Page 26 of Older
A thought struck me.
Reed kind of looked like him but with green eyes and shorter hair.
Heat fizzed inside my chest, a feeling I had to snuff out before it sparked, ignited, and burned me alive. It was stupid to still be thinking about him. He was twice my age and probably had a horde of beautiful, worldly women at his disposal.
Ladybug dashed from the room then, and I straightened from the floor, peering at my image in Tara’s photograph-lined mirror. Polaroids and magazine clippings had been taped to the oblong frame, my favorite one being a picture of us together last summer as we sucked on cherry Blow Pops while leaning against her seafoam-green Saturn.
My eyes were closed with a frozen-in-time moment of contentment and her head was tipped to my shoulder while we smiled for her mom’s camera.
I had felt like I belonged.
It was one of my favorite blips.
Skimming my fingers through my blow-dried hair, I grinned when Ladybug came bounding back into the room, her butt shimmying, a prize clutched firmly between her teeth.
But that smile buckled when my attention locked on the object she was holding.
“Um…what’s that?” My voice shook as I pointed to the item in her mouth.
Tara leaped off the bed. “No, Ladybug! That’s not a dog toy.” She raced over to the pup as Ladybug’s tail wagged, happy and oblivious. “My dad gave me that for Christmas, you mangey mutt.”
Christmas.
Dad.
Tara’s dad.
I blinked half a dozen times, stitching the pieces together. Wondering if I was imagining things. “What’s your dad’s name?”
Tara struggled to pry the item away, but Ladybug held firm as she dodged her flailing hands. “Reed.” She sighed, shaking her head and swiping her palms down her blue jeans. “Gross. Now I’m covered in dog slime.”
An imaginary rug was yanked out from underneath my feet.
I smothered the choking sound with one hand and turned to face the wall, my heart shattering to smithereens.
There, hanging from the dog’s mouth…was Bones.
CHAPTER 5
“Again.” Two fists came flying at me, and I smoothly sidestepped the attack, feeling the onrush of air as they missed their mark. I signaled for the eighteen-year-old boy in front of me to keep the momentum going. “Circles, Scotty. Stay light on your feet.”
The studio was my sanctuary, a haven where the echo of footsteps against blue mats reverberated with fire. While my career had been rooted in the medical field at first, being a paramedic had come with a front-row seat to the horrors of humanity.
I’d seen a lot of shit.
I’d experienced a lot of shit.
When I was in my twenties, I’d signed up for self-defense classes and worked my ass off to obtain a black belt in both Taekwondo and jiu-jitsu, mostly to help me cope with a violent attack I’d suffered in my late teens that had left me with a near-fatal stab wound. As the years pressed on, the desire to help fellow victims find their strength and to shed their self-limiting beliefs had only amplified.
My job tending to medical emergencies had triggered something deeper in me—a passion for tending to the wounds that lingered long after the sirens had faded.
The dual roles had intertwined seamlessly for a while, until the passion took over, becoming my full-time career. My calling. I knew that trauma didn’t disappear once the physical injuries had healed, and that notion had fueled my commitment to pursuing this new profession.
Standing in my breathable performance tank and dark athletic pants, I assessed Scotty’s form. Mirrors along the wall behind me reflected the look in his eyes, a flicker of uncertainty fusing with fierce resolve. I threw a controlled jab, a test to gauge his reflexes, and Scotty responded with a crisp block. He was learning to read his opponent, to anticipate the next move.
“Keep that guard up,” I encouraged, guiding him through a series of kicks and strikes. The scent of effort-fueled sweat filled the room, blending with the muted thuds of limbs making contact.
I was in the zone; my happy place.