Breathing Her (Possession & Devotion #1)

Chapter 1

Liv

Today has been long, too long. Not only did we end up losing a gunshot patient in transport but we were only five minutes out when his pressure tanked.

He was about the same age as Scott, my rig partner.

I know he had a hard time with that fact, even if he didn’t let it show.

He’s good at his job, immediately grabbing the Reeves stretcher while I got pressure on the wound.

But it showed in his eyes, that despair that aches in all EMTs when a patient is a victim of violence and it hits too close to home for any reason.

We did everything right, but sometimes it doesn’t matter.

We got him transported then had to immediately turn around to get to a child in anaphylactic shock after being purposefully exposed to a severe allergen by a so-called “friend” at school. Dispatch said the teacher’s voice was shaking so badly that she could barely be understood.

I never like it when we have to pull the rig up outside a school, nor when I have to start a nor-epi drip on a kid, but it’s even worse for a call like that.

All for a damn peanut butter cookie. I don’t think kids used to be this terrible when I was young.

Or maybe that’s just what I tell myself to feel a bit better about my own childhood.

We’d gotten the epi in fast, then oxygen and stabilized enough for transport, continuing to monitor his airway while the principal called his mom as we ran out the door.

At least the rain let up for my walk home from the station. Only living three blocks from work and also within walking distance of a fairly respectable small grocery store means I get to save money on a car. Anywhere else I need to go, I just call a cab.

Though it does kind of suck when it’s raining. Thank you to whoever invented raincoats.

I make the turn onto my block and am immediately struck by how quiet it is. I mean, it’s not normally that noisy around here, but this is exemplary. There isn’t a soul around, except…

Who’s sitting in that car across the street from my apartment building’s front door? A plain black sedan far enough from streetlights that I can’t tell the make or model. But there’s definitely someone sitting in the driver’s seat.

He isn’t looking at the apartment building; it looks like he’s watching the abandoned warehouse down the street.

Still, must just be someone waiting to pick up somebody from my apartment building. I think most people in the building do the same thing as I do by avoiding having a car since our building manager charges an arm and a leg for a parking spot in the underground lot.

And I doubt he’d be waiting for anyone inside the office building he’s parked in front of. That place has been empty since the neighborhood became a little too well known for drug deals.

I avert my eyes from the car as I get to the front stairs of my building, trudging my way up them while taking a mental note of the mace spray in my jacket pocket and the keys sticking through my fingers in the other while pulling the door open.

Just in case.

I don’t relax until the elevator door closes as it starts its climb upwards.

Only then do I loosen my hand from the way it’s been clutching my keys, relaxing my fingers enough to single out the key to my apartment door.

When the elevator dings and the doors slide open again, I don’t take my time getting to my door.

While I’m not exactly afraid of my neighborhood, I’m fully aware of the stigma around it.

It was never the safest place in the city, or even close to it, when I moved in.

But the rent was cheap and given my long shifts, I’m not home too much anyway.

Why waste so much extra money each month on an apartment in a safer neighborhood when I wouldn’t even be here more often because of the safety?

Though it has worsened since I moved in two years ago… It doesn’t change my mind on the place though.

As soon as I get my apartment door locked behind me and the door chain slid into the lock, I hear him.

Pip, my light orange cat, hops around my feet, hollering for food as his front half bounces while he moves.

My sweet little boy was rescued when he was about six months old.

He was a stray, attacked by an animal in the street and found at the mouth of an alleyway on Pippens Street, inspiring his name.

His front left leg was badly damaged, mostly gone.

The vet wasn’t able to save his leg, opting to amputate it, but looking at how well he’s learned to move without it shows how great he is at adapting.

I just have to keep the apartment tri-pod safe. Since he has both back legs, he can jump up high perfectly fine. But jumping down puts more pressure on his remaining front leg. So most high surfaces have improvised cat stairs so he can safely climb back down.

I kick off my shoes and head straight for the kitchen, topping off his bowl of kibble. It had plenty in it still, but he’s bossy. Checking his water bowl and topping that off as well, I head for the bathroom while he eats.

Turning on the shower, I let the steam start filling the small room as I strip off my uniform. The fabric falls silently into the nearly full laundry bin in the corner. Good thing I have tomorrow off because I’ll need to spend it at the laundromat down the street.

I step in, fighting with the sliding glass door to close.

It’s a flimsy door on an old tract that’s given me trouble since I moved in.

The building manager mentioned it being replaced before I moved in but after a few months in the building and the three weeks it took for the maintenance guys to fix my stove when it went out, I came to realize that this is the kind of apartment building that doesn’t get non-detrimental repairs done.

At least I don’t have a shower curtain sticking to my legs. I always hated that, the sensory nightmare of it while just trying to wash my damn hair.

The hot water falls over my shoulders, barely doing anything to relax the tightened muscles there. It soothes my back though at least as it falls down me.

Along with the low rent, water being included was a huge selling point for me on this apartment. I sacrificed a modicum of safety for the ability to take long ass showers whenever I want.

Standing in the shower with the hot water at full blast for an hour straight is absolutely worth it.

And while the shower door sucks, this shower head and the water pressure are sent from heaven.

The spray hits the back of my neck harder when I tip my head forward, the heat drilling into the muscle that I think has been knotted since hour six of my shift.

I brace one hand against the shower wall, head hanging for a second as the water beats down over me.

I hate the days when I’m still cleaning up the back of the rig from one call while Scott drives code three to the next call.

It’s just too much sometimes, when we’re so overworked that we can’t take a moment to settle after the kind of call that leaves the gurney, floor, and tools covered in blood.

I stay under the spray longer than I should, letting time blur as my fingers prune.

With a reluctant sigh, I finally get to actually washing the day away, starting with my hair.

By the time I step out of the shower, after another brief and irritating fight with the track, my skin is flushed pink all over.

But it feels good; it feels warm. The plush teal mat catches the dripping water from my hair while I reach for a towel and wrap it around myself.

Steam curls along the ceiling, fogging the mirror completely.

I swipe a hand over it, clearing it and then just… stand there.

The reflection staring back at me looks far more tired than it did the last time I looked at it. But I’m not ready to accept what that means yet.

“Food,” I murmur to my own reflection. “You need food.”

I dry off enough to not drip everywhere and pull on an oversized college t-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts. Then I twirl my brown locks in the towel and prop it on top of my head before heading to the kitchen.

Pip has finished eating and retreated to his favorite spot, the back of the couch, for a post-dinner nap. He doesn’t even stir as I walk past to the kitchen.

The clock above the stove tells me I was in the shower a lot longer than intended. No surprise there.

I pad into the kitchen, open the fridge, and pull out the only food in there: leftovers.

At least they’re good leftovers, the last of my honey barbeque chicken with mac and cheese.

Really the only thing of note is the chicken because I was going to like the mac and cheese no matter what.

Boxed mac and cheese, despite being a bit basic, is my favorite food.

Nothing else has ever beat it. It was the first food I learned how to make on my own and it still holds a sentimental value because of that.

I pop the lid off the container and stick it in the microwave, hammering the “Add 30 secs” button repeatedly rather than actually inputting a time and pressing “Start”.

I grab a fork from the silverware drawer then pull the ice cube tray from the freezer heading to the cabinet next to the sink to grab a glass.

That’s when it happens.

At first, it’s just a sound, sharp and cracking through the silence. My brain doesn’t register it right away, still sluggish from exhaustion. But then it comes again and again.

Finally, my brain catches up. Gunshots.

Gun fire erupts outside, shattering my quiet evening and startling me so badly that I drop the ice cube tray into the sink with a sudden yelp. More gun shots follow it sounding like they’re coming from a different part of the street… Like an exchange of shots.

“Shit.” Oh, come on. I know my neighborhood is bad, but this is a bit much.

I drop low, instinctively, heart kicking into overdrive as adrenaline floods my system, burning away the lingering fatigue.