Serviced (Lighthearted Utensil Romance #4)

Chapter One

Lauren

The double doors swing wide, and a burst of urgency washes through the trauma bay. “What do we have?” I call out, already pulling on gloves as a gurney is rushed in.

“Male, late twenties. High-speed MVA, head-on. No seatbelt. BP crashing. Multiple fractures, probable internal hemorrhaging,” the paramedic rattles off, his voice clipped and professional, keeping pace with the stretcher. I started as an EMT and respect anyone who does it well.

The man on the gurney is a bloodied mess, bruises ballooning across his skin, his eyes barely open. His breathing is shallow—ribs possibly fractured. We roll him into a room prepped for exactly this type of scenario.

“Pulse ox?”

“Eighty-four and falling,” comes the terse response.

I move in and assess his chest. The bruising is dark and ugly—probable steering wheel impact. Aortic injury likely. The abdomen’s distended. Internal bleeding. Ruptured spleen?

“Get him on the monitor,” I say, voice steady, eyes sharp as I take in the extent of his injuries. “Full trauma panel—CBC, CMP, type and cross for four units of blood, stat. Prep for intubation. We may need it.” My words flow like a machine; I’m in control here, the room snapping into motion around me.

“BP’s dropping fast,” someone calls, but I heard the change. My fingers dance over the abdomen, checking for a reaction that isn’t there. He’s fading.

“Ultrasound. Now,” I order. “We need eyes on this.”

The ultrasound probe glides over his abdomen, the screen lighting up with what I already know—free fluid, blood, pooling where it shouldn’t be. I press my lips together. “Hemoperitoneum. We’re losing him. He’s going to code.”

The monitors scream in alarm, but my hands stay steady. “Intubate,” I instruct, sliding the tube in with practiced precision. The ventilator takes over, his chest rising in shallow breaths. “Secure it.”

The nurse at my side reads the latest BP. “Sixty over thirty-five. He’s in shock.”

“Administer one milligram of epinephrine IV push and eight to twelve micrograms per minute of norepinephrine as a continuous infusion.” My voice is calm, as is my mind. In the thick of things, it’s essential to block out both external and internal noise. This man’s life is being measured by the heartbeats we maintain.

Thoracotomy tray’s prepped nearby. In the trauma center, we don’t choose level1 trauma patients. They choose us. I’m here, and I’m skilled. Whatever he needs is what I’ll bring to this fight for his life.

“We’re losing pulse,” someone says, but I’m moving again, pulling my hands back as the nurse starts compressions. My eyes flick to the defib. “Charge it.”

Tension thickens the air, but no one panics, not even the third-year residents. This is why we’re here. All the minor scrapes, splints, and fevers? They’re what we do between saving lives.

“Clear.”

The man’s body jolts with the shock, the monitor spiking erratically, then levels out. Pulse back. I exhale a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

The trauma surgeon steps in. We exchange a lot with one look before uttering a word. I’m relieved he’s there. He’s our best, and this man needs nothing less. “Aortic tear possible. Splenic rupture. Massive internal bleeding.” I quickly share what we’ve done so far.

The surgeon nods. “Good work stabilizing.”

My response is to move aside. He’s in charge now.

I strip my gloves off and toss them in a biohazard bin then remove my mask and gown, discarding them as well. I should immediately return to the patient I left to meet the ambulance. I need a moment, though, and she’s not nearly as critical as she thought she was.

The woman waiting for me came in complaining of an immune system shutdown that was presenting as a mirrored, bubbled rash on both sides of her body and lower arms. Her self-diagnosis leaned toward toxic epidermal necrolysis or a severe dermatological manifestation like angioedema. When asked what had led her to those options, she showed me a search she’d done on her phone.

A brief conversation about her activities throughout the day hinted at a very different condition. Unfortunately, I’d been pulled away before being able to reassure her it was most likely an allergic contact dermatitis, poison ivy or oak. She had no prior history of any of the conditions she’d listed and stated that she’d collected wood for her wood stove the day before. My guess is she put both of her arms into the same irritant and then against the sides of her body later in the day.

Nothing a little dish detergent and topical corticosteroids can’t handle. I’ll also send her home with detailed instructions to clean every surface she might have touched. It’s common for people to believe these rashes can spread on their own when continued contact with urushiol is the cause. The oil can remain potent on surfaces such as fabrics or doorknobs for months or even years.

Now that my role in saving the MVA patient is done, my head should be clear, but too much has happened over the past few weeks for me to be able to focus on anything less than a crisis. That’s partly why I’m taking the vacation time I’ve put off for far too long. Starting tomorrow.

My plans? Find a way to reconcile the way I’ve always thought the world worked with the reality of what I’ve seen and experienced. Things I considered impossible are not only possible, but also in need of my expertise.

Life and death make sense to me. They’re natural.

Coming up with medical interventions for men who were turned into self-healing super soldiers then trapped in silverware for nearly a century... that’s so far beyond my expertise it’s laughable.

When I first encountered these men, I thought the entire situation was an elaborate prank my daughter had somehow been pulled into. Since then, I’ve studied their blood and tissue samples. I’ve witnessed them transitioning from man to utensil and back, both in person and via a slow-motion video recording.

Not only are these men what they say they are, but my daughter, Ashley, has fallen in love with one of them. Their story has intertwined with mine.

There’s nothing natural or right about what was done to them or what they currently are, but I didn’t go into medicine to decide which lives deserve to be saved. Every life has value.

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to at least myself that this situation has shaken me to the core. I already considered the world a chaotic and often dangerous place. These men weren’t supposed to return and I worry about what will happen to all of us when the wrong people discover that they have.

It’s a potentially deadly situation for all of us and I’ve made it worse.

That’s not like me.

I tell the charge nurse I’ll return to my patient, but I need to step away for a moment. I don’t like the sympathy in her eyes. My sudden request for time off has her, along with others on my team, concerned that something horrific has happened to me—death of a family member, old friend... or I’m suffering from a sudden onset of burnout.

The latter happens all too frequently. We don’t save everyone. And even though we try to distance ourselves from the pain and guilt of those we lose, it can become unbearable for some, and they move on to another medical position. A few leave medicine altogether.

Working at a trauma center can make a person both believe in miracles and doubt the existence of God every single day. We see the best and worst of humanity. We carry the hope that we make a difference in the lives we touch, but we often don’t hear how our patients fare after they leave our care. Did they follow up with their own doctor? Change their eating habits? Leave the person hurting them? Stop feeling invincible? And the people we gave bad news to... are they okay? Did they go home alone or did people gather to support them in their time of grief? We don’t get the luxury of those answers, yet we return every day, ready to do this all again.

Until we can’t.

I’m allowing my team to believe I’m struggling with burnout. The truth is too dangerous to share and not my story to tell. I need time to fix what I’ve done and to come up with some way of helping these men.

My phone beeps with a message. Braxton Hayes. I ignore it, although he’s one of the hospital’s largest benefactors. Why he chose me as his liaison with the hospital, I’ll never understand. He claims it’s because he doesn’t like to wade through hospital politics and prefers my blunt nature over the ass-kissing he receives from most people. Despite being someone I have nothing in common with, I don’t dislike him. He’s the reason the hospital now has one of the country’s best-funded burn centers.

Two things can be true at the same time, though. I can appreciate all he’s done for the hospital and not have time to engage in conversation with him that will likely be about nothing. He contacts me at least once a month to “check in.” He’ll ask about Ashley, Ryan, and my life in general. I’ve never been one to engage in idle chit-chat so we keep it brief.

Seeking a moment alone, I close myself into an individual bathroom and lock the door. Slightly on autopilot, I wash my hands. When I meet my gaze in the mirror, I shake my head.

I shouldn’t have touched the silverware Mercedes offered me. I knew the risk. It’s my fault that three men who had been comfortably dormant inside those utensils are now likely confused and feeling trapped. I woke them simply by touching them, and now they’re bonded to me.

Me.

A forty-six-year-old woman who can’t remember the last time she had sex and doesn’t care if she ever has it again. What am I going to do with three WWII super soldiers who will feel mated to me just because I’m the one who woke them?

Why would I put myself in this situation? I’m the steadfast one who can be counted on to step up and do whatever needs to be done. I’m not impulsive and no one has ever accused me of being foolish.

This, however, is a mistake I don’t know how to undo.

Ashley told me to give the silverware back, but it’s too late. Those men are suffering and deserve to be freed.

I need to stop berating myself for creating this situation and focus on making things right. And I have a plan. First, I’ll find a non-sexual way to bring them back. Second, I’ll determine why they feel bonded to those who wake them and help them break that bond. Third, I’ll allow myself time to address the intensity of the bond. Since I don’t know anything about them, everything I feel for them must be chemical in nature.

This condition was engineered in a lab—it can be rectified in one as well .

After giving myself one final stern look in the mirror, I wipe my hands and return to my duties. Thankfully, it’s a relatively uneventful shift. When it’s over, I leave without fanfare or explanation. My team knows they can bring me their issues, but when it comes to my private life, it will remain as it always has—private.

Driving to my apartment is slow going due to heavy, late afternoon traffic. My phone rings. Braxton again. I sigh.

I’m officially on vacation. He’ll need to find someone else to pester.

I let the call go to voicemail, but he calls again.

With a groan, I answer. “I’ve taken the next few weeks off work. I’ll email you the contact information of someone who can answer your questions while I’m gone.”

“Hi, Lauren. It’s so great to hear your voice. Hi, Braxton. Same.” His tone is warm and amused.

I don’t hate the man, but I also don’t have the emotional bandwidth for his banter. “Sorry, it’s been a long day.”

His concern is immediate. “Did something happen?”

Nothing I can share, so I say, “No. Just tired.”

“Ryan and Ashley okay?”

“Yes.” It’s always awkward when Braxton inquires about anything other than the hospital. “Is there a specific reason for your call?”

“I heard you were taking time off. That’s not like you.”

My hands clench on the steering wheel. “Who is the information leak at the hospital? They need to be reminded of the rules of confidentiality.”

“I’ll never reveal my sources.” His chuckle is one of the many things I find frustrating about him. I give him zero encouragement, but he always greets me with the warmth of a Golden Retriever. Our hospital’s Chief Development Officer says that’s why I’m not allowed to ever leave. He thinks Braxton has a soft spot for me.

I don’t see our relationship that way. People tend to either scurry away or fawn over Braxton. He uses both to his advantage but doesn’t linger in the presence of either type. The women on my team treat him like he’s a visiting celebrity. One joked he’s so good-looking he’d be a hall pass for both her and her husband. Thankfully Braxton has never let his social life and his affiliation with the hospital overlap. I respect that about him.

“Well, tell your sources that my life is no one’s business but my own.”

After a heartbeat, he says, “Your request for vacation was sudden.”

I hate to lie, so I hedge. “I’ve been working hard; I need one.”

“Need? We’ve known each other long enough that I hope you feel you can talk to me if you want a sounding board.”

I don’t, but even admitting to that would be too much. Besides, my current situation isn’t one anyone would believe. Halfway through hearing about the super soldier silverware dilemma, Braxton would either be laughing his ass off and convinced it was a joke, or he’d be questioning my mental state. Like many of life’s challenges, this is one that will work out best if I handle it on my own. “Thank you.”

His voice lowers. “I’m serious. If you need something, anything, all you have to do is ask.”

I blanch, and my negative reaction to his offer takes me by surprise. Does he think I want to face this alone? His offer to be there for me makes me angrier than I can justify to myself. “Braxton, I’m fine. I can handle this.”

“Handle what?”

Shit. Unlike HR, he won’t accept vague answers. “People take vacations all the time. There doesn’t have to be a specific reason.”

“True. I’m heading to Ireland tomorrow for a conference. Come with me.”

“Funny.” He made that offer only because he knew I’d never say yes.

“Are you certain I’m joking?”

“I have to go now. I don’t have time for this.”

He inhales audibly.

My last words replay in my head. The impatience is with myself, but that wasn’t how it sounded. “That was rude. Sorry.” I don’t actually want to piss Braxton off. He’s been a godsend to the hospital; the burn center he funded was greatly needed. Even this phone call, as poorly timed as it is, was made out of concern. I don’t like how ungrateful I sound or how out of control my emotions are becoming.

He says, “No, I’m sorry. You didn’t ask me to become involved with whatever you’re dealing with. Just know that I’m here for you, Lauren.”

My voice thickens. “Thank you. I do appreciate that.”

“I’ll be abroad for a week, but nothing I’m doing there is vital. My jet can get me back here in less time than a commercial flight would.”

In an attempt to lighten the mood, I joke, “You and your jet.”

“It’s my one vice.”

“I love that you think that.”

He chuckles. “If you ever want to take the time to get to know me, I’ll prove it to you.”

That almost makes me smile. He’s never short on charm, and I’m sure whoever he hooks up with in Ireland will appreciate that about him. “Thank you for calling, Braxton.”

He lets out an amused sound. “Of course.”

“I’ll email you a contact.”

“Do whatever you’d like, but you’re the only one I’ll call if I have a question.”

He’s not joking. “Don’t be offended if I don’t answer. I’m going to be busy.”

“Handling whatever it is you don’t want to talk about?”

“Yes. Goodbye.” I end the call before he has a chance to ask me more about it. Hopefully I didn’t offend him. I roll my shoulders back. Besides, that’s what he gets for telling people he enjoys my abrupt nature.

When my phone rings again, I’m stepping out of my car in the lot beside my apartment building. This time, it’s Ashley. I answer immediately.

“Mom, are you home?”

I close my car door, but my hand lingers on the handle. “Almost. What do you need?”

“I have a favor to ask, but I can’t discuss it on the phone. Can I come over?”

Every muscle in me tenses. The last time she called me for a favor, I walked into a bloodied apartment and a whole lot of super soldier chaos. Still, she’s my daughter, so I say, “Absolutely. Or I can come to you if that’s better.”

“I’ll be at your place in ten minutes.” And possibly because she knows me as well as I know her, she adds, “This isn’t about anything bad. In fact, it’s something you might enjoy.”

“We’ll see,” I murmur.

Our ideas on what is or isn’t enjoyable differ greatly.

I just pray this isn’t about taking in more silverware.