Crash & Carnage by Emma Slate

Chapter 6

“Mom, I already told you,”I said calmly. “I can’t come home for Christmas.”

“But why?” she demanded. “I don’t understand. You need time off as much as anyone.”

“I’m the new hire, remember? Just because I’m a surgeon doesn’t mean I run the hospital and can take off whenever I want.”

“Last year it was because you were finishing your fellowship, and you didn’t want to take the time off. The year before that you were spending it with Jeff in Chapel Hill. Before that it was—”

“I’m not doing this with you.” I pulled out my leftovers from the hospital lounge fridge and brought them to the counter.

“I guess I should be glad you called at all.” She sniffed, threatening to unleash the crocodile tears.

“Mom, I’ve got to go. I’m working.”

“When are you not working?”

“Love you too,” I said. “Give my best to George.” I hung up and shoved the phone into the pocket of my scrubs.

“Mommy dearest?” Peyton asked as she came into the staff room.

“Yup.” I rubbed the spot above my left brow. I hadn’t needed that conversation after the week I’d just had. I hadn’t slept well in days. Even though I’d climb into bed exhausted, my mind didn’t play by the same rules as my body. Instead, I lay awake, my head full of thoughts of Boxer, churning like the drum of a washing machine.

He’d kissed me and then ghosted me.

And I was stupid enough to admit that it annoyed me.

More than annoyed me.

I sat down on a couch in the lounge and opened my plastic container. “Dang, I forgot a fork. Will you hand me one, please?”

Peyton went to the drawer and pulled out plastic silverware. She came over and plopped down next to me to peer into my container. “What did you bring?”

“Italian.”

“Yum.” She looked me up and down. “When was the last time you had a home-cooked meal?”

I paused with the fork halfway to my mouth.

“If you have to think about it, it’s been too long. Come over to my house. I’ll cook for you.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I said, eating a bite of cold lasagna.

“You didn’t even bother heating that up,” she said with a rueful shake of her head. “It’s also much more fun to cook for two, so you’d be doing me a favor.”

I swallowed and then nodded. “Then I’d be glad to accept your invitation. Can I bring the wine at least?”

Peyton smiled. “Absolutely.”

I looked down at the food in the plastic container. It was cheap. Disposable. I’d throw it away after a few uses because it would inevitably stain from oils in sauces and stews.

Why did I feel a kinship with a dumb plastic container?

“Linden?” Peyton asked.

“Huh?” I looked up at her.

“Are you okay? You tuned out for a second.”

“Do you ever reevaluate your life?” I asked.

She looked at me. “Reevaluate how?”

“Nothing. Never mind.” I forced a grin and went back to eating.

“It’s not nothing, never mind.”

My pager vibrated against my hip, and I looked at it. “I’ve got a consult in the ER. Gotta go.” I shoved my lasagna at her. “You finish it. You’re practically drooling over it anyway.”

She grinned. “I’ll eat it, but we’re not done with this conversation.”

“After a bottle of wine, I’ll spill my guts,” I assured her.

I took the stairs down a few floors to the ER. Some of the beds had patients waiting to be seen by doctors on call, but it wasn’t pandemonium. There was a lull, which was good for humanity, but bad for doctors. Doctors had a hard time being idle.

“I got a page,” I said to the nurse on duty.

She gestured in the direction of a hospital cot, and I turned to see what she was pointing at.

Boxer was sitting on the bed, legs stretched out, a roguish grin on his face. I immediately rushed toward him in concern.

“Hey, darlin’,” he drawled. “Miss me?”

My heart jumped into my throat, but I forced myself to remain calm. “Miss you? I’ve forgotten what you looked like.”

He raised his brows. “Thinking about me nonstop?”

I sighed. “Are you in pain? Is that why you’re here? I knew it, you have an abscess full of pus. It’ll have to be drained, and it’ll be gross—you should’ve gone to a hospital in Waco—”

“Is this your version of foreplay?”

“Foreplay?” I blinked. “Who said anything about foreplay?”

He got up off the bed and crowded my space, but only so he could reach over me, grab the curtain, and shut it, concealing us from prying eyes.

“What are you doing here, if you’re not in pain?”

“I came to ask you out.”

“Ask me out? Why?”

“Because when a boy likes a girl, he often wants to spend time with her.”

“You spent time with me the other night,” I pointed out. “And then you…”

“I what?”

“Kissed me, didn’t ask for my number, and ghosted me.”

His smile widened into a devilish grin.

“What’s that grin for?” I demanded.

“You wanted me to get your number.”

“I wanted…” I sighed. “Darn it. You confuse me.”

“You’re not my type, Doc.”

His pronouncement stung, so I did what I always did to cover my hurt feelings: I tossed my hair over my shoulder and leveled him with a haughty stare. “Good. You’re not my type either.”

“Hmm. Judging by how you clung to me in the elevator, I beg to differ.”

I glared at him. “I can still want to kiss someone who’s not my type. Hormones are hormones.”

“Oh good, I’m about to get a biology lesson, aren’t I?”

“Why are you here?” I demanded. “You didn’t have to show up at the hospital just to tell me I’m not your type.”

“I had fun the other night.”

“You did?” I asked in surprise.

“Yeah. And not just when I had my tongue in your mouth. The other stuff too.”

“The other stuff. You mean the talking part of the evening?”

He smirked. “Yeah. That’s unusual for me.”

“You don’t talk to women?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“You’re really selling yourself, here. I don’t even know what you’re here for.”

“You.”

“Me?”

“I want to take you out. For real. I want to pick you up, hold your hand, and buy you some food.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you want to take me out? You literally just told me I’m not your type. What gives?”

“I just told you.”

“You’re gonna have to tell me again,” I gritted out. “And explain it better this time.” My ego was more than a little bit bruised.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you,” he said.

His gaze was intense like liquid silver.

“It’s been a week. You could’ve contacted me long before now,” I said. “So why didn’t you?”

“I was talking myself out of it. Or trying to. It didn’t work.” He stepped closer and towered over me, but not in an authoritative way.

I tilted my head back to look at him. “Boxer, I don’t think—”

He covered my lips with his. He tasted like mint, and the scent of his cologne wrapped around me, heady and potent like a summer night with a touch of spice. Boxer spliced his fingers through the loose part of my braid at the nape of my neck, urging me closer, urging me to live in the feeling of his hot mouth on mine.

I set my hand on his shoulder to steady myself and then I sank into his touch, sank into the need I couldn’t deny now that I was faced with it.

“Say yes,” he said against my lips.

“To what?”

“To going on a date with me.”

His lips settled against mine again, and then his tongue was in my mouth. He wasn’t playing around, clearly. When he lifted his lips from mine, I was sure I was staring at him with a bemused expression splayed across my face.

Boxer was raw sexual appeal and excitement. He was everything I’d shied away from my entire life. And my body softened into him. I placed my palm against his chest and felt the steady pulse of his heart.

“When’s your next day off?” he asked.

“Tomorrow.”

“Unless you want a prospect to be our third wheel, you better clear me to drive. Officially, that is.”

“Are you blackmailing me?” I asked with a slight curve of my lips.

He grasped the end of my blonde braid and tugged me toward him again. “Linden.”

“Boxer.”

“I like the sass, Doc. I really do.” He released my hair, and then dipped his hand into my scrub pants pocket and pulled out my cell phone. “Unlock this so I can give you my number.”

I took my phone and unlocked it and then handed it back to him. His fingers flew across the screen and a few moments later I heard a buzz. Boxer reached into his pocket and extracted his cell.

“Now you’ve got my number,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at five.” He gently grasped my chin and slid his lips across mine. It was quick, a tease of what he could do with his mouth.

“See you tomorrow, Doc.” He winked and then pulled the curtain back and left.

I stared after him for a good long moment only to realize I’d never officially cleared him to drive.

* * *

“Labs for Alice Whitcomb,” Peyton said, handing me a tablet.

“Thanks.” I took it, and without leaving the nurses’ station, I scrolled through them to read the results.

After a few moments, I let out a long sigh.

“Bad news?” she asked, pitching her voice low.

“Biopsy came back positive. Stomach cancer,” I said quietly.

“Damn, really?” Peyton asked, her eyes concerned.

I nodded. “It’s spread too. Lymph nodes.”

“Damn,” Peyton repeated.

“I really hate this part of the job.” I took the tablet and headed to Alice’s room.

The sixty-three-year-old grandmother of four was lying in a hospital bed, crocheting scarves for family members. I hoped like hell she would be able to finish them.

I entered. The TV was on low, mostly for background noise. She was setting aside her crochet needles and the current project she was working on.

“Dr. Ward,” she said with a warm smile.

“Hi, Alice.”

Her smile trembled, and her brown eyes rested on me. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

“Stomach cancer,” I said, not beating around the bush. “It looks like it’s spread to your lymph nodes, so we need to talk about the next steps.”

She leaned back against the pillows and closed her eyes. “I was having stomach pain weeks ago. I didn’t think anything of it. I didn’t think it was serious.” She opened her eyes and stared at me.

Alice fiddled with the wedding ring she wore on a chain around her neck. It had belonged to her husband who’d passed away at fifty-five.

I knew my patients. I got invested in their lives. I asked about their children, grandchildren, and vacations.

I had made up my mind a long time ago that if they were going to come into my life—whether it was for a day or a week or longer—I wanted to know about theirs. Treatment became personal. It was much harder, but the caring made it real for me. These weren’t just patients; they were people.

And right now, I was the person who’d just blown apart Alice’s entire world, all because of my diagnosis.

“I’m going to have my staff set up a meeting between you and Dr. Lowell, the hospital’s senior-most oncologist,” I said. “She can go over your options and treatment plans. She’s very good, Alice.”

Alice nodded and then grabbed the crochet needles like they were a lifeline. “I’d appreciate that. Thanks.”

She buried her attention in the yellow yarn as her fingers worked diligently and efficiently.

I didn’t know what else to say to her, so I quietly left the room, the sounds of someone winning a game show and the cheers of the crowd filtering to my ears.

I didn’t return to the nurses’ station right away. Instead, I took a detour to the stairwell and went down a floor and found the janitor’s closet.

Among the cleaning supplies, I let out all my feelings, crying as I wished I could save them.

Save them all.

* * *

It was late afternoon when my shift ended. Though the autumn sun was warm on my back as I made my way across the parking lot, my heart and head were heavy. Imparting bad news to patients was part of the job, but it got inside me, infected my soul. Watching the truth wash over Alice’s expression had gutted me.

My phone buzzed, and when I saw that it was Boxer, a reluctant smile spread across my lips and a deep exhale left my lungs.

Boxer: Do you want to know where I’m taking you tomorrow?

I stopped walking to text a reply.

Me: Surprise me.

Boxer: You trust me that much?

Me: No sex dungeons. That’s all I ask.

Boxer: Damn. You read my mind. I guess it’ll have to be plan b.

The drive home was long and slow. Traffic was a bitch. Finally, I turned into the underground garage of the condo building and found a spot near the elevator. I gathered my belongings and climbed out of the car. The carriage came almost immediately. I trudged across the floor to my apartment and then accidentally dropped my keys. Leaning over, I scooped them up, and for a moment, I pressed my forehead to the wood.

Once inside, I released my stuff where I stood, shut the door, and locked up for the night. I sank to the floor, and didn’t move for a long, long while.