kisses the top of her head, I feel a strange jolt in the pit of my stomach.
Her long dark hair has been pulled into a messy ponytail and she's wearing a hospital gown that droops down over her shoulders when she wraps her arms around Steve's neck but there's no mistaking that she's the girl from the photos. Steve's girlfriend. Biting my lip, I drop my gaze to the floor and force myself to walk away.