Chapter 13 Happiness Is A Sedative
Happiness Is A Sedative
Maxwell
Happiness is a sedative.
Wonderfully, perfectly slow.
I blink open one eye. The loft is bathed in grey morning light. It smells of cedar, old books, and sex.
Jax is asleep. He is sprawled out like a starfish, taking up ninety percent of the mattress. One of his heavy arms is thrown over my waist, pinning me to the bed. His face is pressed into the pillow, his dark curls a chaotic mess.
I watch him breathe. For a man who usually vibrates with kinetic energy, he is incredibly still.
I shift slightly, trying to free my arm.
Jax grumbles. His arm tightens around me, pulling me back against his chest.
"Don't move," he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep. "It’s too early. The sun isn't even up."
"The sun is up," I whisper, though I make no real effort to escape. "And we have a shift in an hour."
"Call in sick," Jax suggests, nuzzling into the back of my neck. His stubble scratches my skin, sending a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the cold. "Tell Sterling you have... acute happiness. It’s fatal. You need bed rest."
I smile. I actually smile at the ceiling.
"Acute happiness is not a recognized diagnosis, Dr. O’Connell."
"It should be." He kisses my shoulder, lazy and warm. "Last night was... medically significant. I think we need to run more tests."
My face heats up. Last night was indeed significant. It was messy, uncoordinated at times, and overwhelmingly intense. It was the complete dismantling of the "Ice King."
"We have rounds," I say, regrettably being the responsible one. "And I need coffee. Real coffee. Not whatever sludge you brew in this apartment. But maybe we can run some more anatomy tests in the shower?”
Jax groans and releases me, perking up at the mention of a shared shower. "Fine. But we’re taking the Jeep. And we’re stopping for donuts."
The drive to the hospital is... domestic.
That is the only word for it. It is terrifyingly domestic.
I am sitting in the passenger seat of the mud-splattered Jeep, drinking coffee from a travel mug. AC/DC is playing low on the radio. Jax is driving with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the centre console, his fingers lazily entangled with mine.
He is wearing a beanie and his leather jacket over his scrubs. He looks rugged and happy.
"So," Jax says, thumb rubbing over my knuckles. "Christmas Eve is tomorrow. You surviving the fallout from the dinner?"
"My mother has sent me three emails," I say. "The first was a list of etiquette coaches. The second was a threat to cut me out of the will. The third was just a sad emoji."
Jax laughs. "She’s persistent, I’ll give her that."
"She is a force of nature." I look at him. "Preston texted me, though. He asked if you were serious about the 'real cigarette' lesson."
"Kid’s alright," Jax says. "He just needs to rebel a little. Get it out of his system before he turns into... well, you."
I squeeze his hand. "Thank you. For that. For all of it."
Jax glances over at me. The traffic light turns red. He leans across the console and kisses me. It’s quick, sweet, and tastes like glazed donuts.
"Anytime, Princess," he whispers. "We make a good team."
For the first time in my life, I believe that. I believe I can have this. The career and the chaos. The precision and the mess.
We pull into the hospital parking lot. We park in the back, away from the reserved attending spots.
We walk toward the entrance. It’s cold, snowing lightly. Jax bumps his shoulder against mine. I bump back. We are laughing about something—I don't even remember what.
As we reach the employee entrance, I scan the perimeter. Habit.
No Sterling. No Board members. Just the morning shift tramping in, heads down against the cold.
I breathe a sigh of relief.
"Coast is clear," I murmur.
Jax grins, swiping his badge. The light turns green.
"See?" he says, holding the door open for me. "Paranoia is a wasted emotion, Max. We’re golden."
I walk into the warmth of the hospital. For once, the antiseptic smell doesn't feel like pressure; it feels like possibility.
"We have rounds," I say, checking my watch.
"You do that," Jax says, heading toward the trauma elevators. He winks. "I’ll go save some lives. Try not to miss me too much."
"I will attempt to manage," I say dryly.
I head for the Cardio floor. I feel invincible.
The summons is waiting on my desk when I arrive.
It is printed on heavy, cream-colored cardstock, the kind St. Jude’s reserves for donor galas and executions.
RE: PRELIMINARY ETHICS INQUIRY SUBJECT: RESOURCE ALLOCATION CASE #8892 (PATIENT HENDERSON) ATTENDEES: DR. A. STERLING, DR. M. YORK, DR. J. O’CONNELL.
I stare at the paper. The Henderson case. The lie I told weeks ago to save a veteran’s life. I told Sterling I was conducting a "robotic valve study." I have conducted exactly zero study. I have, however, conducted a very thorough study of Jax O’Connell’s anatomy in my shower this morning.
"Trouble in paradise?"
Jax walks in. He is glowing. There is no other word for it. The dark circles under his eyes are gone, replaced by a vibrancy that makes the fluorescent lights of the basement seem dim. He is holding two coffees.
"Sterling," I say, sliding the paper across the desk.
Jax picks it up. He reads it. He doesn't panic. He just takes a sip of coffee.
"Case #8892," Jax muses. "Was that the guy with the endocarditis?"
"Yes. The one I claimed was part of a non-existent research protocol."
"Right," Jax says. "So, we go in there, we dazzle him with some big words, and we leave. Standard operating procedure."
"This is not a field op, Jax. This is bureaucratic warfare. Sterling isn't looking for data; he’s looking for a reason to punish us.”
"Let him try," Jax says, dropping into his chair—which squeaks, a sound I am alarmingly accustomed to. "We’re a team. You’re the brains, I’m the muscle. We got this."
We do not got this.
One hour later, we are sitting in the Boardroom on the top floor. It is a glass-walled aquarium of judgment. Sterling sits at the head of the table. To his right is the hospital’s legal counsel, a woman who looks like she eats interns for breakfast. To his left is a stack of files.
"Dr. York," Sterling begins, steepling his fingers. "I have been reviewing the quarterly budget. I noticed a significant allocation of OR time for your... robotic study. Yet, I see no preliminary data uploaded to the server."
"The data is... currently being compiled," I lie, adjusting my cuffs. My palms are sweating.
"Is it?" Sterling smiles. "Or does the data not exist? Because I spoke to the device manufacturer this morning. They have no record of a grant application from St. Jude’s."
My blood runs cold. I have been outflanked.
"Dr. Sterling," Jax speaks up. He is leaning back in his chair, looking dangerously relaxed in his scrubs. "The manufacturer is slow. You know how corporate red tape is. We’re doing the work on the ground."
"Dr. O'Connell," Sterling snaps. "You are a trauma surgeon. Your involvement in a delicate cardiothoracic study is already suspect. In fact, Mrs. York—Catherine—mentioned to me this morning that she feels your influence is becoming... disruptive."
There it is. My mother.
"This isn't about the study," I say, my voice dropping. "This is a witch hunt."
"This is an audit," Sterling corrects. "And the findings suggest fraud. Misappropriation of hospital resources. Lying to the Chief of Surgery."
He opens a folder.
"I am recommending immediate suspension for both of you, pending a full board hearing."
The room goes silent. Suspension. It would be a permanent black mark. For me, a humiliation. For Jax, who lives paycheck to paycheck, a disaster.
"You can't do that," Jax says, his voice losing its playful edge.
"I can," Sterling says. "Unless you can produce the data right n—"
The boardroom doors bang open.
They don't open; they are thrown wide with the force of a gale.
"Am I late?"
Dr. Alistair York strides into the room. He is wearing a cashmere trench coat over a suit that costs more than the hospital wing we are sitting in. He is holding a cane that he definitely does not need, using it to point at people like a divine sceptre.
Sterling stands up, startled. "Dr. York? Alistair? We... we weren't expecting you."
"Clearly," Alistair booms. "Since my wife has been blowing up my phone all morning complaining about how you’re mishandling 'The Situation.' I thought I’d come see for myself."
Alistair walks to the head of the table. He looks at Sterling. Sterling, instinctively, moves out of the chair. Alistair sits down, resting his cane against the mahogany table.
"Father," I say, stunned. "What are you doing here?"
Alistair ignores me. He turns his gaze to Jax.
"O'Connell," Alistair nods. “Any injuries from last night?”
“Nothing significant to report, sir,” Jax says, a smirk touching his lips.
"Good. Now, Anthony," Alistair turns to Sterling. "Catherine tells me you’re trying to suspend my son and his... associate. She says they are 'wasting resources' on a 'frivolous project.'"
Alistair leans back, interlacing his fingers. A cruel, amused smile plays on his lips.
"God, I love disappointing that woman," Alistair sighs happily. "It’s the only joy left in a marriage that has felt like a hostile corporate takeover for the last thirty years."
Sterling blinks, confused. "Excuse me?"
"Catherine wants them suspended," Alistair explains slowly, as if talking to a toddler. "Therefore, I want them promoted. Do try to keep up, Anthony."
"But... the fraud," Sterling stammers, pointing at the file. "They invented a research protocol to treat an indigent patient. There is no Robotic Valve Study."
"Of course there isn't," Alistair waves a hand dismissively. "Maxwell doesn't have the imagination for fraud. He’s too rigid. If he tried to invent a study, he’d accidentally write a real textbook."
I flush. "Father..."