Crash & Carnage by Emma Slate
Chapter 4
The doorto the on-call room opened and a bright shaft of fluorescent light poured in. I winced, propping one eye open.
“Sorry to wake you, but we’ve got a problem,” Lizzie said from the doorway.
I shielded my eyes from the glaring lights of the hallway. “How big of a problem? Like, someone’s limb is ripped off type of problem or a kid swallowed a Monopoly house problem?”
“Neither. It seems there’s a party going on in room 317. I’ve tried breaking it up, but they won’t listen to me. They just smirk and keep drinking.”
“They’re drinking?”
“Yes. They’re a raucous bunch. And I’m…”
“Intimidated?”
“Um, yeah. They’re bikers. Should I call security?”
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and sat up, careful not to hit my head on the top bunk. “No, no. I’ll take care of it. Where’s Babs? She’s a hard ass. Why didn’t she handle this?”
“I can’t find her. And I doubt she’d school Boxer. She’s all but worshipping at his leather altar.”
I found a piece of gum in my scrub pocket, popped it into my mouth, and went to break up the party. I heard the bikers’ laughter before I’d even gotten through the door of Boxer’s room.
Two bikers leaned against the far wall while another sat in the chair by Boxer’s bedside, chowing down on the cookies Mia had brought me. I’d forgotten to take them when I’d been paged earlier.
Boxer looked at Lizzie who stood in the doorway behind me. “Thanks, Lizzie.”
“Sure thing,” Lizzie said, her tone breathy.
I glanced at her over my shoulder. She looked flushed and giddy, like a schoolgirl with her first crush.
“Lizzie,” I warned.
“I’m gone, I’m gone.” She hastily closed the door, leaving me in a room with three bikers I recognized from the night I removed Boxer’s appendix. Aside from the flask I saw being passed around, I was surprised to find the get-together was the antithesis of rowdy. There was no loud music, no strippers, no bags of white powder on the nightstand.
As far as what I knew about bikers, this wasn’t the kind of get-together I’d expected to walk into.
A plastic bag rested next to Boxer, and I wondered if they’d brought him junk food and other contraband that wouldn’t aid in his healing.
“Hey, Doc,” Colt greeted.“Zip.” He held out his hand to the man whose patch read Vice President. “Whisky.”
Zip handed over a flask, and Colt took a long sip from it.
“You can’t have alcohol in here,” I stated.
“Says who,” Zip asked with a grin.
“It’s hospital policy. There are sick people here trying to recover. We can’t have visitors getting unruly,” I stated lamely.
“Who said anything about getting unruly?” the biker with the cut jaw and dark hair asked. “This shit is tame. If you want unruly, we can show you unruly.”
“I’d prefer it if you didn’t.” I whirled and glared at Boxer. “You better not be drinking.”
“I’m not.”
“Boxer,” I warned.
“Seriously, Doc. You can smell my breath if you don’t believe me.” His dove gray eyes were guileless and sincere.
I peered at him for a moment. “I believe you.” To the rest of the men in the room, I asked, “How much whisky have you guys had?”
Zip’s blue eyes twinkled with humor. “Not enough to be a menace on the road. We’ll make it back to Waco in one piece. Promise.”
“I drank Boxer’s share.” The dark-haired man grinned. “Sucks to be you, brother. We brought the good shit.”
“Don’t rub it in, Reap,” Boxer stated.
Reap shrugged.
“Visiting hours are over,” I informed them in my no-nonsense tone.
“No fun,” Reap muttered, swiping the flask from Zip as they trekked from the room.
“Thanks for looking out for him, Doc,” Colt said, as he sauntered to the door. “He needs it.”
“I heard that,” Boxer muttered.
Colt shot his friend a smile but didn’t reply. When I was alone with Boxer, I crossed my arms over my chest and raised a brow.
“What?” he demanded.
I sighed. “Nothing.”
“Not nothing. What is it?”
“I don’t like being manipulated,” I said finally.
“Who manipulated you?”
I raised my brows to my hairline. “Lizzie made it sound like there was trouble going on in this room. Clearly, that wasn’t the case.”
“So, you really didn’t care that they were drinking?”
I shrugged. “I wasn’t a fan of it, but I was more concerned that you might have been drinking.”
“I took to heart what you said, Doc. You talk; I listen.”
“Well, good,” I said, feeling ridiculous.
“Are you busy right now?” he asked.
I paused and then replied, “No…”
“Good.” He reached into the plastic bag and pulled out a candle. He then set it down on the swiveling wooden table in front of him.
“Candles aren’t allowed in hospital rooms either. Fire hazard,” I explained.
“How are we supposed to have any ambience if I can’t light the thing?”
“We’re not supposed to have any ambiance at all.”
He rolled his eyes. “Apple juice or cranberry?” He dug around in the plastic bag and held up two kids’ juice boxes with attached straws.
“Where did you get all this?” I asked.
“Where do you think?”
“Lizzie,” I said with a sigh. “Lizzie helped you with this, didn’t she?”
“Yup. She likes you, Doc. All the nurses do.”
“Hmm,” I murmured noncommittally. The nurses were like the sisters I didn’t have. Meddlesome and obsessed with whether or not there was any romance in my world. It was like they’d all collectively banded together to fix my love life.
“So, which juice do you want?”
“I don’t think I should encourage bad behavior,” I stated.
“You look like you’re in desperate need of some bad behavior, Doc. Come on, live a little.”
“Apple, please.” I walked to him, and he placed the juice box in my hand. I sat in the chair that Reap had vacated. “This goes against all my better judgement.”
“You think too much.”
“Probably,” I agreed.
“Cheers,” he said.
We bumped our juice boxes together, and then I took a sip. “I haven’t had apple juice in years. It’s surprisingly delicious.”
“Glad you’re enjoying it.”
He took a drink of his cranberry juice. “So, Doc, what do you do in your spare time?”
“I don’t have a lot of spare time. I work eighty-hour weeks.”
“That’s insane.”
“Maybe,” I agreed. “But someone’s got to do it. I enjoy it, actually. I’m more comfortable in a hospital than I am anywhere else.”
“Your home away from home?” he joked.
“Something like that.”
“But when you are home, what do you do?”
“Laundry.”
“Laundry?” he repeated like he didn’t believe me.
I nodded. “And I go grocery shopping.”
“Come on. You’re not that boring.”
“I really am,” I assured him.
“Don’t you have hobbies? Interests?”
“It’s hard to have hobbies and interests when you work as much as I do.”
“So, you don’t spend your spare time with your boyfriend?”
“I don’t have a boyfriend,” I said before I could stop myself.
His smile was slow. Boxer took a drink of his cranberry juice and then asked, “Why don’t you?”
“Because I don’t.”
“I’m not trying to ruffle feathers here, Doc. I’m just asking a simple question.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m curious.”
“Why?”
Before Boxer could utter an explanation, the door to his room opened, and my superior strode inside. Dr. Sawyer quickly took in the scene: me sitting with a patient, the unlit candle, the juice boxes. It didn’t look good. Not at all.
“Dr. Ward, may I see you outside for a moment?” His tone was clipped and formal.
I set my juice box down and rose, trying to appear like I hadn’t been doing anything wrong. Boxer saluted me on my way out, and I glared at him.
Thankfully, Dr. Sawyer wasn’t paying attention because he was already waiting for me in the hallway.
He was about a decade older than me and very sure of his position at the hospital. “What are you doing?” Dr. Sawyer demanded the moment the door to Boxer’s room closed. “You know that fraternizing with patients is against the rules.”
“I wasn’t fraternizing.”
“It didn’t look that way to me.” He stared me down. “I need my overnight shift in the ER covered on Saturday. You’re going to work it for me. Hope you didn’t have any plans.”
He turned and marched away without saying another word.
I glared at his back, biting back a waspish retort.
* * *
“Well, Boxer,” I said late the next morning. “It seems our time together has come to an end. I’m discharging you. You can go home. I’m releasing you back into the wild.”
“Is that how you see me, Doc? As a wild animal?”
“Don’t get distracted. Do me a favor and attempt to heed my rules.”
“Which rules would those be?” he drawled with a mischievous glint in his eye.
“You know which ones, but if it will give you a kick to hear me say sex and masturbation, then I’ll oblige. No sex and no masturbation for a couple of weeks.”
He chuckled. “It did give me a kick. Thanks.”
“You should be up and moving freely, no heavy lifting, no exercising. I wish you’d take something for the pain, but you’re a grown man who knows his limits. I’m asking you to observe them.”
“Anything else?” he asked in amusement.
I handed him a sheet of paper. “If you have any of these symptoms, you need to go to the hospital immediately. No dawdling.”
He took the blue paper and glanced at it for a moment before folding it in half and placing it on the bedside table.
The humor in his eyes remained, but his smile dimmed. “I got you in trouble, didn’t I? With Dr. Prick.”
My lips twitched at Boxer’s apropos nickname of Dr. Sawyer. “You didn’t get me into trouble. I got myself into trouble. I should never have been spending time with you.”
“Is that why you’ve been avoiding me this morning?”
“I haven’t been avoiding you. I had an emergency bowel obstruction I had to deal with.”
“Hopefully not yours,” he quipped.
“Apatient’s.” I mock glared at him, which made his teasing grin widen. “Please take care of yourself. Your recovery is important, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Seriously, Boxer.”
“I heard you. You’ve got my word that I’ll take it easy.”
“Good.”
“It was nice meeting you, Doc,” he said.
“Take care, Boxer.”
I left his room, feeling a twinge in my chest. I didn’t understand it any more than I understood the sudden bout of melancholy that washed over me.
An hour later, I was at the nurses’ station watching Boxer leave his room with a prospect by his side. He was taller than I realized. His blue and black flannel shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, showing off his inked forearms. Boxer wore a leather vest, which proudly sported the Blue Angels logo on his back.
Even though he was moving slowly, I detected a hint of natural swagger, like an eighteenth-century pirate hell-bent on destruction and damnation.
“Be still my ovaries,” Lizzie murmured.
“Right?” Amanda added.
“Stop it you two,” I demanded.
“If your ovaries aren’t doing cartwheels right now, then you need to get your hormone levels checked,” Lizzie said.
Boxer sauntered to the elevators, and when he saw me noticing him, he waved and then pretended to doff the rim of an invisible hat.
The prospect stood near him, ready to lend a hand, but Boxer didn’t need it. The young man pushed the button, and the elevator came almost immediately. The two of them got in, and Boxer called out, “You’ll miss me when I’m gone, Dr. Ward! Admit it.”
The doors closed but not before I saw his cheeky grin.
“Please tell me you’re about to make a bad decision with him,” Amanda demanded.
I shook my head slowly. “Nope.”
“What?” Lizzie gasped. “Why not?”
“Because he’s a patient.”
“Not any more he’s not,” Lizzie said. “What other excuses do you have?”
“He’s a biker,” I said.
“Uh, yeah. That’s exactly why you should go for it,” Amanda said, with Lizzie nodding along.
“How do you figure?” I demanded.
“He’s a leather-wearing, incredibly hot alpha male who’s charming as hell,” Amanda went on. “He’d be fun to run around with for a little while.”
“And then you can release him back into his natural habitat,” Lizzie added. “No muss. No fuss.”
“All guys are a fuss,” I said. “I doubt Boxer is any different.”
“You’re really not going to even consider it?” Lizzie asked. “After I helped him set up the adorable juice box cocktails date?”
“It wasn’t that adorable,” I protested.
“Yeah, Linden, it was,” Lizzie said.
“It was a manipulation tactic, and I didn’t like it,” I admonished.
“You lie,” Amanda teased. “You so liked it.”
“I would totally be all over that,” Lizzie said. “Maybe I should run after him and give him my number?”
“You could try,” Amanda said. “It wouldn’t matter, though, because Boxer is all about Team Linden.”
“Oh, I see,” Lizzie said slowly. “I get it now.”
“Get what now?” I asked, my brow furrowing.
“You’re a snob. Amanda? Will you hand me that pen—”
“Hold on a second,” I interrupted. “I’m not a snob.”
“You are,” Lizzie stated with a nod. “It’s okay. Don’t hide from it.”
“You think I’m a snob because I won’t date a biker?”
“No, I think you’re a snob because you won’t even give him a chance,” Lizzie countered. “You need to shake things up.”
“I’ve shaken things up plenty,” I insisted. “I just broke up with someone a few months ago. I took a job across the country and moved my entire life here. I’m more shaken up than a dry martini, okay?”
Amanda sighed. “You went on a date with that lawyer guy, Parker, remember?”
“Yeah? So? What does that have to do with anything?” I demanded.
“It means you might’ve moved across the country and taken a new job, but you’re not really into taking risks,” Amanda said. “You went on a date with your usual type, didn’t you? So how much have you really shaken things up?”
“I never should’ve gone to happy hour with you guys that first week I moved here.” I shook my head. “You guys seemed too innocent and sweet.”
“We got you drunk on purpose,” Amanda said with a grin. “We wanted you to spill your guts.”
“You’re one of us now, Linden,” Lizzie added. “Which means we look out for you and tell you like it is. And, you need to have some fun with Boxer.”
“I’ll think about it,” I lied.
“No, you won’t,” Amanda said with a feigned sad face.
“No, I won’t,” I agreed. “Can I get back to work now, please?”
* * *
“Time of death, 11:57,” I said, my eyes on the clock. I removed my gloves and threw them down on the instrument tray and ripped the surgical mask off.
I didn’t meet anyone’s gaze as I stalked from the operating room, anger pumping through my veins.
I took death personally.
Every time I failed to save a life, I imagined the Grim Reaper laughing in my face.
It was a mockery of my craft, sadness, and failure all rolled into one, and it didn’t matter how much schooling or training I had. But, inevitably, there were times when the circumstances were beyond my control and no amount of training or modern medicine could fix them.
Losing a patient never got easier, no matter how many times it happened. A loss was a loss. And for some reason I couldn’t quite pin down, the deaths seemed to outweigh the lives I’d saved.
I walked by the nurses’ station and met Amanda’s eyes. She knew in an instant that I’d lost my patient.
Her gaze was somber, and she nodded.
I turned in the direction of the waiting room, walked a few feet and paused, and then pushed through the doors.
“I’m looking for the Martinez family,” I called out.
“Sí—yes.” A young woman rose from her chair, her blonde hair tied up into a messy bun, her face devoid of any makeup. Her eyes searched mine and before I’d even gotten a word out about the fate of her husband, she broke down into tears.
Even though I was the messenger, the one who’d come to tell her that her husband was dead, she grasped me to her and held on tightly, as if in that moment I was the last living connection to him that she would ever have.
“I’m sorry,” I said softly, switching from English to Spanish.
She cried harder, sobbing with the entire force of her body. Amanda came into the waiting room and approached me.
I shook my head, silently telling her that I didn’t need her to take over. I wanted to comfort the Martinez widow. I’d let her cry out her anguish in my arms while she mourned for her husband and began to taste the cruelty and unfairness of life.
Amanda discreetly headed back to the nurses’ station, and my arms around Mrs. Martinez tightened.
When her storm of emotion passed, she ripped herself from my embrace and dragged her hand down her cheeks, clearing away the proof that death was hardest on those left behind.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said to her.
She nodded, but it was instinctual, not like she’d actually heard me.
“His injuries were substantial. There was too much internal bleeding…”
“I should’ve forced him to go to the hospital, but he was stubborn,” she murmured, still speaking in her native tongue. She looked away from me to stare out the window. Sun beams painted the sidewalk. It was a perfect, sunny day on the saddest day of her life.
Fate had a cruel, twisted sense of humor.
“Are you sure you’re okay to drive?” I asked her.
She nodded, a lone tear streaking down her cheek. She hastily swiped it away.
When I was sure she was in control of her own emotions and it was safe for her to drive, I left the waiting room and went to the nurses’ station.
Without saying a word, Amanda set down a chocolate peanut butter cup in front of me.
“I’m gonna need a lot more than that,” I said, swiping it off the counter and unwrapping it.
“I have a whole bag.”
“That’s a start,” I said with a sigh. “Do you want to go out tonight?”
She blinked. “Really? You never want to go out.”
I nodded. “If I go home, I’ll sit and drink a bottle of wine and think about how I couldn’t save Mr. Martinez. And I really don’t want to sit and stew. So, how about it?”
“Sure. Where do you want to go? Tony’s?”
I shook my head. “Something not hospital related.”
Tony’s was the hospital’s watering hole and the bar the nurses had taken me to when I’d first moved to town. Normally, I would have been fine with it, but I wanted something different tonight.
“I haven’t had a chance to really explore the city that much,” I said. “You’ve lived in Dallas a while. Where’s a good spot?”
“You want something different. Something unusual?”
I nodded.
She paused, tapping a manicured finger to her lip. “How about The Rex Hotel?”
I frowned. “The Rex Hotel?”
“Yeah. They have a Whisky Room. It’s the top floor of the hotel, and it looks like an English smoking den. They have killer cocktails and after dinner drinks. It’s also got the most amazing view of the Dallas skyline. I think a snazzy East Coaster like yourself will appreciate it.”
“Dress code?”
“Yep,” she said with a grin. “Wear something fancy.”