Chapter 5
ELIAS
This overnight shift is killing me.
We have had three motor vehicle accidents come in back-to-back. Ten people were rushed in. Four needed me to relieve pressure on their brain, three lost their lives, and the other three are in critical condition in the ICU.
I’ve been running on fumes.
And then a message from her pops up on my phone.
I read her message in the break room while I sip a hot cup of coffee, needing a minute before I get back out there. It’s one of those nights. There’s been so much blood, chaos, screaming, and crying. Nights like these haunt me. I’ve had to tell two families that their children didn’t make it.
Two too many.
Her text brings me a welcome relief, even if she is on a date with another man.
The jealousy burns in my chest more than this burnt coffee does in my stomach.
What if she goes home with him? What if his hands are lucky enough to touch her body?
The body that I revisit every night in the photos and videos she has sent me. I’ve dreamed of her.
I take a sip of coffee, hating every message she sends about this guy. He’s an asshole who doesn’t deserve another second of her time.
The chair on the other side of the table drags across the floor and Dr. Warrick plops down, the same brown paper cup in his hand with the same burnt coffee in it.
“Fuck. What a night.” He rubs a hand down his face, the dark circles under his eyes showing how tired he is.
I barely hear him. His words seem distant as I stare at my phone, my attention focused only on her messages. I have to take a deep breath as she continues to explain just how horrible her date is treating her. She shouldn’t be with anyone else.
She should only be with me.
“Dr. Carrington?”
My name breaks my trance, and I look up to see Dr. Warrick eyeing me curiously.
“Sorry, Dr. Warrick. On break, I can only focus on one thing at a time. It’s been hectic out there. I don’t know if I have another hour left in me.” I drop my phone, wanting to give the man in charge of the entire hospital my full attention.
My phone buzzes and I fight the urge to check it, grabbing my coffee instead. I take a sip, doing my best to swallow the burnt bitterness.
His eyes fall to my phone and he smiles. “You messaged her, then. I can tell. You seem energized, and no one else is considering how this night has gone.”
“I’m still exhausted.” My elbows fall to the table and I hang my head. “I hope to not have to tell another parent their child has died. I don’t think I can handle it.”
“That’s the worst part of the job.” He rubs the stubble on his chin, glaring into the black liquid in his cup. He’s lost in thought, staring unblinking into the coffee.
I lean forward, knowing exactly what he’s thinking about. “It isn’t your fault. You did the best you could. He was gone the moment he arrived. He didn’t stand a chance, and you tried to give him one. You did your best. That’s all any of us can do.”
He blows out a breath and laces his fingers behind his head, nodding. “I know. I know you’re right, but it doesn’t make it any easier, you know?”
I do know.
Tonight has been a reminder that just because I’m educated in my field, one of the best, doesn’t mean it’s enough to defy the damage done to the human body. Sometimes, the damage is beyond repair, and all we can do as doctors is try our hardest.
Some days are easier than others.
Blame and guilt, in my opinion, are the emotions that I’ve noticed we as doctors hold on to the most. It’s hard letting that go. Only so much of saving a life is in our control.
It’s nearly impossible to remember that.
Dr. Warrick rubs his chest, and that’s when I notice the slightly red-rimmed eyes. He must have cried when he lost the kid on his table. Children always hit me the hardest too.
“Let’s change the subject before we have to go back out there. Update me on your friend.” He leans back in the chair, crossing his arms over his chest while holding his cup.
“There’s not much to tell. I’m pretty sure I blew it. She’s on a date right now, actually.”
“A date? Ouch. Sorry to hear that.” His brow furrows. “Wait. It must not be going well if she’s messaging you.”
“She says it isn’t. She wants to leave. The guy isn’t treating her very well.” I curl one hand into a fist, my knuckles popping.
“I see.” He takes another sip of coffee, grinning at me. “You’re so fucking pissed she’s on a date.”
I groan. “I am. I don’t want her to be with anyone else. I know. I know.” I raise my hands to stop him from saying what I know he’ll say. “It isn’t fair for her not to date when the issue is me. I want to try talking to her at least, learn more about her.”
“So. Date. You want to date her.”
“No. Yes.” I shake my head. “No. Maybe. I mean, talking doesn’t mean dating.”
His forehead wrinkles when he raises his brows, and then he begins to hold up a finger for every point he’s making. “You don’t want her to date anyone else. You want to talk to her. You want to get to know her. I’m assuming you want to spend time with her too.”
I did. I do. I want all of that.
How do I get past the seventeen-year age gap?
Surely, that will be an issue. It’s going to come up at some point when we need to make an important decision.
For instance, having a family. I don’t want to be that much older than I am now to have kids.
I’ve even been thinking about a surrogate or adoption.
I’d need an egg donor, which I’ve already been researching.
I haven’t made a strict decision yet, but if I want kids, then I need to make a choice soon. I want to be young enough to play with my kids and be there for them during the most important moments of their lives.
“Yes,” I answer, wanting to be honest with myself about this.
“Well, just talk to her then. See what happens naturally. There’s no need to have a big, long lecture or discussion with her.
She’s an adult, Elias. If you’re making decisions for her, then that will be the most upsetting to her.
” His pager beeps and he tosses his head back, groaning.
“I have to go. One of the ICU patients needs surgery.” He takes one last sip of his coffee and throws the cup in the trash can, running out of the room.
Checking my phone, I click her message and stifle a moan when an image of her in that velvet fucking dress appears. I can’t see her face. I think it’s become an unspoken rule, since we’re strangers, and I respect that.
The green dress hugs her body in ways I wish my hands could. Even the straps of her heels, the way they curve around her ankle…I want to be the one that slowly takes them off while I’m undressing her.
“Fuck,” I whisper under my breath when my cock thickens in my scrubs at the thought of my fingers being allowed to touch her skin. The velvet looks so damn soft.
I close my eyes, imagining it’s me who she’s on a date with, and we’re in her room. It’s dark, but the feeling of the dress against my hands allows me to map her body. Gripping the back of her neck, I dive down, stealing her lips in a heated, desperate kiss.
Damn.
It’s been too long since I’ve even kissed a woman.
My thumb swipes back and forth across my bottom lip, getting lost in a dream of what her lips would feel like on mine. I bet they’re soft, pliant, even timid, even though she has such a strong, bold personality.
I hate that she’s on a fucking date.
Reaching beneath the table, I squeeze my cock to give myself some relief, glancing around the break room to make sure I’m alone. Angling the phone so she can only see from my waist to my knees, I snap a photo, gripping my cock to show her what she fucking does to me.
It’s not like me to send dick pictures. I’m not the type. But with her? I want to be anything she needs me to be. Her boldness has me feeling bold.
I send her the picture, my heart hammering in my chest like I’m a teenager doing something I’m not supposed to be doing.
Me: You look fucking beautiful. If I was there, there would be no way I could keep my hands off you.
And it’s true. I wouldn’t even sit across from her at the booth, I’d slide in beside her.
She sends another picture, this time of a red flush that has gone down her neck and chest.
Miss Wrong Number: Look what you do to me. I’m all flustered. I can’t go back to the booth now.
I shouldn’t love that so much, but I do. I might not be there physically, but when she sits across from him, she’ll be thinking of me. The warmth she feels all over her body is due to me.
Not him.
I find a sick, twisted satisfaction in that.
Me: How far does that blush go?
Miss Wrong Number: That’s for me to know and you to find out.
I run my hands through my hair, heat and desire pulsating through my entire body.
God, it’s been too long.
My phone vibrates again before I can send a reply.
Miss Wrong Number: I have to go back out there, but I’ll be telling him I won’t be seeing him again. You should wait up for me later. You’ve caused a problem I need you to fix.
Me: And what problem would that be?
I squeeze myself again, then take a deep breath to calm myself. My heart is racing and a sheen of sweat breaks out over my body, buzzing with arousal.
Miss Wrong Number: My panties are soaked and now I have to sit across from a guy I can’t stand while thinking about you. You better take care of me later.
Me: Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you multiple times. I’ll ease any ache.
Miss Wrong Number: You better. Okay, wish me luck. I need to go. I’ll be thinking about you.
I tuck my phone into my pocket, dropping my face in my hands as I laugh. “What the hell are you doing, Elias? What are you doing?” I say out loud to myself, rubbing my hands through my hair.
The door to the break room swings open and Nurse Jackie is staring at me with wide, worried eyes.
I stand, all evidence of arousal gone. “Nurse Jackie, what’s going on?”