Chapter 73
Tristan
Sir,” Captain Hyun says firmly, glaring at Fire Chief Shaw. “I need my paramedics.”
The Fire Chief looks like he wants to argue, but even he knows better than to stop two paramedics from going to a medical call.
“This conversation isn’t over,” he says darkly.
I release a breath. My heart is pounding. I’m just thankful that we have some more time to figure out how to respond. I can’t believe Shaw wants to transfer Nick.
“It’s over,” Hyun says, glaring at Shaw. Then she turns to us. “Let’s go. We have a job to do.”
? ? ?
“This is absolute bullshit!” I seethe as Nick pilots the ambulance through the San Francisco streets. “Bull. Shit.”
Nick grips the steering wheel. “I mean, I agree.”
“We need to fight it,” I find myself saying.
Nick doesn’t say anything.
I turn to him. “What? Do you not want to fight it?”
Nick shrugs. “It might be easier, you know? If we’re at different stations. Then there’s no direct conflict of interest in our careers.”
“Shouldn’t I be the one to transfer, though? You’ve been here so much longer than me, and I’m just a probie.”
“That’s exactly it, though. You have to finish your probationary period. If you moved somewhere else, you might have to restart your training. We don’t want that.”
We.
I guess it’s fair of us to start thinking of ourselves as an us, a we. Even though I haven’t told him I love him, maybe he already knows. I want to say it now, but it doesn’t feel like the right time.
“It’s so unfair,” I mutter. “And wrong.”
I reach over and grip his knee. “We have to fight this.”
He sighs. “Okay. You’re right. We can talk to Captain Hyun about it. She made a good point. It was wrong of Shaw to have that conversation without HR present. I wonder if they even knew he was there, talking to us.”
“I’d put money on them not knowing. That shitstain.”
Nick snorts. Neither of us has anything to say about it after that.
We reach the Avant & Co building: six stories of marble and glass, a beautiful Art Deco office building that houses the famous perfumery Avant. The dispatch call informed us that, on the sixth floor of the building, a middle-aged man is experiencing the symptoms of a heart attack.
Captain Hyun leads the way into the gorgeous office building, with Nick and me close behind her, carrying our medical supplies. Behind us, Charlie and Vinnie carry the stretcher, and Mila carries a backup medical bag, just in case.
“SFFD!” Captain Hyun calls as we approach the reception desk in the building’s elegant, marble-coated lobby.
A stunning woman in a wine-red suit hurries over to us. Her blonde hair is in a sleek chignon, and she moves with a cool grace, despite clearly being anxious.
“Thank you for getting here so quickly,” she says in a subtle French accent. “I’m Mathilde, Mr. Boucher’s assistant.”
She leads us to a service elevator, presses the button for the fifth floor, and explains in quick, clipped words what happened: Mr. Boucher, the current president of marketing, was in a meeting for a potential brand collaboration with a bespoke handbag brand (this is information we don’t need, but I’m undeniably curious, because who doesn’t love a bit of gossip about the hot luxury brands?), when he suddenly clutched his chest and started to complain about a shooting pain in his heart.
The elevator dings open, revealing a slice of office space that looks more like a chic apartment.
“How old is Mr. Boucher?” I ask as we march through the office, following Mathilde.
“Fifty-four.”
“You’re his assistant, right?” Nick says. “Any known medical issues? Does he take any medication?”
Mathilde stammers something awkwardly as we approach a conference room.
“Miss,” Captain Hyun says. “You have to tell us.”
“He was taking something for impotence,” Mathilde whispers.
“Got it,” Nick says.
We enter the conference room. Several people in business clothes are still in there, looking pale and frightened.
A man—Mr. Boucher, no doubt—is sprawled on his back on the polished floors, and a younger man, college age, probably an intern, kneels over him, monitoring his pulse.
“Clear some room,” Captain Hyun says. People back up, giving us space to work.
I kneel across from the intern.
“Mr. Boucher?” I say. “Can you hear me?”
To my surprise, he opens his eyes and glares at me.
“Yes, I can hear you,” he snaps. “What do you think I am, deaf?”
I blink.
“Sir,” Nick says tactfully, taking over for me. “Can you describe your symptoms, please?”
“Excruciating,” Mr. Boucher says.
Unlike Mathilde, and despite his French-sounding name, he doesn’t have a French accent. The way he’s dressed and the way he’s styled his hair both seem like an attempt to make up for the lack of an accent.
“Debilitating,” he snaps. “Like this idiot here is sitting on my chest.”
The intern flinches. “I wasn’t sitting on your chest, I was just trying to do chest compressions.”
“Did I ask you to do chest compressions, Claude?” Boucher growls.
“It’s Callum,” the intern whispers.
“Oh, my heart!” Boucher wails, grabbing at his chest.
“Sir,” Nick says firmly. “Please remain calm. We will make sure you’re okay.”
“Is there pain anywhere else?” I ask.
Boucher’s glare possesses the heat of a thousand suns, the fury of a thousand scorned lovers. “Yes. Everywhere it normally hurts when you have a heart attack?”
Nick and I share a glance.
I don’t want to make any assumptions, especially negative ones, about someone I’m treating, but I am about 90% sure Mr. Boucher isn’t having a heart attack.
Nick’s dubious expression tells me that he’s probably on the same page as me.
“Can you describe the symptoms?” Nick asks.
“Isn’t that your job?” Boucher barks.
We check his vital signs—blood pressure is slightly elevated, but not to concerning levels.
He is perfectly conscious, extremely vocal, and breathing fine, if a little rapidly.
We do a 12-lead ECG, and all of his readings are within normal limits.
We monitor his pain, and though he claims it is bad, it varies based on how we position him on the ground.
And he obviously has no idea what the symptoms of a heart attack are.
“Listen to me, Mr. Boucher,” Nick says calmly. “I need you to try to slow your breathing down. Can you do that for me?”
Boucher glares at him. “I’m having a motherfucking heart attack, and you want me to breathe?”
“I’m not sure you are having a heart attack, sir,” Nick hedges. “Of course, we won’t rule it out until we get you to the hospital, but I think we can ease some of your symptoms.”
Boucher doesn’t stop glaring, but he does take some deep breaths.
“I really think I’m dying,” he says between breaths.
“We’ll get you to the hospital,” I say, “and they can determine that for you.”
“Charlie, Vinnie?” Nick says. “Get the board.”
We stabilize Boucher’s neck and lift him onto the stretcher. He complains the entire time, arguing that he’s going to die, that he is having a heart attack, that this is medical malpractice, that he’s going to sue.
At this point, I’m almost 100% sure whatever he’s experiencing is just stress-related, but I’m not about to say that to him. We’ll give him some Aspirin and oxygen in the ambulance, and that’ll probably make him feel better, if nothing else.
“Let’s get him to the medic unit,” Nick says.
We hoist him up and carry him between us, following Mathilde back to the service elevator.
Right as the doors open, Nick says, “Wait, shit, I left my bag in the conference room.”
“I got him,” Vinnie says, taking Nick’s end of the stretcher.
Nick nods. “Thanks. I’ll meet you guys downstairs.”
He hurries back to the conference room.
“I’ll wait with him,” Captain Hyun says.
The rest of us get into the service elevator with Mathilde and ride down in silence, except for Mr. Boucher’s dramatic moaning.
I’m tempted to give him a tranquilizer of some sort just to shut him up, but that would really be medical malpractice.
“Thank you,” Mathilde murmurs to me. “I know he can be a bit of a handful.”
“What was that?” Boucher moans.
“Nothing, sir,” Mathilde says brightly.
She rolls her eyes at me, and I suppress a smile.
“I don’t mind,” I whisper back. “I’m trained to handle stuff like this, and I only deal with it for the time it takes to get him to the hospital. You have to deal with it all day, every day.”
She nods, eyes wide. “But it’s worth it for the pay. And I’m just hoping for a promotion soon.”
“Why is it taking so long?” Boucher wails.
“We’re almost there!” Mathilde snaps, briefly losing her cool. “It’s an elevator. I can’t control how fast it goes!”
Boucher mutters something unintelligible as the doors slide open with a ding.
Vinnie and I roll him through the lobby, out the doors, to the waiting ambulance. We lift him into the back of the medic unit, and I hop inside after him.
“We’re gonna take good care of you, Mr. Boucher,” I say. “And we’ll get you to the hospital, where they can make sure everything is okay.”
“Everything is not okay,” Boucher says as Vinnie, Mila, and Charlie head back to the truck.
“We’ll wait for Cap, and then we’ll meet you back at the station!” they call.
“Why aren’t we driving yet?” Boucher growls.
“Because,” I say, as patiently as I can, “We’re waiting for my partner to get outside.”
“I’m going to die here because you’re making me wait.”
“I sincerely hope that doesn’t happen, sir.”
My focus is on making sure Boucher is calm and okay. As a paramedic, I can’t definitively rule out a heart attack. That’s for a doctor to say. But I can treat this like what it is: low-risk, and probably a case of anxiety, stress, or something else not life-threatening.
“How about an Aspirin?” I suggest to Boucher.
“Are you fucking kidding me? My heart is exploding, and you want to give me an Aspirin?”
I take a deep breath. “Sir, all vital signs show—”
I can’t finish my thought because, suddenly, the entire ambulance starts to shake.