Chapter 4
JASMINE MILLER
The folks in the traveling nursing Facebook group had warned Peachtree Memorial was no joke, but no—I thought I was hot shit and got greedy.
It was the highest paying contract I’d ever been offered, and how bad could it really be?
Even when Monica warned me when I started that most travel nurses didn’t last more than a month, I brushed her off.
I’d survived some of the toughest hospitals in the five boroughs—I could handle whatever Peachtree Memorial threw at me.
Now? After every shift, I seriously considered packing up my Altima and heading back to Queens. The money was good, but lately, it felt like I was trading my mental health for a paycheck, and I was beginning to wonder if it was really worth it.
Tonight was shaping up to be one of those shifts that tap-danced all over my nerves.
The ER was always chaotic, but we were short-staffed, and it was packed like everybody in the damn city had an emergency.
Everyone was on one. One patient got so fed up with waiting that he threw literal shit at Monica when she finally got to him.
“They don’t pay me enough for this shit!” she screamed, ripping off her badge. “Fuck this job!”
“Monica, wait!” I called, chasing after her to the nurses’ locker room.
“I’m done, Jas,” she snapped, yanking her locker open. “On everything I love, I’m out this bitch.” She started shoving her stuff into her bag and slammed it shut.
“Woo-sa,” I said, gently touching her arm.
Monica’s meltdowns were legendary. After eavesdropping on a few of the older nurses, I’d learned this happened at least once a quarter.
Administration would give her a verbal warning, threaten a write-up or suspension, but they’d never let her go.
She’d been here too long. And truth be told, she was a damn good nurse.
Brodie stuck his head through the door.
“Miller, we need you back on the floor. Mass casualty incident at the Underground—got a shit ton of victims coming in.”
Monica rolled her eyes and dug her keys out of her purse. “Girl, quit this bitch with me right now, and we can go get a drink.”
Technically, she had a few hours left in her rotation; I only had twenty minutes. But we were slammed and critical patients on the way, it didn’t matter how tired I was—I couldn't walk out in good conscience.
“I’ll be out there in a minute,” I told him.
He nodded, glancing at Monica. “See you next week, Mo,” he snickered before ducking out the door.
“I bet you won’t,” she grumbled, flipping him off as it swung shut behind him.
I sighed dramatically, poking out my bottom lip. “Alright, sis, let me get back in the trenches. I guess I’ll see you around.”
“Don’t be like that, New York,”she teased, using the nickname she’d given me. “This place is too fucking much. I’m a nurse. These niggas need me more than I need them,” she huffed, tucking a braid behind her ear.
She wasn’t wrong.
“Text me, though,” she added. “We can go to that new hookah lounge Honcho opened.”
“Bitch, I’m not going to no damn hookah lounge,” I scowled.
“Miller!” someone yelled impatiently from the hallway.
“I said I’m coming! Damn!” I shouted back.
Monica chuckled, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Sis, go help them. If they yell one more time, I’m liable to burn this motherfucker down.”
I gave her a quick hug and rushed out.
My jaw dropped when I got back to the floor.
In the five minutes I’d been gone, the ER had become a complete shit show.
Doctors shouted over one another while nurses scrambled behind them like worker bees.
Gurneys lined the hallways, and patients spilled into every corner—it was packed like sardines in a can.
For a moment, I froze, my brain struggling to process the scene in front of me.
“We’ve got a trample victim here!” a paramedic’s shout snapped me back to reality.
They pushed past with an older man on the gurney, his face twisted in pain, and his right arm was bent at an angle that made my stomach drop.
I shoved down the nausea, yanked a pair of gloves on, and scanned the floor for where I was needed most.
“I need a doctor right now!”
A man’s panicked voice cut through the frenzy. I turned to see a tall Black man, covered in blood, looking around wildly. He stormed toward me the moment our eyes locked.
“Are you a doctor?” he demanded, grabbing my wrist with a death grip.
“N-nurse.” I stammered, trying to pull free. “If you let go, I can find one.”
“No!” he shook his head, voice breaking. “My brother’s been shot! He’s losing too much blood—he’s dying! I need a fucking doctor!”
“Sir, is he in one of the ambulances?” I asked, doing my best to stay calm even though my heart was racing.
He dropped my wrist and started pacing in frantic circles. “Fuck, fuck, FUCK!” he yelled, slamming his hand against the wall. I couldn’t let this man lose his shit and make things worse.
I opened my mouth to tell him to breathe, and I’d help him find a doctor, but froze when I saw him reach for the gun in his waistband. My hand darted out before I realized it. “No.” I shook my head, keeping my voice even. “Take me to him. I’ll help you find a doctor.”
My eyes darted around until I spotted an abandoned gurney. I sprinted over and grabbed it before anyone else could. “Come on,” I said, pushing it toward the doors.
He grabbed the other end without hesitation and started moving like a man possessed.
“Slow down!” I hollered, nearly tripping as I tried to keep up. This guy had to be at least 6’3—my short legs weren’t built for this.
“My bad, ma!” he yelled back, but he didn’t slow down.
We burst through the lobby doors, where a blacked-out Range Rover was idling at the curb. As soon as we got close, the passenger door flew open. He abandoned the gurney and rushed to help another man pull out the body of his brother from the car.
“Grab his feet, Slim!” he barked. Together, they pulled a limp, blood-soaked body from the back seat.
My breath caught at the sight of how bad it was—his brother was shirtless, barely conscious, and wrapped in half-assed bandages that were already soaked through. I rushed to secure the straps as they laid him on the gurney.
“We don’t have time for that shit!” the man snapped, grabbing the gurney like it weighed nothing and charging back inside. I pushed through as my feet screamed in protest, and hustled to keep up.
“I got a gunshot victim!” I shouted as we made it back to the ER floor. I shoved him aside to do a more thorough assessment. His brother was fading fast—his breathing was labored, and his lips were turning blue.
“Shit,” Dr. Crawford muttered, stepping up beside me. “Call upstairs and have them prep an OR, stat!” she ordered the nearest resident. “Miller, you’re with me.”
She grabbed the gurney and wheeled it toward the elevator. The man tried to follow behind us.
“I’m sorry, you have to wait down here,” I told him, blocking his path.
“The fuck I will! That’s my brother!” he growled, as he tried to push past me.
“Lani, chill! Chill!” his friend grabbed his arm and yanked him back.
“What’s your name?” I asked. I was trying my best to remain calm, but I was close to losing my mind right along with him.
“Jelani,” he gritted, eyes locked on the elevator like he could will Dr. Crawford to defy protocol.
“Okay, Jelani. Please just trust us to do our job. I’ll come back with updates as soon as I can.”
I turned and caught up with Dr. Crawford. Another nurse, Regina, held the elevator doors open as she pushed the gurney inside.
“Dr. Crawford,” I said. “I’m not an OR nurse. I really should stay and help out down here.”
“No, you brought him in,” she said, checking his vitals without looking up. “I need you to be the family liaison.”
The man groaned, his head rolling weakly to one side.
“I don’t understand,” I said, looking between her and Regina as the elevator doors closed.
Regina looked at me like I missed the obvious. “Don’t you know who this is?”
I cut my eyes at her. “I’ve only been here a month, Regina. No, I don’t know who he is,” I snapped, not bothering to take the edge out of my voice. This was the kind of petty shit that had Monica cussing folks out regularly.
Dr. Crawford let out a deep sigh. “This is Cash Banks. If he dies, heads will roll—starting with us.”
* * *
It was after midnight, and I was still stuck outside the OR, waiting on updates about a man everyone seemed to know except me.
I got tired of sitting around, so I snuck downstairs and slipped past Jelani, who was pacing the floor like a caged animal.
I grabbed my phone from my locker to do some digging.
Turns out, Mr. Banks was a hood legend.
He grew up in one of Atlanta’s roughest neighborhoods with his parents and younger brother.
The hood blogs said his dad was a big-time drug dealer in the ‘90s and early 2000s, and managed to move the family to the suburbs by the time Cash was in high school. He’d gotten a football scholarship to Duke, but had to drop out when his father was killed during his junior year.
It gets a little murky after that. Everyone assumed Cash took over for his dad, but he also managed to start Banks Enterprises and Commercial Realty before he turned thirty. They rehabbed run-down buildings and leased them out to small business owners at fair prices. The city loved him for it.
But it was clear he was still into some shady shit. Why else would Dr. Crawford make it a priority for us to keep him alive? I sighed and rubbed my temples. My head was throbbing, and the harsh fluorescent lights weren’t helping. I grabbed my phone and opened the text thread with Monica.
Friend, why am I still stuck at the hospital? Shit’s been wild all evening.
Monica: For real? I picked up some lemon pepper wet and on my fourth glass of wine. Told you to leave with me, bestie.
This bitch. The hard plastic chair creaked as I shifted into a more comfortable position.