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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Jay
Simmi’s chest rises and falls like the tides of the ocean. The soft moonlight peers through the split in the blinds and I’m jealous it also gets to stroke her soft, silky skin. It washes over her exposed breasts and down her torso, draping itself over her curvy thighs, ending its journey just before it reaches her toes. She has dainty feet and toes painted in a luminous pink, which highlights the olive of her skin. I wasn’t joking when I’d said she’d bewitched me.
I’ve never felt this before. The urge to not let go. This desire to return for more because my appetite has only grown. This… warmth, a feeling of this is where I, no, we, belong. Simmi is ten years younger than me, yet she has awakened a beast I didn’t realize resided inside of me.
In my old life, I enjoyed what could be considered a moderate sex life. But it was always the same. Missionary position was the only style Cheryl was willing to practice. Sure, I’d tried to experiment once or twice, but my ex had never been comfortable with anything else besides lying on her back.
I run a finger down the length of Simmi’s spine and a soft murmur escapes her causing my dick to harden again. I shift my body and am about to wrap myself around her lowering my head to request my consent for a third round when a myriad of buzzing and screeching ringtones explode, destroying our bliss.
“Shit!”
Simmi sits bolt upright, almost knocking me out.
We look to one another then scramble to find our devices. Mine is still in the pocket of my work pants laying on the floor at her bedroom’s entrance.
“Doctor Hill.”
“Nurse Parker.”
We answer simultaneously.
“It’s Rhett Carmichael. We’re at the Simpsons’ farm. There’s been a fire. We’ve called in the RACQ chopper but they’re on another emergency.”
Rhett words blurt out like he’s out of breath.
“We’re on our way,” I reply and hop off the bed.
“We’ll go in my car, it’s stocked,” I say to Simmi when she finishes her call. “Get dressed.”
Simmi, who already had on a pair of jeans and trainers, nods. In no time we’re both sprinting toward my four-by-four. It’s dark, with a light sprinkle of cloud covering the blinking stars above.
“Did Rhett say anything about who was injured? I couldn’t get much out of Bruce.” Simmi pulls her seat belt across her chest.
“No. But it sounds serious. Call Mark and see if Cindy’s up to it. Tell them to stand by at the clinic and then see if Meryl can come in, too. I have a suspicion we’ll need all hands-on deck.”
Throwing the car in reverse, I slam my foot on the gas, then skidding to a halt, I pop it into gear and take off. I wince inwardly when the tyres kick up dirt and gravel as we speed out the holiday village and hit the tarred main road.
“I wonder if it’s the firebug?” Simmi thumbs click away on her screen. She brings the phone to her ear. “Hi Mark?”
Fuck! I hope not. We all prayed the last we’d seen of the arsonist was in December when the fires nearly destroyed the town and most of the farmers’ land. The police were still investigating, but the arsonist was good and had left no trace of who he or she could be. The town has relaxed and was rebuilding. Probably just what fucker hoped for, the bastard.
A foggy thought jumps to the forefront of my mine. I shake my head. I’m grasping at straws. She’s too small, timid, and her father too strict.
“Have you organized to see Alisha this Wednesday when Mickey goes for his tests?” I glance at Simmi, who gives me a bewildered look.
“Sort of. I think she knows I can see somethings up and has been feeding me excuses, why?”
I grip the wheel and will my car to move faster. “Nothing. You get hold of the others?”
“Mark and Cindy will prep the clinic. Meryl will try to bring in another chopper as soon as we know how many are injured and how serious their conditions are,” Simmi said.
***
The Simpsons have several farm workers, some of whom are backpackers from overseas. It’s clear the firebug has discovered a whole new sense of wicked. According to Rhett, someone jammed the door from the outside of their living quarters–a done up shed–and fuel poured all around it. Most of the injured were from smoke inhalation and the firies could see to them with oxygen. But three have serious burns, their current patient, the least of the three.
Simmi and I dig in alongside the firies who have first aid training. First, we needed to triage. I dole out orders, then notice Simmi. She’s a machine, giving directives and soothing those in pain. One patient stops breathing and I rush to her side as we give CPR. For a small-town nurse, the woman impresses the shit out of me with her skill and professionalism. The way she moves, reads her patients, and assesses the scene only compounds how much the clinic needs to hang on to her.
