by Cate Ashwood
“The patient in bed three came in a few minutes ago, but I have a feeling he’s after drugs. He’s not one of our frequent-flyer med seekers, but he doesn’t seem all that sick.”
“Abdominal pain?” I guessed.
“Of course.”
“How are his vitals?”
“All within normal range.”
So there was nothing in the preliminary examination to indicate there was something wrong, but abdominal pain was a broad descriptor and could mean almost anything—including that the patient was looking for drugs.
I took the chart from her and flipped it open, my eyes catching at the name at the top. “Thanks, Dawn,” I said absentmindedly, all the pieces clicking into place.
“All right, Mr. Prescott,” I said, pulling back the curtain.
“Doctor. Doctor Prescott,” he said, the declaration made with a shit-eating grin that told me he’d known exactly what his presence was going to do to me.
I pretended to give it some real thought. “Chiropractor?”
He scoffed, and I knew why. His father would have disowned him before he’d let him become anything other than a surgeon.
“Surgeon,” he confirmed.
“General?”
“Cardiothoracic.”
“Woulda pegged you for plastics,” I said with a smirk.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he demanded.
“Now, now, Dr. Prescott. Your blood pressure was perfect when you arrived here this afternoon. Let’s not let anything change that. We wouldn’t want to have to admit you for observation… hourly blood draws… constant vitals checks… although come to think of it, Mrs. Kaminski’s roommate checked out AMA this morning, so we have a free bed. She’d make the time fly by with her stories about her son’s attempts at online dating.”
Prescott snapped his mouth shut and stared at me. I dropped all pretenses of being amused. “Are you seriously this low that you would fake illness to get my attention?”
“Who said I was faking?”
If that’s how he wanted to play this, fine.
“Then why don’t you tell me what’s brought you in today, other than a desire to piss me off?”
Prescott lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Not my intention at all. You’re pretty hostile for someone who’s supposed to be a healer.”
He was so full of shit he could have fertilized a field. I tucked his chart under my arm and waited for him to go on.
“I’m experiencing some substantial epigastric pain.”
“Epigastric, huh? You eat the shepherd’s pie at Whisky J’s last night?”
“Nope. The burger.”
“No matter. That’s probably the cause anyway.”
He looked up at me, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—I wasn’t sure if it was a challenge or a signal of trouble. Either way, this man was not to be trusted.
“You seem extremely confident that it’s indigestion.”
“I am. Jane pours a stiff drink, but Bud in the back can’t cook for shit.”
“But how do you know for sure if you don’t examine me?” He lay back and tucked his hands behind his head, looking quite smug. “I have a family history of pyloric stenosis.”
“You know as well as I do that there’s no way in hell you have pyloric stenosis.”
“Medical anomalies happen all the time,” he reasoned. “Or it could be a hernia.”
“You seriously think you have an epigastric hernia?”
He shrugged, grinning at me. “Who knows?”
“Do you have a bump below your sternum?”
“No,” he admitted. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t have a hernia.”
With as much obvious contempt as I could muster, I grabbed gloves and pulled them on with an exaggerated snap. I had no idea why he couldn’t take no for an answer. More than that, I didn’t know if his intentional wasting of my time was just to get back at me for shutting him down, or whether he had some other scheme pinging around in his head.
As irritating as he was, he was right that I was obligated to examine him. Denying someone medical care based on my hunch, no matter how strong, went against the oath I’d taken, so no matter how big a waste of time it was, I stepped forward and lowered the blanket covering him.
He shifted on the mattress but didn’t move his hands from behind his head. I lifted the gown, exposing a happy trail that wandered down to bright blue underwear that hugged every curve, leaving very little to the imagination. That didn’t stop my brain from filling in each blank, though. It felt like the temperature in the room had shot up about forty degrees, and I was suddenly regretting the lab coat I’d put on over my scrubs that morning.
Prescott shifted again and I realized I’d been staring.
Shit.
He smirked at me and I glared back, trying to regain some professional composure. “I’m going to palpate the area. You let me know if you feel any discomfort.”
This was an exam I’d done a million times. There was no reason for this time to be different, except that it was. My palms were sweating inside my gloves as I slid my hands over his belly, pressing gently as I went.
I continued my exam, his muscles flexing beneath my palms. As I stared down at his body, I kept repeating over and over to myself that he was just like every other patient. He is just like every other patient.
I readjusted my figurative mask of professionalism. I’d never had an issue maintaining composure before, but this guy… he was so fucking beautiful. If he were any other man, and we were anywhere other than the hospital, my hands on him would be the beginning of something else entirely.
I didn’t know why he affected me so much. I’d spent all of half an hour in the same room with the guy, but he seemed to know exactly how to get under my skin, and that threw me off. I was used to being in control—of my environment, of most situations, and certainly of my body—but the second Holden Prescott had sauntered in, I’d suddenly been knocked off kilter.
I tugged his gown back into place and stripped off my gloves, tossing them into the garbage before sanitizing my hands.
“You’re fine.”
“Come to think of it, I am feeling much better after that exam, doc.” His tone was blatantly flirtatious. I ignored it.
“Now instead of taking up a much-needed bed,” I said, hoping he hadn’t noticed that 90 percent of the beds in the ER were currently vacant, “and wasting valuable hospital resources with this bullshit story, why don’t you save us both the headache and head on home.” I picked up his chart, ready to start the discharge process.
“I can’t do that.”
“If you tell me it’s because you’re experiencing severe epigastric pain, I’m gonna get Dawn to start an IV with a 14-gauge needle and maybe order you an enema. But don’t worry… She’s real gentle.”
He hid the shudder pretty well, but I caught it.
“All I need is five minutes of your time. Five minutes, that’s all. Just hear me out.”
“You swear on all that is holy that you’ll fuck off back to darling daddy if I agree?” I set his chart down and perched myself on the rolling stool next to the bed. “You have two minutes.”
He smiled at me then, this supermodel megawatt smile, and you’d think I’d just told him his cancer was in remission.
“As you know, Westbridge Biomedical has become one of the leaders in medical research and advancements in the country.”
“It was…”
“Yes, well, that’s what I’m here to speak to you about. My father feels that the company could benefit if you were to return—”
“Your father lost the right to feel anything when it comes to my involvement with Westbridge the moment he signed the buyout papers.”
“But—”
“Nope. I’m done. I poured everything I had into starting that company, but Philip sold out, pandering to investors and board members rather than the patients who relied on us. I couldn’t ch
ange his mind then, and I’m not masochistic enough to even want to try now.”
“But that’s what I’m—”
“Time’s up.” I rose from the stool and picked up his chart. “The burger should pass through your system sometime soon. Go home. Take a shit. I’m sure you’ll feel much better.”
Prescott stood, immediately realizing he was in nothing but a gown and grappled to hold it closed. “If you could just look over the offer…”
“No.” I tossed the word over my shoulder and closed the curtain behind me.
I didn’t know why I was letting this guy get to me. I’d packed up and moved clear across the continent, leaving my old life behind me and Philip with it. The man I was when we started Westbridge wasn’t who I was anymore. We’d both changed.
Somewhere among the profit reports and investors meetings, I’d lost my friend and mentor, but I’d had a long time to come to terms with it. I’d moved on, and I was happy with my decision to do so. I was content in Sawyer’s Ferry. So why was I acting like Prescott being here was a threat to that, somehow?
He wanted to stalk me? Fine. His time wasted, not mine.
Dawn was waiting for me at the nurses’ station, and I slid the chart onto the desk. “Discharge the patient in bed three. He won’t be needing anything else.”
“Was I right? He was a med seeker?”
“Equally bad.”
She looked like she wanted to ask but didn’t. Instead, she did a quick check of her computer screen. “All the other patients are waiting on tests or have been discharged. You should go get something to eat while you can,” she said.
“Best idea you’ve had all day. I think I’m gonna head to the diner. You want anything?”
“No, thanks. My husband packed me a lunch today.”
“Enjoy. And page me if you need me.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Well, that hadn’t gone as planned.
Again.
In fact, that hadn’t gone at all.
I’d fallen on my face twice in the span of twelve hours, and I wasn’t sure quite where to go from here. Killing time in the lobby of Sawyer’s Ferry Regional Hospital wasn’t a permanent solution, but what else was I supposed to do?
Should I attempt to corner Emerson a third time? Resort to begging and hope he would change his mind?
Or should I phone my father and hope he wouldn’t be so heartless that he’d make own goddamn son homeless?
Both seemed about as likely as Philip Prescott deciding to give up the biomedical business for a career as a go-go dancer.
I sat down on one of the chairs next to the tiny gift shop that was no more than a cart in the corner and leaned my head back against the wall. I sat there for what felt like hours, counting the water stains on the ceiling tiles, waiting for a bolt of inspiration to strike, but it never came.
As time crept forward, it drew closer and closer to three o’clock and I was almost due to check in with my father. Tension knotted my belly as I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and dialed Frankie’s desk. I almost hung up at the last second, but delaying this would make things that much worse. My father didn’t handle bad news at the best of times, and missing a deadline to do it would make him that much more disagreeable.
The ringing twisted my guts even tighter until Frankie picked up. “Thank you for calling Westbridge Biomedical—”
“It’s me. My dad in his office?”
“Well hello to you too,” he said indignantly.
“Sorry. Just wanna get this over with, like ripping off the world’s worst Band-Aid.”
“I take it round two with the hottest doctor in the north didn’t go well.”
“Nope. About as shittily as possible—is that even a word? Shittily?”
“I get the point,” Frankie said dryly. “He rejected the proposal?”
“Nope. Hasn’t even heard the full proposal. Wants nothing to do with me or Westbridge. It’s fucking insane, though, that he’d rather live here than New York. I’d take a job as a fucking sewer repairman to get me outta this frozen hellhole.”
“Manual labor? Can’t see it.”
“I’d risk it,” I said, almost meaning it.
“It’s that bad, huh?”
I looked around. Sawyer’s Ferry Regional Hospital was a glorified clinic, and it seemed to have been dropped in a residential area. From what I’d seen, there was a small pocket of businesses in the center of town, and then the inhabitants fanned out from there, their houses sitting at random intervals that made little sense. There were no numbered streets and avenues—no way to orient yourself without a GPS or a cell phone signal.
“Pretty much.”
“Well, you’re stuck there until you can convince him.” Frankie’s voice softened. “You’re gonna be okay, though.”
“I don’t know that I will. I’m still a hundred thousand dollars away from repaying the last of my debt to my father. You know I don’t have anything until that happens. If he fires me…” I let the rest of the sentence hang there, dangling like a noose.
“Yeah, I know. You’d be temporarily fucked. But you could find another job.”
The thought of finding something else, of starting over at another hospital, another program, made me feel sick. It was worse than the sense of dread over the possibility of being homeless.
“I could, but I don’t want to. I made the decision to work at Westbridge, and it wasn’t one I took lightly. And I’m not going to lose everything I’ve worked for, the hundreds of hours I’ve sunk into my surgical trials, because this guy is too stubborn to hear me out. If my dad wants me to suck this guy’s dick to get him to agree to come back, then that’s what I’m gonna have to do.”
“I’m not sure that’s what he had in mind when he sent you up there.”
I knew very well it wasn’t. In fact, it was probably the last thing my dad wanted, but my body was still buzzing from the way Emerson had touched me. Even through the barrier of the nitrile gloves, his hands had felt warm on my skin, his touch gentle but firm. And when he’d stopped, I wanted to beg him to keep going.
It was one of those way-out-there fantasies that came outta nowhere and slapped me upside the head with the intensity of it.
“Holden?”
Frankie’s voice snapped me out of my filthy thoughts.
“Sorry. No, yeah, you’re right. No cocksucking while on the job.”
The sound of his easy laughter came over the speaker. “Well, then I guess you’d better come up with a game plan to get Emerson on your team.”
“Was that a sports reference?” I asked.
Frankie laughed. “I don’t think using the words ‘game’ and ‘team’ constitute a sports reference.”
“Seriously, though. What the hell am I gonna do? He won’t even talk to me.”
“Maybe seducing him isn’t the worst idea,” Frankie said. “I’ve seen pictures. I’d do him. More than once even. I’m sure you could convince him with your magic cock.”
“For someone who claims they have no interest in my cock, you sure seem to find ways to bring it up in conversation an awful lot.”
“This has nothing to do with me,” Frankie said. “This has everything to do with how far you’re willing to go to complete your evil mission.”
“Nothing about this mission is mine. I’m being blackmailed into being here.”
“Well, whatever it is, you don’t have much choice.”
“Nope. I don’t. Out of options and nothing to lose. Sounds like the beginning of a movie where the guy ends up becoming a stripper.”
Frankie chuckled. “Better stock up on body glitter.”
“I’m about to be very poor. Can’t you send me some of yours?”
“Shit. Kendra Fairbanks just walked out of his office. I’ll transfer you through.”
I took a fortifying breath, hoping his meeting with Kendra had gone well. She was one of the largest investors in Westbridge, and a meeting with her had the potential to make my father ei
ther incredibly happy or incredibly angry. I hoped for the former.
“Okay. Thanks.”
“Good luck.”
The sound of my father’s voice booming my name over the line had my heart sinking faster than a ship without a hull.
“I can call back if this is a bad time,” I said, praying he let me off the hook.
I’d never been particularly lucky.
“Let’s hear it,” he said, his tone clipped and stained with irritation.
“Dr. Emerson is not interested in anything to do with Westbridge. He gave me two minutes to brief him on our proposal, but I don’t believe he had any intention of considering it. He shut me down again, and quite honestly I don’t believe there’s anything that could change his mind.”
“So what you’re saying is you’ve failed.”
“I don’t believe anyone could succeed at this.”
“That doesn’t change the outcome, does it?”
“Well, no—”
“You’re fired.”
I physically winced like he’d served the blow with his fists rather than his words. “Dad, you can’t—”
“You knew before you set foot on that plane what was at stake. This should not come as a shock.”
“But—”
“Your research is at a dead end anyway, and frankly, a waste of company resources. Without Emerson’s return, we’re going to need to make some cuts, and your department is the first to go.”
My mind was chugging through the information, sluggish to process it all. Yes, he’d warned me what would happen if I couldn’t get Emerson to agree to come back, but there was a part of me—a larger part than I’d like to admit—that believed my father had more respect for me than to actually follow through with his threat.
He’d proven me wrong, and now I was left scrambling to make sense of what my life would look like now that I no longer worked for him.
“Frankie will send you your termination paperwork. Good luck in your future endeavors.”
