Yours

by Jasinda Wilder

  "I'm insulted, Mom." I sip some scotch; god, the burn is so beautiful. "I'd never pay a woman to get naked. When you're this good looking, you don't have to." I grin, a broad, cheesy grin.

  It's supposed to be a joke.

  Sort of.

  I mean, it's true. But it was a joke.

  Mom doesn't get it. "Do you hear yourself, Lachlan Montgomery? You're a pig."

  "It was a joke, Mom."

  "No, it wasn't."

  I tip my head side to side. "It is true that I've never had to pay a woman to take her clothes off--or do anything else, for that matter. But nonetheless, it was a joke."

  "Not a funny one."

  "That's just because you don't have a goddamned sense of humor. You're just as cold and stuffy and stuck-up as all your friends." I stand up. "I've got to go. I've got things to do."

  "You've never worked a day in your life, Lachlan. What could you possibly have to do?"

  "Didn't I mention? I'm picking up some hookers. I'm having a kegger up at the Trinidad property."

  "Lachlan."

  I shake my head. "Mom. Seriously. Learn to take a joke."

  "You have to at least make an appearance at your party, Lachlan. Please. It's important to me."

  I finish the glass of scotch; crunch an ice cube--just to piss Mom off, again. "Fine. I'll make an appearance. But that's it. Don't expect much from me past showing up for a drink or two." I set the glass down, hesitate, and then take the bottle. "And then I'm gone. I've got a berth on an ice-breaker headed up past the Arctic Circle."

  "You're kidding."

  "I never kid about travel, Mother. It's the one thing I take seriously." I lift the bottle in salute. "That, and women."

  "You could have done something worthwhile with your life, Lachlan." Trust Mom to get the last word in, and to make it a scathing parting shot.

  "Probably," I say. "But I didn't. I wasted it enjoying the limited time available to me."

  *

  Two months later

  The party is everything I imagined it would be, and worse: Massive. Elaborate. Sophisticated. Expensive. There are fireworks, and some famous pop band with fancy hair and great teeth and shitty singing voices. Swans. Fragile globes of light on delicate strands of silver wire strung across wrought iron pergolas. Cloth-covered tables. Open bar, top-shelf liquor and wine. Men in tuxedos and women in evening gowns. Lots of fake tits and expensive noses.

  I show up in ripped jeans and a Bullet For My Valentine T-shirt. Mom loves it, of course, and praises my exquisite fashion taste.

  Hah. Right.

  She scolds me for dressing like a degenerate, and then tries to take the bottle of whiskey from me; it's a limited edition Michter's Celebration Sour Mash, worth over four grand, with a label made from 18k gold. And I'm drinking it straight out of the bottle. I thought about taking the Dalmore 64 from Dad's collection, but I couldn't bring myself to do it; that's a whisky that deserves fucking respect and proper treatment, thus I leave it where it is.

  When I make it clear I'm not giving up my prize, which is my birthday present to myself, she tries to introduce me to the well-heeled, well-groomed socialite daughters of her friends.

  Don't get me wrong, I'm not above a tumble with a rich bitch or four, but they're annoying when they're not naked and their mouths otherwise occupied. The trick with chicks like them is to keep them busy so they can't talk. Know what I mean?

  Flirting is fun, though. They're all pretty, of course, and they all like me.

  I'm dangerous. I'm a bad boy, a real rebel. I mean, I sold off my 50% share of Dad's company to the highest bidder the day I turned eighteen. And, believe me, I got the highest bidder because I'm no idiot. I could have been a hell of a businessman had I chosen to do so. I used the proceeds to build the Vagabond, and had enough left over to fund my adventures for the past twelve years.

  Yeah, Dad's company was worth a mint. And I sold it off to sail the world and live in idle luxury. Real Prodigal Son, I am.

  I get bored, though. I cap the bottle and carry it with me to the helipad on the far end of the east wing, a ditzy heiress named Lana under one arm, and a rowdy communications major named Morgan under the other. I have the family pilot, Robby, take us to a deserted beach I know about, a good forty minutes by air north of LA. Robby brings us down right on the beach, and I help the girls get out, and then I signal to Robby to be back in two hours.

  We waste no time in getting naked and, for once, I let myself be pleasured without giving back.

  Usually, I'm adamant about making sure whoever I'm with gets theirs first, usually more than once, before I get mine.

  But tonight it's all about me, and only me.

  I'm thirty-one, motherfuckers. I made it to thirty-one.

  I let them touch and kiss and go wild, let them show me that, yes, if I gave them enough high-end whiskey, they'll do things to each other, and to me, that...well...are best left to the imagination, and my memory.

  Moonlight, whiskey, breasts, mouths all over me, the ocean crashing and the surf licking at my toes--and...what's her name? Oh yeah, Morgan. She's licking me elsewhere...it's a good way to turn thirty-one.

  Until shit conspires against me.

  Too much whiskey, and too much vigorous sex doesn't mix well with a congenital heart defect. Who knew?

  Combine that with being in the middle of nowhere without any meds, and spotty cell coverage?

  It started with finishing my third climax in--well, mostly in, partly on--Lana's mouth. Your heart hammers pretty hard after a wicked awesome orgasm, but it's supposed to calm down after a minute, unless you're in terrible shape, and I'm not. I'm in fucking fantastic shape, heart condition be damned.

  I'm naked and drunk with a pair of clueless heiress socialite blondes climbing all over me. Not that there aren't smart blondes out there--hey, Astrid!--but there are reasons stereotypes exist.

  This is like Chile all over again.

  But this time, my heart doesn't slow down. It hammers even harder.

  I do square breathing; focus on the beats, counting them, slowing them.

  Eventually I have to move away from the girls and sit in the sand, head in my hands, and breathe. Hope. Beg to make it just another day.

  One more day.

  I mean, to die on my thirty-first birthday?

  Jesus, what a laugh.

  But it's real.

  Not on the mountain in Chile, no.

  At home, in Cali.

  On a beach, naked, with a couple of pretty girls.

  Again, there are worse ways to go.

  But deep down, the truth is I don't want to go at all.

  I've resigned myself to it. I've kept everyone at bay my whole life because I knew it was coming, sooner rather than later.

  I just...I've always hoped that maybe I could cheat it, day by day, and somehow it wouldn't catch up.

  But it caught up all right.

  "Hey, Lock? You okay?" Morgan, this is.

  I think it's her, anyway. It's hard to tell, because I can't hear, and it's hard to make things out. I'm seeing double, and it's not from the whiskey. I've got the tunnel vision again. Chest aching. That fucking elephant is sitting on my chest again.

  Here we go again.

  I get reflective, because this kind of dying takes time. It feels like it to me, at least. I have time to stare at the waves and wish I were out there on the sea, riding the waves, hauling at the Vagabond's lines, trimming the sails, reefing the jib.

  "Lock?" This is Lana. I can tell because she's in front of me, and she's got a cool birthmark on her left tit. Looks like Italy, right on the slope, sort of near the outside. "Lachlan?"

  I wave. "I...it'll pass."

  "Are you sure you're all right?"

  I shake my head. "No."

  But this time the feeling is not passing.

  I'm on my back, and I don't remember lying down. I hear rustling, and thudding. The helicopter, Robby is landing. Sand stings my eyes. I see skirts around me,
which is what the rustling noise was--the girls putting on their dresses. Someone laboriously and with great difficulty gets my pants on me.

  I feel Robby throw me over his burly shoulder, and set me in the back of the chopper.

  "Yo, Lock, you good, man?"

  I squeak out a breath. My heart...I'm not sure if it's beating too hard or not hard enough. I stare up at Robby. "Hosp..." I can't get it out. "Hosp--hospital."

  "You got your meds?" With effort, I shake my head no. "Shit, man. We're a good thirty minutes from a hospital, and that's by air. You gotta hold on. Girls, sit down and buckle up. We're gonna haul ass and it ain't gonna be pretty." Robby is an ex-military pilot, and I got him to show me some tricks once. Dude can fucking fly.

  Which is good, because it's hard to think. Hard to see. Hard to breathe. Hard to do anything except stare at the ceiling and hope.

  I hear sniffling.

  Lana is crying.

  "Quit...that...shit," I snarl. Okay, not a snarl, more of a gasp and a whimper. "Had it...coming. Whole...life."

  Robby was right. It's not pretty. He keeps low and hauls ass, breaking a lot of laws, probably.

  I realize my head is on Morgan's lap.

  There's a theme, here: not a bad way to go, head on the lap of a pretty girl.

  Blackness is winning.

  I'm holding on, but there's not much to hold on to at this point.

  Everything is faint.

  I feel...thin.

  Darkness.

  I succumb.

  Head looking down

  Los Roboles Hospital and Medical Center

  Los Angeles, California

  Six years earlier

  "Twelve year-old male, multiple gunshot wounds." This is from Delaney, the ER resident on duty this morning, shouting as she runs beside a stretcher. "Pulse is thready and fading. Blood type O-neg."

  I'm running beside the stretcher, visually assessing the victim. Young, black, adorable. Innocent. Terrified. His eyes roam and flick and flit everywhere, seeking something to fix on. He's in agony. Knows he's dying.

  "Hi, sweetie," I say, getting his attention. "What's your name?"

  "Mal--Malcolm." He's gasping; there's a whistle to it. Shitshitshit. "Am I--am I going to die?" His voice is barely audible.

  Probably. I just smile down at him, calm and sweet. "No, honey. Of course not. We're gonna take super great care of you. Okay? You're going to be fine."

  "Promise? Mama...Mama needs me."

  "Is your mama here?" I ask.

  "No." He groans, arching off the stretcher as pain ravages him.

  We get the gurney into a room and really get to work. The paramedics who brought him in are assisting. Delaney is calling the shots as the senior nurse on duty, and I'm hooking up Malcolm to the monitors.

  He's gushing blood from at least four different entry wounds, despite the triage efforts by the paramedics to slow the bleeding. One to the chest, two to the stomach, a fourth in the thigh. It's a miracle he's even conscious, let alone lucid. Little fighter.

  "Do you know where she is?" I have to keep him talking, keep him awake. "Malcolm? Does your mama know you're here?"

  He cries out as Delaney stabs a local anesthetic into his chest around the sucking wound there. He cries out again as she probes into the wound, digging in before the medicine has a chance to take effect.

  "No, no--Mama...Mama's at work. I was s'posed to be at school." He's trying like fuck to be a man, I can see it. Refusing to cry, refusing to scream. God, if I had half the courage of this little guy. "She's gonna be so--so mad at me."

  "No, honey, no. She won't be mad. She'll just be glad you're okay, all right? I promise, your mama won't be mad."

  Delaney glances at me, and I really don't like the look in her eyes. Nor do I like the slowing beeps of the heart monitor. His eyes roll back into his head. The godawful whistling from his chest wound can be heard over the ambient noise. But it's the stomach wounds that are killing him. Stomach acid is leaking into his body.

  "I'm dying, ain't I?" He looks up at me, and even after three years of ER triage, it never gets easier, the lying to patients.

  "No, Malcolm, baby. Delaney is fixing you up, okay? We're gonna take care of you. I promise." I'm working like crazy, trying to stop the bleeding in his thigh. It's not stopping. The paramedics slowed it, but it's not stopping. I'm in his thigh, hunting for the severed artery that's spouting blood like a fountain. "Where were you, Malcolm? If you weren't at school, where were you?"

  He's fading. My heart squeezes. Going to have nightmares about this tonight. His eyes, scared, beg me to save him.

  "Playing--ball." He blinks hard, sucks in a breath. Finds my eyes. "It hurts. I'm cold. I don't want to die. I don't...Mama?"

  He's got brand new Jordans on. The pristine white leather is dotted with blood. Basketball shorts. A little big. Why do I notice these things? He's tied his shoes in a big fat triple knot, to keep the laces up out of the way. There's a big perfectly round drop of blood right on the tip of his left shoe. I watch his toe flex in the shoe, flexing the leather.

  "Malcolm? Stay awake for me, baby." I've found the artery. I pinch it off with hemostats, but it's not gonna save him. Delaney is still working on his chest. "Malcolm? Who's your favorite basketball player, Malcolm?"

  He's not responding. He sees me, but he looks confused. Blinks become flutters. Then a long unfocused stare, his eyelids fluttering. Breath slowing.

  We keep working.

  You don't ever stop, not even when you know it's hopeless.

  Delaney watches the monitor as it flatlines. She shouts for the paddles, calls out the charge setting. Clear! We all back away. Pop! Nothing. Pop! Nothing. A few more times, but we all know he's gone.

  Finally, Delaney has to back away, panting from the exertion. It's over.

  Delaney wipes the sweat off her forehead with the back of her wrist. Checks her watch, the face of which is on the underside of her wrist. "Time of death--eleven twenty-three a.m."

  I've only cried at work two other times. Once when it was a girl I knew, a good friend from nursing school. Suicide. Slit her wrists. Nobody had any clue she was struggling. The other time was when there was a fifteen-car pileup on the 210. Dozens of injuries, six fatalities, two of which were little babies.

  Whom I treated.

  And lost.

  Something about losing Malcolm...I can't handle it.

  Delaney sees it. "Take ten, Niall." I hesitate, and she makes the face that says don't argue, bitch. "Go. Now. Ten minutes."

  "All right, all right. Ten minutes." I'm just repeating it, because I'm dizzy and it's what you do, repeat orders. Make sure you've got it right.

  I'm almost outside when an orderly grabs me. "Ummm...Niall?" I pause, try to focus on her. Blink back tears. A young woman, green scrubs, Asian, gesturing at my hands. "Maybe give me those, huh? I'll take care of them."

  I don't know what she's talking about. I glance down and see that I'm still wearing the bloody latex gloves, the hemostats in a death grip. I turn around and see that I've dripped a trail of blood all the way here. I let her take the hemostats, duck into a bathroom and strip off the gloves, wrap them in a brown paper towel and discard them. I wash my shaking, trembling hands.

  I always get the shakes after surgery or an emergency. Never during.

  Finally outside, I wander aimlessly. Looking for somewhere quiet. I want to be alone. Away from the ambulances arriving at the ER entrance. Away from the patients and visitors at the main entrance. Finally, I just collapse on the curb underneath a towering palm tree. I bury my face in my hands and try to keep from actually sobbing. I try to banish the vision of Malcolm fading, confused, afraid.

  I become aware of the sound of soles scuffing on the concrete, and I blink through my salt haze to see a big pair of tan combat boots, and the faded, torn cuffs of blue jeans. The guy sits down beside me. I clear my throat. Blink away tears, rub at them quickly.

  "Here." Smooth, attractive male voice.
Not deep, but smooth.

  I glance, and see a large masculine hand, hair and scars on the knuckles, proffering a cigarette.

  "I don't smoke."

  "Neither do I." He reaches over, bold as you please, and places the filter between my lips. Sparks plume, and it's lit. "But you need it at times like this."

  I take it between my index and middle fingers, like I've seen Delaney do on countless occasions, and pull it away from my mouth. Finally I take a look at my companion.

  Oh. Whoa. Okay. He looks like McDreamy from Grey's Anatomy. Early thirties, thick black hair swept back, streaks of silver at his temples. Ten-day scruff, not quite a beard, also salted with silver. Brown eyes, the corners wrinkled from smiles and the sun.

  "Puff." He commands it. Soft, but insistent. "Trust me."

  I take a puff.

  "Now inhale. You'll cough, but it'll be worth it."

  I inhale. Taste mint...menthol. Then I cough like I've got emphysema, but the subsequent rush is...worth it. Just like he said. I extend the cigarette to him, but he shakes his head.

  "I only smoke after an operation, and then only after the really gnarly ones." He rubs at the corner of his mouth with a big thumb. "That's the trick to not getting addicted. You only have one when you're cracking up."

  "You're a doctor?"

  He nods. Watches me take another hit, and hack again. "A surgeon with MSF."

  "MSF?" It sounds like something I should know.

  "Medecins Sans Frontieres," he clarifies, in a flawless French accent. "Doctors Without Borders."

  "I've heard of it for sure, but I don't know much about it."

  "Non-profit, international humanitarian aid. We put together teams of medical personnel from all over the world, and we go into nasty situations, provide medical treatment. Civil wars, natural disasters, disease outbreaks."

  "Where have you been?"

  His eyes reflect the fact that he's seen hell. "South Sudan, Uganda, Cambodia, the quake in Haiti. I was stationed in Cote d'Ivoire for a couple of years." He points at my still-shaking hands. "I get those, too. The shakes, after it's all over."

  "Lost a patient." It's all I can get out.

  He nods, squinting as the sun peeks out from behind a cloud to shine in our faces. It's L.A. hot. "Never gets easier. Harder, if anything."

  "He was twelve. Shot four times. Just...bled out."