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He pulled her bottom half close. Could not stop himself. “I sure wish I’d been there to see them.” And enjoy them. He drew in her sensual scent. God help him he wanted her. While Kyle liked his women small, Fig liked ‘em tall and thin. Just like Roxie. He went for full body contact—skin to skin from head to toe.
At first she stood rigid, looking away from him. He slid his hands up her sides, teased the outer curve of each breast. She reacted, an infinitesimal softening, a barely noticeable exhalation, both of which he may have missed if he wasn’t so attuned to her. “You want me,” he observed.
“To move your hands,” she replied.
He did. To her upper back where he proceeded to hug her close. Her cell phone rang.
Dag-nab-it. He released her.
She took a step back—still not looking at him—set her stethoscope on the table and pulled out her phone to check the screen.
Fig forced himself to stop thinking about how good she’d felt pressed against him, how much he wanted to see her beautifully formed body in nothing but some sexy, barely there undergarments, and resumed focus on his mission—to determine if Roxie was the one responsible for 5E’s missing Demerol. While his brain made a smooth transition, his body was not so easily redirected.
Roxie returned the phone to her pocket without answering it, and, with a deep breath, she turned and headed for the door like she’d forgotten all about him. “Hey,” he called after her, holding up her stethoscope.
Seeing it, she snapped two fingers. “Right. I’ll be needing that.”
When she grabbed it he held on and waited for her to look him in the eye, making note that hers were bloodshot—damn. “I’m sorry you had to sit home on a Friday night because of me.”
She laughed. “Don’t kid yourself, Ryan. There are plenty of men who enjoy my company.” She stared him down. “Really enjoy it. And just because you weren’t up for a good time doesn’t mean I didn’t have one.” She yanked the stethoscope from his hand. Over her shoulder she said, “For the record, I never sit home on Friday or Saturday nights. Ever.”
Her phone buzzed.
She retrieved it and looked at the screen. “I hate men.” She glared at him. “I’m done with the lot of you. Every single one. So tell your kind to stay the hell away from me if they value their man-parts.” Then she slammed out the door.
Fig waited, wanting a little distance between Roxie and his man-parts. At least for now. He smiled, taking her words as more of a challenge than a warning.
Roxie burst out of the lounge, her heart pounding, rage coursing through her system. She looked at the text message, again: “It’s done.” “¡Coño!” And the colossal jerk had sent her the link. She eyed the darkened hallway of even-numbered rooms, wondering if she had the strength to hurl the phone hard enough to break through the reinforced glass window at the far end. The way she felt? Probably. But what would that solve?
The video was out there for anyone with a computer to see. Her friends. Her coworkers. Her family. Of course Roxie would shrug it off, make like she didn’t care. But she did. What went on in private between two consenting adults was supposed to be just that. Private. The thought of people watching, knowing, sat like a pregnant hippo on her chest.
Deep breath in. Deep breath out.
“The Lord doesn’t give us more than we can handle.” Roxie whispered her mantra of the past ten years and leaned her back against the wall, wishing He didn’t have so much confidence in her.
Each time she thought things couldn’t get worse something inevitably happened to prove her wrong. She slipped her hand into the pocket of her scrub coat and wrapped her fingers around the three cartridges of injectable Demerol. At least that she could fix before anyone found out.
Or so she’d thought until she reached the nurses’ station at the center of the H-shaped unit and froze. What was Victoria doing at work so early? And why was she verifying the narcotic count with the night shift? The hippo gave birth to twins that landed heavily on her gut and set off a tumultuous, acidic churn. There’d be no hiding her stupidity now. Victoria was going to be livid.
“You okay?” Fig stopped beside her, standing way too close. She took the opportunity to draw on his calm and confidence to rejuvenate her dwindling supply.
“Just fine.” Always fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Roxie hoped if she said it enough it would turn out to be true.
“You’re looking pale.”
“We Latinos don’t pale,” she snapped. Not like him. Did the man ever get out in the sun? She looked up at the strong features of his handsome face and the rounded smoothness of his enticingly bald head. Actually had to look up. How often did that happen? At just under six feet, Roxie was usually the tallest person in the room. Aside from the fact she’d had a terrible day with her mom and had been really looking forward to their night out, his height played a small part in why she’d been so angry about being stood up. In search of the perfect shoes to wear on their date, actual heels, Roxie had torn through dozens of stores, had spent hours looking. Did he have any idea how difficult it’d been to find a pair of hot-pink glossy patent-leather peep-toe platform pumps? In a size thirteen? When would she ever have another opportunity to wear them?
“Hey, Rox,” one of the night nurses called out from room 504. “Would you help me out? I need to get home on time today.”
“Sure thing.” Roxie glanced at the schedule board across from the nurses’ station to confirm her assignment. District one. As usual. Even-numbered rooms 502–508. Eight beds. Two empty, awaiting new admission post-ops. One pre-op due in the operating room at 7:30 a.m. She glanced at the clock, 6:45, then turned to Fig. “When Victoria’s done would you tell her I need to speak with her? It’s important.”
“My first official unit-clerk task.” He lifted his pad and pen and wrote something down. “I’m on it.”
Then Roxie got to work, assisted her colleague, took a quick report and sent her pre-op patient off to the O.R. On her morning round each of her patients had a problem. Pain. High blood pressure. Low blood pressure. Hypoglycemia. Constipation. Fever. An infiltrated IV. And two saturated dressings.
Finally, by 11:00 a.m. she had everyone settled and could take a quick break for some much-needed sustenance. Only, on her way to the nurses’ lounge she met up with a recovery room nurse pushing a sleeping patient in her direction. “You’re supposed to call first,” Roxie said.
“I did,” the plump nurse at the head of the stretcher said. “The guy who answered said to come on up.”
Roxie glared at Fig. “The floor nurse gives approval to accept patients from the recovery room. Not you,” she told him.
“Oops. Duly noted,” Fig answered, making a note on his stupid pad. “It won’t happen again.”
She eyed the girth of her new patient and looked back over to Fig. “Make yourself useful. Come help us transfer this patient to her bed.” May as well see if those muscles worked as good as they looked.
Fig stood, something strangely uncertain in his expression.
“No,” Victoria said from behind him. “He’s here as a unit clerk. The only contact he’s to have with patients is from behind this desk.”
What the …?
Roxie’s stomach growled. She didn’t have time for this nonsense. “All available hands to 502A,” she called out. “Chop-chop, ladies. My blood sugar is starting to drop.” That was sure to get their attention. No one wanted a cranky Roxie around.
With the recovery room nurse’s help Roxie lined the stretcher up next to the bed and locked the wheels on both. “Welcome to 5E, Mrs. Flynn,” she said to her new patient. “My name is Roxie Morano and I’ll be your nurse until seven o’clock this evening.” She raised the bed so it was the same height as the stretcher, transferred the bag of IV fluid to the bed pole and placed the catheter drainage bag by the patient’s feet so it didn’t pull during transfer. As the recovery room nurse gave report, Roxie checked the patient’s right-sided chest dressing, which was covered by a surgical bra, and inspected the drains and tubing.
“Fifty-nine-year-old, morbidly obese female. Status post right-sided modified radical mastectomy.”
Roxie noted the drainage in each of the two bulbs, labeled R1 and R2, to establish a baseline and pulled her report sheet—which contained pertinent information on each of her patients—from her pocket. She unfolded the paper and set it on the over-the-bed table. In the blank box reserved for room 502A she wrote in the patient’s name and diagnosis, last set of vitals and time of last dose of pain medication. Then she jotted down her observations. Patient arousable to verbal stimuli. Catheter draining clear yellow urine. Dressing clean, dry and intact. Drains to self-suction with scant red drainage in each. IV infusing to left forearm.
When Victoria and Ali—her other best friend and the nurse working in the district next to hers—arrived to help, Roxie directed, “One on the stretcher side, one over here by me.” She stood on the side of the bed, at the patient’s upper body, so she’d be responsible for pulling the heaviest part of her. As her colleagues got into position Roxie spoke to her patient. “We’re going to slide you onto the bed, Mrs. Flynn.”
The groggy woman nodded in understanding.
“Keep your hands at your sides and let us do all the work,” Roxie instructed.
Each staff member grabbed a hunk of the bottom sheet.
“Everyone ready?” Roxie locked eyes with each woman. Just last week a patient on 4B fell between the stretcher and the bed during a transfer, suffering a severe hip fracture as a result. Not on Roxie’s watch. “On my count of three. One. Two. Three.”
Using every bit of strength she possessed, Roxie pulled. If the grunts around her meant anything, her coworkers were giving it all they had, too. Yet the patient barely budged.
Fig entered the room.
Victoria told him to leave.
“What kind of man would I be if I let four lovely ladies struggle when I could help?”
“Are you sure?” Victoria asked, handing him a pair of latex gloves from the box on the wall.
“Scoot over.” He squeezed between Roxie and Ali, bumping Roxie’s hip with his as he did. “Now tell me what to do,” he said as he put on the gloves.
“Ball the sheet like this.” Roxie showed him her hands. “Tight.”
He took the sheet in his large hands. She remembered how they’d felt on her body, holding her just a few hours earlier, and realized how much she’d like to feel them again—and in more places. She shook her head to clear her thoughts.
“And on the count of three,” she continued, “we pull and they—” she motioned to the women on the other side of the stretcher with her chin “—push.”
“Got it,” Fig said, testing his grip on the sheet, looking so cute in his concentration.
“Everyone ready?” Roxie asked again and waited for each woman and Fig to respond in the affirmative. “On my count of three. One. Two. Three.”
Again Roxie pulled as hard as she could, and this time the patient slid toward her like she was on plastic liner slick with baby oil.
“Wow. You are a strong one,” Roxie said to Fig.
He smiled, a genuinely pleased smile, and winked. “Remember that.” He moved closer on his way to discard his gloves in the trash can and whispered, “Dream about it.”
“As if any part of you registers with my subconscious.” Especially not his head—in the dream where she was a cat sleeping curled around it. Or his fair skin—in the dream where they’d lounged by a pool and she’d rubbed him with suntan lotion—repeatedly—to protect him from the harsh rays of the sun. Or his laugh, or the teasing twinkle in his green eyes, or the contagious smile that brightened his handsome face.
Something about him had made her feel safe, like she could let her guard down. Thank goodness she hadn’t. He also made her want…things she didn’t usually crave without a couple of beers on board. Was it his slow, laid-back demeanor and quiet confidence? His quick, dry sense of humor? His build—a perfect complement to her large frame? His distinctive look or his air of reserved power?
Whatever it was, it gave her an unsettling schoolgirl crush sort of feeling. And Roxie didn’t like it. In her experience men were unreliable, opportunistic and good for one thing only—sex. Add in emotion and the fun factor took a nosedive.
“Thank you, everyone,” she said.
Fig didn’t move.
“Back to work, you,” she said, using her hands to shoo him along. “I hear a phone ringing.”
He turned his back to the patient and leaned toward her. “Your mom called,” he said quietly. “She sounded upset.”
Last night had been particularly difficult. Roxie hated to leave for work this morning but what else could she do? They both depended on her income.
“She said she couldn’t find the knobs for the stove,” he added.
Duh. Because last week she hadn’t turned off a burner, which caused the macaroni and cheese she’d made to burn and spew the smoke that prompted their obnoxious, constantly complaining neighbor to call the fire department. Which was the reason every damn thing in her not-so-terrific life had gone from “barely tolerable but afloat” to “she’s taking on water!” fast approaching “she’s going down. Abandon ship.”
“There’s a perfectly logical explanation for that,” Roxie said. “Which is none of your business. Next time tell her to call my cell.” She turned to her patient.
Fig reached for her arm to stop her. “She told me she’d tried but you didn’t answer,” he whispered.
What? Roxie always answered Mami’s calls. She patted her breast pocket. Empty. Jammed her hands into both scrub coat pockets, rummaged through their contents. Bandage scissors. Alcohol prep pads. Tape. Three injectable Demerol cartridges. Damn it, she needed to get in to talk to Victoria. Two paperclips. Three pens. A box of thermometer probes. A roll of candies. And a breakfast bar she hadn’t had time to eat.
No phone.
She yanked her hands out so fast something went flying. A pen? It rolled under the bedside stand. She’d get it later. “Shoot. Where the heck did I leave my phone?” Mami panicked if she couldn’t reach her. How long had it been since she’d called?
Roxie bent to look under the bed.
“Hot-pink with crystals, right?” Fig asked.
“Yeah.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for it.”
“Thanks.”
“And you got these.” He handed her some slips of pink paper from his pocket.
She looked at the male names on each of six message slips. So they’d seen the video. Perverts. She ripped the papers in half and tossed them in the trash. “Anything else?” she asked, losing patience, wanting to get finished admitting her patient so she could call home then find her phone. Which contained that link she should have deleted upon receipt.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.” Always fine. Fine. Fine. Fine.
After getting her new patient settled Roxie took a minute to use a phone at the nurses’ station. “Hola, Mami.”
She started to cry.
“No. Please don’t cry. You don’t need the stove. I left you a sandwich in the refrigerator.”
“I want to make hard-boiled eggs,” her mother said.
“It’s egg salad. Your favorite.”
“Que buena hija. You’re a good daughter.”
“Gracias. Look, I have to get back to work. I misplaced my phone. If you need me call the floor and Fig will get me.”
Nothing.
“Okay, Mami?”
“Okay,” she said, her mouth full. “It’s good. I was hungry.”
Roxie smiled. “Be careful getting back to bed. I’ll come straight home after work.” She hung up the phone, dropped her head and let out a sigh of relief.
When she looked up her eyes met Fig’s. “If my mom calls back …”
“I’ll come find you,” he finished.
“Thanks.” Her stomach growled.
“Go eat. If any of your patients buzz I’ll have Ali or Victoria check on them.”
“I think I will.” She stood. Swayed. Grabbed on to the counter to steady herself at the same time Fig reached for her. “Wow. Looks like the tank is empty. Time to refuel.”
“Is that all it is?” Fig asked, looking concerned. And … suspect?
