Chapter 8 Stag Nights #2
Suddenly, a sound shatters the zen silence. A high-pitched, rhythmic beeping.
It is coming from Preston’s pocket.
"You kept the pager?" I ask.
"I am the backup protocol," Preston admits, pulling it out. He checks the screen. His face goes serious. "It’s the transplant coordinator. Code 1."
I grab the pager. The code is for Mrs. O'Brian.
Mrs. O'Brian is sixty-four. She is a librarian who bakes cookies for the nurses. She has been on the heart transplant list for eight months. She has Type O-negative blood. The odds of a match were less than five percent.
"It’s O'Brian," I say, the adrenaline flooding my system, washing away the anxiety. "They have a heart. Transport is en route. I have to go."
"Go," Preston says, already moving toward the parking lot. "I’ll drive. We have three hours to get back to the city. I can do it in two."
“How do you plan on doing that?” I ask, running toward the yurt to grab my shoes.
"Maxwell," Preston calls after me, his silk kimono billowing. "I’m gay, I’m rich, and I drive a Porsche. I practically invented speeding."
Jax
I am sitting on the couch in the dark, watching a documentary about fungi. I miss Max. It has been four hours since Preston arrived and abducted him to some form of wellness retreat for the absurdly wealthy.
The doorbell rings.
I open it to find Luke standing there. He is wearing a leather jacket, tight jeans, and a grin that looks like trouble.
"Come on, loser," Luke says. "We’re going drinking."
"I don't want to go drinking," I groan. "I want to pine. I want to smell Max’s pillow."
"Nope," Luke says, stepping inside and dragging me off the couch. "You and I share a specific burden, Jax. We are the partners of the York brothers. Do you know what that means?"
"It means we need therapy?"
"It means we date human supercomputers," Luke corrects me. "Max is a surgical robot. Preston is a forensic sniper in a silk suit. They are high maintenance, high stress, and high intensity. And tonight? Tonight is for the golden retrievers to get off the leash."
"TO THE YORKS!"
Luke is standing on a table. He is holding a shot of tequila.
"May they never analyze our liver enzymes!" Luke screams.
"TO THE YORKS!" I scream back.
I have discovered something important: Luke is not just a nice doctor. He is a party animal. He deals with trauma cases and neurotic attendings all day, and apparently, he releases that stress by drinking tequila like it’s apple juice.
We are five bars deep. We have done karaoke (Luke sang Toxic by Britney Spears with terrifying accuracy). We have eaten street meat. We have bonded.
"You really love him, huh?" Luke slurs, leaning on my shoulder as we stumble toward the next bar.
"Max?" I sigh. "Yeah. He’s... he’s a lot. He counts his peas, Luke. He arranges the books by colour. But he’s the only person who makes the noise stop for me."
"I get it," Luke nods sage-like. "Preston is... sharp. He cuts people. But he lets me hold the knife sometimes. It’s nice."
"You’re weirdly poetic when you’re drunk, Luke," I laugh.
"It’s the adrenaline," Luke says darkly. "I drink it for breakfast."
We are walking toward a place called The Rusty Nail. It’s 03:00. The city is alive.
"One more round," Luke insists. "Then we get pizza. I need cheese, Jax. I need structural cheese."
"Deal," I say.
Then, the world breaks.
It happens in a split second. A car screeches around the corner. A window rolls down.
Pop-pop-pop.
Glass shatters. A bottle explodes on the pavement next to me.
"GET DOWN!" I roar.
I tackle Luke. We hit the concrete hard behind a parked delivery truck.
Pop-pop-pop.
The sound echoes off the brick buildings. For a second, I am not in New York. The smell of garbage turns into the smell of burning diesel. The neon sign flickering above me turns into the harsh glare of the Kandahar sun.
My breath hitches. My vision tunnels. I can’t breathe.
Incoming. Mass cal. Where’s my kit? Where’s my kit?
"Jax!"
The voice is distant. Warped.
"Jax! He’s hit! Jax!"
I blink. The desert fades. The neon returns. Luke is grabbing my shoulders, shaking me. He’s pale, terrified, but his ER Attending voice is on.
"Jax! Snap out of it! We have a victim!"
I look where he’s pointing. A man is lying on the sidewalk ten feet away. The car is gone. The shooter is gone.
But the blood is here.
Bright red. Pulsing. Arterial.
Femoral artery. Ninety seconds.
The switch flips. The PTSD lock snaps shut, and the Trauma Chief software loads.
"Belt," I bark. "Give me your belt."
"What?"
"BELT! NOW!"
Luke rips his belt off. I slide across the pavement on my knees. I jam my knee into the man’s groin, cutting off the flow. He screams.
"Sorry, buddy," I grunt. "This is gonna suck."
I loop the belt high and tight. I crank it down. The leather groans. I pull until the fountain slows to a trickle.
"Luke! Time?"
"03:12!" Luke yells, checking his watch.
"Call 911. GSW to the femoral. Tourniquet applied. Pressure is holding. Tell them O’Connell is on scene."
I look down at the man. He’s young. He’s wearing a Groom To Be sash.
"You’re gonna make it," I tell him, wiping blood from my eyes. "You’re not dying on my stag night. It’s tacky."
Sirens wail. I keep the pressure. My tuxedo shirt is ruined. My hands are red. And I am perfectly calm.
Jax
The pizza place is fluorescent and smells like grease and salvation.
I am sitting in a booth. I am still wearing my blood-stained tuxedo shirt. Luke is next to me, wearing a glittery sash he stole from the victim’s party as a "trophy." He is on the phone.
"Yeah. Joe’s. Bring the Porsche. We needed cheese, Preston. Structural cheese."
Ten minutes later, the door opens.
Max walks in.
He looks exhausted. He is wearing linen pants from the retreat, but he has thrown a leather jacket over a set of borrowed scrubs. His hair is windblown.
He sees me. He freezes. He scans the blood on my shirt.
"Jax?"
I stand up. "It’s not mine."
Max walks over. He doesn't ask for data. He doesn't ask for a report. He steps into my space and puts his hands on my face. He grounds me.
"You’re here," Max whispers. "You’re calibrated."
"I had a flashback," I admit, leaning into his touch. "But I came back. Luke pulled me out."
Max looks at Luke, who is currently inhaling a slice of cheese pizza.
"Thank you, Luke," Max says seriously.
"Don't mention it," Luke says. "Also, Preston is double-parking the Porsche. We might get towed."
Preston breezes in, looking immaculate in his silk kimono and trench coat. He looks at me. He looks at the blood.
"Well," Preston says. "That is certainly a look. Very... avant-garde."
"Mrs. O'Brian?" I ask Max.
"Transplanted," Max says, sliding into the booth. "The heart is beating. She’s going to live."
"The guy on the street?" Max asks.
"Femoral repair," I say. "He made it to St. Jude’s. He’ll live."
We sit there. Four men in a pizza shop at 04:30. Blood, silk, linen, and glitter.
"We are terrible at bachelor parties," Max concludes, looking at the menu board.
“I suspect,” Preston adds, stealing a pepperoni from Luke, "we are the worst bachelors in New York."
"Pizza," Max says decisively. "Large. Hawaiian."
I choke on my water. "Excuse me?"
"Hawaiian," Max repeats, deadpan. "Ham and pineapple."
"Max," I say, horrified. "That is a crime. That is fruit on a pizza. It’s unnatural. We’ve been over this before!”
"It is salty and sweet," Max argues. "It provides a complex flavor profile."
"It’s garbage!" I protest. "Luke, back me up here."
Luke shakes his head, reaching for a napkin. "Sorry, Jax. I’m with Max. Pineapple belongs on pizza."
I look at Preston for sanity. "Preston. You have taste. You wear silk. Tell them they are monsters."
Preston adjusts his kimono. He looks me in the eye with absolute seriousness.
"I will have a slice of the Hawaiian," Preston says calmly.
"YOU TOO?" I scream. "Is this genetic? Is this a York thing? Do you all have broken taste buds?"
"It is a refined palate," Preston sniffs. "The acidity of the pineapple cuts through the fat of the cheese. It is culinary genius."
He pauses, picking a piece of lint off his trench coat. Then, a wicked smirk curls his lip.
"Besides," Preston adds, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr. "There are... secondary benefits to a diet rich in pineapple. As I’m sure Luke can attest."
Luke chokes on his soda. He turns a violent shade of red that matches the pepperoni.
"Oh my god," I whisper, putting my head in my hands. "You did not just say that. In a pizza shop. In front of your brother."
I look at Max, expecting him to be horrified. I expect the Ice King to shut this down with a lecture on inappropriate social discourse.
Instead, Max looks at Preston. He tilts his head, considering the statement.
Then, he looks at me.
His eyes aren't clinical. They are dark, amused, and terrifyingly focused.
"He is correct, Jackson," Max says, his voice steady but carrying a weight that hits me right in the chest. "While the clinical data is largely anecdotal, the sample size in our household suggests a direct correlation."
My jaw drops. "Max!"
"I am merely ensuring the honeymoon is optimized," Max says, taking a sip of my water. "I thought you appreciated efficiency."
"I— I—" I stutter. My face is burning. "I cannot believe this is happening. You’re ganging up on me. The York brothers are sexually harassing me over pizza."
"It’s not harassment," Preston corrects, high-fiving Max across the table. "It’s bonding. Welcome to the family, Jax. Eat your fruit."
"I hate you both," I squeak, my voice an octave higher than usual.
"You love us," Max says, leaning over to kiss my burning cheek. "Now eat. We have the Rehearsal Dinner on Monday."
My stomach drops. The blush vanishes, replaced by cold dread.
"Oh god," I whisper. "The boat. I forgot about the boat."
"Mother has rented the S.S. Sovereign," Max confirms, handing me a slice of pineapple pizza. "You have forty-eight hours to calibrate your inner ear. I suggest you start carb-loading now."
"I’m going to be sick," I say.
"That," Preston says cheerfully, "is a problem for Monday. Tonight, we feast."
I eat the pizza. It’s terrible.
Outside, the sidewalk is cold and I am still deeply, spiritually violated.
Luke and Preston are walking twenty feet ahead of us, just out of hearing distance.
"You high-fived him," I say.
"I acknowledged a valid data point," Max says.
"It wasn't a data point, Max. It was a comment about my—" I gesture vaguely at myself. "About the situation. And you high-fived it. Like he scored a goal."
"He did score a goal," Max says. "It was accurate."
"We are not discussing the accuracy!"
Max tilts his head. "What are we discussing?"
"The BETRAYAL," I hiss. "The casual, pineapple-flavoured betrayal."
"I didn't realize solidarity with my brother required dishonesty," Max says, entirely too calm. "Would you have preferred I disputed the data?"
I open my mouth.
I close it.
The worst part — the absolute worst part — is that I wouldn't.
"I hate you," I inform him.
"You're marrying me on Saturday," Max says. "So that seems unlikely."
He takes my hand. He starts walking. I follow, because I always follow, because the man could lead me directly off a cliff and I'd ask about the view.
"For the record," Max says, after approximately ten steps, "the honeymoon suite we booked in Bora Bora has concrete walls. Twenty-two inch. Reinforced."
I stop walking.
"You checked?"
"I optimized," Max says simply.
I stare at the back of his head.
This man. This absolute man.
"Eat the pineapple," I tell him. "Every day. Starting now."
Max reaches into his coat pocket and produces, without ceremony, a single chunk of pineapple wrapped in a napkin.
I stare at it.
"From the pizza," he says. "I planned ahead."
"...You planned ahead."
"I'm efficient," he says.
I take the pineapple. I eat it on a New York sidewalk at 4 AM in a blood-stained tuxedo shirt.
Honestly? Best night of my life.