Hammered

by Jasinda Wilder

  My phone rings halfway through my second margarita. This time, I can see the screen, so I know who it is: Jesse.

  I make him wait—make myself wait—before answering. Don’t want to seem too eager.

  “Hello?” I say, as if I don’t know who it is.

  “Hey, Imogen. It’s Jesse.”

  “Oh, hey.” I try for breezy and end up sounding overly breathy. “What’s up?”

  “I tried calling you a bit ago, but your voicemail is full and you weren’t answering messages.”

  “Oh, yeah, sorry. I was at work. I dropped my phone in the toilet.” I laugh. “My voicemail is full because my douche of an ex-husband left a bunch of messages on it right after we got divorced. He got drunk and drunk-dialed me, I guess. Nobody ever calls me, and nobody ever leaves voicemail, either, so I never thought about deleting them.”

  “Dropped your phone in the toilet, huh?” His voice crackles with humor. “Let me guess—it was in your back pocket?”

  “Shut up.”

  “They should have back pocket insurance specifically for women.”

  “Is there a reason you’re calling, other than to make fun of me?” I ask. “Because I’m busy celebrating, here.”

  “Celebrating? Celebrating what?”

  “I quit my job, and got a new phone.”

  A long silence. “Congratulations? What are you going to do now?”

  “Be able to use my phone, for one thing. The screen has been shattered for like two months.”

  “I meant about work.”

  “Oh.” I sigh. “I don’t know. Probably apply at the hospital. It’s a higher stress environment, but they pay more than an office. I took the office job because I wanted less stress. With my experience and my RN credentials, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Why’d you quit?”

  “I don’t know. I probably shouldn’t have, but I was pissed. I dropped my phone in the toilet, like I said, and the ringer wouldn’t go off, it wouldn’t switch to silent, so when you called I was with a patient. My boss, Dr. Bishara, has a very strict no cell phone policy, but it appears he’s okay with other people violating it, just not me. I’ve worked for him longer than any of the other nurses, and he reprimands me for my phone accidentally ringing one time—once! I’ve worked for him for almost ten years! So I just…I quit.”

  “Because of my call?” he asks, sounding worried.

  “No!” I say. “Well, yes, but it was time. I like being a nurse, but that place was driving me crazy.”

  He sighs. “I’m sorry my call came at an inopportune time, regardless.” He pauses. “So, the reason I’m calling is because I wanted to know if you’d be okay with me swinging by your house today while you’re gone. I have something I want to do, and I want to surprise you with it.”

  “You’re calling to tell me you want to surprise me?” I ask, laughing.

  “Yes. I need your permission. And access inside.”

  “What are you doing?”

  He chuckles. “Um, well, if I told you that, it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it? Just…trust me, okay?”

  I consider. For all of, like, fifteen seconds. “There’s a spare key.”

  “Let me guess—under the welcome mat?”

  “Nope.”

  “In the flower pot by the front door?”

  I laugh. “No! I’m not that stupid, Jesse. There’s a little equipment shed in the backyard.”

  “I see it,” he says.

  I sit in silence for a beat. “Wait, you’re there now?”

  “Well…yeah. No time to get shit done like the present, amiright?”

  “I guess. So, in the shed there’s a shelf on the back wall, near the ceiling. Way high up.”

  “I see it.”

  “There’s an old box of strike-anywhere matches on the left side of the shelf. Inside that is a spare key lockbox…”

  I hesitate, because giving a man who is, truthfully, still an unknown—a stranger, if you will—the key to my house…? Am I dumb? Naive? Too trusting? Yes, perhaps. But I just have this feeling about him. An innate instinct that I can trust him.

  “Um.” His voice breaks my silence. “The code?”

  “Sorry, I just…”

  “You know, if you’re not comfortable with me being in your house when you’re not there, I totally get it. Just say so.” He waits a beat or two. “I do hope you feel like you can trust me, though. I know we haven’t known each other long, but—”

  “Six-six-oh-eight,” I blurt. “My anniversary. God, I need to change that.”

  “Yeah, you do. How about you change it to eight-one-one-eight?”

  I frown, not recognizing the date as anything significant to me. “Why? What does that signify?”

  “I’m hurt, Imogen. Deeply wounded.” He laughs. “It’s the date we met.”

  “Oh.” I’m blushing hard, now, for some dumb-ass reason. “Yeah, that’s a good one.”

  “I’m teasing,” he says, still laughing. “Okay, I’m inside. So, can you stay away from the house for a few hours?”

  I hesitate. I was thinking of going home after this and changing into a bikini and sunning in the backyard. But why not give him a chance to surprise me? God knows that hasn’t happened enough in my life. Well, good surprises, at least.

  “Sure,” I say. “I’m out of a job now, so I’ve got nothing but time on my hands.”

  I hear tools clanking, and a rustling as if he’s shifting the phone to clutch it between ear and shoulder. “You’re an RN, right?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Well, our big project we’re doing? That custom build in your neighborhood? The wife is a doctor, and she’s actually a department head. The ICU, I think. I could give her a call for you.”

  “Not that I doubt a call from you would do any good with her, but—”

  “But I’m a construction worker building her house, and why would I have any sway with the department head of a hospital?”

  I laugh. “Exactly.”

  “She’s mentioned several times how understaffed her department is, just in the course of making small talk while she’s on-site.” I can almost hear the shrug in his voice. “It’s worth a shot, right? If you can get a new job right away without having to go through rounds of submitting your resume, that’d be a good thing, right?”

  “It would be amazing,” I say with a sigh. “Sure, give her a call.”

  “You’re an RN, with what kind of experience?”

  “I’ve worked for the same private practice for the last ten years, and I worked in the ICU in the University of Illinois Hospital for eight years before that.”

  “Damn, girl. You’ve been nursing for a minute, haven’t you?”

  I blush even harder. “I, um…I started taking college courses during my sophomore year of high school. I worked with counselors at the community college and my high school so I could work out how to take all the prerequisites in the right order so by the time graduated…” I trail off. “No need to explain all that. Point is, yeah, I knew early on that I wanted to be a nurse and went after it.”

  “You know you literally cannot bore me, right? Like, it wouldn’t be possible for you to ever bore me.”

  I laugh. “I’m pretty sure me talking about how I took anatomy and microbiology and developmental psych and all that would bore you to actual tears. Manly tears, but tears nonetheless.”

  I hear tools being set down. “You’d be surprised.” A long, significant pause. “I may not be interested in nursing or whatever, but I’m interested in you, so, therefore, I’m interested in nursing degree prerequisites.”

  “Are you sure you’re a real person?”

  “‘If you prick us, do we not bleed?’” he says.

  I frown. “Did you just…did you just quote Shakespeare?”

  “Who’d’a thunk it, right?” He chuckles ruefully. “A dumb ol’ blue collar construction bro quoting Shakespeare?”

  “No! That’s not—I mean—Jesse, that’s
not what I meant.”

  He laughs even harder. “Why not? It’s true enough. I didn’t exactly ace my high school English classes. My sister was the book nerd. She was in a production of Merchant of Venice her senior year, and for some reason that particular line has always stuck with me. It’s not like I can sit here and quote Shakespearean sonnets to you or anything, so don’t get too excited.”

  “You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

  “Nah, it’s not that. I just get put into a particular box pretty frequently. And, for the most part, that is where I fit. It’s just…it’s not totally and only who I am as a person.” He laughs again. “Anyway, I’m gonna let you go. I wanna get this little project finished.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me yet—you haven’t seen what I’m doing!”

  “Okay, okay, well…I’ll talk to you later, then?” I think of something. “Wait—did you guys get your emergency flood situation under control?”

  H sighs deeply. “We worked until like four in the morning, but yeah, we did.”

  “That’s good,” I say. “I’m glad you got it sorted it out.”

  “Me too.” A pause. “Anyway, I’ll call Dr. Waverley and then call you. Have a nice day off.”

  “I’ll try. You too. Bye.” I hang up, and my food arrives, and I lose myself in wondering what he could possibly be doing to my house.

  After lunch—and cutting myself off at three margaritas, because it’s just too early to get sloppy—I decide to take myself to a movie. There’s a new romantic comedy out, and the theater is just down the road. I splurge on popcorn and a bottle of water, and enjoy some much-needed laughs.

  Of course, the romantic element of the movie isn’t doing my overactive imagination any favors. On the way out of the theater, a ridiculous fantasy runs through my head. I have this vision of arriving at home and seeing Jesse in my living room, covered in sawdust, shirtless, sweaty, wearing nothing but a pair of tight jeans and a tool belt. He’d be ecstatic to see me, and he’d push me up against the fireplace and kiss me, and his big strong hands would go to the tie of my scrubs—

  Down girl. Rawr. Seriously, I need to get this libido of mine under control. I haven’t been this worked up since…well, ever. Those first few months after I lost my virginity in high school, I was a horny little thing. And there were a few boyfriends between that first guy and Nicholas, who could get me going, but these last few years with Nicholas I was half-dead. Just switched off. Like he’d lost interest in me, and thus I stopped thinking about myself as a sexual creature, stopped thinking about my needs. He lost interest in me, and I lost interest in myself. And now, suddenly, I’m alive again. I’m remembering that I have wants and needs again.

  And my sex drive is coming back.

  I wasn’t a hookup or a fling sort of girl, but when I was dating a guy, I tended to be pretty uninhibited. Adventurous, even. Sitting in my car, I think back to those days. Specifically, a certain college sophomore named Lee. All-State soccer, ended up being valedictorian at graduation, med school student…surfer blond hair, freckles on his nose—and on his ass—with a charming smile and an easy confidence that I couldn’t resist. Lee also had a preternaturally powerful sex drive. The boy was insatiable in a way I’ve never known, before or since, and that was infectious. I don’t think I’ve ever been as wild, kinky, or voracious as I was with Lee.

  And just being around Jesse is making me feel like I did when I was with Lee; like I’m a starved monster, a creature who simply cannot get enough. I want, want, WANT.

  Gah. It’s infuriating.

  Because back then, I was innocent, with an intact heart and a willingness to trust, a willingness to take chances.

  Nowadays? My heart ain’t exactly intact, and neither is my ability or willingness to trust and take chances on a guy.

  Let him into my house to fix it? Sure. I can change the locks, or even move, if it came to that—but it won’t, because I think Jesse really is a good guy, honest and trustworthy.

  Doesn’t mean I’m willing to let anything happen, though, because I’m just…well…scared, I guess.

  My phone rings—it’s Jesse. My heart leaps, and my cheeks heat.

  “Hello?” I answer.

  “Hey, it’s Jesse.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, I know. There’s this little thing called caller ID.”

  “Smart-ass.”

  “Better than being a dumbass, as my dad used to say,” I say, laughing.

  “I’m not sure where that leaves me, then. My dad used to say I was the dumbest smart-ass he ever met.” I hear him take a drink of something, and then he’s back on the phone. “So, what’d you do with the last couple hours?”

  “Ate lunch and saw a movie. I actually just got out of the movie.”

  “Oh? What’d you see?”

  “Just some romantic comedy. Nothing you’d like.”

  “There you go making assumptions about me again, Imogen. What if I like romantic comedies…in a very straight, very manly sort of way?”

  “Then you’d be a frickin’ unicorn among men.”

  He does a very, very bad impression of a neighing horse, and I lose my shit, cackling until my ribs hurt.

  “I didn’t think it was that funny,” he says.

  “Oh god, it was hysterical. That was so bad it was good, Jesse.” I sigh. “So. What’s the reason for your call?”

  “I can’t just want to hear your lovely voice?”

  I’m melting. “No. You can’t.”

  “Oh.” He hesitates. “Too bad, because it’s true.”

  “Careful, Jesse, you keep talking to me like that, you’ll end up trapping yourself a lonely forty-year-old divorcée with a broken heart and an overactive imagination.” And a sex drive that’s currently stuck on turbo, but I manage to keep that part to myself.

  “Maybe that’s what I’m after.”

  “Maybe you’d be biting off more than you can chew.”

  “Maybe I can take really, really big bites.”

  I have to actually fan my face. “Jesse. What do you want?”

  “You, here, in those booty shorts and that tank top.” A pause. “Or even less. I’d settle for less, in this case.”

  “Jesse.”

  “Hey, you’re not the only one with an overactive imagination. You’d have to spend a week in church to make up for the things I’ve imagined about you.”

  “Holy shit,” I breathe. Oops; I didn’t mean to say that. “You have no idea,” I say, louder.

  “Maybe we should get together for drinks and compare fantasies,” he murmurs.

  “Compare, or act out?” Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. Did I SERIOUSLY just say that to him?

  He growls, and I hear a thump, as if he slammed his fist against the wall. “You’re gonna be the death of me, Imogen. For real.”

  I struggle to bring this dangerous conversation back to safe, solid ground. “You didn’t call me just to verbally torture me, did you?”

  “Who’s torturing who, here, Imogen?” he asks. “But no. I talked to Dr. Waverley a few minutes ago.”

  “And?”

  “And, if you have time, she wants you come in for an interview.”

  “She what?” I squeak. “When?”

  “I was under the impression that she meant right away. Like now-ish.”

  “I’m still in my scrubs and I don’t have my resume ready.”

  “I think she just wants to meet you, have a little conversation. Nothing formal. She told me to give you her direct number so you can give her a call if you’re able to come in.”

  “Um. Okay.”

  “I’ll text you the number after we hang up.”

  “Okay.” My throat is thick. “Jesse, I—”

  “Thank me later,” he interrupts. “Hint—visual stimulus counts as thanks, in my book.”

  I laugh. “Okay, okay, message received.”

  So, I hang up with Jesse, spend a few moments calming my nerves, and then call the
number Jesse sent through.

  It rings four times, and then a high, firm, authoritative female voice answers. “This is Dr. Waverley.”

  “Hi Dr. Waverley, this Imogen Irving. My friend Jesse said he spoke to you?”

  Her voice softens immediately. “Ah, Miss Irving, yes. A lovely young man, that Jesse.”

  “He sure is.”

  Dr. Waverley laughs. “Oh, I bet you agree! I don’t mind admitting that I hired James and his crew based on what may be less than professional reasons.”

  “Having met both James and Jesse, I can see why.”

  Her tone goes back to businesslike. “So. You have a BSN from the University of Illinois, and experience in the U-I-H ICU, I understand?”

  “Yes ma’am. I did my residency in the ICU there, and stayed on for seven years after that, before transitioning to a private practice.”

  “May I ask why you left the ICU?”

  I only barely hold back a sigh of resentment. “I got married. The hours were pretty intense, it was a lot of stress, and I wanted kids.”

  A pause on the other end. “Something tells me this is a sensitive subject, so I’ll hold the rest of my questions. What I really want to know is, would you be willing to return to the ICU?”

  “I think I would, yes.” I think back to the bustle and the chaos and the intensity of the ICU, and feel a little thrill run through me. “What I mean is yes, ma’am, I definitely would.”

  “I understand you recently left your employer.”

  “Ah, yes, I did.”

  “Suddenly?”

  “Yes, I must admit it was sudden. But I just—it was something that I’d needed to do for a long time.”

  Another pause. “Well, Miss Irving, I’m in desperate need of experienced nurses in my ICU, and I happen to have a block of time free at the moment. Would you be able to come in for a more in-depth conversation?”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes, right now.”

  “I’m not—I mean—I’m still wearing scrubs, and I haven’t updated my résumé in years. I quit this morning, if you’d like the honest truth.”

  She chuckles. “All the better. I’ve found it’s best to interview people when they’re not ready for it. You get more of a person’s true self, rather than a nervous, practiced facade. Just come in, we’ll have a chat, and barring any kind of unexpected surprises, you’ll be newly employed before the day is done.”