Chapter 1
Chapter One
QUINN
Medically speaking, tears don’t smell. As an overworked, highly stressed, and very tired Omega, I would argue until I’m blue in the face that they do.
Waving the junior doctor closer, I point at the takeout cup as an unspoken invitation. Her butt hits the seat, and she bursts into tears. I nearly do too. I hate people suffering. I hate suffering. Some days, I hate people too.
I fight hard not to wrap her in my arms and make excuses that today was just a bad day.
But it’s not right to discount today as somehow being out of the ordinary.
Our clinic is full of life, and sadly, occasionally death.
I can’t tell her to hope. She needs to do that herself, or she won’t last long as a doctor.
I sip on my drink, letting her emotions, and mine, have the chance to flame bright, then burn out. It’s how we do things here, allowing each other to cope how we need. Her method includes tears. She’s clearly embarrassed by her breakdown because she covers her face.
Which is unnecessary. I don’t want her to feel bad for dealing with it how she is, but at the same time, we’re in the middle of the emergency ward, at a small but busy community health facility. Sometimes we don’t have the luxury of time.
I pat her shoulder, keeping my hand there until her sobbing subsides. “Tiana,” I say, clearing my throat when my own emotions get tangled in hers.
Every cell in my body is primed to give her any kind of comfort I can. Except, we can’t afford to be self-indulgent when other people need us more. “Drink the hot chocolate. I even gave you extra marshmallows. It will help.”
She nods her head and tries to smile, but her perception of failure is still darkening her eyes.
I lose the battle of wanting to get us back on track professionally, and I pull her in for a cuddle before I can stop myself. And while this isn’t about me, I feel my own tension lessening, one small touch at a time.
Until a voice in my thoughts mocks my age, my designation.
I hide my slipup, passing the hot chocolate back to her. “It’s okay.”
Tiana sips and stares down at her hands. I wrestle back control and start manifesting the shit out of my dreams, instead of listening to my nightmare. I’m good at what I do. I’m not held back by being a young Omega. I am doing what I want, the way I want.
Tiana’s own recovery regresses, and inadvertently, it stops mine. She gives me something to focus on again.
“He… he…” Her voice wobbles.
I don’t feel guilty or weak when I pull her in for another hug, whispering praise against her ear, meaning every word I say. “You did amazing. Honestly, you did everything by the book. There’s nothing different I would have done.”
She clutches my scrubs like a lifeline and slumps against me. I keep talking softly, knowing my words will eventually reach her. Words are healing when yielded from a place of kindness.
“You know I wouldn’t blow smoke up your ass. If I’m saying you did everything possible to save him, it means you did everything possible.”
I know what I’m saying registers. I feel it in the way her shoulders relax.
“And yeah, he died, which isn’t what we wanted, but it was the most likely outcome given his injuries.”
It’s vital she hears what I’m saying, because it’s the truth—plain and simple. Once the shock of his death burns out and the sense of failure subsides, she’ll see how she responded, and what she did to save the man, with more confidence.
Tiana takes another deep inhale before releasing a long, slow exhale through her mouth. Then she pushes herself free of my embrace. I give her a moment, staying next to her, doing exactly the same as she is—staring out the window, sipping on watery hot chocolate.
And while she doesn’t say anything, I know her thoughts are racing because I’ve been in her position. I know what it’s like to not be able to save someone's life. I’ll be in her position again. It goes with the job. She’s going to become an amazing doctor.
“I’m okay,” she says softly.
“You’re better than okay, Tiana, you are amazing.”
I emphasize each word because I mean what I say. She is a great junior doctor.
She turns around and faces me. “You’re supposed to be on your break.”
“I wanted to make sure you were okay. I can sleep standing up. You know this!” I tease. Another sweep of relief comes when she manages a real laugh.
“Yeah, well, we’re going to be busy enough without having to deal with you blocking the doorway or something.”
I grin. “Just put me on a cart or in the corner.”
Her eyes are still bloodshot and puffy, but she’s becoming more and more like herself.
“Quinn, no offense, but get out of here!” She shoves at me. It’s put on, but it’s better than tears.
And it is a reminder that support here is a two-way street. Which was one of the reasons I chose a small clinic in Colorado to practice medicine, as opposed to working in a huge hospital.
“Are you sure?”
The glare I get has me grimacing. And then it’s my turn to have tears in my eyes.
My exhaustion is hitting hard, and fast. By the time I’m in one of the small rooms we use as a staff break space, I’m barely functioning.
I’m in bed, snuggled under blankets that smell like fresh linen in under a minute, and I swear I’m asleep a minute later.
I wish I could say I feel great when I woke up, but I don’t. This time of year is always busy, made worse by the lunar cycle. For some reason I’ve yet to figure out, full moons always make people absolutely fucking crazy.
Taking a nice, long shower and using the small, scented soap I brought from home, I feel marginally better once done. Redressing in fresh scrubs is like taking a holiday in the Maldives. A slight exaggeration, but after working a double shift, it’s the small things that bring you comfort.
After packing up my room, and stripping the sheets ready for the next person, I store my bag in my locker.
Before heading into the admin hub of the clinic, I divert into the kitchen where the ladies give me a rundown on what I missed.
I walk out of there up to date and with a stack of cheese melts and blueberry muffins.
The admin hub is relatively quiet; I get the chance to eat while listening to the shift handover meeting. Like the kitchen ladies said, nothing strange or out of the ordinary happened while I was off.
The charge nurse stops talking, walks to the door, and looks down the hallway before coming back to speak to us again. “Why is it, you wish for quiet, but the moment it comes, you get worried?”
One of the nurses reaches over from where they’re sitting and checks the phone. “It’s working.”
“Which means a shitstorm is heading our way.” An orderly jumps in and says what we’re all thinking.
The reality is, until the storm hits, all you can do is wait.
Our debrief finishes, and everyone goes to cope with the rising apprehension how they see fit.
Some rush from one side of the clinic to the other, doing nothing but moving to burn the gathering energy.
Others huddle in groups, staring at the set of double doors to the ambulance bay, waiting for them to burst open.
Another lot of people sit around chatting and eating as much as they can before we don’t get the chance to eat again for hours.
I like to focus on paperwork. I sit at one of the spare desks and start reviewing patient files, trying not to waste any energy on what I can’t control.
Tension ripples around our little clinic; it’s like ants walking up your legs or over your hands.
It leaves me jittery, and the more it builds, the less I can focus.
When the PA system cackles to life with details of incoming patients, it’s a relief.
All the noise quietens and my training kicks into gear, bringing a different version of peace.
The CN takes charge, assessing and prioritizing the cases as they come in. Some information gets passed along, but at this stage, it’s based on the number of casualties, not patients being assigned. Everyone moves to their zones, to wait.
I’m scrubbing down when the CN finds me and starts listing off the patient details.
“You’ve got the Cat 2. White male, aged mid-twenties early thirties, severe laceration to forearms, plus stabbing wound to abdomen.
He’s been administered Tranexamic as pain relief but is refusing anything else.
And of course, he’s not sharing anything personal. Nada.”
I roll my eyes, not at the CN, but the patient. People get so caught up trying to stay off the radar, they inadvertently put themselves at more risk in a crisis situation.
I turn to face the CN, one step ahead of what she was going to brief me on. “So, it’s a stitch up and clear the way for them to run if our patient doesn’t want our help. What else is happening?”
“Possible incoming from a bus wreck, depending on if the hospital is overrun too. I’ll keep you posted.” She stops reading off her list. “You’re one of the most senior staff working. Are you okay to take the lead? If not, I can ask Dr. Billings to.”
I read over the papers she hands out, reviewing the rough case notes and then double-checking who’s going to be working with me before answering. I’ve got a great team around me. “We’ll be fine. I’ll check in with you as soon as I’m done to see where you need me most.”
I’m talking to her back as she races on to the next bay to outline to that team what they’ve got coming in. I get a wave, letting me know she heard, and when I turn back to my team, they’re all waiting for my instructions.