Sparking Sara

Book 2: The Men on Fire

by Samantha Christy

Genres: Romance; Contemporary Romance; New Adult Romance; Firefighters Romance; Medical Romance

Synopsis

Her memories of becoming a famous artist - forgotten.
Of the falling out with her best friend - lost.
Of her charming boyfriend - erased.

The doctors tell us getting Sara back into her normal routine is what's best for her.
But what happens when she doesn't want her old normal?

Some would say I'm trying to save ghosts from my past.
I think they're wrong.

Maybe all of them are wrong.
Maybe the best thing for Sara is me.

Sparking Sara can be read as a standalone romance. It is book two in a series that follows a group of firefighters.

Samantha Christy's collections:

The Mitchell Sisters Series
Purple Orchids
White Lilies
Black Roses

The Stone Brothers Series
Stone Rules
Stone Promises
Stone Vows

The Perfect Game Series
Catching Caden
Benching Brady
Stealing Sawyer

The Men on Fire Series
Igniting Ivy
Sparking Sara
Engulfing Emma  

Standalones
Be My Reason
Abstract Love
Finding Mikayla

About the Author
Samantha Christy writes contemporary and new adult romance novels. She loves to write about hot alpha-males, sports stars, second-chance love, and deeply emotional issues. She loves to interact with readers so please look her up on social media.

Release date: June 20, 2019

Publisher: Independently published

Print pages: 392

Sample

Chapter One

  

“You’re a good man to have around, Andrews,” Captain Ingram says as we’re exiting the building, the last remnants of smoke wafting out the doorway with us before it dissipates into the clear sky.

“Yeah, as long as motor vehicles aren’t involved, he’s your guy,” someone grunts out behind us.

The captain turns around, trying to figure out which one of his team said it. “You spouting off your smart mouth again, Nolan?”

Geoff Nolan tries to look all innocent. “Me? No, Cap, I wouldn’t do that.”

Geoff and the other guys walk around us back to the rig, shaking their heads at me as they go by. None of them are happy about me being here. I’m only filling in for one shift while someone attends a funeral, but for them, I guess that’s one shift too many.

“Don’t let them get to you, son,” Captain Ingram says. “You did great today.”

I shrug. “Thanks. But he’s right. I’m crap when it comes to MVAs.”

He puts a fatherly hand on my shoulder. “I’ve heard the talk. And I’m sorry as hell about your parents. But I’ve also seen you in action.” He nods back to the building we just vacated. “You can have my back in a fire anytime. You did have my back. I’d be in the ICU with a tube shoved down my throat by now if you hadn’t thought quickly the way you did.”

“Thanks, Captain. Maybe you could keep me in mind if something opens up on Engine 89.”

“Uh … sure.”

I can hear his hesitation. He tries to hide it, but it’s there. It’s always there. Nobody will come right out and say it—well, except for that asshole Geoff Nolan—but everyone thinks it. Everyone knows I’m skittish when it comes to car accidents. For two months now, I’ve tried not to be. I’ve tried to put the thought of my parents—cold, trapped, and dying in a frozen car that got wrapped around a tree at the bottom of an embankment—out of my mind. I try not to think about them slowly freezing to death with blood from their injuries icing to their skin. I try not to think about the fact that they could have been saved if someone had been there to help them.

It’s the reason I wanted to become a firefighter. But it’s also the reason I’m not a very good one.

Car accidents. They plague my dreams. They are the root of my nightmares. I don’t even like to ride in cars. Living in New York City is perfect for someone like me, because having a car is not a necessity. Riding in a rig is different. Nobody misses the big red fire truck coming down the street.

Back at the firehouse, I grab a magazine and spend the rest of my shift by myself in the bunk designated for detailed firefighters—the floaters who fill in for the regular guys who are on leave.

My phone rings. It’s my sister, Aspen.

“Hey, Pen. What’s up?”

“Did I catch you at work?”

“Yeah.”

“Where are you today?”

“Engine 89, just over the bridge.”

“How do you like it?” she asks.

“Oh, you know, same old, same old.”

She sighs into the phone. Aspen never wanted me to become a firefighter—for obvious reasons. But if nothing else, I live to prove my sister wrong. Hell if she’s going to tell me what I can and can’t do. I spent the better part of the last few years with too many people doing that. It’s time I write my own story. Live my own life. Control my own future.

Aspen’s best friend, Bass, works for FDNY too, over at Engine 319. He’s a hero in her eyes. Especially after what he did for his wife. And even though my sister and I are as close as two siblings can be—we are twins, after all—I’m not sure I will ever measure up to the Sebastian Briggs.

“I wanted to let you know Sawyer and I are coming to town next week.”

I laugh. “I kind of figured that, considering the Royals are playing a series with the Nighthawks.”

Aspen’s husband, Sawyer Mills, is the shortstop for the Royals. He used to play here in New York for the Hawks, which is why they still own a townhouse here. The townhouse I now live in since it sits empty most of the year.

“I just wanted you to—”

The alarm sounds, and I pull the phone away from my ear to listen to dispatch. It’s an MVA. Just fucking great.

I hop off the bunk. “Pen, I have to go.”

“I heard. MVA. Just … just go save a life, Den. You’ve got this.”

I hang up without responding. I put my phone in my pocket and run down to the rig. I’m pulling on my turnout gear, and I catch Geoff Nolan staring at me through the open doors of the truck as he suits up on the other side.  He’s shaking his head like he knows I’m going to be useless.

I pull myself up into the truck and sit down, looking anywhere but at him.

“Maybe we’ll get lucky and it’ll just be a fender bender,” he says. He looks away. “Damn, I miss Jenson.”

I don’t say anything. It sucks being the guy nobody wants to go on calls with. It’s a long, silent ride to the scene of the accident.

“Fuck,” I hear from the front seat.

“What is it, Lieutenant?” Geoff asks.

“Goddamn car’s about to fall off the fucking bridge.”

“Shit,” Geoff says, giving me a look. A look like he’s pissed.

“I’m fine,” I say. “Don’t worry.”

“That’s the problem,” he says. “We shouldn’t have to worry about you, Andrews. This will be hard enough as it is without having to babysit your ass.”

The rig comes to a stop. Lt. Franks quickly assesses the situation after we get out. “Single MVA.” He points to Nolan and me. “You two, see if you can get to the passengers. Jones and I will get the chains and blocks and shore it up. Do not attempt a rescue until we have the vehicle secured.”

“Lieutenant, are you sure you want Andrews on this one?” Nolan asks. “Maybe he could direct traffic or something.”

“Cut the shit,” he says. “We all have jobs to do and Denver is no exception.”

The ambulance pulls up behind us. Lt. Franks tells the paramedics to stand down because it’s too dangerous to try to access the victims.

I look at the mangled car and try to remember to breathe. One of the rear tires is still spinning, like the accelerator is being pressed. The other rear tire is completely missing and there are various car parts scattered across the road. Shattered glass litters the concrete, and it looks like the trunk of the car got ripped off and is standing on end.

“Oh, my God,” a lady says, running up behind us. “I saw the whole thing. It’s like the car bounced off one side of the bridge and then crashed into the other. It happened out of nowhere.”

“Probably blew a tire,” Nolan says. “Ma’am, I need you to stand back.”

I hear a scream from the passenger seat. My adrenaline spikes, but I’m also relieved. Screaming means life. Someone is alive.

There is no way to get along the side of the car as it’s hanging off the edge through the suspension rods of the bridge. And even if we could, our weight might cause the car to plummet into the water fifty feet below.

My mind keeps wanting to put my parents in the front seat of the car. What really happened when they were trapped? Were they conscious? Could they talk to each other? Did they know they were going to die? Did one of them have to watch the other die first?

I hear another scream from the car. I lean over and put my hands on my knees, trying to keep myself from getting sick all over the roadway.

“Fucking rookie,” I hear someone murmur behind me. Probably Nolan.

I stand up straight and take a deep breath. This isn’t the first MVA I’ve had to deal with over the past few months. I’ve been on the scene of dozens. I just don’t understand why it isn’t getting any easier. Maybe all the talk about me is warranted. Maybe I’ll never be able to handle it. No wonder nobody wants to give me a permanent position.

God, I’m pathetic.

“Okay. Now!” Lt. Franks shouts, motioning for us to check the victims while he stands back to make sure the blocks under the bumper can hold our weight.

“We’ll have to access from the back,” Nolan says. “Grab the window punch.”

I run back to the rig and get it, thinking it’s just our luck the rear window was the only window that didn’t shatter.

Nolan climbs up into the trunk. “I can’t see any backseat passengers. We’re clear to break the glass.”

Once the glass is gone, he squeezes into the back seat and assesses the victims, then comes back out.

“The driver’s in bad shape—I can barely feel a pulse. I don’t see how we can get either one out through the back, because the sides are smashed in, pinning them to their seats. We need to try and turn the vehicle to access from the driver’s side.”

“Can’t we just winch it back completely and pull it off the edge?” I ask.

The lieutenant shakes his head. “It’s in there pretty good, and if we pull it back, we risk rupturing the fuel line. It’s stabilized where it is. Let’s try and pivot around to the right, enough to get access to the driver.”

“What about the passenger?” I ask.

“Possible head injury,” Nolan says. “Can’t get a good look at her. Get in there with a collar and keep her covered while we cut the driver out.”

I look back at the paramedics. “Shouldn’t they be the ones to do this?”

“Get your head out of your ass, Andrews,” he says. “Paramedics aren’t trained for this shit. Get your ass in there and try not to fucking puke on someone.”

I grab a blanket and a collar and take a few deep breaths before I crawl through the back window, shaking the entire time.

I take one look at the driver, whose head is mangled and twisted in my direction, and I get the feeling they’re doing a recovery, not a rescue. But we can’t be sure, and we have to rescue the most critical case first. I hold back the bile rising in my throat and focus my attention on the passenger. I can’t fully see her because I’m behind her, but she’s still screaming.

“Miss, I’m here.”

Her hand comes up, flailing around as if to try and grab on to me. I offer her my hand. She holds on to it like she thinks she’s about to topple over the side of the bridge.

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “We’ve secured the car. You’re not going over. Please don’t move your head.”

I try to take my hand back so I can slip the collar around her neck, but she won’t let go.

“Miss, I need my hand for just a second. I have to put a cervical collar on you to protect your neck.”

She still won’t let go.

“I promise to give you my hand back. Please let me help you. I need to keep your neck stable.”

I feel her hand reluctantly release mine and I quickly slip the collar behind her head and secure it. Then I keep my promise and put my hand back in hers.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

She’s squirming around, trying to free herself.

“Can you move your legs?”

“I—I think so.”

“Good. That’s good.”

“Oh, my God!” she screams bloody murder when the car shifts sideways.

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “They have to move the car a bit to get to your friend.”

“Friend?”

“What’s her name?” I ask.

“I … I … What happened?”

“You’ve been in a car accident. It’s okay. We’re going to get you out, but we need to help your friend first.”

The woman is silent and her head slumps to the side as much as it can with the collar on. I think she’s passing out.

“Miss. Miss. You have to stay awake.”

I reach my other hand over the passenger seat and put down the visor so I can see her face in the mirror. I angle the mirror so she can see my eyes.

“Miss, stay with me. Look at me.”

Her eyes find mine, but they’re glassy. She’s in a daze. I momentarily avert my eyes from hers to see that she has a substantial head injury. She’s got a long laceration on the right side of her head where the car buckled in on her. My guess is that she’s got other major injuries like broken hips and legs, based on the fact that the side of the car has her squished in like a sardine.

I press my hand against her scalp to try to stop the bleeding, and when I do, I feel her head pulsating. I’m no paramedic, but that can’t be good.

“Can you tell me your name?”

She finds my eyes in the mirror and all I can see is my mother looking back at me.

“Sara,” she says with a weak and shaky voice. “Sara Francis.”

I turn my head and vomit all over the back seat of the car.