by Gina Kincade
Not anymore, he declared. No longer would he be trapped within the confines of these old walls. He’d been working toward breaking free for almost a year. Small things at first. Opening the front door and inching closer and closer to the world outside until he could stand on the porch, then out into the driveway, then the sidewalk. It had taken him the better part of four months to make it down the street to the corner market. By the time he’d stepped beyond the air-conditioned glass doors of Sprouts Grocer, Grant’s heart had thundered deep within his chest. His breath came out in short bursts from stiff, seized lungs. Sweat had poured from his skin and his clothes had been drenched with the effort it had taken just to walk within the confines of the building. Luckily, there had been few people there that morning. If the store had been crowded…
Grant yanked himself from the memory with a jolt. No longer. No longer would he be trapped in this house like a damn animal in a cage. He swiped at the moisture beading his forehead with the hem of his pressed polo shirt. Mouth suddenly dry, he used the handheld can opener and with a few vicious twists, the lid sprang free, slicing through the skin of his palm in his carelessness. Blood spouted from the jagged gash.
“Fuck!” Grant bit out through clenched teeth as pain ripped through him.
At the kitchen sink, he turned on the faucet. Cold, crisp water flowed over the wound, stinging like a son of a bitch. He hissed. Crimson continued to flow as he studied the ragged edges of the laceration. He needed stitches, he realized with shock. Leave the safety of his house to go to the emergency room? His heart stuttered as the panicked thought flowed through him. He hadn’t been to a hospital since… “Fuck, Fuck, Fuck!” he shouted. Blood ran in rivulets down his arm to his elbow as he stood there, vision blurring around the edges of the cut in the middle of his palm. Chest tight, he began the breathing exercises once more.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
Once his respirations were under control, he looked at his predicament logically. He could do this. No need to panic. After all, this was what he’d been working so hard for all these months. To be normal and leave the house like anybody else.
Yes, but you think you’re strong enough to go there? You haven’t stepped foot inside a hospital since—
“Enough!” Grant shouted. “Shut the fuck up and leave me alone.”
Grant stiffened his resolve and wrapped his wounded hand in a clean dishtowel that he’d found in one of the packed boxes. Blood soon soaked through the polyester blend of cloth. With his heart thundering between his ears, he fished his car keys from the front pocket of his jeans and headed toward the garage. He had no choice. His tetanus shot was out of date and his hand needed stitches. Expression grim, Grant climbed into his SUV, careful not to get blood on the soft leather, and chanted the rhyme that always soothed him when he felt himself about to panic.
Chapter Two
“Excuse me?” Kate asked. Her deft fingers paused on the keyboard of the emergency room’s triage form she’d been filling out on the computer. She couldn’t have heard what she’d thought she’d heard. No one loses a… And in her… Kate gave a quick shake of her head. Nope. Impossible. She had to have heard wrong.
Kate glanced over at the forty-five year old woman. Her dull, dark hair was cut short around her chin. Streaked with gray, it stuck out at odd angles in unruly waves. She sported a yellow and orange striped tank top that had a few stains on the front along with a pair of old faded Capri pants. Chipped purple polish adorned toenails, which peeked through the sandals she wore. She was in sore need of a pedicure, Kate noted.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Herman. You lost what?” Kate tried once more.
Mrs. Herman’s face scrunched up and her lower lip trembled. “A tampon. I lost a tampon in my uterus. The doctor must get it out, now.” Her voice rose shrilly. “The drainage is—”
“Okay,” Kate said slowly.
TMI…way too much. She thanked her lucky stars she was at the triage desk instead of assigned to one of the intake rooms with the pelvic beds where she’d be putting Mrs. Herman and her lost tampon.
“I’ll just get a set of vital signs and then take you back to one of the examination rooms where the doctor will take care of the rest,” Kate said.
Just another day in the ER. She couldn’t wait to see the look on old Dr. Ravuri’s face when he walked into Exam Room Three. The man was from India and new to the States. Kate and the other ER nurses spent much of their downtime educating him on American pop culture. They delighted in shocking the older man. Her lips twitched.
Relief washed over the older woman’s face. “Thank you. Thank you so much,” she said fervently. “It’s been three weeks and I just can’t take it anymore.”
“Sounds like it’s been quite an ordeal for you,” Kate empathized, removing the blood pressure cuff from Mrs. Herman’s beefy upper arm. She glanced at Angelo, the ER tech. “She can go to room three. And set up for a pelvic after you get her blood work and IV in place, please. We need to make sure her white count isn’t elevated. Dr. Ravuri may want an abdominal ultrasound, but we will see what he orders once he’s examined her.”
“Sure thing,” Angelo said. He turned to Mrs. Herman. “This way, ma’am.” As he escorted the older woman from the triage room, his dark gaze met Kate’s over the top of Mrs. Herman’s head. His eyebrows lifted and he had a WTF expression on his face.
Kate bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. The look on Angelo’s face was priceless. She gave a slight shrug. Far be it for her to explain to the woman that it was physically impossible to lose a tampon in a uterus. The female body just wasn’t built that way. She’d leave that up to Dr. Ravuri. Her gaze swept over the full lobby of patients waiting to be seen by one of the eight ER doctors on staff at Phoenix General. Damn. If it weren’t so darn busy, she’d have time to go explain the situation to him herself just to see the old doc’s expression on his darkly handsome face. A low chuckle escaped her and she turned back to the status board to call the next patient.
“Grant Anderson,” Kate shouted over the din of noisy conversation and the blare of the television in the overly cramped waiting room.
A tall man with unruly chestnut hair stood and walked her way. He wore a scowl on his face and clutched a hand wrapped in a bloodied kitchen towel against the black polo shirt he wore. A very built, well-chiseled chest, Kate thought as she watched him approach her. Despite the scowl, she appreciated the way the faded denim of his jeans clung to powerful thighs and slung low on tapered hips. Her blood hummed and she almost let out a low whistle, but as her gaze swept back up to the strained lines around his mouth and tight jaw, she caught herself. She studied the cold, deep blue eyes. He was angry she realized. About what she hadn’t a clue. Maybe it had something to do with his injury or the long wait time. In the end, it didn’t matter.
The only thing that mattered was getting through the next few hours of her shift so she could get the hell out of here. A niggle of guilt made her feel a bit ashamed, but she couldn’t help the way she felt. She was tired of all the people. The nonstop complaints about how long they’ve been waiting for either a doctor or for their test results. There’d been a constant barrage of unrealistic expectations. Like wanting to eat after just puking, for example. Who in their right mind actually thought they’d get food after blowing chow?
All of the regular narcotic abusers had been in so far, as well, wanting their pain meds and a cool place to sleep. This was a hospital for Christ’s sake, not a hotel, and RN did not stand for refreshments and narcotics. She heaved a sigh and tried to shake off her negative thoughts. Not all shifts were like this one. Most of the time she loved her job, but today had definitely been one for the books.
“Follow me, Mr. Anderson.” Without waiting to see if he did as instructed, she led the way to a small anteroom and sat at the computer once more. Suddenly tense, she moved the mouse over his name and clicked on the intake form, blowing out a long breath in an effort to relax. Why had she let his prick
ly demeanor rub off on her? Kate had dealt with more than her share of impatient, angry people today. Well, every day, she amended. Mr. Anderson would be one at the end of a long list. She rolled her shoulders, pasted a pleasant smile on her face, and gave him her full attention. She waved to the only other seat in the room.
“Have a seat, Mr. Anderson, and we will get started. What brings you to the hospital today?” she asked, deepening her voice and drawing out his name like Agent Smith in the Matrix movies. No reason why she couldn’t have a little bit of fun. Maybe she could entice him a bit. Maybe he’d even smile. After all, who didn’t like a good sci-fi flick? She’d bet her last dollar that he had a panty-dropping smile.
His scowl deepened. Kate’s lips twitched, but she won the battle over the smile that threatened to break free. Apparently Mr. Anderson wasn’t a Matrix fan. One couldn’t account for taste and he lacked a sense of humor. What a pity. All that yumminess suddenly lost all its appeal.
“I need stitches,” he said, voice cold.
Wow. If he could go breathe some of that arctic chill out in the desert heat outside it’d be a balmy 70 degrees instead of 115. No surprise there. Why were all the good looking ones gay, married, or a cold fish like this guy? Kate sighed. Slipping on a pair of latex free gloves, she avoided his angry gaze. She scooted the stool closer. Reaching for his injury, she gently unwrapped the bloodied dishtowel covering his hand.
“So,” she asked, careful to keep her tone light and even. “What did you do to your hand?”
“I cut it,” he stated flatly.
Kate resisted rolling her eyes—barely. “Yes, Mr. Anderson,” she drawled once more in the same tone of voice as Smith from the Matrix movie. If he could be an ass, so could she. “I can see that. How did the injury occur?” she asked studying the exposed cut.
The torn, jagged edges of the laceration ran across his palm horizontally. Blood seeped from the middle of the gash and dripped onto the sodden towel. Kate grasped a pink plastic basin, several 4 x 4 gauze pads, and hibiclens scrub off the side table. After adding a bit of warm water mixed with the antiseptic skin cleanser to the tub, she held his injured palm over the basin. Next, she ripped open the sterile packaging of gauze and used the pads to soak up some of the blood in order to study the injury better.
“I was opening a can of soup,” he finally answered in clipped tones. “The lid sliced my hand open.”
“Not much of a cook?” she teased.
He said nothing. His icy glare bored into Kate. Why on earth was she goading him? Was it his cold demeanor? The way she could feel his hard stare intently watching every move she made? Kate didn’t know what had gotten into her, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. Something about the man just made her want to push all his buttons and see how far she could push him.
“This may sting a bit,” she said as she added his hand to the antiseptic skin wash. He hissed when the open wound hit the sudsy pink liquid, but said nothing.
Mr. Personality had incredible hands, she thought while she worked. Long, tapered fingers, neat trim nails, palms free of callouses. Large hands, too. Hands that could probably bring a woman to her knees and keep her begging for more. The more she thought about what it would feel like to have those hands on her body tugging at the stiff peaks of her breasts and stroking the flat planes of her abdomen; then lower…lower to the apex between her thighs…
Her stomach fluttered as heat surged deep within her core. Her panties dampened. Dayyumm!! The man was potent. Sulky and petulant though he was. She stole a quick glance at his unshaven face through her lashes. He had a strong jaw with angular cheekbones that made a girl wish he’d bury his face between the valley of her breasts and rub that five o’clock shadow all over her skin, marking her as his. And let’s not pass up on the straight patrician nose and dark brows over those arctic cold blue eyes. Everything about him screamed off limits. An audible sigh left her parted lips. It’s really too bad he isn’t a Matrix fan.
“Is your tetanus shot up to date?” she asked briskly, returning to the business at hand and trying to ignore how much his hands had turned her on.
His only answer was a curt shake of his head.
“Leave your injured hand in the antiseptic wash,” she said stripping off her soiled gloves. Kate aimed for the wastebasket across the room and made a fake hook shot, making a basket. “And she scores,” Kate said with a chuckle. She turned back to Mr. Anderson in time to catch the disapproving frown on his face. “Not a basketball fan, either?” she asked.
Another quick shake of his head.
“Well, you’re definitely a man of few words,” she said in an overly-cheerful tone. “Lucky for you, I talk a lot and will probably talk enough for the both of us,” she said and gave him what she thought of as one of her sunniest smiles. He said nothing. Just stared at her with those chilly dark-blue eyes.
Turning back to the keyboard, she fired off a series of rapid questions to finish off the interview. “Allergic to any medications? Take any prescription medications? Any past medical history the doctor should be aware of?”
He either shook his head or gave short one or two word answers. He was on an antidepressant and an anti-anxiety med, but overall no serious health conditions.
Kate stood. “Well, Mr. Anderson, that concludes your time with me. I’ll take you back to a procedure room so that one of our docs can stitch you up. Please keep your hand in the basin and follow me.” Without waiting to see if he followed, she led the way to exam room marked P1 and gestured to the gurney. “You can lay down here,” she said moving to the top of the ER mattress and lifting the head of the bed to a sitting position so that he could be comfortable in a semi-sitting position.
She helped him get settled onto the thin mattress, then moved the bedside table next to him so that he could rest the pink bucket with his injured hand in it, hoping the placement wouldn’t be too awkward for him.
“Doctor Ravuri will be with you in a few minutes,” she said and turned to leave when his free hand snaked out and grabbed her arm, halting her. Those long, tapered fingers wrapped around her bare flesh. Heat flared from the strength emanating from him and she could feel the sizzle straight down to her toes, among other places. If she didn’t get a handle on her libido, and soon, she’d need to change her underwear.
“Stay,” he commanded.
Brow lifted, Kate glanced pointedly at his firm grip then back at the hard planes of his face. “Mr. Anderson?” she inquired.
His fingers loosened, but he didn’t let go of her arm. He looked like he was about to freak out, Kate mused, studying the tight lines around his mouth, the beads of sweat along the full upper lip, and the clear panic she saw in those blue eyes. She thought back to his list of meds he took at home and wondered if he was about to have a full blown panic attack.
“I’m…umm…I’m, ah, not good with hospitals,” he said in a strangled voice. “Please,” he said. “Stay. Your chatter, ah, helps. It distracts me from...”
His words trailed off and a heavy silence hung between them. Kate wasn’t afraid. She’d been grabbed many times in different patient situations and she knew he meant her no harm. Something had happened to him, she realized. Something bad. Tenderness welled up in her chest and she smiled.
“Sure,” she said softly. “I’ll stay. Just let me get someone to cover the triage desk for a little while. Okay?”
With a reluctant nod, he let go of her arm and she left the room. Once all of the arrangements were made, she gathered the necessary supplies needed to stitch up the laceration on his hand, told Dr. Ravuri everything was ready for him in P1, and returned to Mr. Anderson’s side.
Kate donned a fresh pair of latex free gloves. Taking his hand out of the antiseptic wash, she wrapped it in a clean towel. “Hold up your arm for a sec,” she instructed as she laid down a chux pad onto the bedside table with the absorbent side facing upward and gently placed his injured palm face-up on top of it. Next, she arranged the 4.0 Nylon curved needle, a
sterile suture kit, a bottle of Lidocaine to numb the area, gauze, and tape neatly alongside his arm.
While she worked, she talked about inconsequential things and asking him questions in an attempt to draw him out and distract him. Sometimes he’d nod his head or give a brisk shake in answer, but most of the time he remained silent, watching her with those intense blue eyes.
When Dr. Ravuri came in, he introduced himself and explained the procedure. Kate stepped to the other side of the gurney, giving the old doc room to work. She grasped Mr. Anderson’s uninjured hand, lacing her fingers with his. His startled expression tugged at her heart. Didn’t the man have any compassion in his life? No one who cared for him? For the zillionth time, she wondered why he was so afraid of hospitals and gave his hand a gentle squeeze.
“Dr. Ravuri is a Stitch Master, Grant,” she said while Dr. Ravuri drew up the Lidocaine into a syringe and prepared to inject the local anesthetic into the area in and around the laceration. “Not that you probably care if there’s a scar on your hand. I mean, it’s not like having a laceration to your face or some other visible area, but by the time everything is all healed, you won’t even know you’d had an injury there.”
The tiny 27-gauge needle pierced Grant’s skin and his fingers tightened on hers. “It’s okay,” she soothed. “Just a few bee-type stings and then you won’t feel a thing. It probably burns like a mother right now, but that will fade quickly.”
Dr. Ravuri glanced at her. “Like a mother?” he repeated in heavily accented English, a perplexed expression on his face. “Is that another one of your strange American translations?”
Kate chuckled, noting that Grant’s tense shoulders relaxed a fraction. “It’s American slang, Dr. R. I’ll explain the meaning to you later. Right now might not be the best time.”
“I’m not sure I want to know,” Dr. Ravuri said in a dubious tone and turned his attention back to Grant’s injured hand.
