Carson Lane hesitated in the hallway, the rack of clean pint glasses growing heavy in his arms. Only a few strides separated him from the sea of humanity singing along and cheering the band blasting from the Escape Club stage. This persistent slip and slide of nerves through his gut was ridiculous. Not one person out there would notice him. The longer he stalled, the more attention he’d gain from the bartenders who needed the glassware.
His knee ached, and the muscles in his thigh burned as he struggled with the extra burden. He’d worked a full first shift today, substituting on a Philadelphia Fire Department ambulance, and though his body begged for a break, his mind wasn’t ready to rest. For more than eight months, only exhaustion brought him any peace. His current choices were clear: walk into the heart of the club or walk out and keep going. He had to choose, to do something, or he’d drop the glasses and have a bigger mess to clean up along with the unwelcome questions about his fitness.
Pivoting, he pushed through the swinging door with his shoulder and back. The path memorized, he averted his gaze from the faces in the crowd. People were oblivious to the risks and pain that could be the end of any one of them at any given moment. Official “managed” risks and protocols hadn’t kept his best friend and partner on the ambulance rig alive when they’d answered the call that would be her last.
Every day that he woke up and hauled himself out of bed, he wondered why it had been her and not him. So far, no one had ever given him a decent answer.
Unless faced with a crisis, people had a tendency to ignore the precious, fleeting nature of being alive. As a paramedic, he dealt with the frailties and miraculous resiliency of the human body through every shift. He’d loved his job, despite the occasional sad ending, right up to the shift that had changed everything with an irreversible finality.
William, the bartender working this end of the bar, made room for Carson to stock the clean glasses. “Just in time, man.”
With a nod, Carson completed the task of restocking, picked up the racks of dirty glassware and headed back to the relative quiet of the kitchen. Only an hour until the last set for the band and last call for drinks. He could make it. Had to make it.
In the back of his mind, he heard the echo of his partner’s voice urging him to get over his current mental roadblocks. “Mind over matter” is what she’d say about now, and shove his shoulder. “Gotta do the job.” Sarah Neely hadn’t been known for her tact among the PFD emergency medical personnel, only renowned for her competence and compassion with their patients.
Carson set up the next rack of dirty glassware and pushed it into the dishwasher. He decided she just wouldn’t understand how much of him had died along with her all those months ago. 254 days ago to be exact, and the terror and memories remained raw and painful. Perpetually caught at the edge of that nightmare, he scrubbed his hands on his apron, confused when his palms didn’t leave bloody trails on the white fabric.
“Carson!”
He wheeled around to find Grant Sullivan, owner of the Escape Club, leaning into the kitchen doorway. “Sir?”
“I need a word.” He tipped his head toward his office. “Come on back.”
“Sure thing.” Carson untied the apron and left it on a hook by the kitchen door, then followed Grant down the hall. The man’s stocky build and easygoing outlook belied his quickness and boundless energy. At his boss’s gesture, he eased into one of the two chairs facing the desk. The office was quiet, only the dull throb of the band’s bass carrying through the floors.
“How did things go today?” Grant’s brown eyes were bright with anticipation. “On your PFD shift, I mean.”
“Smooth and normal shift,” Carson replied, hoping his relief at the easy question wasn’t too obvious.
Grant nodded, his thick salt-and-pepper eyebrows dipping low with his frown. “And the knee is holding up?”
“Yes.” Carson forced a smile. “Feeling stronger every day.” It was a small fib. The bullet had passed through his thigh, just above his knee, causing all kinds of damage to muscles and connective tissue along the way. He’d resumed walking three weeks after the surgery, but the pain had leveled out around week eight. Contrary to the physical therapy consensus, the motions never got easier. Mind over matter, he thought, as Sarah’s face flashed through his mind.
“I got a call from Evelyn today. She says she’d like to get you back on the schedule full-time.”
“She said as much to me,” Carson admitted, more than a little surprised his PFD supervisor had spoken with Grant. As a former cop, Grant’s connections with first responders in the city went deep, but it still seemed like a stretch.
“So, why do you keep hanging around here?”
Carson fidgeted in his chair, well aware Grant understood the complexities of recovering from bullet wounds. The blow to his confidence in his skills and his faith in the human condition were more significant obstacles than the aggravating pain lingering in his knee.
Grant had lived through the pressures and challenges of life in public service. Forced to take early retirement because of an on-duty shooting, he’d survived the upheaval of a recovery and a significant career change from cop to club owner. His compassion for others in similar circumstances had prompted him to open the Escape Club. His determination to assist those who helped the community was the reason more than half his employees at any given time were like Carson, men and women waiting with varying degrees of patience for reinstatement to their positions.
Except Carson wasn’t sure he could go back to the job. Going back full-time meant a steady partner, a professional commitment and a mutual trust he wasn’t ready to tackle. The idea of forging that connection with someone new terrified him.
He and Sarah had been an effective team. They’d learned to read each other, often without saying a word. Yet when she’d needed him most, bleeding out in his arms, he’d let her down. He still had nightmares of her valiant effort get out those last words. Words he’d never been able to decipher, though his frequent nightmares gave him too many second chances to do just that.
He scrubbed at the stubble on his jaw. What if it happened again and another call ended in gunshot wounds? Would he be able to live with himself if he failed another partner?
“Carson?” Grant prompted.
“I stay because I like the music here,” he replied.
Grant gave a bark of laughter, drumming his fingers on the desk. “Come on. You can give me a better reason than that.”
“Are you tossing me out?” Carson swallowed the lump in his throat. He would deal with it if he had to, but he hoped he hadn’t worn out his welcome. Money wasn’t an issue thanks to his substitute shifts as a paramedic and his occasional work with a construction crew, but shifts here filled a great many empty hours in his daily routine.
“Not tossing you anywhere. I like having you here.” Grant’s brown eyes turned serious as he leaned forward. “You’ve spoken with the department chaplain about the incident and your recovery, right?”
“Several times,” Carson said. Hell, several times last month. Although the counseling sessions helped, they didn’t keep the dread at bay for long. Nothing did. Not physical therapy, not a successful shift as a substitute on the rig. Not a beer with friends, not holiday dinners with family, not a house that was too damned big. In short, he was floundering. If the people around him were worried, he knew they had good reason. Hell,