by Callie Hart
“Get your ass in here, fuckhead! Move!”
Shit.
I’m always surprised by how tidy Mac’s office is. By the look of him, stained vest, ripped pants, grease everywhere—the auto mechanic’s universal uniform—you’d think he’d be messy in all aspects of his life. Turns out he’s pretty OCD, though. Not a paper is out of place on his desk. Almanacs and mechanics guides relating to a vast array of car manufactures are neatly arranged by year and by size on the shelves behind him. The waste paper bin beside his dark stained wooden desk is empty. No pin up girls on the walls. No food wrappers, or empty soda cans. It’s neat as a pin.
“You think I’m a fucking joke, don’t you?” Mac spits. By the wiry vein pulsing in the center of his forehead, and the cloudy bead of sweat running down the side of his face, I can see today was a bad day to be late.
“Absolutely not. Of course I don’t.”
“Then why in fuck would you think it’s okay to show up to work late? AGAIN?”
“I’m sorry. I was at the hospital. Fuck, Mac, I’m trying my be—”
He holds up one hand. “Don’t even think about finishing that sentence. I know your kid sister is sick. I know you got a lot on your plate, Mason, I do, but so does every other fucker on the face of the planet. I’m trying to run a business here. Figure this shit out, or you’re gonna be looking for another job. We clear?”
I want to punch a hole in the bastard’s face. It would be more than satisfying to watch him crumple like the sack of shit he is as I plant a solid right hook straight into his skull, but where would that leave me? Without a steady income, and a blackened reputation. Mac is alpha and omega when it comes to body shop repairs in Seattle. One word from him and I’d never work in this city again.
“Yes, Mac. I got it. We’re clear.”
“All right then.” His face softens a little. “And like I’m always saying, if these morning shifts are too tricky for you, you can always take up some night work. I’m never short of that.”
As always, I turn him down flat. Mac’s night work is the most illegal, dangerous, and generally life threatening under-the-table work you could hope to find. I need money, not a criminal record or a shallow grave. “Thanks for the offer, though.” I turn and I get the hell out of there, before he can hint at anything else, and I can feel the sweat running down in between my shoulder blades. I’d better finish this car today, get her up and running in record time, remind Mac that I’m the best there is, otherwise I’m not going to be able to keep him off my back much longer.
I get to work, trying not to look in the direction of Mac’s office, or at the gym across the road, where Zeth is no doubt training hard, thrashing the shit out of a sea of unsuspecting wanna be fighters.
Later, after lunch (which I work right through), a familiar, beaten up looking Hyundai pulls up on the street outside the garage, and I instantly know this means trouble. I fixed that car a few weeks ago. Not only that, but I had the pleasure of driving its owner to her class at Seattle University.
Kaya.
She climbs out of the car, pulling her coat tighter around her shoulders, jerking the fur-lined hood up over that pixie cut of hers. For a moment, I trick myself into thinking that she’s not coming into the garage. Why the fuck would she? People don’t just show up at other people’s places of employment, wanting to have a chat. It just doesn’t happen. But the way she slams the car door closed and makes a beeline right for me is unmistakable. I should know better than to think Kaya Rayne conforms to any form of social etiquette.
“Hey.” The word forms on a cloud as her breath fogs the air. “You got a minute? I need to talk to you.”
I look at her like she’s crazy. “No, I don’t have a minute. I’m at work. I—fuck, Kaya. Leave. Please. I’m in enough shit as it is already today.”
A hurt look flashes across her cold-flushed face. “You really need to hear what I have to say, Mason. I’m not messing around.”
“Neither am I. If my boss sees you here, talking to me, my ass is in the can.”
“Don’t be such a baby. Listen to m—”
“I’d love to listen to you. Standing around, shooting the shit with you while you tell me about your day sounds fucking spiffy, but if Mac catches me socializing while I’m on the clock, I might as well pack up my tools and take off right now. Can we do this later?”
Kaya, lost in her gigantic parka, frowns at me, and I already know the power of that frown. She probably uses that thing to get whatever she wants, whenever she wants. It’s probably been used to bring men far more resilient than me to their knees.
“When?” she ask.
“I don’t know. Later.”
“Tonight?”
“Fine. Yes, tonight. I finish at eight. I’ll meet you at the café on the corner. Now, please. Just go!”
She goes.
Chapter Eleven
SLOANE
You never get used to the smell of vomit, even when it’s your own. I’m supposed to be attending a check up in thirty minutes so I can get signed off and back onto the OR floor, but there’s no chance of that happening today. I’ve been puking my guts up since lunchtime, and it doesn’t look like I’ll be stopping any time soon. I grab the bottle of blue Gatorade in front of me and swig some, swirling it around my mouth before spitting it into the toilet.
Jesus. Talk about stomach bug.
I’m shaky on my feet as I make my way off the emergency room floor and up to the ICU. That’s where I run into Oliver. He smiles when he sees me. In fact, he grins from ear to ear. The grin fades when he gets a good look at me, though. “Goddamn, Romera, you look like death warmed up. What the hell’s the matter with you?”
I chug the Gatorade, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Still sick,” I say, pulling a face.
“Then you probably shouldn’t be here,” he says.
“Screw you. I’m already off surgery. You can’t send me home altogether. I’ll go mad.”
“You stay here and you’re gonna infect half the people you see in the emergency room. That’s all I’m saying.”
I know he’s right, but damn. I really don’t want to be quarantined at the house. I’m no good at being ill. I don’t know the meaning of bed rest. I’ll end up gutting the kitchen, spring-cleaning like a crazy woman, or back burning all the dead shrubs and deadfall at the rear of the house. I’ll probably end up starting a forest fire. “Don’t you dare report me, Oliver Massey,” I say. “I’ll never forgive you. I swear I’ll take it easy. I’ll do paperwork upstairs or something. I promise I won’t infect anyone.”
He looks doubtful. “All right. But you’re submitting to an IV before you go anywhere, okay? You look like dog shit.”
“Gee. Thanks.”
He takes me by the arm and drags me into an examination room, pulling on a pair of rubber gloves with way too much flourish. He’s enjoying this. With a ridiculous waggle of his eyebrows, he pushes down on my shoulders, forcing me to take a seat on the edge of the gurney behind me. “Now. Dr. Romera. Do you happen to have a severe case of explosive diarrhea?”
“Gross. No.”
“Hmm.” He’s disappointed, I can tell. “That’s strange. Everyone else has had it. Myself included. Really humiliating when you’re sleeping at your new girlfriend’s house.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yeah.” He holds the back of his hand against my forehead, checking my temperature.
“We have far more accurate ways of doing that, you know?”
“I’m too lazy to grab a thermometer. Besides, you don’t have a fever. You’re fine.”
“Yeah, I don’t feel hot.”
Oliver scrutinizes my face, looking me over, as if merely staring at me will provide him with a diagnosis. “Well, I guess you’re on the other end of it, then,” he says. “Some fluids aren’t going to hurt, either way.”
I lay back on the gurney, propped up with pillows, the backrest in an upright position, and Oliver goes about hooking me
up to the IV beside the bed. He pokes his tongue out at me, then proceeds to ask me the things we’re meant to ask every time we administer any kind of treatment to a patient:
“Are you allergic to anything?”
“No.”
“On any medications right now?”
“No.”
“Had any recent surgeries?”
“No.”
“Any history of heart problems?”
“No.”
“Any chance you might be pregnant?”
“No.”
“When was your last period?”
I’m about to reel off the information, but that isn’t one of the standard questions. I shoot daggers at Oliver. He tries to distract me by sliding the IV needle into my skin, but it doesn’t work. “I’m not pregnant, Oliver. I’m on birth control. Now hurry the hell up. This is already going to take up half my afternoon.”
He shrugs his shoulders, turning down the corners of his mouth. “Just being thorough, Romera. I know you. You’re busy, you forget to take the pill a couple of times in a row, and BAM! Knocked up. I’ve seen that dude you’re living with, you forget. He looks like he has strong swimmers.”
“Stop talking about Zeth’s swimmers. His swimmers are none of your business. And I’m on the injection, so you don’t need to fret. No chance I can forget if I need to go get a needle jabbed into my ass cheek every three months, now, is there?”
“Fair enough.” Oliver holds up his hands in surrender. “Just lookin’ out for you,” he says, laughing.
“Why are you so cheery, anyway?” I grumble. I don’t need to mention the last time I saw him, when he was frustrated to the point of anger in the resident’s locker room.
“I am cheery because Alex is being moved down from the ICU today. He’s finally in the clear,” he says. “Providing no secondary infections have been festering away in the background, it’s just a matter of recuperation and physio now.”
“Damn, Oliver, I’m so relieved to hear that. I’m so happy for you.”
“Yeah, me too. Thanks, Romera. And thanks for being the one to help me stitch him back together in the first place. Now get better already so we can fix some more people, huh?”
I give him a mock salute. “Sir, yes, sir.”
“The guys from Alex’s fire house are coming by later. They haven’t been able to see him properly until now. I think they mentioned something about beer and Philly cheesesteak sandwiches if you think you might be able to stomach it.”
“You underestimate me. I can always stomach a Philly cheesesteak.”
Oliver leaves me to my own devices as I sit there, letting the IV do it’s work. It’s tedious, just letting time pass, and I have nothing to do but let my mind wander.
Zeth’s probably training hard, dreaming of ways to quash the threat Lowell poses once and for all. Hopefully without killing anyone. Michael’s probably…I have no idea what Michael’s probably doing. If he’s not with Zeth, then his actions or his whereabouts are a mystery. He’s such a guarded guy. His personal life is so unknown to me that I don’t even have a clue if he’s single or not. I doubt he has time for a girlfriend, considering how much time he spends running errands or ‘fixing things’ for Zeth, but there is a slim chance he’s got someone tucked away somewhere. I hope he has.
I think about Alex Massey, then. I think about how lucky he is that he’ll be walking out of St. Peter’s in a couple of week’s time. It could so easily have gone another way. The surgery could have killed him. Infection could have spread, bacteria overtaking him from the inside out. He was on any number of seriously strong, seriously dangerous anti-virals and painkillers. They could have interacted, as they sometimes do depending on the person, either sending him floating off into the ether or rendering the antivirals ineffective. There were so many things that could have gone wrong. So many things that could have…
Oh god.
I suddenly feel very, very sick again. My stomach rolls, nausea washing over me, as the room tilts uncomfortably. It’s not just the return of the nausea that’s making me feel ill. It’s the horrific, terrifying realization that just hit me like a bowling ball to the head. Alex was on a multitude of conflicting meds. Meds that could have made him even worse than he already was. Meds that could have caused others to fail and not work. I recently took meds that could cause others to fail and not work. I—shit, how could I have been so stupid? How could I have not thought for one second?
The antibiotics I took when I first got sick…antibiotics that occasionally render all forms of birth control utterly, completely, frighteningly ineffective.
******
Ward seven wasn’t built to accommodate twelve drunk fire fighters, and yet somehow Oliver has managed to squeeze them in. Alex Massey’s a special case, but he’s not special enough to warrant an entire ward all to himself. He’s rooming with a ninety-four-year old woman, who’s recovering from a triple bypass. Far from being upset about the ruckus, Cynthia May Allerdyce, hard of hearing and prone to bouts of obnoxious farting, is thoroughly enjoying the show the fire fighters are putting on for her. The guys, at least three or four beers in, could easily have been extras in Magic Mike, and they all know it. They’re enjoying themselves way too much as each of them lets Cynthia rub up on their chests and their abs with her arthritic hands. A couple of the guys aren’t even that built, some of them are kind of rotund around the mid-section, and yet they’re the worst offenders. Poor Cynthia is flushed in the face as she chats with the smoke chasers, patting them on the shoulders and telling them what good boys they are.
Alex Massey sits up in bed, watching with amusement as his friends make fools of themselves. No Philly cheesesteak for Alex. No beer, either. Just good ol’ morphine. Oliver hovers close to his brother, talking, constantly checking to see if he’s feeling all right. When he sees me on the other side of the bay, surreptitiously watching Cynthia’s monitor to see if she’s about to go into cardiac arrest, he gives me a grin and a small wave.
“Is he your boyfriend, sweetie?” Cynthia’s hand is cold on my arm, her skin like ice. She may be coming upon ninety-five, but she has the clear, intelligent eyes of a nineteen-year-old. She wears the look of someone who’s lived a life. Who knows what amazing stories she has to share. I’d love to sit down with her and hear them all, but that would be impossible with all the cheering and laughter that currently fills the room.
“Him? Dr. Massey? No.” I shake my head. “He’s a very good friend of mine, though.”
“Shame. He’s a good looking, tall drink of water, no?” She has the most charming soft southern twang. I bet she was quite the southern belle back in her day. I squeeze her hand.
“I already have a boyfriend, Cynthia.”
“Is he as good lookin’ as him?” she says the words like she already can’t believe that it’s true.
“He sure is. He’s the hottest man to ever walk the surface of the earth.”
“Aww, honey.” She says the word honeh, instead of honey. “You might believe that, and good. Sometimes a man can be the most…hideous thang, and still some woman out there love him warts an’ all. I do believe you one of those women, capable a’ lovin’ somethin’ no one else could.”
I laugh, patting her hand. Her skin feels so thin, like a moth’s wing. “My boyfriend’s handsome, believe me. Still, I guess you’re right. Some people might have trouble finding it in themselves to love him.”
“Mmm-hmm. Well you tell him from me, I know a kahhhnd soul when I see one, and he got hisself the kindest there is. I hope he takes good care of you, child.”
“He does,” I tell her, saying it with conviction, because it’s the truth, after all. Zeth takes the best care of me. “He’s a good man.”
Cynthia nods, her attention drawn away by the fire fighters, and I find myself numbed by my last statement. He’s a good man.
Is Zeth a good man? I love him without question; I care for him beyond measure, but is he a good man? My head’s experience of the
past year tells me one thing, the evidence on paper showing a stark, unfriendly reality, but my heart reports an altogether different experience. I try not to think about the unsettling thought that came to me while I was letting that IV do its work. I’m just being stupid, I’m sure. I’m probably wrong. There’s no way I can be pregnant. No fucking way. There’s one way to be sure, of course: I could go do a test. But for some reason I can’t seem to make myself do it. If I pee on a stick, if I do a blood test just to be sure, that means I may have to face an unpleasant truth, and I don’t think I can bear that right now. Scratch that—I know I can’t.
Oliver and Alex both smile at me as I hover close to them. They both have the same shaped eyes, the same shaped faces, the same honey blond hair that curls up a little around their ears. When they’re apart, I’d never say either one of them looks too much like the other, their mannerisms making them seem unrelated altogether, and yet sit them side-by-side and you wonder how you ever doubted their blood ties.
“Don’t worry. I’m not gonna give you a hug,” I tell Alex. “I don’t want to get you sick. Just wanted to come say hello. I’m so glad you’re on the mend.” Could be that I wouldn’t get him sick—unlike the flu, pregnancy isn’t catching, after all—but it’s not worth the risk.
Alex waves me off, like his life wasn’t in any real danger to begin with. “Can’t wait to get back to work,” he says. “These four walls are starting to drive me nuts already. And these assholes won’t quit calling me lazy, either. I need to get back on the rig, show them how it’s done.”
“If getting crushed and almost dying is how you do it, we don’t wanna know,” a young guy with a buzzed head says, laughing.
“Whatever, man. You’re just jealous that I get to hang out with hot doctors all day long.”
