Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
DANI
I’ve been in the Boston area, waiting for a job to open in the hospice department.
I was told that they’ll have something soon, as the woman currently holding my dream position is finally expected to retire.
From what I hear, I have some very big shoes to fill.
For now, I’m settling into a per diem nurse role in the emergency department, which is just as busy as the one I left in Houston.
There are a few differences in the lingo, but the job itself is the same.
The first time one of the nurses asked me to pass her a “Johnny,” I stared at her like she had sprouted two heads.
Only when she pointed at the blue-striped hospital gown did it click.
“You mean the gown?” I asked, brow furrowed.
She laughed. “Yeah, that. It’s a Johnny. What do you guys call it down South?”
I tilt my head sideways, giving her my best Are you serious look. “Um, a hospital gown,” I deadpan, because isn't it obvious?
She chuckles, “Well, you’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy,” she teases, walking off and down the hall.
Hell, don’t I know it. When I first moved here, people kept asking me if I was “all set,” and I had no idea what they meant.
A water fountain is called a bubbler, and soda?
They call it tonic. Back home in Texas, everything is just Coke.
Want a Coke? Which kind? A Sprite? You got it.
Coming right up. So I guess she’s right.
I’ll get used to it…eventually. Though if someone offers me some Dunkin' Donuts caffeine through an IV line, I might get on board with that. Speaking of, where is my coffee order?
I’m searching for Shioban, who should be coming with my beverage any minute, when I see him.
All the air is punched right out of my lungs, leaving only a hollow pit.
He prowls down the corridor, a dark presence radiating a “devil is a gentleman” vibe.
His polished black shoes and flashing red soles strike the floor with sharp, commanding strides, abruptly coming to a stop at the central nursing station.
He lifts a clipboard, flipping through it with focused precision, until he stops, almost mechanically, and extracts a 12-lead EKG tracing.
His cold, calculating obsidian eyes scan it from top to bottom, assessing the rhythm.
With his elongated fingers, he flips the paper aside, places another sheet on top, and saunters off with one hand clasping the chart as his white coat trails behind him.
His athletic legs take him into one of the trauma bays, where he pauses briefly.
His head tilts slightly before shaking it off and disappearing into the room.
For a minute, I thought he was going to turn, and his eyes would find mine.
Did he feel it, too? The possibility makes my pulse quicken, and a restless energy sparks and electricity hums beneath my skin.
An ache so profound consumes me, demanding that my body follow him.
The sensation makes my skin prickle as I fight off my intense attraction to claim him here in front of everyone. My Vic. Mine.
Even after he disappears into the trauma bay, I remain frozen, rooted to the spot, my breathing left shallow from the encounter.
I stare at the space he left behind, mesmerized, as my body finally awakens after feeling nothing for so long.
This electric current of need and longing surges through me, reviving every nerve, every synapse just from the sight of this man who’s tormented my dreams for years.
Though he’s gone, my body still burns, branded from the mark he left on my heart years ago.
Just then, Shioban appears with my coffee. Her cool, green eyes study me with amusement. “I see you’ve had the privilege of witnessing Dr. Flores in action,” she teases. I turn my gaze to her, my face blank as I try to school my expression, but it’s no use. Shioban sees right through it.
“Um,” she says, lifting a finger and swirling it in the air toward my mouth.
“You have a little drool—” but she doesn’t finish as I break into laughter, shaking my head.
Popping the plastic tab of my medium regular coffee cup, the steam wafts upward, curling in the air.
I take a long sip, letting the warmth seep down my throat, settling my stomach.
Shioban smirks with her arms crossed over her chest. “Don’t bother trying to hide it.
Most nurses go weak in the knees when he walks by.
” Shioban leans in closer, poised to tell me a secret.
“Just watch out for Bethany,” she says coolly.
My brows lift, silently asking her to elaborate.
She lifts her chin toward a knockout of a woman walking toward Vic.
She’s slightly older, but her face screams Botox.
Her smooth skin is taut against her strong cheekbones, and her plump, collagen lips are shiny with a coat of pink lip gloss.
I see Vic stop outside the trauma bay as Bethany places her hand on his arm.
I watch and fight the urge to rip her hand away.
He hands her the chart and strolls away as we all watch his tall, muscular form walk down a back corridor that leads to the darkened stairwell and up to the operating rooms, no doubt ensuring the staff is setting up his case in preparation for his patient.
“Are they dating?” I ask Shioban before I can stop myself.
She shrugs. “Don’t know. I guess it depends on who you ask,” she replies, noncommittally.
My grip tightens around the coffee cup. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She begins to say something, but then stops herself. “Just be careful with that one. He’s not what he seems.” Shioban smiles like she’s said too much.
I nod, understanding, settling in, knowing this conversation is over. “Okay, let’s get back to work. Shortest fifteen-minute break ever,” I deflect, my voice laced with humor.
Agreeing, she starts to walk away, but then turns back. “Oh, hey. We are going out after work.” She lifts her coffee in salute. “The Holy Grail after our shift ends. You should come.” Her smile is warm and inviting. I realize I’d like that.
“Sure,” is all I say, and she disappears into the same trauma bay Vic was just in as I leave in the opposite direction.
My shift wraps up quickly, and before I know it, it’s seven.
I find my replacement to report on my patients.
I honestly didn't plan on going, but sometimes the loneliness is too much. The voices in my head are too loud, and I need something distracting to quiet them. I don’t plan on staying out late tonight, but since I have the day off tomorrow, anything could happen.
My soft, velveteen black leggings hug my thick thighs as I throw on my sweater that hangs off one shoulder.
I slip into my favorite pair of black combat boots, and a scarf is thrown haphazardly around my neck.
Grabbing my work bag, I decide to leave it in my locker, walking out with only my small crossbody around my shoulder.
As I step out in the crisp September air, I walk a couple of blocks to the tavern to meet up with everyone.
My combat boots strike the cobblestone walkways with straightforward strides as I quickly pace through the night.
The cold air bites at my cheek, causing my eyes to water.
I wish I had brought some gloves, but it’s only September, and we aren’t even into the cold weather yet.
The temperature is vastly different from Texas, and I’ve updated my wardrobe to accommodate the lower temperatures.
I hear laughter coming from the green illuminated sign.
A couple of women are outside smoking, and I deride their commitment to a vice that forces them to inhale toxins in the cold air.
The bell jingles above the door as I step inside.
The hostess stands at a podium that looks more suited for a Sunday sermon than seating patrons, but I wave her off, already spotting my coworkers sequestered at a high-top table along the side wall of the tavern.
The tavern itself is a blasphemous contradiction, having once been a church converted into a pub.
The stained glass windows cast colors across the room, clashing with the foul language and clinking pint glasses.
The bar is centered, like an altar, in the middle of the tavern, set in high-polished wood trimmed with ornate gold scrollwork.
Even the floor seems to mock the sanctity it once held, copper pennies set in epoxy speckled into its surface like an unholy offering.
Searching for a certain familiar face, the details of the bar fade into the background once I spot Shioban.
She lifts her pint in greeting, calling me over with that mischievous grin of hers.
I bump her shoulder with mine as I slide past, and she carries on her animated conversation with one of the nurses from our shift like I hadn’t interrupted.
Turning to the woman beside her, I lift a hand.
“Hey, Jill,” I say, and she flashes me a warm smile.
“Hey, hon. Glad you made it out.” Her smile is friendly, but the corners of her mouth pull down as she turns her attention away toward the door.
Bethany walks in. Shioban groans audibly, lifting her beer for a long pull, knowing she’ll likely need it to endure the night.
The waitperson approaches, pen ready to take our drink orders.
I order a bloodytini. Bethany sits across the table, crinkling her nose upward with a subtle hint of disapproval, as if I just ordered tap water instead of a bottled sparkling one.
She surveys the table, her eyes lingering on each drink, finally settling on the one she deems the safest choice.
Shioban looks at me over the rim of her glass, her green eyes alight with mischief.
“So Beth,” Shioban begins, then pauses just enough to tip back the last of her beer.
She sets the glass aside with a heavy thunk and leans forward onto the table with a calculating grin.
“You just getting out of work?” She patiently awaits whatever story Bethany is going to spin.
I’ve been around her enough in my short time here that Bethany loves to inflate her ego any way she can.
Bethany straightens in her seat. She glances over at Shioban, then at Jill, gathering her audience, and I catch the way her tongue presses against her front teeth.
She drags it slowly across them, giving her a moment to contemplate the story she’ll weave to gain admiration.
The waiter reappears with our drinks, and Shioban wiggles her empty beer bottle at him.
“I’ll take another when you get a chance,” she says easily as he sets my bloodytini in front of me.
The glass is chilled, the rim is salted.
The cocktail itself resembles a bloodier, stronger relative of the traditional Bloody Mary.
A skewer of olives, pickle, and onion is set neatly across the top.
Bethany’s sparkling white wine arrives next.
She lifts it delicately, taking a prim and proper sip, leaving a red lipstick stain on the rim.
I noticed this about her. Her lipstick is nearly the same shade as mine, but where mine is a matte stain that doesn’t smear as easily, hers is a glossy lacquer.
I’ve worn this shade since high school, and it’s so much a part of me that I rarely wear anything else.
Bethany smirks, glancing around the table and looking over at the women, with a smirk playing at her lips. “Well,” she begins, flickering her long, blonde hair over her shoulders, “I wanted to make sure Dr. Flores had everything he needed for surgery.”
Shioban places her hand dramatically to her chest. “Oh, Bethany, how thoughtful of you,” she coos. “I’m sure he was positively lost and oh-so-grateful to have your help and expertise.”
Bethany straightens at her words, her posture lifting from Shioban’s praise.
Under the table, Shioban’s hand jabs me in the leg.
I glance at her and see the effort it takes for her to keep a straight face.
I bite back my own laughter, hiding it behind the rim of my glass as I pull my drink off the coaster, letting the bloodytini burn warmly down my throat.
“Come to think of it,” Bethany says, her lip twitching as if savoring the memory, “he kept staring at my red lips. Entranced is the word I’d use. He just couldn’t look away. And then,” she pauses for effect, “he said something about stained kisses.”
The words hit me like a slap, dragging me awake to that moment.
Vic and I are in the kitchen. How he kissed me, blood and secrets coating our lips.
The thought makes my stomach knot, and the spicy bloodytini goes down the wrong way.
I cough, attempting to set the drink back on the thick coaster.
But I miss it. It tips in slow motion, and Shioban lunges to catch it but knocks it harder, sending a crimson wave splattering across Bethany’s cream-colored cashmere sweater.
There’s an audible gasp around the table.
Bethany freezes, her mouth agape. Red streaks drip down her torso, staining the perfect knit sweater like something from a horror scene.
Sending Stephen King’s Carrie vibes, as the horror show flashes through my mind, and I have to bite my lip from laughing.
Shioban fumbles with some napkins, only managing to smear the stain deeper into the expensive fabric.
Bethany’s eyes snap to mine, burning with contemplative murder.
And honestly? Seeing her dripping in fake blood is a sweet form of poetic justice.
Her coated in my bloodytini is the most fun I’ve had all night.
“Excuse me,” she hisses, stomping off and away from the crowd and our table of coworkers.
I fish out thirty dollars from my bag and drop it on the table like it's hot. “And that’s my cue,” I announce, giving the group a little wave as I stand.
A couple of my coworkers wave back, and one bites her lip to stop from laughing.
Behind me, Shioban cups her hands around her mouth and yells, “Coward!” I pause mid-step to glance over my shoulder and flip her the bird.
Her cackle follows me all the way to the door as I push it open and step out into the night.