This one is short but sweet. Hopefully this will clear up some of the confusion the last chapter created.
Thanks to everyone who's taken the time to review. I really appreciate it. :)

28-9-15: I wasn't happy with this chapter so I've made a few changes. I think it works better now.

When I got in from work last night, Katie was already rifling through her wardrobe for something for me to wear. There was a plum-colored body-con dress laid out on top of her comforter next to a pair of patent Louboutin slingbacks that were so high they were in danger of giving me vertigo before I'd even put them on. I leaned against the doorframe and watched as my best friend continued to pick through the dresses hanging in her closet.
"You know we're going to Side Street and not the Ritz, right?"
"So?" My roommate pulled a striped A-line sundress from its hanger and held it up while she considered it. When it didn't make the cut, she tossed it on the floor at the back of the cupboard. "Trust me, when he sees you in that dress and those shoes… Well, I'm sure you don't need me to tell you."
"I'm not wearing $900 shoes to a sports bar, Katie," I told her. "Pick something else."

After I showered, I let Katie shoehorn me into a pair of skinny jeans so tight I was sure they were going to cut off my circulation and caught a cab to Side Street. There was no sign of the silver Camaro as the driver pulled up to the curb outside but I was a few minutes early so I paid the far and went inside to wait at the bar.
As eight pm came and went, I tried to distract myself with the football game that was being shown on the big screen behind the bar. At eight thirty, I gave up waiting for everyone to appear and ordered a drink. My phone pinged with a text from an unknown number as the guy behind the bar took my order.

Caught a case. Raincheck?
S.

Disappointed didn't even begin to describe how I was felt. Pushing my phone away, I waited for the barman to set my drink down in front of me and then took a long draw from it, savoring the way the alcohol burned at the back of my throat. Because it would have been petty not to, I typed out be safe and pressed send. Then I ordered a burger because I was starving and well, why not? Katie was out at a colleague's leaving party so I didn't have anyone to go home to and I'd gone to a lot of effort to look this good. It would have been a shame to let it go to waste by going home.

I was sitting at the bar, chatting away to a couple of stags from Houston, Texas when Eddie appeared next to me. It had been almost a year since I'd last seen him; there were fine lines around the corners of his eyes and a hint of grey at his temple but his smile was the same as the day I'd fallen in love with him five years earlier.
"Can I buy you a drink for old time's sake?" he'd asked, fixing me with an apologetic smile. "Please, Chloe. One drink and I'll leave you to get on with your night."
"Fine," I told him as I slid down off my stool. "One drink."

Eight hours, and several cocktails, later I woke up to find him in my bed.

"And then, to top it all off, I slept through my alarm and woke up fifteen minutes before I was supposed to be at work," I say to Heather as we leave the café and walk along Kalakaua Avenue towards our rig. "I swear, my day could not get any worse if it tried."
"It's not over yet," Heather warns with a laugh. "Come on," she says, wrapping her arm around my shoulders. "Let's go see if we can take your mind off of things."

The next call we accept takes us to the house of an elderly gentleman, whose neighbors became worried when they noticed yesterday's paper was still lying on the porch. Looking in through a window, they found him lying at the bottom of the stairs. They're not sure how long ago he fell – he's not sure how long he's been lying there – but he's conscious and talking, which is a good sign.
Archie is an absolute sweetheart and, even though he looks like he's gone twelve rounds with Mike Tyson, he's embarrassed by all the fuss (the fire department had to break down the door so we could get in) and adamant that he doesn't want to be a bother. It sounds horrible but it's a welcome change – we've been called out to cut fingers and a facial hemorrhage that turned out to be a squeezed zit that had started bleeding. I'm not even kidding.

Archie insists on calling Heather 'Ma'am', and me 'Miss Chloe' as I insert an IV cannula into a vein in the back of his hand and tape it down, and Heather fits a cervical collar around his neck. On the ride to Kings he talks about his late wife, Mae, whom he was married to for almost sixty years and I'll admit to wiping away a few tears when he tells us how she slipped away in his arms after a long battle with cancer. Archie reminds me so much of my beloved Grampa Charlie that I make a mental note to ask about visiting him once he's back home and recovered from his injuries.

"They don't make them like that anymore," Heather comments wistfully as we push our stretcher through the halls of King's emergency department after leaving Archie in the very capable hands of the ER staff. "I mean, Ross and I threaten to divorce each other at least once a year. It'll be a miracle if we make it to ten years, let alone to our ruby anniversary."
"I thought it was sweet. I'd give my eye teeth to find a man like Archie," I tell my partner with a one-shouldered shrug as we reach the automatic doors leading to the ambulance bay.

My love life so far reads like a psychologist's wet dream. First there was Adam, who lived down the street and dumped me for Lucy Wilson because she had a Tamagotchi and the latest Nike high-tops. Then there was Lewis, whose parents moved to New Mexico and, being only 16, he was unfortunately obliged to go with them. After that came Jonathon, who decided six months into our relationship that he preferred men – no, really - and a year or so after that I met Eddie at a party. No wonder I'm so fucked up when it comes to love.

There are two other buses in the bay when we walk outside and we leave our bus's back doors open as we starting prepping for our next job, filling in the drugs log and stripping the soiled sheets from the gurney. Maroon Five's new single is playing on the radio as we work but I can hear the wail of sirens over Adam Levine singing what sounds a lot like a line from Def Leppard's 'Pour Some Sugar On Me'. Who would have thought he was a classic rock fan?
The sirens grow louder quickly. The oscillating tones clash repeatedly, creating a wall of noise that makes me wince in pain as a bus pulls into the space next to us and a pair of marked patrol cars blocks it - and us - in.

"Hey," Heather shouts at one of the officers as they hurry into the ER. "You're blocking us in." They all ignore her and disappear though the automatic doors without so much as acknowledging our presence. Nice…
"Assholes," I mutter under my breath. They're as bad as – worse than – the people who call us out for a non-emergency and I find myself wondering what the consequences would be if our Watch Commander found out that we were prevent from doing our job by the boys in blue, who swore to save lives alongside us. Turning to Heather, I ask, "Now what?" and watch uneasily as she sinks down onto the end of the stretcher.
"Nothing," she says shortly, leaning back and crossing her arms over her chest. "We'll have to wait for them to move."
Great. Who knows how long that's going to take? With a sigh, I drop down next to Heather and settle in for the wait.

"I spy with my little eye, something beginning with…. S." Heather has a worryingly smug grin on her face as I push myself away from the wall I've been leaning against and look around the rig to see if I can find what she's 'spied'. We've been waiting well over half an hour for an officer to move the car and there's been neither hide nor hair of HPD. Heather even got one of the girls at the ER sign-in desk to put out a PA for us. I-Spy seemed like as good a way as any to amuse ourselves while we waited. Heather guessed my first go - T for trach tube – embarrassingly easily while I struggled to figure out hers – A for the air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror in the cab.
"Is it sphygmomanometer?" I ask but my hopes are dashed when my partner laughs and shakes her head. "Heatherrrrr," I mock whine when my subsequent three guesses are met with the same response. "What is it? Is it even in here?"
Heather smirks. "Nowhere in the rules does it say the spied object must be within twenty feet."
I look out the window and spot the blue truck that's parked – illegally, I might add - outside the public entrance to the ER and jump to my feet.
"Silverado," I cry triumphantly.
It's only when a very familiar silver Camaro pulls up behind it that I realize who the blue behemoth belongs to. They're probably here with the HPD guys who blocked us in and I mutter something along the lines of Five-0, owes me and be right back to my partner as I launch myself down the ramp and onto the pavement.

"Hey," I call out as I hurry over to where he and Danny are standing outside the main door, the atmosphere between the two men unusually tense. Steve's still wearing the blue polo shirt and black cargos he had on yesterday morning and he has a strangle-hold on his phone when he whips round to face me. His whole body is practically vibrating with tension. Danny looks stricken, too, and it sends a sickly chill up my spine.
"Is everything ok?" I ask when Steve automatically goes back to pacing the length of the spidery crack in the pavement without a word. Danny nods distractedly and runs a hand through his hair.
"Yeah. Everything's fine," he tells me, although he doesn't quite manage to meet my eye.

Liar, liar, pants on fire, I think as I glance over my shoulder to where Steve seems hell bent on wearing a track in the concrete. I haven't seen him this agitated since that day at the warehouse and I can't help but wonder what's happened to make him look like he's two seconds away from exploding. Instead of asking, I change the subject. Well, sort of...
"Rough night, huh?" I take in the dark shadows under Danny's eyes and rumpled dress shirt, which, for the first time since we met, is open at the neck. I guess looking professional isn't at the top of your priorities when you've been on the job since 8am the previous day. Glancing over my shoulder at the marked cars by the ambulance bay I ask, "The case you were working on yesterday?"
Danny nods. "Yeah, same one." Clearing his throat, he adds, "Uh… Grace was disappointed that we had to cancel last night. She was wanting to ask you something."
"She was?" I shudder, hoping Grace's question has nothing to do with the rather uncomfortable conversation I had with her father yesterday morning regarding the man she calls 'Uncle Steve'. Awkward. Danny's expression isn't giving anything away so I tentatively ask, "Do you happen to know what it was?"
He chuckles. "Well, it was hard to get a word in edgeways but I think it might have something to do with the fact that it's her birthday party a week on Friday. I know she'd love for you to be there."

"A week on Friday?" I run through my work rota in my head. Today is Tuesday, day two of my six-shift block. I start nightshift Thursday night and finish Sunday morning, and then I'm off for four days (It'll probably take me that long to get myself back into sync with the world) so that means I go back to work on Thursday. Boo... I pull a face and tell Danny, "I have to work but maybe I could drop her present off and she could open it with her other gifts?"
He tries to wave off my offer by saying, "You don't have to get her anything. She's spoiled enough as it is," but I already have the perfect gift in mind. Grace is going to love it.

Steve is still pacing along the crack in the pavement behind us but he stops abruptly when the automatic door into the emergency department slides open to reveal a uniformed officer. The officer simply shakes his head sadly before walking back into the hospital and Steve rubs his hands up over his face and laces his fingers behind his head.
"Fuck," he mutters, letting his arms drop to his sides. Turning on his heel, he pulls his phone from his pocket and heads towards his truck with his phone pressed to his ear.

"I'm sorry," I say, laying a hand on Danny's shoulder. He sighs, suddenly looking a lot older than his thirty-six years, and turns to watch Steve pace back and forth in front of his truck.
"Yeah," he replies quietly. "Me too."