Chapter Seven Lexie #2
“So this would mean, what?” I need to know exactly what he’s proposing before I give him a response.
Obviously having foreseen this, as a businessman, Callum slides a contract across the desk to rest in front of me.
I thumb through it; it’s a few pages long.
Colored tabs mark the different spots to sign—blue for signatures and yellow for initials.
“You’d live here in the city permanently.
I’d require you to be available to me at all times, but you won’t always be working.
You’ll basically be on call, and act as a medical consultant on my behalf.
You’d accompany me to certain meetings, and travel occasionally.
” He flips to the last page and taps on the paper.
“And I require all of my employees to sign a nondisclosure agreement.”
The NDA isn’t shocking; I already initialed something similar when I signed the house-sitting agreement. Wealthy people, especially super private ones like Callum, don’t like others knowing their business. I’m betting his actual business has something to do with it too.
“So if someone gets sick or injured, I’d treat them for you?
Like a concierge doctor.” It’s not uncommon for people to hire medical care out privately.
I know a few girls who got sick of dealing with the randoms in the emergency room and decided to work for wealthy old people who need a nurse to wheel them around and keep track of their many pills.
“Something like that.”
“And the incident at the nightclub. Something like that could happen again?”
“It’s possible.” Callum’s casual response is too vague. So I press.
“But is it probable?” The silent stare is answer enough. Damn, that’s a yes. But is that something I can handle? Or even something I can live with?
Dealing with the aftermath of violence isn’t a new concept to me; I saw gore walk through the ER doors all the time.
You’d be surprised how many idiots think they know how to operate a chainsaw and end up detaching whole limbs.
Not to mention the number of muggings and shootings that leave their victims riddled with gaping holes like bloody Swiss cheese.
A missing finger is just the tip of the iceberg, small fish really.
But there’s a big difference between seeing the result of violence and knowing the people creating it.
I know myself well enough to realize that I can remain cool under pressure and handle any trauma, no matter how shocking.
When I snap into gear, there’s nothing I can’t handle.
My work ethic isn’t the question here, it’s my conscience.
“How long is the contract for?”
“Three years to start,” Callum says, sliding a check across the desk to sit next to the contract. “You’ll receive this first payment up front with a decent signing bonus.”
There’s no helping how my eyes widen at the absurd number written at the bottom next to my name.
Damn, that’s a lot of zeros.
“And if I decide not to sign, I have to leave?” The initial rush of excitement is slowly fading as reality slides back in.
This isn’t just another few months exploring a new city; I’d be moving here permanently.
Taking this job means leaving my apartment, my friends, my younger sister Samantha, and the job waiting for me back home.
It means leaving Mia. I’d be abandoning the West Coast to become a New York resident.
“Not right away, I won’t kick you out on the street tonight. But you could only stay until I fill the position.”
“I’ll need to read through this,” I say, picking up the contract and leaving the check where it sits on the desk. It’s calling my name, but the uncertainty in my head muffles the sound.
“Of course, take it,” Callum agrees deeply. “I want you to think about it. But I need your answer by tomorrow morning.”
I nod, holding the contract gingerly as I stand.
The walk back to my room has my heart thundering in apprehension.
This is a big decision, one that dramatically changes my life.
My first thought is to call Mia, my instincts are to talk it out with my best friend.
But this is something I have to decide for myself, with no one else’s opinions or judgment.
Plus, I know how Mia’s going to feel about this. She’ll do her best to be objective and supportive, but anything she advises is going to be tainted by her bias. And if there’s anyone who can influence my decision-making, it’s her.
Reading through every line of the legal document, it looks like a fairly straightforward contract, but it’s air-tight.
There’s no wiggle room. Once I sign it, that’s it—there’s no changing my mind.
The job sounds easy enough, definitely easier than what I did daily at the hospital.
Plus, the pay is so much more than I thought I would ever make in my lifetime.
And the thought of having to leave, so much sooner than I thought I would, and having to go back to my regular life in Oregon has dread clawing at my stomach.
I love my home, but the idea of walking back into an emergency room makes me want to curl into a fetal position.
It’s too soon, way too fucking soon—I need more time.
I can’t go back to the hospital, to the emergency room. I can’t go back to my regular schedule of twelve-hour shifts with patient after patient. Trauma after trauma. Just the thought has my heart rate picking up with anxiety.
Even after leaving the contract on my bed, my mind strays back to it throughout the day. The choice I have to make weighs on my mind for the majority of the day. Even as I bury myself in a new chicken recipe, my mind keeps falling back to the reality-altering decision.
Ignoring Mia’s texts all day makes me feel guilty, but I can’t talk to her before I’ve decided for sure. She won’t hear from me until I’ve either signed the contract or started making travel arrangements back to the west coast.
Lying in bed to fall asleep, my mind is almost racing too fast for my demons to make their nightly visit.
But it turns out the job offer isn’t enough to keep the horrifying images from flashing behind my eyes.
Crimson blood trailing down the side of the gurney until it pools on the worn linoleum floor, mangled metal, and a child’s lunch box covered in blood.
Bolting upright in bed, I gulp for air as my heart pounds. Anxiety grips my chest tightly as a cold sweat breaks across my skin. Switching on the lamp beside the bed, light floods the room as I reach for the contract and the pen I keep in the nightstand.
It might be complicated, but this is a good job offer. The work is less tedious, the pay is incredible… and I can’t go back to the hospital.
There’s really only one choice.
Going through each page, my pen swoops across the tabbed lines in sparkly black ink. It might not be the standard practice to sign a legal document with a glittery gel pen, but it’s what I have. And—let’s be honest—it’s who I am. At least it’s black and not the hot-pink one I keep in my handbag.
And just like that, I’ve sealed my fate and changed my future.