Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 109(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 109(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
“Maybe you should listen to that feeling. As long as you’re not trying to get yourself killed, maybe a little fun is just what you need.”
“But what should I do?”
Jess shrugs. “Maybe you should try having a one-night stand. There’s nothing like some hot loving from a stranger to get your head back in the game. Maybe another beer feels good right now, but this will be your last one, okay? And then I want you to call a taxi or an Uber or something to get yourself home.”
I nod, and she slips one more bottle across the bar.
But while sipping the drink, the image of Carl and Karly’s bodies heaving together comes up again, and vomit literally begins to rise in my throat. That’s enough. I pay for my beers with a couple of twenties, and then push away from the bar and head outside. The sky has turned the orange of a dying flame as the sun sets. It’s dusk now, but I feel strangely lucid, like I’m in some kind of waking dream.
I stumble against my car, but then I remember Jessa’s warning. I should call an Uber to get home. I fumble with my phone for a bit, hitting random buttons. Where’s the Uber app on this damn thing? But then, the flashing lights of an ambulance parked across the street catches my eye and inspiration strikes.
Wouldn’t it be fun if I took that thing out on a joyride? Jessa did say I need a bit of fun in my life, right? Of course, she meant dating-wise, but I see opportunity right now.
The thought propels me from my car, across the street, and into the driver’s seat of the ambulance before I can think twice. I look around blearily for the keys before I realize they’re still in the ignition. Hell yeah, this was meant to be. Not only that, but there’s no sign of the paramedics who must be in charge of this thing. Trembling, I let my hand take hold of the keys and turn the engine on. My grin spreads so wide, it threatens to spit my face in two. Perfect. I’ll be back before anyone realizes I’m gone.
3
Rob
* * *
Sam Nelson and I pull up to Prescott’s senior center just as the sky starts to glow with dusk. He kills the siren and pulls the parking brake on the ambulance. He gets out first, and frankly, my buddy looks like he’d rather be anywhere else but here. We’ve been partners for twelve years now, and I can read his every thought without saying a word.
I get it though. I have a pretty good idea of what to expect because sometimes the scene at senior centers can be depressing. The patients are old and occasionally, there’s nothing to do but to let them pass in peace.
This time, however, we know it’s not that. Mrs. Wheatley has mild asthma, and when she feels the staff at the senior center isn’t paying her enough attention, she has “trouble” breathing and nothing that anyone does can calm her down except for Sam’s attention. It’s a selective asthma attack for the Mrs. Wheatley because she’s got a thing for blonde, blue-eyed men, especially ones who look like they could be on the cover of a romance novel. And to her credit, Sam looks like he could be a model. Poor guy. He’s attracting the attention of women in their 80’s when he’d much rather be solving real emergencies.
I don’t blame him for being annoyed, but then again, Mrs. Wheatley’s harmless, and if I’m being honest, it’s hilarious to watch her try to squeeze Sam’s cheeks as he coaches her on how to catch her breath. And I don’t mean the ones on his face. I mean the cheeks down there.
“Look alive, kid,” I say, slapping Sam on the back. “It’s our last shift of the night.”
“Easy for you to say,” he scowls before sighing. “You’re not the one who gets groped every time we come here.”
“Fair enough. But chin up, we’ll be in and out before you know it. Besides, maybe she’ll spare you this time.”
He shoots me a look. He and I both know that Mrs. Wheatley won’t, and I turn my face away to keep him from seeing my grin.
We enter the senior center, and the staff leads us to the recreation room, where a small crowd has gathered around Mrs. Wheatley’s wheelchair. She has her hand placed against her chest in her typically overdramatic fashion, and she’s bent forward, trying to catch her breath. Sam, looking very serious, kneels next to her and takes out his stethoscope. He presses it against her back in various places, listening for what he knows will be perfectly functioning lungs.
When he’s satisfied, he removes the stethoscope and tells Mrs. Wheatley to remember to use her inhaler whenever she experiences symptoms. The gray-haired lady nods, and when he stands up, sure enough, her hand shoots out to try and grab his ass. He easily avoids the attempted grope, and returns to my side with a pained smile.