Big thank you to everyone who helped preread, you know who you are!
Lara gets a gold medal for keeping up with me ;)
This chapter is a surprise update, the next one will post next Monday!
The Physician.
"God fucking damnit..." I moan loudly at the blaring sound of my phone. I turn and groan, which soon turns to a string of curses as I rush out of bed. I'm late for work. Shit.
It's a quarter to four in the morning, still dark outside, throwing me off—even though it's my third early shift of the week. I'm tired, and I haven't been sleeping well the past few days, which explains my violent snoozing.
After a quick text to Felix, one of the lead triage nurses I know is working today, I jump in the shower in an attempt to wake myself up. I'm cautious not to let the water touch my hair, or I'll be even later than I already am. I resist the urge to take the handheld showerhead and run it over my body and down between my legs to relieve some tension. Quickly drying off, I dress and coat my lashes in mascara. Within fifteen minutes, I'm out the door and in the car, on my way to Sharp Memorial Hospital for another twelve-hour shift before I'm off tomorrow.
My car is parked haphazardly in my designated spot, and my pace could be considered running as I make my way to the staff entrance of the building. I shove my bag in my locker, take out my phone, and feel fucking grateful that I grabbed a few more sets of fresh scrubs yesterday at the end of my shift. That spares me an extra ten minutes walking back and forth and looking for my size. I throw my sweatshirt and leggings on the bottom of my locker and pull on my pale blue uniform before I throw my hair up in a ponytail-bun hybrid. It needs a cut; it's getting too long to be functional.
"Here she is. Good morning, Bells." Felix takes in my flushed cheeks and rushed behavior before he checks the time on his phone. He arches a dark brow my way and cocks his head to the side. "What's wrong? Too much action last night? Was the dick so good it made you forget you have a job?"
I snort at Felix's sense of humor and roll my eyes at him. Of course, he'd make an I-snoozed-my-alarm-too-much morning sound like I had an orgy yesterday.
"I wish, Felix. It's four in the fucking morning, so last night would have to be at six p.m. Who the fuck has mind-blowing sex before the sun goes down?" I joke.
"I do," he gushes. "Even though yesterday I passed out right after I got home from Whole Foods." Felix hands me a venti soy latte with three extra shots. Yes, caffeine. He always picks up my Starbucks when we're on the same shift. Felix also shares my enthusiasm for good sex and men with great cocks.
"Thank God for you, Felix." The coffee is the exact right temperature for me to drink, so I take a big gulp as we walk to the ER. It's Thursday, which usually isn't too busy for us,
but as I take in the leftover clipboards on Felix's desk, I notice quite a few of them have been handed out. It seems like it's going to be a long day, after all. Sometimes I wish my job was a little more predictable.
— * —
It's almost time for me to go home, three-fifteen in the afternoon, and I'm counting down the minutes before I can get out of my scrubs. Today was intense with a burn victim, a jellyfish sting, and lots of minor injuries that seemed major due to the amount of blood. I changed clothes twice this shift, something that only happens when it's a day full of blood and grime. I groan when I hear someone call for me just when I sit down in the break room at the end of the hall.
"Doctor Swan, room five, please."
It's the blonde head of Lauren that pulls me out of my caffeine-induced haze. I tuck back strands of hair that escaped my rubber band and disinfect my hands before she hands me a clipboard. I snicker at the scribbled words on the admissions form the patients at the ER are supposed to fill in while they wait. Clearly, this guy has a sense of humor.
Moron fell down in the shower. I think he broke his arm and is too much of a sissy to fill this in himself. You should probably sedate him before you touch him. Grade-A drama king. Use some kind of heavy-duty horse meds to make sure he's out cold.
I look over his information: male, thirty-two, healthy. Okay, piece of cake.
"Is this for real, Lauren?" I smile at my co-worker—one of the most attractive nurses here.
She glances around, and when she's certain there aren't any eavesdroppers around, she spills the beans. "Dramatic? Absolutely. But I can for sure excuse that. His looks make it all good, Swan. I promise you won't be disappointed. He's legit so hot, and the whining actually makes him cute." She giggles. "Besides..." Lauren's Nordic blue eyes flutter behind me, looking at the door of room five. "The guy he's with? Wow, you're in for a treat. He's actually the one who filled in the admissions form." Her eyes twinkle and she has a mischievous grin on her face before the phone in her pocket rings, interrupting our conversation.
I watch her take off, white Air Force 1s tapping on the floor before I prepare myself and open the door. When I do, it's like the air is being knocked right out of me—as if I'm falling ass-first on hard pavement.
Oh, my fucking hell. Lauren's right. The guy on the examination table looks miserable, even though he's obviously handsome. My patient looks too big for the table, even for the room, and his muscled limbs stretch over the edge of the table. He's clutching his bare, heavily muscled bicep to hold up his arm, his other arm tucked inside the sleeve of his unzipped hoodie that hangs limply off his body. Tall, buff, and handsome's legs are encased in loose board shorts that don't match his hoodie since he clearly had to jump into some clothes to drive over to the emergency room. I see people dressed in the weirdest things working as an ER doctor, so that doesn't really catch my attention too much. What does catch my attention—rather who—is the slouching figure in the chair by the wall. His legs are stretched out until the toes of his unlaced Doc Martens touch the undercarriage of the examination table.
His jeans are seriously distressed, showcasing hints of ink underneath ripped denim, and he wears a black hoodie. The hood is up, but several locks of bronze hair slip from their cotton confinement. I note a muscular yet lean frame underneath his clothing and feel this weird sensation. It's like I know him, but I can't put my finger on from where. Since I hear my patient release a shaky breath, I close the door and walk up to him. As my back is to the man's companion, I notice the patient's forearm is swollen and already looks bruised. He must have taken quite a fall.
"Doing okay here, Emmett?" I glimpse at the admissions form to get his name, and he looks up at me through watery brown eyes.
"Fuck, no, doc. It hurts like a motherfucker."
I have to cover a snort by clearing my throat at this guy's colorful language, and set the clipboard aside before I help him sit a little straighter. I glance at the X-ray one of my co-workers took and respond, "Well, Emmett, looks like you got yourself a perfectly clean break in your radius and some minor sprains in your ulna." I show Emmett the line on the X-ray. The other guy huffs and turns his head briefly to follow my explanation. I feel his eyes on me, but I don't give him any attention until he speaks.
His voice is smooth, yet rugged and charismatic. It's too appealing to disregard. "You're bitching over a fucking broken arm, Em? Really?" He's clearly not amused and stands, hands in his pockets. He towers over me and leans against the wall now. Green eyes like gems adjust on mine, and I temporarily forget how to breathe. His gaze is powerful and smoldering, but he looks a little tired—on edge.
"Dude, it fucking hurts, okay? I can't help the fact that I fell down!"
I try to ignore the bickering in my examination room. It happens so often: one person getting angry and worked up over the other's 'stupid' mistake that leads to them ending up in the emergency room.
"It was either my arm or your precious fucking glass shower."
"Please excuse his little performance, doctor. I do hope you've read my notes on how to make sure he shuts his mouth?" The one with the hood pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly annoyed. As he looks at me, his green eyes burn a hole through my body. He's unashamed, ogling me openly with those vivid green eyes. His stance falters, going from bitching friend to a first-class smooth-talker. The way he smirks tells me he more often than not gets his way. Fuck, I don't even blame him. Something about his eyes makes my stomach clench and my pussy throb. This guy works his magic on me. I bet he does it all the time. I can't grasp the reason he affects me this much. I scan the form in my hands, trying to find a name. But there's nothing there except for my actual patient's information, written in neat handwriting and black pen.
I blink a few times at this guy's changed attitude, switching roles and exterior as if he's a chameleon, from grump to a charmer. I simply smile and get the supplies to cast the broken arm.
— * —
I finish casting Emmett's arm in record time. Ten minutes. Even though I'm eager to get off work, dunk myself in a hot bath with a glass of chardonnay, I don't really care about the overtime I'm pulling today, since fifteen minutes is barely worth mentioning. I give Emmett a prescription for painkillers and the deets on how to care for his cast.
After washing my hands thoroughly, I turn and look at the two guys, how they interact. I don't believe they're lovers, because the copper-haired one doesn't seem like he's too concerned in a way a significant other would be.
"No, Em. I get it, but you know how I am when I barely get any sleep. You waking me up by almost destroying my bathroom surely isn't the way I like to start my morning," he grumbles.
I eavesdrop as I put my signature under Emmett's prescription.
"Yeah, I know it's not. But I'm just happy you let me crash at your place while Rose gets her ducks in a row."
Definitely not lovers.
"Is he ready to go now, doc?"
"Don't be so rude, E. She's just doing her job," Emmett chimes in.
"I'm used to getting rushed, so no hard feelings." I chuckle. "Yeah, your friend is all set. Go pick up those meds to ease some of the pain, though. Since it's a very textbook break, you'll be able to get the cast removed in about two months."
"Ah, fuck. I can kiss the Cal State Games goodbye." Emmett looks upset as his shoulders slump and he glares at the navy cast intensely. His friend was hell-bent on making Emmett pick neon pink, but the big guy wasn't going for that.
"Let's go, princess. I have better things to do today than play chauffeur." The friend pulls up the sleeves of his black hoodie, revealing more ink—colorful splashes of watercolor and black, angular designs running through them.
Why the fuck are you so familiar?
"Yeah, yeah. I know, superstar. We're going." Emmett's brown eyes gaze at me, a smile gracing his lips.
"Thanks, Dr. Swan." Superstar reads my name off the plastic-encased badge that's dangling from my scrub pocket. Green eyes blaze heavy fires as he sizes me up and winks.