Crash & Carnage by Emma Slate
Chapter 2
“How are you feeling this morning?”I asked, as I stepped into Boxer’s recovery room.
“Like roadkill.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Don’t be. It’s a step up from how I was feeling yesterday.”
He smiled at me, and I couldn’t help but smile back. Boxer seemed to have a natural good cheer that was hard to shake.
I took a moment to discreetly study him. His jaw was covered in stubble a shade darker than the dirty blond hair on his head that was askew. Ink snaked up his muscled arms to disappear beneath the hospital gown. I’d seen some of his tattoos the night before when I’d removed his appendix, but I hadn’t studied them, my mind clearly on other concerns at the time. But I was innately curious about them now.
Interested in his body—his hot body.
“Well, Doc? Am I gonna live?” he drawled.
“You’ll live, but there were some complications we didn’t expect.”
His expression instantly changed from good humor to attention. “What kind of complications?”
“Your appendix ruptured on your way to surgery. You’re on heavy antibiotics to ensure you don’t get an infection.”
When I paused, he nodded.
“During surgery, your blood pressure dropped substantially. We deduced that you have an allergy to the anesthesia you were given. There was no way to know until you were already under. I’ve made a note in your chart, but that’s something you need to be aware of in case you have to undergo any other surgeries. It’s very serious. We could have lost you last night.”
“I almost died?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck,” he murmured. “That’s—I don’t even—okay then. That was not how I expected to go out.”
“Go out?”
“Die,” he stated. “Dying on an operating table? In a hospital gown? Fucking pathetic.”
I wasn’t sure what to say to comfort him. It was like he was taking it as a personal insult. But death was death and none of us got to choose how our time came to an end. Luckily, this wasn’t Boxer’s end.
I cleared my throat, wanting to move the conversation forward. “I’m keeping you here for a few days to monitor you and make sure the antibiotics are doing their job and that there are no further complications of any kind.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered. “First I almost die like some frail old man and now I’ve got to laze around here? I’m gonna go crazy.”
“Which is a nice segue into what’s going to happen when I release you into the wild, I presume.”
“I’m not gonna like this, am I?”
“Probably not.” I smiled. “Rule number one: no alcohol. Not until you’re back on your regular diet, which will be in a few weeks.”
“How many rules are there? Should I be writing these down?”
I glowered at him. “I mean it, Boxer. Do not put any undue stress on your body. Do you hear me?”
“Yeah, Doc, I hear you.” It was his turn to scowl.
“Rule number two: no strenuous activity for a few weeks. You can walk around, climb the stairs, but no lifting anything over twenty pounds. And no sex or masturbation.”
“Doc, come on. You’re taking away my two favorite hobbies,” Boxer complained. “What the hell am I supposed to do for the next few weeks?”
“Hydrate and rest. Perhaps read a book or two,” I suggested. “I hear it expands the mind.”
“Does a dirty magazine count?” he threw back.
“Let me guess, you read them for the articles, right?”
He smiled.
“You could learn to knit,” I suggested. “I hear it’s all the rage again.”
“Kill me. Kill me now.”
I ignored his snark. “I want to stress something else. The next time you’re in that kind of pain with a fever over 102 °F, I suggest seeing a physician, not the bottom of a bourbon bottle.”
“How’d you know it was bourbon?”
“I smelled it when you vomited all over my shoes,” I said dryly.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry about that.”
“You aren’t the first man to throw up on me, and sadly, I doubt you’ll be the last. You should get some rest.” I headed for the door.
“Doc?”
“Yeah?” I looked at him over my shoulder.
His grin was lopsided, sincere. “Thanks for saving my life.”
I paused for a moment and then met him smile for smile. “It was my pleasure.”
As a general surgeon, most of my surgeries were scheduled and I’d performed two procedures that morning already. I worked the ER on rotation. After checking on a few of my patients, I caught a couple hours of sleep in an on-call room. By noon, I was eating lunch in the lounge and making follow-up notes in a patient’s chart about her gallbladder removal.
“Hey, Linden,” Peyton greeted.
“Hey,” I replied. “You done for the day?”
“Yup. Heading out now. What about you?”
“I have a few more notes to write up, and then I’m done.”
“Emily wanted me to tell you that you owe her a drink. What’s that about, anyway?”
“Last night when Boxer came into the ER, we had a bet about his diagnosis. She said if I was correct, I had to go to happy hour with the girls and buy her a drink.”
“She’s doing anything and everything to try and get you to socialize,” Peyton said.
“I made the mistake once of going out with you guys when I first moved here. I’ve never been so hungover in my entire life.”
“A rite of passage when you hang with the nurses.” She winked. “You know it’s just because we adore you, right? You’re not like the other doctors here.”
Her words warmed my heart. “I appreciate that. I really do.”
“But you’re still not going to risk your liver’s future by drinking with us at happy hour?”
“Right you are,” I said with a laugh.
“See you tomorrow then.”
“Bye.”
I finished my lunch and quickly moved through the rest of my charts. As I chucked the plastic silverware in the trash along with the container that once had macaroni salad, my pager buzzed. I immediately headed to the nurses’ station.
“I got a page.”
“Hey.” Amanda smiled. “Boxer’s refusing morphine.”
I blinked. “Refusing morphine? Don’t be silly. There’s no way he’s refusing morphine a day after surgery.”
“Sure as I’m standing here in front of you,” Amanda stated. “It’s kind of hot.”
“What is?” I demanded. “The fact that he’s choosing to be in pain when he could be comfortable?”
“Well, yeah.” Amanda raised her brows. “Do you have lipstick in your pocket?”
“Lipstick? Why would I—” I frowned. “Amanda? What’s going on?”
“I just thought it would make your full lips even fuller.”
I narrowed my gaze.
“You’re single. He’s single. And freakin’ adorable and charming.”
“Adorable? No. Kittens are adorable. Men with biker tattoos aren’t adorable,” I negated.
“You’re right. They’re manly. And he’s super manly. But he’s also really cute and really nice. And all the nurses on the floor adore him.”
“He’s been here one day,” I said in exasperation. “How can all the nurses adore him?”
“It’s a thing called charisma,” Amanda said. “And if you could get your grandma knickers out of their twist, you might notice that he’s charismatic.”
“I don’t wear grandma knickers,” I protested.
“You’re missing the point. Entirely.”
“Has he been buzzing you guys a lot?”
“No, actually. He hasn’t buzzed us at all. Babs went and checked in on him to monitor his pain. It took her half an hour to come back to the nurses’ desk, and when she did, she had a dreamy smile on her face.” Amanda scratched the bridge of her nose. “So, naturally, Lizzie was curious to find out who made grumpy Babs’ day.”
I bit my lip to stop my smile at Amanda’s description of Babs. I tried not to gossip, but the doctors called Babs Nurse Ratched behind her back.
Apparently, Boxer had a way with women.
“And you? What do you think of Boxer?” I asked her.
“I think if I wasn’t happily married with a two-year-old, I’d have sex with him in a public bathroom.”
“Amanda!”
She shrugged. “What? You asked. He’s that kind of guy that you know would get down and dirty with you in a public bathroom.”
“That’s unsanitary. And not at all sexy.”
She pinched her nose and then said in a nasally feigned intercom voice, “Paging Grandma Knickers.”
“It’s Dr. Grandma Knickers. At least give me my medical title that I spent so many years acquiring.”
“Fine, Dr. Grandma Knickers, stop dawdling. Now go find out why he’s refusing morphine. And seriously consider putting on some lipstick…and blush. You look pale. And take your hair out of that braid. It makes you look like a nun. If I had your blonde hair, I’d go around swinging my head like I was in a shampoo commercial.”
“What’s gotten into you?”
“My husband—last night. Boom!” She mimed an invisible mic drop.
“Boom, what?” Babs asked as she approached the desk, pushing a strand of silver hair behind her ear as she walked. Her chin length bob made her look severe. Her tone was naturally brusque, but she had a kind heart and I saw past the gruffness.
“I’m just giving Dr. Ward a hard time about not making up her face before she goes to see the patient in 317,” Amanda said.
“If only I were younger…” Babs muttered under her breath and then trailed off. She rested her elbows on the ledge and looked at me. “You should really do something about that.”
“Do something about what?” I asked. “Why would I do anything about that? He’s my patient.”
Babs and Amanda exchanged a look.
“What? What does that look mean?”
“He’s been asking about you,” Babs said.
“So what?”
Amanda sighed. “You’re dense.”
“I’m not dense. I just—it doesn’t matter. He’s my patient, and it’s against the rules.”
“Aha!” Amanda grinned. “I knew it! I knew you were thinking about him.”
“I’m not—give me a piece of chocolate,” I muttered, diving my hand into the glass jar on the counter.
“Chocolate is not a substitute for sex,” Babs said.
“Chocolate and sex, my two favorite things. They go well together actually,” Amanda said.
“My husband ordered chocolate body paint for our anniversary,” Babs said, “and let me tell you, it spiced up everything…”
Amanda stared in shock at Babs. “I never knew you had it in you!”
Babs shrugged and didn’t appear at all embarrassed. “When you’ve been married as long as I have, you have to do things to keep it interesting. Last week, I got a bikini wax in the shape of a heart. It drove my husband crazy!”
“I’m so proud to know you, Babs. I really am,” Amanda said with an amazed grin.
That’s my cue.
I walked away, their laughter echoing in my ears. Why did I need to go to happy hour with the nurses when it was clear they had their own version of water cooler talk in the middle of the day?
When I entered Boxer’s room, his gaze was directed toward the TV in the corner, but when he saw me, he shut it off.
“Doc,” he greeted with a genuine smile. “I didn’t think I’d be seeing you today.”
I arched a brow. “Boxer.”
“Uh‐oh.”
“Uh‐oh what?”
“I’m in trouble, aren’t I?”
I let out a huff of a laugh. “What makes you say that?”
“You brought your stern voice with you.”
“Seems you’ve gotten yourself a little fan club,” I stated. “The nurses are gaga over you.”
“I’m flattered.” He shot me a grin. “You know the thing about fan clubs? They need a club president. You look like you’re up for the job.”
“I’ll pass, thanks,” I said, my expression sobering. “What’s this about you not taking morphine?”
“That’s right.”
“You don’t have to play tough guy in here. You just had major surgery. No one will think less of you for taking pain meds.”
He frowned. “It’s not about being tough.”
“No? Then what’s it about?”
Boxer rubbed the blond stubble along his jaw and paused a moment before looking at me and saying, “Addiction runs in my family.”
His response wasn’t one I’d been anticipating, and it shut me up immediately.
“Hmm. Rendered you speechless, did I?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t expect that. I just thought…”
“You thought I was trying to get your attention.”
“What?” A slight blush stained my cheeks. “No, I didn’t.”
“It’s okay, Dr. Ward. I know you’ve been thinking about me.”
“Are you in cahoots with the nurses?” I demanded.
“Cahoots about what?”
“Never mind. Why didn’t you tell the nurses about addiction running in your family?”
He ran his fingers through his blond hair. “I don’t know.”
“We have other options for controlling pain. We can make you comfortable without narcotics.”
“I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you.” His gray eyes were clear when they looked at me. I had the sudden feeling that I was seeing something more beneath the flirty biker exterior he portrayed, and it had me intrigued.
I had no business being intrigued.
I was his doctor. He was my patient. Nothing more.
“I’ll tell them not to bother asking you about morphine again. Okay?” I said.
“I appreciate it.”
“How’s the pain, though? On a scale of one to ten.”
“About a seven.”
“Boxer.”
“I’m fine, Doc. Really. I’ve wiped out on my bike before. Been in plenty of fights. Pain I can deal with, okay?”
“Is that how you got your nickname?”
The question was out of my mouth before I had a chance to stop it.
“No, that’s not how I got my nickname.” He smiled in amusement. “And it’s not a nickname, it’s a road name.”
Darn my curious nature.
“Oh. Road name. Right.” I sighed. “If you change your mind—”
“I won’t,” he assured me.
Nodding, I headed for the door. “Have a good rest of your day.”
“Is your shift over?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Perfect.” He grinned and held up two low‐fat yogurt cups that rested on his food tray. “Which one do you want?”
“Neither. You enjoy them.”
“Come on, Doc. It’s not a marriage proposal. It’s not even a date. It’s yogurt.”
I wasn’t hungry, but he was irresistible. I understood why the nurses liked Boxer. There was an ease to him, like he didn’t take himself too seriously. I was being pulled toward him by some giant invisible magnet. Against my better judgement, I sat in the chair next to his bedside.
He ripped open both yogurt cups, put the spoons in them, and then handed me one.
Our fingers brushed when I took the plastic cup from him. I attempted to ignore the pulse of electricity that shot through my arm.
It felt like a hit of dopamine fit for a junkie. It went straight to my head, making me feel light and airy.
“Thanks.”
Did my voice sound breathy?I hoped he didn’t notice.
“You’re not from here,” Boxer said. “Texas, I mean.”
I shook my head. “Watch Hill, Rhode Island.”
“Amanda said you moved here recently.”
“That Amanda.” I shook my head. “What did you do? Offer her yogurt and ply her with questions?”
“Nah. I only save the yogurt for cute doctors.” He winked. “Besides, she’s the one who offered that piece of information freely. Where’d you move from? Watch Hill?”
I paused, unsure of how I felt about Amanda discussing anything about my personal life with Boxer. But then I figured, what was the harm? It wasn’t like he’d asked anything truly intimate.
“I was in Durham—at Duke University Hospital.”
“Duke’s fucking prestigious, Doc. You must be at the top of your field. And you can’t be more than…thirty, I’m guessing.”
“It’s not polite to guess a woman’s age,” I joked, trying to keep the conversation light when it was venturing into a topic I didn’t want to discuss.
“Do you play tennis?”
“Yes, I play tennis.”
“I knew it.”
“Knew what?”
“You’re a blue blood.”
I stopped stirring my yogurt and looked at him.
His grin widened. “Don’t worry. I don’t hold that against you.”
I set the untouched yogurt down on the tray and stood. “Thanks for the yogurt.”
He frowned. “What’d I say?”
“Nothing,” I lied. “I just shouldn’t be fraternizing with a patient.”
Boxer was just about to speak when the door to his room opened.
A young guy with brown hair and scruff entered. He hadn’t been in the hospital waiting room the previous night with the others, so I didn’t recognize him. Two other young men trailed behind him. The three of them were wearing leather vests labeled Prospect.
“Prospects, meet the doc who saved my life,” Boxer introduced.
“Hi,” I said awkwardly.
“Hey, Doc,” the brown-haired young man said. The other two gave me chin nods in greeting. He pulled out a pack of cards from his back pocket. “Colt told us to come entertain you.”
“You guys bring money?” Boxer asked.
“Yeah, we brought money,” the blond prospect said. “And a deck of cards.”
“Perfect. Sit down and I’ll show you how to cheat at cards and make it look believable.” Boxer’s eyes found mine. “Bye, Doc.”
“Bye,” I murmured as I headed for the door.
Just before it closed, one of the young men said, “That’s the doctor that saved your life? You’re so damn lucky.”