Chapter One
Claire
"Only twelve stitches? But Tyler had at least twenty when he got hit with a baseball during gym class." The little boy looked at his arm in disappointment.
I turned to his mother and waved off her silent apology. "He can tell Tyler that his cut was probably a lot deeper. The antibiotics will ward off any infection, but let us know if you see any swelling or pus."
"Pus? Awesome," the little boy said.
The tearful mother shook my hand, her fingers weak from worried trembling. She'd brought her eight-year-old in an hour ago and her white blouse was still covered in blood. Her little boy, on the other hand, was happily kicking his legs over the edge of the gurney and smiling at the passing nurses.
Julie, my head RN, stopped to give him a sticker and some helpful advice. "Next time you think about checking out your father's workshop, ask an adult to come with and don't get into any shoving matches."
"Thank you, Dr. West," the mother said. She took her son's hand and let him drag her out of the emergency room.
"Your brother's on hold," Julie told me.
I shook my head. "Tell him I'll call him later."
Julie crossed her arms. "He said he'll keep calling. Maybe it's important?"
I peeled off my gloves and tossed them in a biohazard bin. "Reese's definition of 'important' is different than mine."
We pulled the curtains open to let the orderlies clear the bed and get the area ready for another patient. I checked the board but there was nothing pressing. Nights in the ER went in waves, some were a rush of patients so heavy it was hard to come up for air. And others were painfully slow.
Why couldn't tonight be busy?
Julie knew I had plenty of time to talk to my brother, but she sighed and went to deliver my message instead. I took a deep breath and pushed Reese out of my mind. My younger brother was more like a glacier than a wave; a slow, destructive force consistent in his bad choices. I couldn't count how many times I had prescribed solutions to his problems only to find out he'd ignored my advice.
"Doc West, the original good girl herself," a voice called across the nurses’ station.
I looked up and saw Jack, our local drunk. Two EMTs helped him onto a gurney and waved to me. There was nothing to report that I didn't already know. If anyone ignored my advice more than my brother, it was Jack.
"The dizzy spells won't stop unless you eat regularly," I told Jack. I steeled myself against the stench of stale whiskey and took his pulse. "When was the last time you had a regular meal?"
"Same night you had a hot date," Jack said. His chuckle turned into a wheezing cough. "When was that, doc? Last Christmas?"
"I wish you would take as much interest in yourself as you do in my love life." I waved Julie over and ordered a round of fluids for Jack. If he wouldn't eat, the least we could do was get him properly hydrated.
"There's more than one way to starve." Jack hiccuped. He was always very philosophical during a long bender.
"Dr. West, you have a phone call." The crackling announcement over the PA made me scowl.
Julie shot me a sympathetic look and took over caring for Jack. I patted his arm and turned to the nurses' station. On my way across the ER, I shot a hopeful look at the ambulance bay doors. My brother couldn't be mad at me for not answering his call if I was up to my elbows in a real emergency.
The deafening sound of motorcycles made me pause. Outside three motorcycles, all chrome and black leather, roared up to the ambulance bay doors. A tall man, clutching his right side, stumbled off the back of a Harley. He slapped the driver on the back then doubled over in pain. The bikes revved up, shaking the glass doors, and then sped off as orderlies ran out to help him.
I snapped on a fresh pair of gloves and headed for the doors. "What do we have?" I called.
"I can walk. I'm fine." The man waved away a wheelchair, talking in a cultured tone that didn't match his rough look. "Just a few cuts, Doc."
"We need gauze," I called out, already seeing blood.
"I told them I was fine, but they insisted I come to the hospital. Now I'm glad they did," the man said. He doubled over again then grinned up at me.
"Knife?" I asked.
His black leather vest didn’t staunch the blood, and it seeped down his thigh and coated his jeans. He nodded, his smile surprisingly white in contrast with his dark stubble.
I blocked the doors to the ER. "Get in the wheelchair, sir."
"I can walk," he said with a tough grimace.
I looked him straight in the eyes: dark brown and surprised that I didn't blink. "Hospital policy. Besides, every step you take is pulling open that cut on your side. Four-inch switchblade took you by surprise."
He kept his eyes on me as he folded his tall, six-feet-two inch frame into the wheelchair. "Should've known he wouldn't fight fair. Just like Tybalt. Though, he might be rethinking that kind of move right about now."
One cut in his side, three defensive wounds on his arm, and bloodied knuckles; I didn't need to hear his story or how the fight ended.
Wait. Did he just reference 'Romeo and Juliet?'
The man didn’t match his look. On the outside, he was a scruffy, tough biker. My ER wasn't far from the highway, and we saw a lot of motorcycle guys come through. They never referenced an apropos character from Shakespeare into the description of their injury.
I snapped out of my sudden fascination. Looks could be deceiving, every doctor knew that.
I forced myself to concentrate on the patient, not the man. "Get him cleaned up, vitals now, and get me an ultrasound."
"Prep OR two?" Julie asked. I nodded.
"Whoa, surgery? Jumping the gun there a bit, aren't you, Doc? Feels like a few stitches to me." He ran his hand through his shaggy brown hair and tried to charm me with another smile.
"Are you a doctor?" I asked him. Then I led inside the ER. "Nurse Julie here will take down your information."
The bravado in his smile faded. "I'm nobody."
"Nice to meet you, Mr. Doe. The nurses are going to remove your vest and shirt now," I said.
Plenty of people lied about their names in the emergency room, so there was no reason for me to feel disappointed. Julie quickly made a note to sick our insurance specialists on him before he could leave. Unless he could pay cash and live without painkillers, he'd be putting down his real name on a dozen or so forms.
I blinked hard. Why did I care about his name?
Then my eyes settled on his bare chest and flat stomach. Tattoos overlapped across his chiseled pectorals. More interwoven tattoos strained around his hard biceps. Instead of hiding his muscular, athletic build, the tattoos highlighted his obvious strength.
I felt my cheeks get hot.
"You can call me Steele, Doc. Everyone does." The man flashed his bright smile again.
Something fizzed in my stomach. My mind flipped to the summer I was sixteen and the lifeguard at the local beach had winked at me. That first spark of lust had sent me skittering straight into the water to cool off my blazing cheeks.
No! I was almost thirty-two-years-old; there was no way I was going to blush. Not in my ER and not in front of a patient. His smile was still lingering as he studied my face, but it had no effect on me. I was a professional.
I gritted my teeth and concluded I must be hungry. Hunger explained my fluttering stomach and distracted thoughts.
"Your club give you that name?" I asked. It was best to distract him as the nurses reached to clean his wounds.
Steele sucked in a sharp breath as the nurses sprayed saline into the cuts and pressed on fresh gauze. They used his momentary surprise to push him flat on the table and slow the blood flow from the wound on his side.
I grabbed an ultrasound machine and did a fast exam. It was just as I thought, a slight liver laceration. Small but bleeding fast.
"I didn't steal anything if that's what you think. I won a bet by bending a steel pipe. That's how I got my first motorcycle." Steele's remembered glory was cut short as I probed the now clean wound on his side.
"I didn't know Superman drove a motorcycle." I patted Steele's shoulder to distract him as I turned to Julie. "We've got internal bleeding. Is Dr. Daniels on his way?"
"OR two is ready for you, Dr. West," Julie said, her voice clipped. No matter how often the surgeon on-call left the ER unsupported, it still made her mad.
Hospital policy told me to wait for the surgeon on-call, no matter how unreliable. I checked my watch and looked at Steele. The color had drained from his face and his head was beginning to wobble. We didn't have much time before the blood loss became a problem.
Steele winced as the gurney moved, but he still smiled. "Not going to wait for the surgeon? I like the way you work, Doc. You're a rebel."
The nurses smothered giggles. My reputation was anything but rebellious. Of all the doctors on rotation in the ER, I was known as the most organized, efficient, and focused. A real stick in the mud. They no doubt thought there wasn't a rebellious bone in my body.
Steele's words made me stumble. I fell a step behind as long-gone desire washed over me. Something in me itched at my straight-laced life, but I pushed it aside. I'd given up fun for focus a long time ago.
I marched to the hand-washing station and began my scrubbing while the nurses got Steele in position. He struggled as they bound his arms and legs to the operating table.
"It's for your own safety," I said. "We're giving you a sedative now. Can you handle that?"
"For a few scratches? I'll be fine, Doc," Steele said.
Julie tucked my loose ponytail into a cap, laced on a fresh gown, and hooked a surgical mask over my face. Another nurse tugged gloves onto my hands and handed me a scalpel.
I looked down into Steele's dark brown eyes and waited for the fierce light there to drift. A localized paralytic would take effect any second now. Julie removed a wad of blood-soaked gauze. It was a miracle that Steele was still conscious.
"You got some honey in your eyes, Doc. Brown eyes with a bit of honey. Or is it gold?" Steele asked. "Maybe sunlight. Feels like sunlight when you look at me."
I ignored his drugged flirtations and focused on the cut in his side. He'd been lucky that the switchblade hadn't done any more damage. The laceration on his liver was no more than a nick, though the blood loss had been reaching dangerous levels.
Two tight sutures, a careful cleansing of the area, and all I had to do was double-check my work.
"You shouldn't frown so much, Doc. You're good at this, you know," Steele mumbled.
The blood-loss and sedative hit him all at once. Steele gave me one more smile and fell unconscious.
The fact that I was there when he woke up was just a coincidence.