Page 61 of Quinton's Quest

“All of it. We cleared the building. We were on our way out. Then all hell broke loose.”

“How’s it going in here?” Fire chief Gerald McInerny stepped into the treatment area. The man was tall, muscular, and my hackles rose. For reasons I could never truly explain, the guy didn’t sit well with me. Perhaps because Marlon, his son, was my tormentor in high school.

The firefighter with the twisted ankle.

Miriam gripped my hand that still held the mask.

Gently, I put it back over her nose and mouth. “She needs rest. How did you get back here?”

“Seeing Marlon. Thought I’d check on all my team.”

I met Miriam’s vivid green eyes and read true fear.What the fuck is going on?I gestured for the chief to exit. Turning back to my patient, I offered a smile. “Rest, okay? I’ll make certain no one disturbs you.”

In those same eyes, I read gratitude.

I followed the chief out and firmly pulled the curtain closed. “You should only be seeing Marlon. We’re busy tonight treating your people.”

“As you said, they’remy people. I care about them.” He puffed out his chest.

Horseshit. I might not know what was going on—but I knew he wasn't on the level. “Why don’t we check up on Marlon?” I gestured toward curtain ten.

“Yeah, that would be good.”

Which begged the question—why hadn’t he done that first?

I opened the curtain and took in the scene of Marlon lying on the bed with his right foot elevated and an icepack on it. He was talking into his cell phone, but abruptly cut the conversation when he spotted us. “Hey, Dad.” He glared at me. “They couldn’t find anyone else?”

Glad to see nothing’s changed.“Us queer nurses are as competent as the straight ones.”

Dr. Medina poked her head in. “Quinton? I’ve got a woman in six who can’t stop vomiting. Can you help?”

“At least you’re only cleaning up vomit and not shit.” Marlon snickered.

My doc met my gaze and I read the apology in her expression. She likely didn’t know why Marlon was being an asshole. That said, she dealt with them on a regular basis, so she was familiar with the type.

As I was shutting the curtain, I heard chief growl, “What the fuck, Marlon?”

I didn’t stick around to hear his jerk son’s reply.

The nice and hugely apologetic woman in six was in trouble. At seven months’ pregnant, she couldn’t risk getting dehydrated.

I checked her chart. “Maternity is preparing a bed for you. They’ll be better able to care for you. The ER is no place for someone that pregnant.” I pointed to her belly.

She managed to say, “Twins,” before she vomited again.

Nothing but bile. Damn.

I double checked her IV. “Well, we’re getting fluids into you. How long has this been going on?”

“All day. Thought I caught the flu or something.”

Which was possible. Or this might be something more serious. She needed to be seen by an obstetrician who could better assess her.

I rubbed her back.

“And I’m telling you to lose the sample.” A gruff, deep voice from just beyond the curtain caught my attention.

“Sir—” A quivering female voice.