A/N: Another new fic from me:3 just a random idea I had. This is set from when we meet Rita's husband. Rita has her day job as a nurse but she also works in a club at night (reasons will be explained in ch2). What happens when her boss appears in the club? I know like no medical knowledge either, so I apologise if it's not accurate. I'm also attempting to write in first person (again) but I'm not all that brilliant at it. This chapter's from Rita's POV. I'd love to know what you think. :)
~Mini Peacelet~
After Dark - Part 1
"Another vodka and coke please, love." Alcohol particles are suffocating her breath, words slurred and voice husky in her intoxicated matter. She is undoubtably tipsy.
A fake smile succumbs my features, there is really nothing to be joyful about. Nothing. There is no other alternative but to be pleasant and cheerful, though. That's what the customers like. I collect a fresh glass, deposit a scoop of symmetric ice cubes into the base and add the liquids to create the alcoholic concoction, handing it to the female and dropping the cash into the till.
The smokey effects from the luminous lighting in diverse colours that once irritated my dry throat intolerably smoulder though the dusky shadows of the club, providing adequate light and opaque ambience that the customers adored. Strident yet tasteful music reverberated the building, echoing off the walls. The club was considered one of the more classy and sophisticated bars; strictly women only. Drinks were a little more pricey, decor aesthetic and appealing. There was nothing trashy and shabby about this enterprise.
"Rita, table six. A white wine and rosé wine."
Beverages dispensed into wine glasses, balanced skilfully on the circular-shaped, slate slab I pace across the club to the designated table to present their order. The number of customers is gradually increasing, the alcohol is starting to grasp effect as people stagger to the dance floor adorned with beams of dazzling lights, intoxicatedly dancing. My feet are beginning to ache - even after all this time of working here - heels just definitely aren't for me. But they're a requirement.
"A white wine?"
Perched on one of the elegant stools, hands clasped gracefully together and resting tastefully on the glass top table, the brunette's black pencil skirt clutched her flawless curves and her burgundy-red blouse flowed beautifully over her arcs and arches, highlighting her stunning figure. Her outfit was completed with a pair of the female's famous stilettos; black and red to match her attire.
The woman rotates her head and my lips part uncontrollably as the identity of her registers in my mind. Stunned. Equally speechless. It can't be her; yet it is. My boss. Connie Beauchamp. Her perfectly shaped eyebrow is arced, expression hostile and surprised - not in a good way, though.
"That would be mine - thank you." She's polite as my trembling fingers clasp the stem of the glass and place it on the coaster in front of her, then repeat my actions for her company. As I pirouette sharply, desperate to escape the situation, the burning sensation of her bitter gaze roasts my back, heart beat racing. I'm faltering over my steps, legs refusing to comply to my instructions to just walk; drunk, my walk suggests that I am undoubtably drunk despite being stone cold sober.
Suddenly, I'm dreading tomorrow. The piercing expression refining her features is an ominous warning. She's far from happy with her latest discovery. Perhaps exasperated. And tomorrow she would evidently address the issue she had stumbled upon in the environment of her confined office.
An strangled scream hauled me free of my potent trance of pure fear with a start and as I rapidly whirled round on my feet my rich orbs immediately divert around the shadowy atmosphere and locate the origin of the shriek. I can vaguely recognise the voice but with the muffled noise generated from other members of the public I can't be positive. But it sounded like Connie. A fight is escalating in the club between a trio of females, innocent people close by who had attempted to break up the violent conflict have simply ended up involved.
I rush across the club, pushing my way through the cluster of people until I reach the casualty then descending to my knees swiftly, I kick off my stilettos and instantly clasp my hand around the female's wrist to check for a pulse as an initial procedure. It's faint; she's barely conscious. People are watching worriedly, prying to learn of the seriousness of the sustained injuries. I've always been taught that things often look worse than they actually are. I reassure people that I'm a nurse as I continue to check her basic signs and instruct for an ambulance to be called promptly.
"My friend has a complete doctors emergency kit in her car." I glance up momentarily and notice it's the lady that was with Connie earlier.
Nodding in acknowledgement I respond gratefully, "Could you go get it please?" She nods eagerly and dashes off out of the club to retrieve the item whilst I continue to address the injuries and stability of the casualty's condition.
Connie has tottered to her feet, cautiously regaining her equilibrium, and is nursing her left arm as she paces across towards me, I'd noted that she had tumbled during the fight, "And I'm a doctor, so I'll take over until the ambulance crew arrive." Her eyes are casting an icy glare at me that I professionally ignore.
I disregard the brunette's words riskily and continue with my own ambiguous examination. Connie's been drinking and therefore shouldn't be treating anyone - no matter how minor - whilst alcohol is in her system. Her internal anger is bubbling with increasing rage as she attempts to check for a pulse but fails as the throbbing sensation in her wrist becomes too severe and she winces, observing my assessment in bitter silence.
"What do you know, Rita?" She narrows her gaze at me, desiring for medical details on the patient's condition. I comprehend that I have to answer because from the tone of her voice it's obvious that it was a demand, not a request.
I reluctantly recite my observations as the female returns with the doctors emergency bag which I open and begin to flick through the unfamiliar contents as I search for the item I need. Connie instantly locates the element I was looking for despite us not conferring but it was evident that we both shared the same initiative.
The clinical lead attempts to insert the cannula into the woman's arm until I intersect her movements precariously. My breath catches and congregates in the back of my throat momentarily as I steady my nerves before I begin to articulate, "Mrs Beauchamp...withhold your respect but I don't think you are in any fit state to insert that. You've consumed alcohol tonight which is making your fingers tremble. And it's probably not sensible with your wrist either." I state sincerely, pitch wavering faintly as I know there will be consequences for me challenging her ability - especially in front of an audience.
I seize the cannula from her manicured fingertips and pursue locating a vein in the dusky light. Implanting a cannula in the female's lower arm is a tricky procedure with lack of decent light, but I succeed. It's just as a precaution; administrating drugs quickly and effectively is more easy with it should anything happen while we wait for the ambulance.
Invisible steam is evaporating out of the former heart surgeon's ears at a brisk speed. She's angry. Absolutely fuming. But she clenches her teeth and glares furiously at me, containing herself until we are in the privacy of her office tomorrow. She doesn't make public scenes unless it is really necessary.
The ambulance finally arrives and the paramedics appear; it's Dixie and Jeff, both correspondingly perplexed at the reasons behind mine and Connie's presence although both of them are wise enough not to inquire. Priceless wisdom. I approach my boss prudently who is still supporting the arm she landed on tentatively, "You need to get that checked out."
"I don't need to get my wrist checked out, you just think I should." She corrected acrimoniously, "Thank you for your concern, but I am completely fine. There is no point in wasting people's valuable time and resources."
Disagreeing mutedly, I extend my arms and capture the brunette's injured arm in the palms of my hand, rolling the sleeve of her blouse up gently. Examining carefully, I derive a similar conclusion to one she has already made, "Well it doesn't look broken. Perhaps a possible minor fracture? But only x-rays would confirm that. It's probably just a bad sprain, you should still rest and and wear a splint as precaution...which you already know..." I trail off as she sighs exasperatedly.