Chapter One
Joaquim
#ThrowMeSomethingMister
“Rock, paper, scissors, shoot.”
I stepped in before they started betting actual money. “Look, I’ll do it. It’s not a big deal.”
Every hospital I worked at, a different hated task existed. At one hospital, the nurses hated to refill the blanket warmer. At another, all eyes would roll when a certain patient pushed the call button.
This time, it was cleaning out the ice machine. For some reason, they didn’t like it, but it had to be done once a month or so when it got clogged.
“Let me get my rounds done and then I’ll handle it. It’ll be my farewell present.”
Today made thirty days at Tulane Hospital in New Orleans. I was asked to come in because they were short staffed and, in particular, had a ton of patients who spoke little English. That’s where my bilingualism came in handy.
It also made for a pretty nice boost to my paycheck.
“J, you don’t have to. We can do it.”
At least Renee tried to relieve me of it. The rest of the nurses scattered as soon as they heard I would take on the task.
“It’s fine. Really. Thanks for the cake, by the way. I’ll miss the king cake around here.”
I straightened the stethoscope around my neck and got to work. There were only six patients to watch over, and most of them slept through the night. Only one woke up with pain, but I would be long gone before Mr. Simmons came to.
Rene laughed. “You still have plenty of time for king cake, cher. And beads and parades. But most of all”—She gave a little chest shake—“you have time for someone to give you a little lagniappe love, if you know what I mean.”
It had been a while since I got some lagniappe.
“Maybe I’ll find someone on Bourbon Street,” I joked while waggling my eyebrows.
“I could say so many dirty things right now, honey, but I’ll leave the dirty to you. Have fun.”
“I will. Thanks.”
Mr. Simmons surprised me by being awake when I checked in on him.
“Mr. Simmons, everything okay?” His face was turned to the window and stayed that way while I took his vitals. HIs blood pressure was spot-on, which wasn’t the norm for him.
“Ever look at your life and wonder if one decision could’ve made the difference?”
“All the time.”
He sighed, and I jotted down the numbers. “I’ve never married. Never had kids. Never traveled. Now, here I am, waiting on a cardiologist in the morning to tell me how long I’ve got.”
Mr. Simmons was in his forties. Although he was ten years older than me, I could empathize with him. I’d spent my life as a nurse, and I was damned good at it. I traveled everywhere and never stayed in one place for too long.
No kids. No omega to speak of. Not even a long-term relationship.
Just me, running like a chicken with my head cut off.
“It’s not too late, Mr. Simmons. Forty is the new twenty. My dad says he really didn’t know who he was until he turned forty. There’s always time.”
He looked at me in disbelief. I didn’t blame him. I sounded like Dr. Phil in scrubs.
“Can you get me a piece of paper and a pen?” he asked. I nodded and grabbed a hospital notepad and a pen from his bedside table. Mr. Simmons didn’t have any visitors. No flowers adorned his window sills. No cards or get-well balloons.
This room was as sparse as my life.
“What’s this for?” I asked, handing it to him.
“I’m gonna make a list. All the things I want to do. I’ve got plenty of money. I’ve spent all my life making money, and look what I’ve got to show for it. Nothing. I’m going to Europe!”
I stayed with Mr. Simmons for a while. I found out his first name was Eric, but everyone called him Pop Tart. I didn’t ask for the story behind it, and he didn’t offer it.
He made a list, and I helped.
Europe. Asia. Parachuting. Scuba Diving. The Eiffel Tower.
My list would be so different, I thought, as I watched him get excited about his new life.
I’d seen Europe and been to Japan twice. I’d scuba dived off the coast of Chile and paraglided in Australia.
“I’m leaving now, Eric. Good luck to you. I hope you get to do all those things on the list.”
He waved me off, still scribbling on his notepad, already on the third page.
After finishing cleaning the ice machine, I went back to my hotel suite, more like micro-apartment, for the night. After a twelve-hour shift, I was overly exhausted, but my eyes refused to close. I ate a meal of tomato soup with toast just for something to fill my stomach. Food didn’t excite me anymore.
Maybe I was having an almost midlife crisis at twenty-nine.
Or maybe I was just lonely.
I flicked on the TV but was still restless. I thought about getting dressed and going out, but when I reached to turn on the lamp, something stopped me. Next to me, on the table, was a hotel notepad and one of those cheapie promotional pens, much like the one I gave Eric.
But the things I wanted in life didn’t need to be written down. They were etched in my heart.
Meet a man who takes my breath away at first glance.
Make him my Omega and treat him like my parents treated each other.
Have all the babies we want to.
The rest were just details and I wanted all of them.
But my life simply didn’t give me time to do what I wanted.
Maybe I needed to change my life.
“I’m gonna go out,” I said to myself, thinking that what I really didn’t want was to be Eric when I was forty, alone in the night, wishing for another life.
In thirty minutes, I was showered and dressed in a black V-neck T-shirt and jeans, not too dressy.
A quick Uber ride had me right in the Quarter by the silver man who moved like a robot if you dropped money into his box. I walked through Jackson Square and down a couple of streets to Bourbon Street. That’s where all the action was. People were on the balconies throwing beads to women who showed their chests, and everyone had a long, tall drink they called a Hurricane. The whole place smelled like booze and musty shoes. But that was the French Quarter.
I’d stopped on a corner to decide which way to go when I looked up to a balcony to see a man who made my lungs seize. He had a slicked-back haircut, short on the sides and long on top, and a hint of a beard growing in. He wore jeans and a sweater that made him look older than his face did. And black-rimmed glasses on the tip of his nose.
Something about him called to me, way up there on the balcony, beads in his hands next to all the French architecture and screaming people.
“Hey!” I couldn’t believe I was trying to get his attention like this. But, at the same time, I couldn’t be stopped. “Throw me something, mister!”
He turned to me in one swift movement and pushed his glasses farther up his nose. A smile appeared on his face.
“Show me something,” he replied, taunting me.
“Come on down here, and I’ll show you whatever you want.”