Hotline Fling

CJ Chapter 2: Second Chance for a First Impression

Jason's POV

No one drove an ambulance for piss poor money, long hours in short-staffed shifts, high-stress life-and-death situations, and paperwork bullshit up the wazoo. It was one step into FDNY and a job for the most desperate on the spectrum of employment and altruism. I endured it for one simple fact: I made a difference.

Level-headed should be my middle name. A ninety-dollar phone charge to a phone sex line wasn't me, but having a conversation without a single dirty word exchanged? Total mindfuck. I wasn't a psychic hotline or tarot card reader enthusiast, but the Wet Dreams billboard ad across the street from Zane's apartment, uplight with a dim, flickering light, was as much a metaphorical sign as a physical one.

"A steamy escape from reality." Which I used as a personal therapy session. Talking with Cee, if that was her real name, turned into what I needed to calm myself back to normal.

"Fuck, they had an orgy in here last night. Welcome back." Zane groaned from behind me and slapped my shoulder. "I call gas refill and trash duty."

I pinched the bridge of my nose and took a deep breath. By the log reports, I assumed the rig's interior would be disorganized, but ours looked as if the ambulance rolled over itself instead of running a code blue. "Did they give up post-shift?" I asked as if Zane had the answer.

Rig eighty-nine had miles on her, and last night's were difficult. "A fatal car accident topped off a night with a shooting victim and a seizing epileptic who collapsed waiting in line at a bodega," he read over my shoulder. "At least they sanitized some of the blood."

"Small victories," I muttered and snapped on gloves.

Gas can in hand, he smirked and gestured for me to hop inside. None of the six adrenaline syringes I counted were open, so I stepped into the claustrophobic interior. My usual steady pulse raced up the sides of my neck, tachycardia throbbing beneath my skin and deafening my hearing. The littered floor objects blurred.

My fingers intertwined, and my palms pumped her sternum. Cold, gray skin. Wispy white hairs spread in every direction. Her eyes rolled back. Flatline.

Zane's hand cupped my shoulder. "You good?"

"Yeah," I mumbled. Having been through hundreds of drills, no one ever addressed the human aspects of incidents. Sights, sounds, and smells were only experienced in person. No one prepared me for the shock and awe at seeing four priority 1 patients, two elderly and one child, and how to rewire my brain back to reality once I had to drape a white sheet over one.

Certain circumstances always hit hard. If I transported a patient alive to the hospital and they passed away, I had successfully done my job sustaining their lives. But a flatline in the rig, in my hands? That's when I lost it.

I caught my breath's hitch and forced it to slow. Lightheadedness filled the space between my eyes, which I closed until it dissipated. Small shit. Focus on the small shit. The empty needles went in a medical waste bag. I collected two torn-open dressings, a bent IV catheter, and the rig's cheap-ass version of a stethoscope. "Fuck, and they wonder why we buy our standard supplies."

"Only the cheapest for New York's emergencies." Zane's booming laugh was comforting. He bagged all the trash, flashing his teeth and leaning against the open door. "Living the dream."

"Can't see myself doing anything else."

He tossed me an unopened bag of scopes. The previous contractors were fired for faulty plastics, but I couldn't tell the difference in Dawes' shit. Big pharma was all the same, bottom line first. Zane and I bought ours so we could hear over street noise, unlike the air whooshing through the cheapies.