Page 2 of Vegas Baby
“What’ve we got?” he asks, sounding as tired as I feel at the end of a long workday.
“A 17-D-3 at The Mirage.” I pull smoothly out of The Tower Resort and Casino driveway where we’d just finished tending to an old lady who fainted with shock when she’d won seventeen million dollars on a Megabucks slot machine. I chuckle as I remember how she woke up and immediately started whooping and dancing around. Obviously, she’ll be fine.
Now back on the Strip, even with the lights and sirens blaring, unsurprisingly barely anyone pulls over.
“Twenty minutes left on shift, and we couldn’t catch a break,” Ty grumbles as I nudge up behind a seemingly clueless pickup truck.
I shoot him a smirk for voicing my exact thought. But then, this is how it goes almost every shift, so I’m not sure why either of us are surprised.
“That’s Vegas, baby,” I joke.
He rolls his eyes in response, and I chuckle as I focus on navigating us the short distance to our destination.
As per usual, I pull up to the valet entrance of the hotel and a porter is waiting. Ty hops out while I shut down, grabbing the trauma board and scoop stretcher. As soon as I join him, he tosses me the jump bag. Without a word, the porter jogs in and we follow, through the atrium and across the casino floor to the theater.
As we enter, I can see people on stage, talking in urgent voices around a fabric-covered heap on the floor. A woman and two men are crouched around the prone figure.
“We got a call for an unconscious fall victim,” Ty says, setting his board down.
The woman and one of the men, both in black leotards, nod bleakly. The other man rises and takes a step back, looking grim.
“We were practicing for tonight’s show,” the man in the leotard offers, running a hand agitatedly through his short, blond hair. “We’ve done this hundreds of times. I don’t know what went wrong.”
I kneel, letting the bag rest on the floor beside me.
“What’s your name?” I ask the male performer.
He swallows hard. “Michael. Michael Long.”
“Don’t worry, we’re going to take good care of her, Michael. How long has she been unconscious?” I ask, pulling gently at the layers of silk over her, obscuring all but slivers of her here and there.
“Maybe eight or ten minutes?” the woman offers, shaking her head. “I don’t know exactly.”
“Did anyone move her?” Ty pipes up, pulling out his scissors when he realizes the fabric is wrapped around her and will need to be cut away for us to assess her condition.
“No,” Michael responds. “Jeanie only pulled the ribbons off her mouth to make sure she was breathing.”
I grimace as the shears rip through the iridescent fabric. “How far did she fall?”
“I mean, the controlled fall is only about fifteen feet,” the woman — Jeanie, presumably — responds. “But she didn’t stop like she was supposed to at the end and was still ten feet off the ground. But she —” she chokes on her words a bit “— she landed almost directly on her head.”
Michael grimaces. My eyes flick up to the guy behind him.
“I’m the stage manager,” he explains, handing Ty a business card. I try not to roll my eyes. “I had everyone else leave the theater to avoid a scene.”
I refrain from responding, not because his tone makes me want to call him out for caring more about legalities and appearances than one of his performers, but because Ty is done cutting her out of the silks.
“Still unconscious,” Ty confirms.
I grab a cervical collar and immobilizer from the bag as Ty prepares the scoop stretcher.
I look at her fully then, noting her dark hair half out of its binding and strewn around her, her lips parted. A slight crease appears between her brows, and I get a feeling I can’t explain, like something in the room shifts, except nobody has moved.
“I think she may be coming to,” I tell Ty.
He gives me a questioning look but doesn’t get to say anything before a small, feminine groan slips out of our patient’s mouth and her dark lashes flutter on her full, high cheeks.
Ty raises an eyebrow. “Well, how about that.”