Chapter 4 Cooper #2
Raj clears his throat. “The pain started vague and moved lower, constant for forty-eight hours. No bowel movement, mild fever, guarding—classic presentation.”
“Excellent reasoning. You’ve done your reading, Mr. Singh.”
Raj looks like he’s been crowned the Prince of England. “Thank you, sir.”
I roll my eyes so hard I’m pretty sure I saw my own optic nerve. “He’s such a suck up,” I whisper to Ava, watching that stupid grin stick on his face. “Mr. Asskisser.” His smugness makes me want to shove a thermometer right up his ass. He wouldn’t be so cheeky then.
I should have been the one to answer that right. To show Dr. Quinn that I’m not a dumb blonde that can’t see the quintessential presentation of appendicitis.
“Yeah? But that’s how you answer a question instead of bursting one in your undies.” She teases.
“Gah, gah, gah,” I mumble, mimicking her voice.
Rounds go on for an eternity, each minute dripping by slower than an IV drip, but I don’t mind because I get to watch Dr. Quinn the entire time.
Patient after patient, I get to melt into his eyes, watching those forearms of lust flex their magic.
Those rolling veins somehow defy the laws of anatomy.
It makes me wonder—what else about him defies anatomy?
Ava whispers in my ear. “Cooper, you’re staring again.”
“For research purposes,” I murmur, pretending to jot something down in my notebook.
After rounds we bullshit in the breakroom, finally a second for my pulse to come back down to Earth. My brain is fried and is craving glucose and caffeine.
Ava collapses into the chair next to me, offering a granola bar. “You gonna be able to focus now, or should I just draw hearts around Dr. Quinn in your notes for you?”
“Actually if you don’t mind, please do. We can manifest it.”
She groans rubbing her temples. “We’re supposed to be studying Coop. You know, for the exam that determines whether we make it through the first semester.”
“We are studying,” I counter. “Cardiology. My heart rate has been in the two-hundreds all morning. I could be a case study.”
Ava stares at me, unimpressed, and goes back to flipping her notes.
“But do you think maybe he’s too perfect?” I ask.
Ava looks at me, properly fed up with my shenanigans. “No because some of us aren’t writing fanfiction about him during rounds.”
“Have you been getting laid Ava?”
She lets out a startled laugh, her eyes going wide, looking from side to side to see if anyone else heard. “That is none of your business. Unlike yourself, not everybody likes to gloat about their insatiable libido.”
I grin, leaning back in my chair. “So that’s a no, then?”
She ignores me and returns to her mission of not failing our upcoming test.
Taking the hint, I decide to pretend to study. I slip a nicotine pouch under my lip, the familiar burn hitting my gums. Time to focus. Time to be serious.
I flip open my laptop. Scanning the model of the human body, trying to commit all of the arteries and veins to memory. Aorta, subclavian, carotid, femoral. All superhighways of the human body, pulsing with bountiful hemoglobin. Delivering nutrients every second.
But of course, my brain doesn’t stay on task. It rarely does.
Are Dr. Quinn’s veins proportionate to the rest of him? Or are they just… absurdly, unfairly gigantic? Because if his blood vessels are that size, what else—
“Mr. Larson, come with me.” The deep voice booms from the doorway.
I scamper to my feet in an instant, nearly flipping my laptop, my heart resuming it’s frantic pace. “Y-yes, sir!”
Dr. Quinn stands in the doorway, composed and devastating as ever. “Now, Mr. Larson, unless you plan to pretend like you are studying for the rest of the evening, I could use an extra pair of hands.”
My throat goes dry. “Yes, Dr. Quinn,” I manage to squeak out, sounding more like a school boy than a medical student.
“Go get ‘em, prodigy,” Ava mutters, sipping her coffee.
By the time I reach the door, Dr. Quinn is walking down the polished hallway. “Hurry up!” he calls over his shoulder.
I jog to catch up with him, trying not to look like an overexcited golden retriever. “What can I help you with sir?”
“There is a trauma case inbound. I want you by my side for this one.”
“Oh, yes sir,” I jumble, trying to hide my look of surprise.
“We’ll be in this room, here,” he murmurs, pointing his head to the right. “You better get used to these rooms.”
I nod my head when I hear Dr. Quinn swear under his breath, a scalpel clattering against the tray, and a small streak of crimson appearing on his left forearm.
“For Christ’s sakes,” he mutters, pulling back his sleeve to reveal a neat but surprisingly deep slice.
My brain freezes for a moment. Dr. Quinn—the man who could perform surgery in the dark—cut himself.
On duty. In front of me.
“Sir—”
“It’s fine,” he interrupts, pressing gauze to the cut. “It’s superficial. Just a clumsy slip.”
“You’re bleeding,” I say, because it’s almost impossible for me to keep my stupid mouth shut.
“Excellent diagnostic skill, Mr. Larson,” he chuckles, looking at me with those charming pupils. “Now be useful. Grab a suture kit.”
“Yes, sir.” My hands fumble through the drawers until I find one, the sterile pack crinkling in my grip.
“Good. Close the door.”
Why does he want the door closed? It’s a simple stitch of the skin, not like we are doing a prostate exam or anything of that matter.
“Close it,” he repeats, his words like rumbling stone.
I scurry over to slam it shut, my heart thudding in my ears, the latch confirming his command.
“Good Boy,” he says as smooth as molten velvet, causing my brain to bounce back and forth in my skull. “Now grab the kit and get to work.”
My cheeks flare with the heat of a blacksmith’s forge.
Did he just—?
Don’t overthink Cooper, just do as he says…
“Uhhh—y-yes sir,” I stutter, as my lungs try to breathe. My hands finding a pair of gloves to stretch on, the beads of sweat making the task impossibly difficult.
He holds out his wounded arm, keeping it steady, not a tremble to be seen. As I grab the antiseptic iodine, I catch a whiff of his scent.
His musk smells of cedar and leaves, like birth and decay are seeping out of his pores. My head swoons in a dizzying adventure of what not to feel for your attending physician.
“Mr. Larson, are you there? Anybody home?” he asks, the baritone words snapping through me like a razor blade.
This isn’t a dream. I’m not masturbating pathetically to myself, hoping my roommates don’t hear my moans through the door.
I jerk my head up. “Yes sir—sorry, I was just making sure the site was properly disinfected.”
His lips twitch like he knows something that I don’t. “You look awfully pale and sweaty, Cooper. Maybe you should tone it down a bit with the running?”
“Yes, Dr. Quinn,” I murmur, before I realize.
I never told him that I run. How would he know?
Not right now Coop. Suture the man before the skin heals itself.
His mouth slides to a smirk. Those pitch-dark eyes dissect the movement of my fingers, analyzing my entire body and mind at once.
Fuck. He could flay the skin from my back and I wouldn’t dare to wiggle an inch. I would stay still until the scalpel makes its way to my groin.
“With the needle now,” he quips.
I begin to thread the suture in and out of his wound, starting at the edges, and weaving it back and forth. Over and over.
“Good job Cooper,” he murmurs, his words washing over me—sending me into a dizzying reverie.
But I stay focused, my head blooming with tingles of dopamine and serotonin as I approximate the wound.
“Tight work. You’ve got quite the skill for someone with a racing heart,” he says, nodding his head in appreciation.
“Lots of practice, sir.”
“Don’t worry boy, you have plenty coming up in your future,” he chuckles as he exits the room.
Leaving me to simmer in my cesspool of thoughts.
How does he know of my jogs?
Why the fuck did he call me a good boy?
And why did I fucking love it?
So much so that my mouth is drooling, waiting for him to repeat them to my ears, to make sure that I didn’t fantasize my reality.