“It’s so… I don’t know… planned. You know. Feels like the damn doctor is standing over us, telling us where to put what and for how long.”
“You mean you haven’t figured that out yet?”
Leo took an angry bite of a drumstick. “Hey, stop laughing. This ain’t funny. Trying to have a kid puts a lot of pressure on a guy.”
“At least you’re getting laid.”
A rumble of laugher came from deep within Leo’s burly chest. “Yeah, there’s that.”
Marcus scraped the last bite of lasagna from the container. “You’re a lucky man, Leo.”
“And don’t I know it.”
Marcus studied his friend. Leo would make a great dad. The kind that would always be there, always be cheering his kid on.
And God forbid anyone dumb enough to bully his kid.
“Why you staring at me like that?”
“I’m trying to imagine you with a teenage son.”
Leo beamed. “A son? That what you think I’ll have?”
“Yeah, a big, burly kid who looks just like you. Talks like you too. We’ll call him Smartass Junior. What do you think?”
“You talkin’ to me?” Leo said in his best De Niro.
Marcus laughed. “Yeah, I’m talkin’ to you.” Unfurling his long legs, he walked over to the sink and washed the empty container.
“You coming to the meeting tonight?” Leo asked, licking greasy fingers.
“I’m not sure.”
“Marcus…”
There was a piece of onion stuck to the bottom of the plastic container, and Marcus spent a minute trying to scrape it off with his fingernail. It kept him from having to see the disapproval he knew was in his friend’s eyes.
Leo grunted. “This’ll be the second week you’ve missed. That’s not good.”
“So who’s counting? Except you, Leo.”
“You should be.”
Marcus placed the container on a dish towel to air dry, then glanced at Leo. “Hey, don’t look so pissed. I’m still good.”
“Are you? Like I said before, you don’t look too hot.”
Marcus let out an exaggerated sigh. “Fine, I’ll go. Happy now?”
“Yeah, happy as a snitch in concrete blocks.”
“Careful, Leo. Your inner mobster is showing.”
“And don’t you forget it.” Leo threw the empty KFC carton in the garbage can and let out a loud belch. “I’ll drive tonight.”
“Great,” Marcus drawled. “I’ll call ahead to the traffic cops. I’m sure they can use the extra ticket money.” He turned abruptly as footsteps approached.
Carol Burnett entered the break room. Though allegedly named after the witty television comedian from the ’80s, that’s where the resemblance ended. Carol was a scrawny-looking gray woman―gray in hair color, pallor, attire and personality. There wasn’t much evidence of a sense of humor either.
“It’s 6:05,” she said, unsmiling.
Leo gave Marcus a look of mock horror. “Good God! We’re late.”
“We’ve got a date… with destiny,” Marcus said in an overdramatic tone.
Carol glared at them, then shook her head and wandered over to the fridge.
“One day we’ll make her laugh,” Marcus said to Leo.
His friend responded by taking a low bow, which showed off his butt crack in Carol’s direction.
“Funny, Leonardo,” she muttered. “Very funny.”
Leo winked at her. “Someone around here has gotta be.”
“You’re the class clown of 911,” Marcus said as they made their way back to their desks. “The guy who always gets a laugh.”
Leo pouted. “From everyone except Carol. She’s ruining my mojo.”
“Hey, even Shipley thinks you’re funny, which is pretty damned amazing considering he rarely cracks a smile for anyone.”
“Taylor!”
Marcus grimaced. “Shit. Speak of the Devil.”
Shipley stood in the doorway to his office. He raised a hand, and at first Marcus wondered if he was going to wave. But he didn’t. Instead, Shipley pointed two fingers at his own eyes, then pointed at Marcus.
Marcus nodded. Got it. You’re watching me.
He strode to his desk while his supervisor’s stare followed him. He knew exactly what the man was thinking. Shipley was praying he’d mess up again. But he’d already messed up enough.
Marcus’s addiction had led to countless lies, theft of drugs and forging doctors’ prescriptions. And though he didn’t feel he deserved their support, his EMT-P platoon had gone to bat for him, defending him to the higher-ups. The powers that be agreed to rehabilitation and counseling, as long as Marcus promised to abide by the rules. It was a fair deal. He would serve no prison time for the theft of the drugs and had to abide by other conditions, and in exchange he’d work at the center as part of his rehab.
He recalled the day he started at the center five years ago. The first time he’d stepped into Shipley’s office he knew he’d have problems with the man.
“So you’re a druggie,” Shipley said, referring to a folder in his hands.
“A recovering addict.”
Shipley’s eyes narrowed. “A druggie. I have no use for people who refuse to value life. Our job here is to save lives.” He stared at Marcus. With a sigh, he slapped the folder on the desk. “But my hands are tied, and you’ve been assigned the job. Don’t screw it up.”
“I won’t.”
The man’s mouth lifted in a sneer. “We’ll see. Won’t we? Personally, I doubt you’ll make it a month here.”
Marcus had smiled then. He knew an alpha male when he saw one. He also recognized a challenge. “I don’t give a shit what you think, Mr. Shipley. I’ll do my job.”
“Don’t forget the mandatory drug testing every week.”
“I know the drill.”
Yeah, he knew the drill well. He adhered to the rules, pissed in a plastic bottle on demand and stayed away from his old dealer haunts. It was the price he had to pay. Whenever the cravings teased him—and some nights they hit with a vengeance—he pictured Jane and Ryan. He recalled the look of despair and disappointment in her eyes when she’d first learned of his addiction.
Everything had started out so innocently. As a paramedic he was surrounded by drugs. He’d administered them to victims when needed. He stocked them, counted them and restocked them. After three grueling multiple car accidents and an apartment fire, both claiming dozens of lives and injuring dozens more, he’d suffered from burnout and back and shoulder pain.
The first time he used, he convinced himself it was only going to be that one time. He popped a couple of misappropriated Vicodin, and the rest of his day was a productive fog of pain-free activity. In the beginning, it was easy to “accidentally misplace” the drug when he needed more. On one occasion, he faked dropping a bottle so the pills spilled out on the ambulance floor. As he and Ashton Campbell, his partner, cleaned up the mess, Marcus furtively pocketed every other handful. Not one of his proudest moments.
When Ashton began to notice the missing Vicodin, Marcus resorted to Tylenol 3s, an easy prescription to get. He broke them down in cold water and separated the codeine, an opiate used for pain relief. The concentrated codeine numbed the pain and had the added effect of making him high. Unfortunately he liked the feeling a bit too much. He tricked himself into believing he was more efficient as a paramedic when he was high. It made him feel more confident, alert, in control.
Who the hell was he kidding?
Over time, his addiction became more demanding. Codeine stopped working, and he returned to Vicodin and Percocet. Occasionally, he’d inject himself with morphine, when the pain became unbearable. Soon his dilated pupils gave him away.
Jane broached the subject one evening, but he walked out of the house, pissed that she’d accused him—a paramedic, for God’s sake—of being an addict. Then Ashton told Marcus he knew about the pilfered drugs.