Executive Sick Days

by Maria E. Schneider

  Who can know if he planned it or it just worked out that since I was standing there blocking the way into the house like a star-struck idiot, he decided to take advantage of the situation? Either way, he wrapped his leather-clad arms around me and bent to touch my lips. I was still trying to say hi, and he took the motion as encouragement and pretty soon it was definitely along those lines.

  "Wow. You sure know how to greet a guy." He pulled back and smiled. "You look good."

  I think he had already said that, but I was not one to complain about redundancy of that kind. "Hi," I said breathlessly, unable to keep my eyes from giving him a quick top-to-bottom inspection. At just over six feet he towered over my wish-I-were five seven. "You too," popped out of my mouth with more enthusiasm than I probably should have allowed.

  He raised an encouraging eyebrow, but feeling shy, I scooted toward the inside door before he could gain further advantage. On the way in, I started to think about Crestwood Hospital. "I hear you're working a new case at the hospital." I stopped in the hallway. "And that Huntington hired Radar." I tried not to sound jealous, because, after all, I had job offers, just not very secure ones.

  Mark didn't seem put off. He gently tucked my hair behind my shoulder and then left his hand resting there. “You wouldn't be upset about that now, would you?" He moved in again, and I had a bad feeling that in a minute, I wasn't going to care where anybody worked.

  "A little," I breathed as his brown eyes got closer to my gray ones.

  He started a slow seduction, kissing me gently and then asking questions as if he was interested in the answers. "But why? I thought you didn't like working for my brother." Another light kiss, just a gentle one, no tongues. It was like seeing a picture of your favorite food, but knowing you couldn't have it.

  Focus, Sedona, focus…my mind drifted. I licked my lips and so did he. Oh, my. Then he pulled back.

  Bad boys weren't good for me. I had a sneaky feeling I was being manipulated. I forced myself to step out of reach. "I have some information on the case. I promised Brenda I would get it to Huntington, even though I'm not working on it." I crossed my arms in front of me, hoping to stop the tingling in my hands, toes and lips. The motion made me realize how fast I was breathing, and it drew Mark's eyes downward.

  His eyes flashed back to mine. "It isn't a good idea for me to date people I work with," he said softly.

  "What?"

  He looked me over, almost longingly, before stepping backwards. "Sedona, the last case you worked on, you almost got yourself blown up."

  I wasn't sure where he was going with this, but it wasn't as though I had gone looking for a dangerous situation. How was I to know I'd have to deal with a lunatic and a propane tank? "Mark…"

  He stopped me with one hand up. "Steve is talking about hiring you again, but I think Radar can handle anything we need. It would make things a whole lot easier if you didn't take the job." He grinned. "I have absolutely no designs on Radar. He doesn't distract me, nor do I spend a lot of time…worrying about him."

  It didn’t sound as though “worry” was quite the word he wanted. He might have been thinking, "fantasizing," and that word was a lot better than "worry." Worry was something my brother Sean did when he thought I was going to screw something up. "Oh. Well."

  "Well?" He gave me plenty of room.

  Mark sounded like he was trying to tell me that we could either date or work together, but not both. I didn't like that idea. It made perfect sense, but that didn't mean I liked it. I had other jobs or at least job offers, even if they turned out to be temporary. It was dates I was short. Not only had it been a long time since I'd had a date, I could state with certainty that I had never, ever had a date with someone like Mark. He was looking at me now as if I was the only person in the whole world that he wanted to date.

  When I didn't say anything, his grin turned wickedly suggestive, but he didn't push. That was irritating. At least if he seduced me, I could blame the whole mess on him.

  "I actually came by to invite you to dinner tomorrow." He very helpfully upped the ante.

  My eyes narrowed. Had he really been going to invite me out or had he just now decided that such a suggestion might persuade me? "That's--"

  The front doorbell rang. I glanced at it, but decided it couldn't possibly be important enough to postpone this discussion. I wasn't expecting anyone so it was probably a solicitor. Or worse, my brother.

  After a scant second, there was a scraping noise from the front door. Mark frowned, moving to stand in front of me. "Expecting company?"

  "No." We watched in fascination as the door swung open.

  Huntington stepped through and grinned at us. "Hope I'm not interrupting anything," he said cheerfully. "I saw your bike. I'm glad you changed your mind about including Sedona. We need someone on the inside."

  "I didn't," Mark said.

  Huntington ignored the comment, but looked briefly confused.

  With the sunlight coming in behind him, the two could be twins. His self-assured grin didn't melt my knees and generally speaking, neither did his suggestions, including the one he decided to voice now. "What do you think about volunteering at the hospital, Sedona? I figure you need a few good deeds written in the book somewhere." He pointed up toward heaven.

  I looked back at Mark. He wasn't looking at me. There was a muscle in his jaw that clenched and unclenched. He stared at the carpet, waiting for my answer.

  "Let me get this straight," I said. "First you wanted me to work at Strandfrost, and you helped me get promoted to a nice, fat paycheck. Then you wanted me to take a pay cut and work at Acetel. Now, you want me to work and not get paid at all?" Don't get me wrong, I had the utmost admiration for volunteers. My only problem was the house and car payment. Even if I got rid of the Civic and drove the Mercedes that Huntington had given me at the end of the first case, I still needed a paying job.

  "I'm sure we could work something out," he said nonchalantly.

  Now Mark did look at me. Actually, he stared over my head so he could see my reaction without making eye contact.

  This was turning ugly. "Okay, guys." I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Here is what I know." I stuck to business and gave them the information Brenda had detailed. I omitted her name in the telling.

  Huntington looked disgruntled when he realized I already had some information. "You think Mrs. Olsen is siphoning off money because she is grumpy?"

  "No, I'm telling you she might be up to something shady because she's the type of person who would notice extra billing, especially if she wasn't in the hospital when the billing took place. Why couldn't some of the patients be part of the scheme? They agree to over-billing, take a cut and give the doctor a cut."

  Huntington tilted his head and then nodded in agreement. "We can get Radar to start watching that account."

  "That won't tell you who is adding the charges to her account."

  "Who is Mrs. Olsen's doctor?"

  The doctor would be the most likely person to claim Mrs. Olsen was hospitalized when she wasn't. "I don't know who her doctor is. It really doesn't matter because she could be admitted by more than one doctor. Maybe Radar can figure out who is admitting her when she doesn't actually show up."

  "Doesn't sound like there is much for you to do," Mark said, looking right at me now. His eyes asked for a lot.

  My choices appeared to be a drop-dead gorgeous guy and one of two lousy jobs, or a possibly dangerous job with a decent paycheck and a non-existent love life. Huntington had already hired Radar; if I dawdled over my decision, he might discover he really didn’t need me. When Strandfrost fired me again, I’d have no job and no leverage to negotiate a decent salary.

  "What do you mean there’s not much to do?" Huntington disagreed sharply with Mark. "We need a lot more information, and it's going to be difficult to obtain. She'll have to work damn hard to blend in this time. Volunteers are supposed to be nice, caring individuals. Sedona, this is going to be a tough assignment for you."r />
  I cut my eyes to him. "You have such a charming way of convincing me."

  Before I could blast him further, Mark sighed. "I have to go." He stepped close to me, put his hand on the back of my neck and leaned in. There was no pressure in the kiss. He massaged my neck once before turning to leave. "See you."

  He strode out the front door before I had a chance to respond. I guessed this meant no dinner date. Unconsciously my hand went to the back of my neck, and I stood there until Huntington's voice broke into my thoughts.

  "What the hell was that about?"

  I frowned and turned my attention to Huntington. "Ask him," I said crossly. "He's your brother."

  Besides, I really didn't know myself.

  Chapter 4

  Volunteering was not, in my opinion, one of those things that brought instant gratification. Maybe some people were immediately satisfied because they knew they were helping someone in need. As for me, my first day of volunteering involved training--and regret. The bedpans were a large part of the regret, but my heart knew most of it was really Mark. He didn't want me working on another case. That was a fifty-fifty split for me, but only because I didn't like to be told what to do. He meant well. He wasn't trying to control my life before we even went on a first date. Right?

  Either the situation with Mark or one bedpan in particular actually brought tears to my eyes. It was going to be a tough assignment, but not for the reasons Huntington had outlined.

  In addition to changing bedpans, I learned how to deliver breakfast trays and wheel people to various parts of the hospital. The trainer, Ellen Garcia, informed us very carefully of the list of "do nots." It was hard to believe that any volunteer would get a sudden urge to start an IV or put a breathing tube up someone's nose, but Ellen repeatedly warned us against such actions.

  The last part of our training on Tuesday included decorating the nurses’ stations on all the floors with Christmas wreaths and a tour of the rest of the hospital. I was introduced to the head nurse, Brenda's supervisor and soon to be mine, Sally Rendal. Long black hair framed a stunningly flawless face, but like a stately blue jay, when she opened her mouth, the noise that erupted was in direct contrast to her beauty. "Nice to have a new face to lead." She cawed like a cross between a dying crow and the smoker in room three-oh-five.

  Since I had specified on my application that I wanted to work with elderly patients, my assignment was on the third floor, reporting to her for scheduling. "Nice to meet you," I murmured, shaking her outstretched hand.

  No delicate flower, this woman obviously spent some time at the gym. Not only was her grip painfully strong, there wasn't an ounce of fat anywhere on her frame.

  Sally introduced me to Crissa Sheldon, one of the technicians. Crissa completed a couple of mouse-clicks at the nurses’ station’s computer before turning and giving me a nod. "Welcome." One mischievous green eye winked. She gave a casual wave and headed off down the hall.

  Sally executed a military turn to bring her attention back to me. "If you need anything or have an emergency situation, the nurses' station is a good place to come." She did not point out the employee break room tucked behind the desk. Apparently it wasn't important for me to know where the refrigerator, snack machine and chairs were located. Stabbing a finger toward the patient call lights, she cawed, "These are the call lights that you will be answering."

  Two of the lights flashed madly. Sally noted the blinking with a frown that could have frozen Medusa. "It will be good to have more help. We obviously need it." Without another word, she marched off, no doubt to look for the remiss employees.

  Just then, both call lights stopped blinking.

  Hmm. She looked hell-bent on scolding someone, but by the time she found a nurse or technician, there wouldn't be a reason to complain. I bet that wouldn't stop her.

  Ellen, the trainer, seemed to miss the tension. She continued to beam as she inspected the Christmas greenery and the red bow she had just installed across the front of the desk. Like a mother hen, she ushered all of us trainees on to the next task, not the least bit perturbed to have had someone half her age take over, ignore her completely and then stomp off. "Let's go find the floor nurses," she chirped energetically. "There are two working each floor on any given day, on any shift. Most of you will work day shifts, so you will work closely with the people you meet today."

  We followed dutifully and met several nurses and another technician before trooping to the linen cabinets to collect our cute little striped aprons. Good thing there weren't any guy volunteers because our "uniforms" were pink and white.

  I tied the apron on while Ellen informed us, "You can wear jeans if you like, or if you have the money, the loose uniforms that the technicians wear are wonderful. You can choose your own hours, and if you want to expand your experience, just apply to volunteer in a different section of the hospital."

  My eyes widened before a smile broke across my face. Apparently when it came to volunteers, management was not only nice, but flexible. Maybe they actually wanted volunteers to keep showing up. In my experience, this was in direct contrast to a paying computer job where management was often bent on running employees off by saddling them with ridiculous schedules designed to cause extreme stress and a nearly constant sense of failure.

  My theory about volunteers versus paid workers was confirmed when I called Brenda after I got off work. "Is everyone always so nice at the hospital? I get to choose my own hours," I explained happily.

  She paused before shouting into the phone. "Nice? Who's nice? Hours? You mean Sally hasn't tried to schedule you for overtime and explained that you won't get paid for it because the budget hasn't been approved yet?"

  I got my first real lesson in nice by twelve o'clock Wednesday morning. Someone stole my lunch. It was taken in broad daylight, right out of the refrigerator in the employee break area--the little room that was tucked protectively behind the nurses' station. I couldn't believe it, but after a thorough search of the entire fridge, including the freezer, there was still no sign of it. It had vanished.

  I marched down the hall to the public phone in the visitor's waiting room and called Brenda. "Someone stole my lunch!"

  "Oh, did you leave it in the nurses' station’s fridge?"

  "This has happened before?" I had expected her to have some other explanation. Who could be that desperate? What if I spit in my food?

  "It's hard to believe, I know," she confided in one of her quiet whispers. "But some of the nurses aren't very good cooks."

  Brenda was by far the worst cook I had ever encountered, but I stifled the urge to comment. For a scant moment, I was even suspicious of Brenda, but she wasn't working until Thursday. It was doubtful she would have driven to work just to steal my lunch. Then again, she was pregnant. "I'm hungry," I said.

  "You'd better run out and get something. You don't want to eat in the cafeteria," she warned.

  I knew that. No one in any line of work wanted to eat in a cafeteria. "Okay, you're right. I'll sign out."

  "Don't worry about your lunch container. The thief always puts those back."

  Well, wasn't that nice of the thief. "I only brought a sandwich in a plastic bag." At least I hadn't wasted a gourmet lunch on a low-down crook.

  I hung up and went in search of food. Since I was signing out anyway, it was probably a good time to locate Radar. The computers were kept in the basement; we had seen them on our tour of the hospital.

  I made my way down to the bowels of the building, a clogged underground floor containing furnace and air conditioning equipment, closets and of course the ice room. The morgue, or the ice room, was just an empty room by the back entrance. We had peeked inside long enough to see the walk-in refrigerator used for patients awaiting their final trip out.

  The basement was kind of spooky now that I was down here alone. Since the servers weren't near the ice room at the end of the hallway, I picked the first door available, but it was a broom closet. On television drama shows and soaps, op
ening the janitor closet meant you were going inside to make-out with some irresistible doctor. This closet was full of buckets, mops, and a cleaning cart. It didn't smell like a place that would bring out romance either.

  I couldn't even picture anyone I had met going into the closet. The doctors were all over fifty and intently focused on patient charts. The head nurse, Sally, had to be a relative of Attila the Hun. It was no wonder Brenda didn't want the woman to know about her pregnancy; Attila might cancel it. The one male nurse on the floor, Paul Labrowski, looked like a fish. He had a round mashed face with bulging eyes and as a quirk of fate, walked around with his mouth hanging partly open.

  No, this closet wasn't going to get a lot of romantic use.

  I closed door number one and had to choose between a door across the hall labeled "Records" and an unlabeled door a few feet past the closet. Since I was pretty sure the "Records" room contained old patient files and x-rays, I picked the unmarked one.

  A few dangling wires and two computer monitors indicated I had chosen correctly. It didn't take long before I located Radar's legs. He was underneath a desk at the back. His jeans, sporting a couple of holes, were the only visible part of him.

  "Hey buddy. I thought you left town without bothering to say goodbye." My voice pierced the steady hum of technology. There was a clank as Radar dropped something. After a pause, he scooted out.

  "What did you say?" He was still thin as a scarecrow, and his long hair must have been near the computer fan. It was full of static and blown every which way.

  "Wow, you ought to be careful. You're going to get your hair stuck in a computer fan one of these days."

  "Yeah, thanks." He pulled the mess away from his face. I noticed that he had shaved his dark-blond goatee. It was a vast improvement.

  He stood up and after a short inspection of my own person, he added, "Nice apron. Pink. Heh-heh-heh."

  Okay, pink was not my color and with my personality it was like putting an apron on a convict working in a prison kitchen. I chose to ignore his humor because I had two brothers and knew there were some fights you couldn’t win. "Did you move to Denton or what?"