Deck stuck his tongue out at her.
She placed the mouthpiece against his tongue, shoving it back into his face and the piece into his mouth. “Now take a deep breath and blow.”
He grinned around the spirometer and winked.
“Sign there.” Jen pointed to the X at the bottom of the paper.
Naim blew out a hard breath, snatched a pen from her desk, and scribbled his name as illegibly as he could. His third official reprimand, and it was pure bullshit.
“Stop pouting. It doesn’t suit you,” Jen added.
“I am not pouting.” Naim tugged at his waistcoat. “I’m irritated. There’s a difference.”
“Well, you brought this on yourself. So stop whatevering, and deal with it.” She had her hands folded primly on top of her desk, and she peered at him through her mismatched eyes. Normally her one brown eye and one green didn’t register with Naim, but when she stared him down, it was disconcerting. He didn’t respond, but he felt his mouth tighten with the effort.
“Nice haircut.”
“What? Oh.” His hand went to his neck, his thick black hair now hanging just past it. “Yeah well, I had to, right? It was all…” He made a face.
Jen scrunched her nose. “I know. I had to burn one of those fancy candles in here after you left Sunday. It reeked of singed hair.”
“Thanks.” He raised a wry eyebrow. “I think my barber cursed me out.”
“You think?”
“He’s from Côte d’Ivoire. I don’t really understand his patois, but the words I got weren’t very polite.”
Jen snickered. “Well, you deserved it. Anyway, I’m glad you’re feeling better. And while I wouldn’t worry too much about this”—she waved at the paper he’d just signed—”you still need to work on your ‘plays well with others’ skills.”
“That has nothing to do with anything. I am an absolute professional and don’t deserve to be reprimanded for wanting to see a patient through from beginning to end.”
“That’s not what this is about, and you know it. Whether you like it or not, the chief resident is your superior, and when she said she didn’t believe you were fit for surgery, that should have been the end of it.”
“I said I was fine, and that should have been the end of it.” Naim grew a little irritated.
“Naim…”
He stopped and took another deep breath, closing his eyes and deflating. “I know. I know. I’m sorry.” He hadn’t meant to snap, and he did know Jen had his best interests at heart. The issue was not that his ability to work may have been compromised. Jen trusted his judgment implicitly, and he would never endanger a patient for his own ego. She was concerned for his professional future and his reputation. She may be the youngest person to ever hold the position of chief of surgery at St. Sebastian, but Naim couldn’t respect her more. She was smart, skilled, and experienced. Naim hated to admit it, but sometimes she really did know better than he.
“I apologize, Jen, really. I think I’m still a bit off. The whole day was just so…unpleasant.”
Jen burst into laughter, stopping Naim short. He opened his mouth to continue, then closed it again, blinking as Jen laughed.
“I’m sorry”—she snickered—“but Naim, only you would describe a day in which you nearly died in a five-alarm fire, lost your clinic, which has meant more to you than your own lungs, performed a major emergency surgery with my husband’s brethren breathing down your neck, and got yet another reprimand for being a pain in the ass—as unpleasant.”
“Well, it was.”
Jen giggled more. “Whatever you say, my dear. Meanwhile”—she breathed and regained her composure—“are you going to check on Deck soon?”
“I have a few other things to do, but yes, likely in about an hour or so.”
“Make it sooner rather than later. If he texts me one more time this morning, he’s going to need another surgery.”
Naim pulled back and raised an eyebrow. “Why on earth is he ringing you?” he asked with more surprise than he meant.
“Naim, we’re friends. I’ve known him for years. I do have a life outside these walls, you know.”
“Oh good Lord, don’t be so testy. I just asked. I guess I didn’t realize you interacted with Keller’s coworkers so much.” As Naim spoke, he realized how snobby he sounded, then tried not to laugh. Naim Moreau, a class snob: nothing could be more backward.
He stopped laughing and cringed.
But Jen’s face softened, her black skin smooth as a baby’s. “I know what you meant. The funny part is, I think my husband is the snob. He hates hanging out with doctors and attending the endless dinners and conferences.” Her expression turned more thoughtful. “I don’t blame him. Too many of us get into this because of the money and social standing. It makes him crazy to hear doctors talking about their stock portfolios or who’s expected to get a position at Johns Hopkins next year. Truth is, I hate it too.”
Naim smiled widely, loving his friend even more. Since they’d met at a conference in London when he was in his second year of medical school, and she had just been made an attending at St. Sebastian, he depended on her friendship and in his heart thought of her as family. They’d kept in touch, and a year and a half later, when he graduated top of his class from the Université René Descartes in Paris, she’d arranged for his work papers and internship at St. Seb. He’d had offers from far more prestigious hospitals in France and Great Britain, but Naim had wanted to leave Europe, and his priorities matched those of his friend and mentor. There were too many people who did not have access to vital health care; he would work where his skills were needed.
“I’ll check on your Deck first.” Naim started to stand. “I’d hate to have to open him up again.”
“Thank you.” Jen offered a beaming smile but hesitated. “Actually, um…”
“Yes?” Naim made himself comfortable again, sighing mentally.
“Well, I think I should probably warn you.”
“About?”
“About Deck.” She seemed to be holding back a grimace. “He…it’s just…well, he’s sort of…” Jen wasn’t one to stutter.
“Jen.”
“He’s…” She struggled with her thoughts. “Big. He’s big,” she finally finished, shrugging lamely.
“Big,” Naim repeated, and he knew he squinted in inquiry. They were quiet for a few seconds.
“He’s. Big,” Naim said again. “Yes. I seem to remember a human wall lifting me about at the clinic.” He nodded without inflection. “And I did, I think I recall, operate on a side of bloody beef, lying on my table.” He was still squinting and nodding.
“Sarcasm does not become you, Naim.”
“Oh, I beg to differ.”
“I’m trying to help you out here. I know you know he’s a large man. That’s not what I mean.” She huffed, as Naim stared at her. “Deck is… He’s a good man and a good friend. But he’s made entirely of personality. A very. Big. Personality.”
“Are you trying to tell me he has ambitions for Broadway?”
“Damn it, Naim.” She slapped her hands on her desk as he tried not to grin at his own stupid joke, a rarity for him. “It’s hard to explain, but I’m serious. Deck is charming, and he knows it. Also he’s, well…” She paused, then spoke earnestly. “He’s a hunk.”
“He’s a…what?” Naim stuttered, trying not to laugh. “Jen. Have you been watching Happy Days marathons again?”
“I’m serious.” She sighed, clearly annoyed with her choice of words. “He is. And he’ll flirt with you. A lot.”
“Jen, please. I’m a professional who has dealt with that nonsense a thousand times before. And from”—he cleared his throat, suppressing a grin—“hunks. I’m not a giggling teenager. I can handle one good-looking, flirtatious firefighter.”
Jen didn’t speak for a minute, and Naim waited.
Finally she gave up. “Just be careful. Please.”
Naim chuckled, shaking his head. “Of course
. I’ll be sure to be wary of charming, flirtatious hunks.”
Turning down the corridor that led to Dekker’s room, Naim stopped and hesitated. The man he remembered as Bosko stood outside the room, laughing with a raucous red-haired woman in a fire department T-shirt. Naim hoped to find Dekker alone or with only one peaceful guest. But his experience with firefighters in hospital had prepared him for this. Mostly.
He took a breath, straightened his waistcoat and tie, felt to make sure he had pens in the pocket of his coat, and strode forward. As he approached the room, Bosko brightened. “Doc,” he bellowed, grabbing Naim’s hand, pumping it like a wrench and slapping him several times on the back, hard enough to jar Naim.
“Mr., ah, Bosko.” Naim’s voice hitched, startled by the greeting. “Good to see you, and in”—he tried to breathe—“such high spirits.”
Bosko was still pumping his hand like he was trying to see if quarters would fall from Naim’s mouth. “Mister, my ass, Doc. I am just Bosko.”
Did the man shout everything?
“This is our doctor that fucking Deck pulls out of the fire. Saves his fucking life, this guy did.” Bosko spoke to the slim but muscular woman, having wrapped an iron arm around Naim’s neck.
Naim became violently afraid the man was preparing to give him a noogie.
“Ah yeah. Hiya, Doc.” The woman grabbed Naim’s already abused hand and shook it with only slightly less force than Bosko had. “Did you hurt him? I hope you hurt him. He a stupid fucker, fucking Deck.”
“I…what?” Naim made a mental note to verbally abuse Jen for not warning him about Dekker’s friends.
“My cousin. Fucking Deck. He’s a dumb fuck. That’s why he’s here. Are you going to poke him? They won’t let me poke his wound. If you’re gonna, I wanna watch.”
Naim hid his fear of her well. “I’m… I have to look at it but—”
“I’m Freya. Fucking Deck’s cousin.” She still had a grip on his hand, and she grinned, while Naim vaguely wondered if his patient’s first name was actually Fucking. He almost laughed at the thought when the door flew open.
“Will you two please. This is a hospital, for God’s sake.” A lovely curly-haired, pixie-faced woman snapped at them. She wore a disheveled police uniform, complete with sidearm at her hip. Her weary eyes and the absence of Kevlar indicated to Naim that she had finished her tour before arriving.
“What the…” She took in the sight of Bosko’s arm wrapped firmly around Naim’s neck, tugging painfully on his ponytail, and Freya violently abusing hand-shaking privileges. “Why are you accosting a doctor?” she muttered as she gently extracted Naim from his unfortunate circumstances. She gave them a fierce glower as they both made offended faces. “And keep the damn noise down.” She opened the door for Naim and ushered him into the room.
Slightly shaken, both literally and figuratively, Naim thanked her quietly as they walked in. He was greeted by the sight of four men: his patient, the man he remembered as Peyton, and a ginger-haired man with a strong, freckled face, all breathing hard into spirometers, faces scrunched and red while the lieutenant stood by counting time on his phone.
The woman beside him sighed. “I’m Laura.”
“Dr. Moreau.” He smiled tentatively at her, and she shook his hand in a blissfully normal grip.
The ginger man began flapping his free arm, and his face dangerously resembled a tomato as he started to hunch over. Liebgott counted louder, “Twenty-seven…twenty-eight…twenty-nine…”
Naim touched his chin, just to make sure his jaw wasn’t hanging open.
Finally, his patient, done in, dropped the apparatus into his lap and took a deep breath. The other two let go of theirs, laughing and choking.
“Man down. Thirty seconds.” Liebgott raised his arms above his head, chuckling.
Naim mentally noted the current efficiency of his patient’s lung capacity and cleared his throat.
“Doctor.” Liebgott spun, wide-eyed and turning pink. He shoved his phone into the back pocket of his jeans with a guilty look.
“Uh-oh. Dad’s here.” The ginger man giggled.
“Shush, Mac.” Laura grinned, pleased with the boys having been caught out.
“Lieutenant, Mr. Peyton.” Naim nodded at each of them. “Good to see you again.” He walked to the foot of the bed, unhooked Dekker’s chart, and began looking it over.
“We were just…um…” Liebgott stammered.
“No worries, Lieutenant. I have actually seen far worse.” Which was somewhat true. Naim looked up from the chart and gave Liebgott a small, professional smile, then looked to his patient. “Mr. Dekker. It’s good to finally meet you face-to-face.” He maintained his small smile and blinked once.
Shit.
Goddamn if Jen wasn’t right. The man was a sodding…hunk. Naim already knew the man was huge, but out of his bunker gear and not covered by surgical draping, he looked very different. He was still a giant. His Dutch name and the rune tattoo on his shoulder made Naim think about some mad Viking god. He wasn’t brawny or burly like Peyton or the walking planet they called Bosko. He was tall and broad, but trim, not thick.
And a bloody hunk.
Auburn hair, boyishly handsome, and so tall and wide he didn’t quite fit in the bed, Naim couldn’t think of a better damn word than hunk. He shook his head slightly, ridding himself of the thought, and tried not to laugh in horror at the absurdity of the past three minutes of his life.
“Deck.”
“What?” Naim blinked again.
“It’s just Deck. No Mister.” And then the bastard grinned. Ten thousand watts of purely outrageous handsome lit his entire face, including his bright sea-gray eyes.
“Right. Just Deck then,” Naim said in his Absolutely Most Professional Doctor Voice. “Well then, Deck, let’s take a look at you.” His best poker face firmly intact, he moved to the head of the bed with enough authority to dislodge Peyton. He removed his penlight from the breast pocket of his coat, vehemently ignoring the jolting grin and smiling eyes that followed his every move.
God. Damn. Jen.
Naim checked his pupil reactions, and, thankfully, checked that discomforting grin as well. Deck’s pupils responded to the light, pinpointing immediately, turning his eyes from sea-gray to turquoise.
In the back of his mind, Naim began to consider hating Jen.
“Good.” He clicked the light off and made a note in the chart. When he looked back at his patient, Dekker was grinning again. “I’m just going to—”
“What’s your name?” Deck grinned wider, gaze locked on Naim as though there were no other person in the world. His entire head followed Naim’s movements.
“What?”
“Your name. What is it? I save your life, then you save mine, then you tell me your name.” He looked at Naim like he was lunch, which was bad enough. But then he winked. Bastard.
What did he see the kids at the clinic texting all the time? FML? He plotted Jen’s death.
“Right. Sorry.” Naim cleared his throat. “I’m Dr. Moreau. I—”
“Dr. Moreau? Dr. Moreau. Like The Island of…?”
Naim closed his eyes and sighed, confused, disoriented, and trying not laugh—out of hysteria or hostility, he wasn’t sure which. “Yes, like The Island of… It’s a very common French name.” He sniffed.
“French for Frankenstein’s vet?”
“Deck,” Laura exclaimed, horrified, while Liebgott face-palmed and the other two just snickered. Deck chuckled and winked at Naim again.
Naim blinked once. “I applaud your originality, Mr. Dekker. Never in my entire life has anyone made such a brilliant and obscure connection. Were Mr. Wells still alive, I’m certain he would be exceptionally pleased with your acknowledgment and wit.”
“Aw, don’t be offended, Doc.” Deck reached across himself with his good arm, his right arm, and grabbed Naim’s thumb, shaking it teasingly. “It’s not my fault. It’s the pain meds. They make me silly.”
Je
sus, did he always grin?
“Indeed. Because according to your chart, you’ve refused all pain medication, self-administered or otherwise.”
Deck pursed his lips, let his hand fall from Naim’s and the grin fall from his face. “It’s the pain, Doc. It’s bad. It makes me crazy.”
Laura and Liebgott groaned in unison, Peyton snorted, and the man called Mac giggled like a little girl.
Naim took a deep, composing breath, clenched his jaw, and pulled himself together. He was a physician, a highly trained, highly educated professional man of science, and this entire scenario embodied ridiculousness. He was treating a wounded person, and treat him he would.
“Pain is to be expected, Mr. Dekker. I understand your reluctance to, for lack of a better word, indulge in the Dilaudid, but the unfortunate reality is that the more pain you are in, the more stress you put on your mind and body.” He searched among the wires, tubes, and lines attached to his patient. “Under those circumstances, your body will actually take more time to heal.” He tried not to sound hostile as he grew angrier and more flustered over the man’s flirting. “It is, therefore, in your best interests to use this button.” Producing the self-injection device from the tangle, Naim clicked it firmly, three times.
Shock stunned Deck silent at first. His cheeky grin fell, his eyes widened, and his jaw fell open. “But I… What…” Within seconds his eyes glazed over, and his open jaw slumped.
Silence followed for a long moment, finally broken by Mac. “Hey, can we get one of those for the firehouse?”
Ignoring him, Naim laid Deck’s chart on the bedside table and pulled a pair of fresh gloves from the dispenser on the wall behind the bed. As he did, Liebgott spoke. “Guys. How about you go find Freya and Bosko and maybe grab some coffee or something. Let Dr. Moreau do his thing in peace, okay?”
Mac, immediately heading toward the door, cackled again, and Peyton, right behind him, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “His thing. Heh.”
Naim, considering how much difficulty he was going to have working with these people around all the time, looked at Liebgott with a silent thank you.
Smoke and Mirrors Page 3
