Page 16 of Call You Mine
“Report this to who?”
“Child Protective Services.”
CHAPTER 6
ANDERSON
“Why do you look like that?”Jack asks from across the table.
“Look like what?” I ask, but it comes out muffled from where my head rests in my hand. We’re at the station, on the last twelve hours of our twenty-four-hour shift, and it has felt like the longest shift of my entire two years here.
“Like I just told you Santa wasn’t real,” he retorts, and I want to throw my hand of cards at him.
I inhale before blowing the air through my mouth. “I fold,” I set my cards down on the table instead of letting them fly directly into Jack’s face.
Jack does the same, our two-person game of Texas Hold’em forgotten between us. “You’ve been down this entire shift.” It’s not a question, but I find myself getting defensive about the answer that comes to mind.
“Just tired.” I settle on.
And it’s true.
I don’t get the best sleep during these twenty-four-hour shifts—the bunks here at the station aren’t as comfortable as my bed at home, and it’s not like you can fall into a deep sleep when a call could come in at any second.
Today’s shift has been busy, mostly with medical calls, which make up the bulk of what we do. It’s easily three-quarters of the job, with that last quarter being actual fires.
So far, we’ve run a cardiac arrest at a nearby nursing home, treated injuries from a few-car pile-up on the highway, and helped a couple of cars that spun out from the snow that’s been coming down on and off for the last day or so. We responded to a downed power line that couldn’t hold up against the wind, and there was an elderly man who called when he couldn’t figure out how to turn off his smoke alarm.
In between the chaos, I haven’t been able to come down from the adrenaline of hearing the alarms sounding in the firehouse enough to nap—but even if I could, my thoughts of Ava spike my adrenaline more than all our calls put together.
She’s the reason for my mood—or maybe it’s the lack of her.
I’m exhausted from the mindfuck my brain is currently stalled in—the one that has me contemplating if and how I can reach out to Ava.
I can’t stop thinking about it.
Something about the way she and I left things at my house yesterday in the early morning hours—and then getting only snippets of what’s going on with her family makes me feel uneasy.
And then I feel stupid for even caring so much, considering the relationship between Ava and me barely even constitutes as friends.
We’re just two people who sleep together sometimes.
Or more accurately, two people who sleep together when Ava reaches out—and I welcome her with open arms, every time, like I’ve been waiting for the call.
Always at her fucking beck and call.
Those late-night hours, when she’s flushed and sated in my arms, when the world shrinks down to just the two of us and the quiet hum of the house, are addictive as hell.
And the worst part is the soft stuff—the few minutes she lets me hold her before sleep drags me under, when I’m fighting to stay awake—because I know the second I close my eyes, she’ll slip out the door and be gone.
That’s what has me saying yes whenever she asks to come over.
It’s what keeps me taking whatever pieces she offers. It’s what I’ve been doing for eight months now—settling for scraps and pretending they’re enough.
I don’t think I’m stopping anytime soon.
I don’t think I would even if I could.
“Rumi always says she’s ‘just tired’ when she’s upset and doesn’t know how to explain how she’s feeling.” Jack leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. Again, he didn’t ask a question, but he waits for my response as if he did.
