Consumed (Firefighters #1)(57)

“Fine. I’ll go with you,” she snapped.

“See.” He started to smile. “So easy. Now get in my truck. We’re going to Timeout to find Josefina.”

Anne was talking to herself as she went around and got in. As her feet squished in her soaked running shoes and a trickle of water snuck passed the open collar of her Patagonia jacket, she was cursing him.

Sending Danny a glare, she didn’t care that she was getting his truck cab all wet. Then again, he didn’t seem to care, either.

“I could just be lying,” she said. “About going to Moose’s.”

As he started the engine, he looked over at her. “You aren’t. You don’t do things like that, and you never flake on something you promise. So are we bringing red or white wine as a hostess-warming gift?”





chapter




25



“So how’s work going?”

As Danny spoke up, Anne was not in the mood as she sat beside him in his truck. The inside smelled like his aftershave and the remnants of his Marlboros, and she resented the fact that she enjoyed it in her nose.

“You really want to pretend this is social?” she muttered.

“Oh, no. By all means, let’s talk about Chavez trying to commit suicide.”

She looked out her side window and could see little through the sheets of rain. “How about we don’t say anything.”

“Nah. And fine, I’ll start. I went to see a shrink today.”

She whipped her head around so fast, she didn’t have time to hide the reaction. “You did? How’d it go?”

And so help her God, if he played another round of tit-for-tat, she was going to punch him somewhere that was going to show. Although, on that theory, that black eye of his hadn’t faded yet, so at least one piece of prime real estate was already taken.

“You mind if I light up? I’ll crack a window.”

“You shouldn’t need the crutch.”

“Fine, I’ll wait until we’re parked.”

“Just open a damn window. And I hope you get wet.”

“Er.”

“What?”

“Wet-er. I am already wet.”

After he let in the fresh, cold air, he turned on the heater, and the warmth blowing on her feet felt good. And he waited until they hit a red light before getting his cigarette on, his exhale aimed away from her to the opening.

“I tried to get out of the appointment.” He glanced over. “This should not be a surprise.”

“It isn’t.”

“She was smarter than I thought she’d be. I’m not going to get cleared, of course, which proves she’s a real professional.”

Anne was aware of a piercing disappointment. But come on, like she’d really expected him to sit on a couch for fifty minutes and undergo some existential transformation for a hundred and fifty bucks? There were no easy fixes in life. Especially not after the kinds of things he’d been through.

“I expected more of a response from you,” he said.

“I’m glad you went.”

“Can I ask you something?” He looked across the seat. “And I’m serious about this.”

She rearranged herself into exactly the same position. Then pulled her seat belt away from her chest and brought it back in. “Okay.”

“When you were in the rehab hospital, you had to see a shrink, right?”

“It was part of my treatment, sure.” She frowned. “Didn’t you have to see one?”

“I was supposed to, but—”

“You got out of it.”

“—I got out of it.”

“Of course you did.” Anne shook her head. “And?

“Did they help you?”

Anne thought back to the three awkward meetings she’d had with a well-meaning, tender-hearted, twenty-four-year-old who’d been fresh out of a master’s program and wholly unequipped to deal with anything outside of theory. Anne had answered the questions posed to her with honesty, but she couldn’t really say she’d gotten anything out of the chat. Maybe it had been the pain meds. Maybe her mood. Maybe it was the therapist’s inexperience.

“Well?” Danny glanced over. “What happened?”

“I don’t know how to answer that.”

“So wasn’t helpful.” He frowned. “So what was? Seriously, Anne, how did you pull yourself back up to normal?”

His expression was so intense, she knew he was dead serious, and that earnest searching was a surprise that opened her up.

“It wasn’t the therapist at the hospital. Not that she wasn’t well intended . . . we just didn’t connect, I guess.” She focused on her prosthesis as it sat on her thigh, a sculpture of what had been lost. “They can be helpful, though.”

“You’re saying that because you don’t want me not to keep going.”

“Yup.”

“So again, what was it for you?”

Anne turned the prosthesis over and looked at her “palm.” Then she pulled up the sleeve of her windbreaker and followed the carbon fiber length that plugged into what was left of her lower arm.

“I got an infection,” she heard herself say. “It was about a week after I got out of the hospital. I’ll never forget waking up in my bed and feeling this terrible fatigue, like I was coming down with the flu. The end of my stump didn’t hurt—well, that’s not true. I had phantom pain, and I assumed that any discomfort was all part of the damaged-nerve thing. So I just kept going, but then I popped a fever, and when they did a wound check, they found the beginnings of the infection. My skin was so red, it was like it was made of blood. Things went downhill fast. They took samples to target the antibiotic, put me on broad spectrums at first, then they ratcheted it up. It was a race and we did not win for a while. I developed these bright red lymphangitis streaks, and shortly after that, I went septic. I just crashed. That was when I was readmitted.”