Page 8 of Fighting For You

I knew he was right.

"Yes, sir."

"Good." He stood up and opened the door. "Get to work."

Wyatt was running the pump test when I came out to the bay. He looked up.

"What was that about?"

"Nothing. Just reminded me to rein it in."

Wyatt smiled a little. "Yeah. You might want to, if you ever want to see lieutenant."

Before I could answer, Travis came around the side of the engine with a rag over his shoulder. "So. Sunday. The housewarming. What time do I show up and what do I bring?"

"Two o'clock. Bring whatever you want to throw on the grill."

"Done. I'm bringing ribs."

"I'll be there," I said to Wyatt.

"Good. Andy invited Thompson and Zeus Alexander too, so it's going to be a full house."

I turned back to the engine and started checking compartments. Tomorrow was dinner at my parents' house. Sunday was the housewarming. At least there was one thing to look forward to this weekend.

Dr. Cliff and Maureen Sullivan lived in Summerlin, in a house that looked exactly like what it was: thirty years of a doctor's salary in a neighborhood where every lawn was landscaped and every driveway had room for three cars.

When I pulled up, the house was glittering with guests. Cars lined the street on both sides. Through the front windows I could see people moving between rooms, caterers carrying trays, waitstaff circulating with drinks. My mother didn't know how to do low-key. If Maureen Sullivan was hosting, it was semi-formal at minimum, with a catering team, a bartender, and flowers on every surface.

I straightened my tie in the truck and went in.

"Knox!" My mother crossed the foyer before I made it three steps inside. She took my face in both hands and looked at me like she was checking for damage. "There he is. My handsome boy."

"Mom."

"What? A mother can't look at her son?" She smoothed the front of my jacket. "I was hoping you'd be bringing someone with you tonight."

"When did I say I would?"

"You didn't. But I was still hoping." She patted my chest and stepped back. "Go say hi to your father. He's been waiting for you."

Has he.

My father was in the living room, standing at the center of a circle of colleagues. Doctors, mostly. Men and women he'd worked with for decades at CCMC. He looked like he was hosting a board meeting that happened to have appetizers.

"Happy birthday, Dad."

"Knox. Thank you for coming." He shook my hand. Firm grip, brief hold, released. The way you'd greet a colleague you respected but didn't know well.

"Knox Sullivan." Dr. Harlan stepped into the circle with a glass of scotch. He looked different out of scrubs, more relaxed, but his eyes still had that attending's habit of assessing everything in front of him. "How's that neck? Giving you any trouble on the job?"

"No, sir. Full range of motion. Doesn't slow me down."

"Good. Station 110 has some of the best paramedics in the valley." He raised his glass toward my father. "You should be proud of this one, Cliff. Firefighters are the real superheroes. The rest of us just clean up after them."

"Yes, yes. Very proud," my father said.

The circle murmured agreement. Someone asked Harlan about the new trauma wing funding. The conversation shifted to hospital budgets and staffing shortages and whether the state legislature was going to approve the new residency slots. I stayed long enough to finish my drink, then excused myself.