A Night Claimed Read online

  A

  Night

  Claimed

  by

  Domina

  Alexandra

  A Night Claimed © 2019 Domina Alexandra

  Triplicity Publishing, LLC

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without permission.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events of any kind, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Edition – 2019

  Cover Design: Triplicity Publishing, LLC

  Editor: Ashley Hutchison - Triplicity Publishing, LLC

  I have to thank my editor at Triplicity, Ashley Hutchison. I know Bonnie had a lot of personality to tame. To my Beta reader, fellow author, and friend, Lynn Lawler. I'd like to thank Tessa Moore for introducing me to Mill City. It's officially on the map. To Hannbrain for playing word twister with me until my title was born, and Ninja for seeing my book come to life through your own eyes. Finally, Bonnie gives a shout out to the Fantasy World believers. What she knew to be fiction, came true for her. So, you fantasy fans, don't stop believing. Imagination was created for a reason.

  This book is for all the medical professionals who work endless beside me!

  Chapter One

  The red and blue lights temporarily blinded me as I darted around the ambulance. It was windy tonight, causing strands of my hair to blow across my face. Looking back toward the front of the ambulance, I suddenly understood how people felt who encountered the incredible brightness of the lights on the roads. The sirens were off. I pulled out the Lifepak cardiac monitor and airway bag from the back of the rig and then rushed to the entrance of the bar. I wasn’t entirely sure of the time, but I knew it was after midnight. My partner and I had been picking up drunks left and right all night, which was fairly standard for a Friday.

  The acrid smell of cigarettes overpowered my senses once I stepped through the front door of the bar. I winced noticeably for a moment, but I managed to regain my composure. The interior was reminiscent of an early 1990s sitcom bar, wherein regulars jealously guarded their preferred spots. Several pool tables were situated in neat rows to the right. Noisy slot machines were placed against the wall near the tables, luring gamblers with neon colors and carnivalesque sales pitches. Country music blared through the speakers on the jukebox. Round tables occupied the side left of the bar counter in the center. A thick haze of cigarette smoke settled over the tables where a few people were playing cards. I thought smoking was no longer allowed in public places. Maybe I’m wrong?

  My partner, Jr., took the airway bag from me and set about trying to find our patient. He nodded to the fire crew who had arrived earlier and were already preparing to assist. A few of the crew lingered close to the patient, trying to convince him to leave with us in the ambulance so that we could treat him properly. I gently put the equipment on the floor, careful not to cause alarm by an abrupt sound, and then cautiously approached him. I was glad I succeeded in avoiding the goopy pile of vomit next to him. The smell was rancid, but it wasn’t a smell with which I was unfamiliar, and I was determined to ignore it.

  “Let me talk to him.”

  “We got this,” came the response from a member of the fire crew. It was a clear attempt to dismiss me.

  He appeared to be fresh out of the academy. I narrowed my eyes at him before taking the opportunity to get a look at the others who were with him. All men. Even the captain was a man. Not uncommon. His thick mustache concealed his upper lip completely, and when he smiled at me in acknowledgement of my presence, I felt uncomfortable. It was clearly a forced smile. It seemed that the only person here who would respect me, and my position, was Jr.

  He stepped around the clustered fire crew to better inspect the patient. He looked to me. “How do you want to approach?”

  It was infuriating to be forced to constantly remind male coworkers that a woman could handle a drunk man as well as the next person. Probably better, particularly in my case. My father was a chronic drunk. At least, that’s what my family always called him. Being labeled an alcoholic was something my father refused to tolerate. It was impossible for me to hate him however, not simply because he was my father, but because of the way he captured everyone’s affections with the warmth of his spirit. Despite my father’s demons, he was still my light.

  I ignored them, focusing instead on the patient. His long, dark hair was matted as if he hadn’t combed it in days. His skin was flushed, and the biting odor of liquor seeped from his pores.

  “I’m sure you don’t like all this attention on you – all of these men standing around you in blue uniforms.”

  The man sat slouched on the floor, wedged between two barstools. His legs were outstretched. He didn’t respond. His head hung low against his chest. I watched his shoulders rise and fall, and I knew then he must be laboring hard to breathe normally in his odd position on the floor. I grabbed the stool to his right to make enough space to work, sliding it out of the way slowly to keep him calm.

  I locked eyes with the youngest man on the fire crew and asked, “Can you move the other stool out of the way?” I returned my attention to the patient on the floor. “We’re not cops. Only paramedics.”

  “I’m dizzzzy.” It was hard to hear him since his head was barely raised and he was slurring his words.

  “I’m sure you are.” I knelt in front of him and retrieved a BioHoop bag from my back pocket meant for the collection of vomit and offered it to him. “In case you feel like you’re going to throw up.”

  Without hesitating, he pressed his face into the opening of the bag. A lumpy, beige liquid emerged from between his lips. The BioHoop caught most of it, but the rest spilled out onto my gloved hands in gloppy rivulets. I felt an intense urge to jerk my hands away, but I forced them to remain in place. He continued for a few minutes more and then his belly was still. I hastily removed my gloves once he was finished. The squelching sound they made while being stuffed into the bag nearly cost me the contents of my own stomach. I gulped with some difficulty, remembering that maintaining a collected demeanor was paramount, then reached into my side pocket for a new pair.

  “Feeling any better?” I asked.

  “No,” he groaned. He attempted to rid himself of the taste of his vomit by spitting. He lacked both the strength and coordination to keep his saliva from oozing down his chin and then his shirt.

  “My name’s Bonnie. I think it’s best we take you to the hospital. You might have alcohol poisoning.”

  He shook his head with some effort. “Not my first rodeo, miss.”

  “I don’t doubt that.” I smiled. “In fact, you might recognize me. I’ve picked you up before. Twice, actually.”

  Hearing that made him eager to get a good look at me. He sluggishly lifted his head. His pupils were dilated. He was disoriented. He squinted, searching my face for some feature that would jog his memory through the haze of smoke in the bar.

  After a few seconds he said, “Oh, yeah.”

  “I am pretty sure you told me that I was the best paramedic you ever had.” Okay, that may be a bit of an exaggeration, but oh, well. I’m certain he commented on my looks, though. Quite inappropriately.

  He nodded groggily. “Yeah. You were. And cute.”

  He tried to smile charmingly, but he failed spectacularly, looking instead like one of those predators you see in a mug shot with a missing front tooth.

  “So how about we make it three for three?” I was not going to entertai
n his unwelcome compliment. I’d spent much of my career dealing with men who assumed I was simply a pretty face.

  The man made no reply.

  I tilted my head in the direction of the gurney behind me. “Let’s get you on the gurney. I’ll start an I.V. and get some fluids into your body. A little Zofran for the dizziness and nausea. How does that sound?”

  “You’ll be in the back with me?” he asked nervously, glancing at the all-male fire crew.

  “You bet.” I put my hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “They’re not cops, I assure you. Just here to help like me.”

  He exhaled shakily through his lips. “Okay.”

  “That’s what I love to hear.” I rose from my knees and turned to face Jr., but I kept my fingertips on the patient’s shoulder. “Let’s put another blanket on top of the gurney.”

  Jr. grinned and he reached behind the gurney to grab an extra blanket. “Glad you’re coming with us, sir. I’m Jr. Do you remember me?”

  From his position on the floor the patient examined Jr. with the skepticism of a conspiracy theorist. He shook his head emphatically.

  “Of course not, he only remembers the pretty ones,” joked the youngest of the fire crew.

  Keeping quiet when he spoke was proving to be a difficult task. I inhaled deeply and regained my focus. I’d have to have a conversation with this fledgling later about professionalism and his not-so-vague sexist remarks.

  As soon as we got the patient on the gurney and strapped him to it, I waved to the entire fire crew. “We got it from here.”

  “You don’t want one of us to ride in the back?”

  “Nope. I’m good.”

  The captain frowned, his bulky arms crossed over his chest were the only form of silent protest he exhibited at that moment. “I insist.”

  I didn’t visibly react. “The patient is well-behaved. You guys can go on. Have a good night.”

  I didn’t wait for his response. They wanted to provoke me, and I was in no mood to give into their sexist carping.

  *

  I leaned over the counter at the nurse’s station, chatting absentmindedly with the charge nurse once we had ensured the man who we picked up at the bar was registered and cooperating with the hospital staff.

  “How about you guys take a break and stop bringing us drunks and overdoses?” The charge nurse tittered playfully as she shuffled and organized small stacks of paper.

  I shrugged. “Trust me, we don’t go out searching for them.”

  I gave her some nondescript farewell after that and turned around to find myself nearly face-to-face with Nurse Summers. She was putting on a fresh pair of gloves. The clipboard under her left arm wobbled a bit as she pulled the gloves over each wrist hurriedly. She braced her arm against her side, trying to keep the clipboard from falling to the ground before she finished. Her full name was Rosemary Summers, and she was the best RN working in this hospital. She was also very beautiful and very heterosexual. Her pear-green eyes were so striking that it was easy to forget yourself when you encountered them, and they were the perfect complement to her auburn hair. Rosemary was indeed a heartbreaker. Jr. was undeniably enchanted by her.

  The abrasive squeak of shoes against the linoleum floors found me in mid-reverie. The sight of hospital security roughly escorting a man out of the building forcefully shoved my consciousness back into my body. I recognized him immediately as one of the hospital’s frequent flyers. He would call 911 for anything. If he stubbed his toe, he’d be in the emergency room. He spent more time coming to this hospital in the last several years than the staff. I even brought him in myself a time or two.

  He must have sensed my eyes on him. His head twisted toward me and my spine stiffened. He screeched in an unsettling pitch and then launched at the closest target: Nurse Summers. His hands appeared from behind his back like dark talons, escaping the vice-like grip of the security officers. They sliced through the air, grasping for Summers. She was eerily calm and motionless. Before he could reach her however, the security team snatched his hands from the air and pinned them him behind his back. He was frantically struggling against the officers as they pushed his body down on the floor. Summers was still, seemingly transfixed by him. I couldn’t understand this steadiness of hers in this choppy experience.

  “You okay?” I cautiously touched her arm, noticing her clenched fist. Summers’s skin was hotter than hellfire. I jerked my arm away. “Rosemary!”

  She blinked a few times at the sound of her name and her body began to relax a little. Even at a moment like this she was exquisite.

  Summers shook her head and rubbed her eyes. She didn’t look at me. “He caught me off guard. Thank you.”

  I wasn’t quite sure what she was thanking me for, but I went along with it. I pursed my lips in an attempt to keep myself from saying anything about her strange demeanor during the attack. “I’ll make sure to take him to another hospital if he’s ever again in our rig.”

  Summers rattled her arms like tree limbs in a windstorm and a grunt of disgust erupted from her mouth. “I want to go for a run.” Her phone rang. “I’ll see you later. I hope the rest of your shift is better.”

  She was gone.

  “You see that?” Jr. asked as he gesticulated wildly.

  “See what?”

  “Summers! She looked like she was going to kick that guy’s ass!” Jr. clapped his hands animatedly, his eyes wide with either horror or surprise. Maybe both. I wasn’t sure.

  I rolled my eyes. I knew that he would spend the next hour gushing about Summers like a teenager experiencing his first crush. I sucked in a deep breath through my teeth and prepared myself for the inane conversation to come as we headed to the rig. I fell asleep listening to Jr.’s nauseating monologue in the passenger seat.

  *

  The shrill chime of my alarm ripped me from the womblike feeling of deep slumber. I grumbled frustratedly. Even though I kept crazy hours at work I never liked sleeping in late. Today, it was a bit more difficult to get myself moving for some reason. Still lying on my stomach, I reached for my phone, opening one eye so I could see to turn off the alarm. The irritating chime was finally silent, and I sighed in relief. It was the afternoon.

  I can’t believe I slept this late.

  At least there was enough time left in the day to go out. I checked my phone for messages while rolling onto my back. I had a few texts from one of my friends who lived in Mill City here in Oregon. I’d been neglecting him for a while. I promised him a couple of days ago that I would visit tonight. I texted back, assuring him I was indeed coming, then let my body go limp for a several minutes as I attempted to persuade myself to get out of bed. Minutes quickly became a few hours because I decided to catch up on some reading.

  Now hungry, I had no choice but to leave my bedroom. A hot shower beforehand would probably be the best way to coax myself fully awake. I studied my image in the mirror afterwards. Everyone constantly compared me to Nicole Beharie from the hit television series, Sleepy Hollow. I did not mind the comparison, though there were differences between us two: my skin was a bit lighter than hers, somewhere between caramel and honey. Also, when I smiled, deep dimples formed on either side of my mouth.

  “Time to go out,” I instructed my reflection.

  I left without seeing my roommates. They must be out. The last orange rays of sunlight burst through the purple clouds in riotous dissent. It was still early in the evening, but by the time I grabbed some food and made it to Highway 22, it looked as though a black blanket had been flung across the sky.

  The stretch of Highway 22 right outside of Mill City was bereft of street lights. I was on edge, snapping my gaze left, right, then forward over and over again. I hated driving at night. Maybe a little music might help me calm down. Although I was familiar with the positions of the radio buttons, I found myself fumbling around for a few moments while trying to keep my eyes on the road. But before my fingertips found any buttons, I saw red, flashing lights 40 yards ahead. The
y were hazard lights.

  The swirling battle in my mind between my paramedic and civilian instincts had physical manifestations: beads of perspiration formed at each of my temples, and I started shivering with the competing worries. My car’s speed decreased, and I realized then which instinct had prevailed. News reports and local gossip of situations exactly like this never ended well. The urge to retch seized my throat, but I refused to yield. I swallowed forcibly and put the car in park. I was intensely aware of the quiet. No chirping crickets, no yowling coyotes, not even a rustling of wild rabbits. Only the click-click-click of the hazard lights from the stationary car in front of mine.

  Reason wriggled its way through the unease, and I retrieved my phone from the cup holder in the center console and snapped a quick photo of my surroundings. I also made sure to share my location with my friend in Mill City, just in case. I opened my door and tentatively stepped out of the car. My eyes zipped around as I walked to the trunk, and it was only when I was pulling the latch to open it that I realized I hadn’t yet checked to see if there was anyone in the other vehicle. Damn it! I almost shut the trunk but decided against it. There were things I needed to grab first: flares, flashlight, medical kit, knife, and my laminated EMS jacket. I slid the knife into my pocket, slipped into the jacket, and then arranged the other items under my left arm so I could carry the flashlight in my right hand. I flicked the switch and the bulb of the flashlight flickered and then emanated a steady stream of light.

  “Hello?” I called as I approached the car.

  Nothing. No sound at all.

  Maybe this person was crazy enough to go walking down the road? Not the smartest idea, but possible. I called out a few more times, a little louder than before, but silence was the only answer I received. Well, I tried. I turned on my heel and started back toward my car.