Running Scared (Princeton Royals #2)

What is That and What is it Doing

“EIGHT YEARS to get through med school,” Bailey Dodge muttered through a bite of donut, “three years of residency, two as an attending, and this is my life.”

The potential human traffic jam that was Outskirts General Hospital seethed around him as he struggled into his lab coat and tried to remember if he’d brushed his teeth that morning.

The myth of the well-off doctor growing fat and avuncular in family practice was drifting further and further away with every minute spent in this hellhole.

But Bailey couldn’t seem to quit the ER.

He’d tried. When the hospital had made cutbacks, he’d tried. When threatened—both in job and in freedom—for administering lifesaving care to pregnant women, he’d tried. When three of his interns had been forced to quit because they felt the same way but they hadn’t had tenure, he’d tried.

But there were people here—good people. Nurses, janitors, orderlies, who seemed to depend on him to run in, lab coat flapping, to try to make sense of the terrible chaos of human tragedy that was life in a busy ER.

But God, he was tired. His head ached from lack of sleep, his feet ached from being on them for so long, his body ached because, well, he hadn’t been touched in forever .

But there’d been a pileup out by Manor, and Outskirts General got all that action rather than nearby—but still twenty minutes or so away—Austin.

“What do we got, Sarree,” he asked Sarah Wilson, his charge nurse. She’d been the one to catch the call from dispatch, alerting them to incoming ambulances and pulling him out of his nap in the intern’s cot room because he was shorthanded and working a double.

“Sorry to get you for this, Bail,” she said crisply, but yes, genuinely apologetic. “It sounded like a complete goat rodeo, but there’s apparently only a few injuries, two of them minor. They’re in the open cubicles, each with their own G-man attached.

“G-man?” Bailey asked, eyebrows up.

“Part of some weird smuggling thing?” She sounded genuinely baffled. “All I know is that there was a showdown between semitrucks, and the only reason it wasn’t an absolute bloodbath is that your guy in Room 3A can—and I’m quoting two state troopers and the G-men here—‘really fuckin’ drive.’”

Bailey stared at Sarree in surprise. A sturdy Black woman with the mind of a military general, Sarree Wilson could be warm with her family, and he’d seen her crack a rare smile when he’d worked really hard for one, but she was raised church right, and almost never, ever swore.

“Really?” he asked.

“Do I look like I’m kidding?” she demanded.

“Here I was, rousing you from a much-needed sleep and calling for a stock up on bandages and blood, when half the state troopers in Austin stalk in, G-men on their tails, and they are absolutely gobsmacked. And the guy in 3A doesn’t have a spot of blood on him. ”

“What’s he got?”

She grimaced. “We took him for X-rays and a CT, but it’s looking like a whole lot of soft-tissue damage and bruising. Apparently his semi should have jackknifed and gone over, but this guy pulled every muscle in his body keeping it upright.”

“Damn,” Bailey said. “Sounds impressive.”

“It was,” said a crisp voice with the faintest—oh so faint—of California accents.

“I would appreciate it if….” The voice faltered for a moment as Bailey made contact with a startling pair of brownish-hazel eyes.

There was a deep breath as Bailey tried to restart his heart, and the G-man—he had to be, although he was wearing khakis and a collared shirt—in front of him resumed talking.

“I would appreciate it if you took special care of him,” said the surprisingly young agent.

“On top of being brave and, yes, sparing your ER a lot of bloody casualties, he is also my brother, and while he’s a pain in my ass, my parents would be most upset if his head popped off because he stalwartly refused to tell us it hurt. ”

Bailey found his lips curving into a surprised smile.

“One of those,” he said, with a nod of understanding.

The young G-man was just… just so beautiful, it was hard to remember he was talking like a professional.

The last time he’d been nearly stunned into submission by nice eyes and a stoic demeanor it had been… .

Oh, he couldn’t think about that. No, no, he couldn’t.

“It is said,” the agent intoned with some disgruntled dignity, “that we are a lot alike. I have no idea if it’s true, but we are drowned in family who insist upon it.” He stuck out his hand. “Special Agent Dean Royal. My brother Val is your patient. Right this way.”

And then the handsome little shit—and he was handsome, with dark hair doing the clean-cut G-man thing and a balanced, well-proportioned nose and chin, as well as cheekbones to die for—actually gestured to Bailey to follow him in Bailey’s own hospital .

The absolute gall of the man would have had Bailey stuttering, only Sarree had just handed him Val Royal’s X-Rays and CT scan, and Bailey actually had a job to do.

“How’s it look?” Special Agent Royal asked, unabashedly peering over Bailey’s shoulder.

Bailey yanked his hand away, bemused by all this… chutzpah as well as unsettled by that much closeness. “It looks like your brother’s business,” he said shortly. “Have you never heard of HIPAA laws?”

Dean Royal grunted. “Yes, I have heard of HIPAA, but now that you’ve heard of the Royal family, you will understand why none of that applies.

While you go talk to Val, I need to go report to my mother, and if I don’t have some specifics and stats, she will fly from Bakersfield to make sure her baby is okay.

My parents are not rich, and if that’s an unnecessary trip, I would prefer she not make it.

” He rolled his eyes, seeming a little embarrassed.

“Besides, it appears as though my asshole brother has finally met an equal asshole, and he might actually get laid and become less of an asshole, but only if he is not dying .”

Bailey blinked. “Wow, you weren’t kidding about your family, were you?”

“No. I never exaggerate,” Dean Royal said, without the faintest touch of humor. “I have never exaggerated, and I am not exaggerating about this.”

Next to him, Sarree made a sound like a cat strangling on its own tongue, and Bailey wondered if she’d fallen in love a little.

“Well, it’s good to know where I stand,” Bailey said. “How about you go in there and let me take a check on his charts—”

“What do they say?” said two men who had apparently just appeared, like magic, down the bustling corridors of the ER.

The one who spoke, a little grayer, a little taller than his slighter, more-humble companion, had a swagger to his shoulders that Bailey might have appreciated on any day a pugnacious G-man hadn’t just chewed him out for not violating HIPAA laws.

“They say give me a minute with his charts!” Bailey protested. “Good Lord, did I go down for my power nap and wake up in a Marvel movie? I haven’t even spoken with the patient yet!”

The two men grimaced, and Bailey waved his hand at the entire testosterone posse that was overwhelming his little hospital. “Go away!” he all but begged. “But I will tell you that if the injuries are what I think they are, it might be better to keep your friend here for observation—”

“Son,” said the older man, “I’ve been in a hospital bed. If all he’s got is soft-tissue damage and a concussion, I might be able to give him a better night’s rest in a nice hotel than here. I can bring him back in the morning if you like.”

Outskirts was a small hospital, but it was also a busy one. Freeing up a bed in the ER with no danger to the patient was no small offer.

“Let me look at his charts,” Bailey said with a sigh. “I might take you up on that, but first I have to see what’s doing. Now go talk to him, but my God, no yelling. If he appears overwhelmed or about to puke, everybody back up or they’re going to get it on their shoes. Now go.”

Everybody went except Special Agent Hottie.

“Was I not talking to all three of you?” he asked, declining to mention that Dean Royal’s sweat and heat was working like an aphrodisiac in the cool of the antiseptic hospital.

Lean lips quirked up in a smile of pure arrogance. “No,” he said. “I don’t think you were.”

Bailey let out a sigh and pointed. “Stand over there,” he said, all the authority he could muster in his voice. Dean raised a lazy eyebrow, but he went.

And Bailey wondered if he could kickstart his brain again now that his libido had been freed of Special Agent Royal’s distracting presence.

“That young man smells as good as he looks,” Sarree said, with the same tone of voice she used in assessing the extent of wound irrigation.

“Oh my God, so it’s not just me?” Bailey muttered, taking a glance at Val Royal’s charts.

Every doctor so far had noted that the patient would need rest, a warm bath, a soft bed, and some muscle relaxants, as well as dark and quiet.

Bailey had slept in hospitals for a long time now as a doctor, and he was under no illusions as to how restful they were as an institution.

“No, sir,” Sarree said, in answer to Bailey’s earlier question. “But I don’t think I’m the man’s type.”

Bailey glanced up and saw that Dean Royal was studying Bailey with interest, a glint of amusement and something else… something glowing and, oh hell, hot in his eyes.

“He’s sort of an asshole,” Bailey muttered, making a notation next to the drug recommendations and then pulling out his prescription pad. “It’s a shame he’s my type.”

Sarree gave a brief cackle. “A shame?”

Bailey gave her a beleaguered glare. “The man is based in California, he’s here for his injured brother, and I have to work tonight, remember?”

She harrumphed. “I don’t think you’re giving that young man enough credit. I’m thinking with that glint in his eyes, he could overcome any obstacle you put in his way.”