Heart Doctors Collection

by Carly Keene

  “Coke,” I said, trying to keep my cool. “I’m the designated driver. Are you just getting off work, Doctor?”

  He looked down at his shirt. “Oh. Yeah. What, you think I’d treat patients while drunk?

  “I’d hope not.”

  “Never.” The bartender brought him his drink, and then got me my soda.

  “Do you always hit on girls in the gay bar?” I asked, still trying to calm down, and wondering in the back of my mind where Wade was. “What if they’re lesbians?”

  “I never hit on girls, gay bar or not,” he said, and sipped his drink. “But it’s the five-year anniversary of my divorce and I figured it might be time to get back in the pool.”

  “In a gay bar? Seems like bad odds. I mean, what if I was the only straight girl in the bar?”

  He laughed, and my nipples started to tingle. “Glad to hear my judgment’s pretty good. But I would have come up to say hi anyway.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re gorgeous,” he said. And he just sat there looking at me with that little half smile, eyes dark and hot and pirate-sexy. Which was probably what made me lose my mind, because I leaned over and kissed him. I kissed him.

  I’m still not sorry.

  His mouth was as hot as his eyes, and he tasted like scotch and sin, and he made a little humming noise against my lips before he settled in and kissed me back. Every thought left my head, and pleasure flooded my entire body, enough to make me lean into him and kiss deeper. My nose filled up with the smell of him: cedar and citrus and male skin. My body came alive with the delicious naughtiness of kissing someone I just met, whose name I didn’t even know.

  And then I got jerked off the stool.

  “What?” I stammered. “What?”

  Wade seized me by the shoulders, glaring at Hot Doctor. “I’m her boyfriend, asshole! Come on, babe.” He dropped a $50 bill on the bar, and he dragged me out to the parking lot, moving a lot faster than Wade typically moves.

  “What the hell!” I spat at him when he stopped us at my car.

  “Dave,” he said.

  “Dave?”

  “From high school,” Wade said through gritted teeth. “Please baby Jesus tell me there’s vodka at home.”

  And in the face of his distress, I stopped being mad. “There’s vodka at home.”

  TWO

  June

  “Nearly si-ix,” Wade croons at me from the next salon chair over, making ridiculous eyebrows that I know the client in my chair can see.

  “Stop that,” I mouth to him while I put in another curling-iron spiral. I turn the chair to the right so she can look into the parking lot instead, and release the curl.

  He makes a hand-rolling motion at me, trying to speed me up, then winces and grabs at his abdomen. He’s been complaining of stomach pains all afternoon. Which is unusual. But like all guys—gay or not—he does get Man Flu. When he’s sick, it’s the absolute worst illness anybody could ever have, and no one could suffer more, and please could I bring him another cup of decaf Earl Grey with extra honey because he really thinks he’s dying this time.

  I know. Man Flu. It’s a thing.

  But he’s my best friend. Even if he did pull me away from that Hot Doctor at Lonnie’s bar last week.

  We’ve been here three years now, and we’ve gotten pretty close to the other girls at Halo, too. Everybody’s looking forward to our night out.

  I comb through the client’s curls with my fingers and give her a spritz of hairspray, and then I’m done. We all smile and wave her out the door, and then we’re out the door too, heading to our favorite casual dinner place.

  “I’m starving!” Makayla says. “Pizza rolls?”

  “Mozza sticks,” Tyra suggests.

  Wade puts his hands on his stomach. “Are you trying to make me fat? No. We’re doing wings and celery sticks, and I will eat all the celery sticks.”

  “I want crab puffs,” I tell them as we settle into the Uber.

  “Oh god, you’re gonna make me puke,” Wade says. He looks queasy.

  I lean over and whisper in his ear. “Are you sick? Do you want to just go home?”

  “No, Junebug, I wouldn’t miss this. I have looked forward to our night out all week,” he insists.

  At Charlie Shark’s, we get a combo appetizer platter with everything and a pitcher of margaritas, and we toast Makayla and Dillon. We wind up talking engagement rings and wedding venues and flowers, and gradually I notice that Wade is getting quieter and quieter. Which is not like him.

  I tap him on the leg, under the table. He looks at me without moving his head, and his face has gone a peculiar grayish-green color. “Did you eat something weird?” I ask, under my breath. “Like some leftover takeout that got shoved to the back of the fridge or something?”

  “No,” he groans, hunching forward over the table.

  “Did you eat anything tonight?”

  “Just a couple of crackers. My stomach hurts, June. I mean, it really hurts.” He points vaguely at his belly button. “There. Or maybe on this side of it. No, in the middle more.”

  I’m no doctor, and I’m getting worried.

  “Hey . . . How many margaritas did you have?”

  He thinks. “Two? I think two glasses. God, don’t make me think about it. I shouldn’t have had any,” he whines.

  I put my hand on his forehead. It’s cool. No fever.

  He puts his head on the table, and Makayla and Tyra look at me, shocked.

  “Wade, I think we better get you home.”

  “Noooooo,” he wails, but he does it into the table. That settles it.

  “Okay, I am calling an Uber.” He nods without looking up, and that’s when I know he’s really sick.

  Fifteen minutes later, the Uber is pulling up outside, and Wade is puking his guts out on the ground by the front door, and sort of moaning every time he vomits. When he finally loses what there seems to be of the margaritas, I can see that he’s crying, and that scares me. In ninth grade, Jason Woodruff and Ty Miller cornered Wade in the cafeteria and called him a fag, and took turns punching him in the stomach until the teachers broke it up. He didn’t even cry then, so for him to be crying now, he has to be feeling miserable.

  I wipe his mouth with a tissue. “Change of plan,” I tell the Uber driver. “Hopedale ER, please.”

  THREE

  Finlay

  I’m getting too old for this.

  I realize that some people might not consider thirty-five old, but I swear, some days I might as well be waving a cane and yelling, “You kids get off my lawn!” Maybe it’s just that I’ve been doing this too long. Or maybe it’s just a Friday night in the ER.

  Sure, Saturdays are usually worse. Nights of a full moon are worse. This seems like just another Friday night: busy with all kinds of stupid shit as well as serious emergencies, and hey, it’s what I’ve chosen to do with my life, after all.

  Maybe it’s because I know there’s nobody waiting at home for me. That could be it. Lately, it seems like there’s just something in the water around here: all my doctor colleagues are obsessed with settling down. First Noah, who the nurses used to call the hot dad of the ER, started dating that cute radio tech, and they got married. Then Deena (she of the amazing bosom and the addictive toffee cookies) ran into her ex-boyfriend who is now an EMT, and they hot-footed it off to the altar. And then Maddox, who used to be good for a beer and a ballgame on nights we weren’t working, hooked up with Noah’s sister and now spends all his nights with her.

  It’s enough to make me wonder why everybody but me is getting paired up. I mean, does the smell of “failed marriage” float off me like too much Axe?

  I was married for two years, and I’ve been divorced for five years. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.

  Look, they don’t call med school loans “the relationship ruiner” for nothing. My parents struggled to help me pay for college, and there was no way I was asking them to go further into debt for me. That mean
t student loans. Big ones. That I needed to pay off as soon as possible, if I didn’t want my credit score to be sitting at 400 for the rest of my life.

  I always figured Becky and I were on the same page with our finances. She was already a branch assistant manager at the bank by the time we got married, so I was sure she’d understand my wanting to clear those loans before we did anything like buy a house, or have kids. I’d work, she’d work, we’d wipe out that big burden, and eventually we’d be free to start really living.

  But not six months into it, she started complaining about my work schedule. She was lucky enough to have a 9-to-5 at the bank on weekdays, but emergency medicine doesn’t often give you time off for family holidays, or weekends. I was always working every shift I could manage, and when I was home I was sleeping. After a month or two of bitching about it, she quit complaining. I figured she’d finally understood the nagging financial pressure I was under.

  Nope. She started going to the gym a lot, and she met a guy there. By the time I realized what was going on, it was too late. She wanted out.

  So. Divorce.

  It’s taken me every month of the five years without Becky, but I’ve paid off the loans. I take my vacations now. Sometimes I go out with friends: dinner, a beer after work, sometimes a movie. I’ve been out with a few girls, but there was always some point where I’d look at the girl across the restaurant table from me and think, I bet she’d tell me she was happy when she wasn’t, and whatever spark there was would just die.

  Somewhere in the world is a girl who is loyal. Who would tell me flat-out she needs more from me, and trusts me to give it to her. Somewhere. I just haven’t met her yet.

  So tonight, I snag five minutes in the break room to shove two of Deena’s toffee cookies into my mouth and wash them down with chocolate milk (what? I keep a half-gallon in the fridge in there). Seriously, those things are like legal crack. Maddox starts picking on me about the cookies, and finally I shut him up by telling him I’m going to ask Deena for her recipe.

  On the way back to the central desk, I peek into the waiting room of the ER, just to see how bad it’s getting. It’s not bad yet. Not quite 9 p.m., so the Friday-night-drunks haven’t started piling in yet. It’s pretty full in there, though. Old ladies in walkers, little kids with snotty noses. A teenager with what might be a broken arm, based on the pained look on his face and the you-never-listen look on his mom’s.

  And then I see her.

  Okay, full disclosure: the first thing I see is her ass. Which is round and curvy, an amazing ass just begging for my hands all over it as she’s bent over someone in a chair. The second thing I see is her hair, which is dark brown with redder streaks in it, and so shiny-straight it looks like a waterfall. It looks familiar somehow.

  The third thing I see is her eyes when she stands up and turns around. Those eyes are big beautiful anime eyes: enormous and round, with thick lashes, and they’re the delicious color of melted milk chocolate, and they’re staring back at me in recognition.

  It’s the first girl I’ve kissed since Becky left me, the one I ran into at Lonnie’s last weekend. The gorgeous one. The one who was kiss-cheating on her boyfriend, a guy so good-looking he could be a quite believable model for the sun god Apollo.

  Well, just fucking hell.

  I take a deep breath, and then I walk away.

  FOUR

  Finlay

  Three patients later, I’m totally work-focused when Alison Sadler calls me into an exam room to consult with her on a diagnosis. She shows me the chart of a 23-year-old male in generally good health, presenting with abdominal pain, vomiting and nausea, and says she thinks she knows what’s going on but she’d like my advice. Alison’s a new intern. She’s got good instincts, but sometimes she wants validation, and I gather this is one of those cases.

  “Psoas sign positive,” Alison says. “Pain in the right lower quadrant, increasing over the past several hours. Abdominal rigidity. Decreased bowel sounds.”

  I eye the patient. It’s that guy from the waiting room that looks like mythical Apollo, all wavy blond hair and chiseled features. I already fucking hate him, and I can’t even look at her.

  Apollo is sort of grayish-green. Which fits with the diagnosis I have in mind.

  “I’d like to see a white count and check if it’s elevated,” I tell Alison, “but I think you’re on the right track here.”

  “Still waiting on the labs,” she says. “I don’t know why they’re slow tonight. I’ve ordered a CT scan, and we’re waiting on that too.”

  “McBurney?” I ask.

  “Haven’t checked yet.”

  “What the hell is McBurney?” Apollo, the patient, asks. “Ow. And who are you?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Alison says. “This is my colleague, Dr. Gunn.”

  “Shouldn’t that have been Dr. Knife?” Apollo says. “Ow.”

  The beautiful girl sort of snorts through her nose, obviously trying not to laugh. I look into those melted-chocolate eyes for just a second, and then have to wrench my eyes back to the patient. I get a whiff of alcohol and one of vomit, and rub my nose unobtrusively.

  “Dr. Sadler, you want to go ahead and test McBurney’s Point?” I step a little closer to watch her do it. She puts her splayed hand on the patient’s abdomen from belly button to hipbone, then taps a finger on his belly.

  Immediate pain makes the patient howl, jackknifing his body almost in two before he collapses back onto the bed, panting and swearing.

  “I’m really sorry,” Alison says. “It’s an excellent diagnostic for appendicitis.”

  With the patient’s noise there’s a bigger whiff of alcohol in the room now. I mention to Alison that she might want a BAC as well as the white count.

  “Already asked for it,” she says, typing into his chart. She looks up at me. “That’s what I needed the advice on, actually.”

  “Have you been drinking, sir?” I ask.

  “Two margaritas,” the patient says, “which I threw up.”

  I find it’s easier if I don’t think of him as her boyfriend. If I don’t think of him as her boyfriend, I don’t want to throttle him. As much.

  “You didn’t eat anything,” Beautiful Girl says.

  “I’m not drunk,” Apollo says. “I’m a little bzz—um, buh—um, a little tipshee. I mean tip. Sy.”

  “Well, that’s kind of a concern for us,” Alison explains. “I’d like to order an appendectomy as soon as possible, so we don’t risk the appendix rupturing. But in order to operate, we would need his blood alcohol content to be lower than it is right now.”

  I lean over to speak softly to her. “Shoot him upstairs to Surgical. Then he’s their problem.”

  “They’re going to want to see labs.”

  “Their problem.”

  Alison nods. “Okay, let me go light a fire under the lab then.” She goes out, tossing a glance over her shoulder at me that says she has no idea why I’m not rushing back to my next patient.

  I’m wondering that, too.

  “Not literally,” I say to Apollo and his (I wish it weren’t true) girlfriend.

  She snort-laughs again.

  She really is gorgeous. Those melting eyes, the shiny hair, the luscious body. Her mouth is as soft and full as I remember. I check out her hands: long fingers, beautiful dark pink nails that match her scarf, and no rings. I want my hands on her. I want to rip that rose-patterned scarf right off her neck and give her a damn hickey, in front of everybody.

  “Don’t make me laugh,” Apollo snarls. “It hurts!”

  “Poor baby,” she says, and bites her lip.

  “We were wrong,” he says to her. “Weren’t we, Dr. Knife?”

  “About what?” Belatedly, I offer my hand. “Finlay Gunn.”

  “Finlay Gunn?” Apollo repeats. “Did your mother hate you?”

  The beautiful kiss-cheater looks embarrassed. “Wade. C’mon, be nice.”

  “He’s too fucking good-looking to waste time being
nice. Which just goes to show you where we were wrong.”

  I’m confused.

  Beautiful Girl tilts her head at me. “We were watching Grey’s Anatomy reruns and saying that no real doctor would be that attractive in real life.”

  That might be a compliment. Unless they’re talking about Alison, who has nice long legs and a stunning head of thick, curly, dark hair. “Who, Dr. Sadler?”

  “No, you,” Apollo says. “Doc McKnife.”

  I’m beginning to think he’s getting drunker by the minute, as the alcohol works its way into his bloodstream.

  Apollo points at me. “You’re not gay, are you? I couldn’t be that lucky.”

  Holy shit, he didn’t just say what I think he said.

  But he did. Beautiful Girl’s cheeks have flushed poppy red. It looks sexy on her. And now that I’m noticing, she has beautiful tits, too, under that scarf she’s wearing. Round and generous. I tell my dick to shut the fuck up. Holy shit, do they think I’m gay?

  I am SO not gay.

  Was she kissing me last week because her boyfriend is gay and she’s his beard but she really wants out? Because if so, I would get her out. The reckless mood, in this exam room that I should have left five minutes ago if I was really doing my job, seems to be infecting me. “I’m not gay.”

  “Wade, you’re drunk,” Beautiful Girl says. “You should shut up now.” She eyes him. “You don’t even recognize him, do you?”

  “Nope.”

  “That,” she says, pointing at me, “is the guy you pulled me off of last weekend in Lonnie’s.”

  “Nooooo,” Apollo groans. “The great kisser?”

  Huh.

  “He is. And you should be ashamed of yourself. I’m not your girlfriend.”

  “Well, I was having an emotional emergency!”

  My girl rolls her eyes, but Apollo ignores her. Now that I know, I can see they act more like siblings.