The Fear That Divides Us (The Devil's Dust #3)(8)

“Shhhh!” Shorty snaps at me, her brown hair flinging over her shoulder from whipping her head in my direction. The intensity of her brown eyes as she scowls makes me grin. Shorty was brought in by the ol’ ladies several months after Babs passed away. Babs was the mother of the MC, and could never be replaced, but it’s nice having Shorty clean up around here. She’s short and cute as hell. I’m not entirely sure what her story is. I heard some shit about her dad abusing her, but I’m not sure if it’s true. She helps behind the bar, and though her food tastes like shit, she tries to cook.

I turn my gaze back to the TV and see a reporter frantically trying to get past a crowd of gawking people.

“Really big wreck on the freeway,” Shadow whispers, watching the TV intently, his arms crossed in front of his chest while he stares at it.

“Damn, glad I took the back way then,” I respond.

“Back way? Where did you come from?” Shadow questions, his tone curious.

I raise my eyebrows and smile. “A sorority.”

Shadow smirks, shaking his head.

Jessica

I wake to a loud buzzing, causing me to roll over and slam my hand down on the alarm clock.

“No, not yet,” I mumble into the pillow. The loud buzzing continues, making me lift my head from the pillow to inspect the alarm. The alarm isn’t going off; it’s my cellphone. Shit, I’m on call at the hospital. I hurry out of bed and grab my phone from the charger.

“Dr. Wren,” I answer, my voice cracking from speaking so quickly, and not fully awake.

“We need you to head over to where the 10 intersects the 405,” my boss instructs.

“Why?” I don’t usually get a call to go to a scene. Actually, it has never happened.

“There has been a multiple car pileup and we need you there now. There are several casualties and not enough ambulances or EMTs to assist.” Her voice shaky as if she is overwhelmed.

“Yeah, okay, I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I yawn into the phone.

I end the call and groan. This always happens having the job I do. I plan things, but get called in making me reschedule. Today was supposed to be mine and Addie’s day and I don’t even get to take her to school. I pull on my white robe and head down the hall to the apartment directly across from mine. Looks like Bree will have to take her. Bree is Addie’s babysitter. Luckily, she lives right across the hall, and adores my daughter. She is great with Addie, helping her with school-work, and even letting Addie stay the night when I’m on call or on graveyard shift.

I rasp my knuckles against the door, and lean against the doorframe.

The door swings open and a smiling Bree hands me a cup of coffee. Her dark hair is pulled up into a messy bun, and her glasses are sitting on the bridge of her nose, causing a slight red indent creasing it. Her eyes are bloodshot; she must have been up studying all night for her college exams. I met Bree when I moved in. She locked herself outside her apartment, so I offered for her to stay at my place until the landlord called her back. I found she was going to school for nursing, taking online classes, and evening classes when she could afford the tuition. I gave her tips for studying, and advice on the exams she’d be taking. Next thing I knew, she was over every other day, asking questions she couldn’t figure out on her homework, and on breaks, she’d play with Addie.

“I saw the news. I figured they would call you in,” she says, pointing over her shoulder to a reporter on the TV.

“More like calling me to the scene. I’m guessing it’s pretty bad. I need to get there quickly. Can you get Addie up and take her to school?” I ask, taking a sip of the coffee.

“Sure thing,” she says, closing the door behind her, following me to my apartment.

***

Driving to the scene of the accident, I can tell it’s going to be total chaos. There are fire trucks flying past me, and ambulances every which way, and miles ahead, smoke is rising above. I mentally prepare myself for the carnage that will take place as I pull onto the shoulder, passing the stopped traffic. I get as close as I can to the scene and park. Getting out, I pull my supply bag from the back seat. I reach in and grab my gloves, placing them on my hands for protection. It’s then that I hear it. The distraught screaming from the wounded; doctors yelling orders, and sirens from emergency vehicles sounding in the background. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and head toward it all.

When I round the yellow tape surrounding the large scene, my heart stops. There are cars turned over with mangled bodies hanging halfway out. Trucks are piled on top of trucks with blood staining the pavement.

I look down at my bag and realize I need more supplies, a lot more. I turn on the heel of my foot and all but sprint back to my Jeep. I dig in the glove box and find more gauze and antibacterial wipes. I grab anything I can find, including pens. They can be a great tool when you are left with nothing else. I throw it all in my bag and jog back to the scene as quickly as I can. I’m suddenly pulled back by dainty little fingers just feet from the yellow tape, causing me to nearly trip on debris scattering the ground.

“Ma’am, can you tell us what you are seeing on the other side of the wrecked cars? How many injuries do you suspect? How many fatalities? Can you tell us anything?” a reporter quizzes frantically, waving a camera in my face. I turn trying to hide my face, not wanting the exposure.

“Dr. Wren, over here!” Is yelled at me from the other side of the tape. I yank my arm free from the reporter and make my way toward Doctor Meldon who is standing above someone trapped under a car. Doctor Shane Meldon recently transferred from a hospital in New York. We seem to be on the same shift together often. He is all right, but is persistent in asking me out on a date. I just tell him I don’t date those who I work with. But in all honesty, he has Stage Five Clinger written all over him.