Page 92 of Her Unending Horizon

A knock.

Knuckles against wood.

Firm.

Then again.

A little louder.

And again.

“Open up, baby girl.”

I wiped my face with the back of my hand.

Then I stood.

And I unlocked the door.

Chapter Twenty

Fletcher pulled the rig up in front of my house instead of the station, and that right there told me how much he loved me.

Because it was absolutely against the rules.

I stepped off the porch and jogged—well, limped—down the walk, gear bag thumping against my leg. The cool morning air bit at the bruises under my shirt.

Fletcher leaned over and popped the passenger door from the inside. The second I hauled myself up into the seat and shut the door, his head snapped toward me.

“Jesus Christ, Post,” he said. “Holbrook would have your ass mounted on his office wall if he could see you right now.”

“Good morning to you, too,” I muttered, buckling in.

He didn’t laugh. His gaze swept my face—bruise on my cheekbone, faint split at my lip—then dropped to the way I was favoring one side.

“Don’t you dare tell me you’re ‘just sore from the gym,’” he said. “You’re still fighting. Tell me you’re not really this stupid.”

I exhaled slowly. The urge to lie rose up automatically.

“I’m not doing it to beat myself up anymore,” I said instead. “Metaphorically or otherwise.”

“Bullshit,” he said flatly. “You might not be doing it for that, but that’s what’s happening.”

I stared straight ahead at my own quiet street. “You starting this rig, or what?” I asked. “Because we’ve already broken one rule. No sense half-assing it.”

He blew out a breath, scrubbed a hand over his face, then put the rig in gear.

“I’m telling you right now,” he said, pulling away from the curb, “if you hesitate at any point tonight—if you can’t do your job—you’re done. I will call Holbrook myself and have you pulled. As it is, you’re driving when we have a passenger. You keep it between the lines and don’t pass out at the wheel, we’re square.”

“Copy that,” I said quietly.

My ribs throbbed with every bump. The fight had been last night and my body still felt like I’d gone a few rounds with a truck. But I’d done the self-checks. Range of motion, pain scale, ability to lift, carry, climb. I could work. So, I would.

Dispatch crackled over the radio as we cleared town limits.

“Unit Two, respond to 132 Maple. Possible cardiac. Seventy-eight-year-old male, chest pain, difficulty breathing. Caller on scene.”

Fletcher grabbed the mic. “Unit Two responding,” he said. He glanced at me. “You good to drive code if we need it?”