Harlow
A fluorescent light hums above. The smell of bleach and plastic fills my nose. The patient’s eyes snap shut as the surgeon slowly peels off the bandage from his jaw. The raw skin must sting in the cold air, because he winces.
“Looks good, Killian,” the surgeon says and hands him a mirror.
Killian must know it’s bad. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to look, but he draws in a deep breath and holds the mirror as high as his tethered wrist will allow him.
One side of his face is perfect — and I mean perfect — which makes his injury worse, because the other is freaking ruined.
The damage is brutal. Too many stitches to count.
One line runs from the corner of his mouth and stops just before his ear.
Another divides his eyebrow. Together, they are more distracting than the tattoos that crawl up one side of his neck.
It’s horrific.
Yet the surgeon bobs his head, proud of his work.
“It’s a miracle it looks this good,” he says. “It’s only been two days.”
Two days. I read his chart. Two days since a drug dealer carved him open. Two days since someone found him dying on the bathroom floor from a fentanyl overdose.
He sets the mirror down and sighs, apparently unmoved by the surgeon’s praise.
His gaze lifts, catching mine.
Immediately, I tug at my light pink scrubs, feeling like an intruder. I try to reset and act like I wasn’t just gawking in horror.
“Looks fucking terrible, huh?” he says, his voice low and fractured.
Quickly, I clear my throat.
“What? No. Um—”
He smirks, but every stitch tightens, and he winces.
“Pain pill?” He points to his jaw.
The surgeon nods. “I’ll have the nurse bring it. Get some rest.”
Killian lifts his hands, but the restraints hold tight, causing a thunk.
“Off?”
The surgeon shakes his head. “The attending doctor says one more night. Just to keep everyone safe.”
“I’m past withdrawal,” he snarls.
He isn’t.
According to the toxicology report, he’s taken so many drugs that he probably doesn’t know what he’s withdrawing from.
“One more night,” the surgeon repeats, then dims the lights and leaves the room.
Killian rests his head against the pillow and checks the clock.
I brought a new book tonight. A romantasy. I never read books until Keysha forced me to join her book club. I’ll do anything for a good friend. Now I always have a book in my bag for the few times I have to watch a patient. It gets boring, especially when they sleep.
I sit in the corner and open my book. The dim light barely reaches me, but I can see the pages enough.
“Tell me I’m ugly,” he says abruptly.
I glance up, surprised.
“It really looks great,” I answer confidently this time.
“No, it doesn’t.”
He’s upset. I get it. I would be too.
“Name?” he presses.
“I’m Harlow. I’ll be by your bedside for the next twelve hours.”
“All night?”
I give a warm smile, but I’m uneasy. I fuss with my hair. My dark locks are piled on top of my head in a messy bun. Two long strands frame my face on either side. I didn’t expect to have a hot guy as a patient tonight. He is hot... if not for his new scars.
“Yep, I’m a CNA. They use us for suicide watch sometimes.”
“Suicide is for pussies,” he says, disgusted.
“Sorry! I meant safety watch... er, observation.”
He squints.
I speak faster.
“You were violent yesterday.”
Which is true. His chart doesn’t match that otherwise pretty face. He spat at a nurse. He ripped out IVs. He knocked over a table.
“Withdrawals.”
“Lots of people go through withdrawal and don’t throw things,” I whisper.
“What?”
“Nothing!” I yelp.
He stares, which makes me squirm in my chair.
“Get my pill,” he adds firmly.
Spoken like a true addict.
“Right,” I mumble and rise. “I’ll check with the nurse.”
I walk past his bed, knowing he’s watching. It’s hard not to with my body type. I’m short, thick, and known for one thing:
My ass.
I wish my body wasn’t the primary trait. I’m used to it. I’m even proud of my curves, but still, it’d be nice to be appreciated for my work ethic or outgoing personality.
Also, there are times I wish I could hide my body when certain men look at me.
Men like Killian.
I don’t see his nurse from the doorway. I page her since I can’t leave the room, and soon, she appears with a medicine cup. The pill is small, and he notices immediately.
“My dad lowered my dose?” he growls.
The nurse nods. “He wants you discharged soon and made that clear to your doctor.”
At St. Augustine’s, Clark Easton’s desires have a way of becoming doctors’ orders.
“Give me the pill,” Killian grumbles.
She does, then leaves.
I am already in my seat, reading my book.
In my peripheral vision, his tethered hand barely reaches a piece of paper on the bedside table, which he crumples and flicks. It sails across the room, hitting my arm.
“My dad doesn’t pay you to read.”
I close my book and sigh. “I heard you were funny. When does that start?”
His eyebrows lift, surprised. “Day five. What else have you heard about me?”
“That you’re the hospital owner’s son. That you’ve overdosed several times. That you’re a troublemaker.”
He nods. “You mean, I’m a fuck-up.”
I gasp. “No! I didn’t say that. I didn’t mean to offend—”
“It’s fine. I am.”
I hold my lower lip between my teeth and tap my fingertips together, searching for something professional to say.
“Chill, Harlow,” he soothes. “I know what I am. What about you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Just a lowly CNA?”
“Lowly?“ I huff.
What a dick!
His dad surely told him about different hospital jobs. Hell, everyone knows certified nursing assistants work hard, are paid little, and are often treated like shit.
And based on his smug expression, he’s proud to have found a button.
Still, I compose myself, lift my chin, and speak in a formal tone.
“Yes, I have been a CNA at St. Augustine’s for two years, and—”
“Stop,” he interrupts. “I can’t get you fired. My dad doesn’t give a fuck about anything I say. Be yourself.”
I squint, skeptical.
“I mean it. He hates me.”
My lips purse, locking my mouth tight.
He sighs. “Fine, be a lowly CNA who nobody cares about.”
My mouth hangs open.
I stare for a moment, then glance toward the hall. Nobody’s there.
Slowly, I move closer and lean over his bed. His presence is intimidating, but he deserves this.
“Okay, I think you’re a spoiled brat.”
He laughs. Really laughs. I guess he likes someone as honest as I am.
I give a wicked grin, relieved he isn’t angry.
“Why work nights?” he asks.
“Because I go to nursing school before my shift.”
“Good for you.”
I lift my chin higher and beam, proud of myself. “Yeah, I’m kind of a badass.”
The word ‘badass’ comes off a little weak, though. I’m still telling myself I am. Maybe I’ll actually believe it once I graduate.
He clearly doesn’t buy my fib, because he smothers another laugh. “And what do you and your bloated ego do for fun?”
“Oh. The rumors are true. You can be funny.” But my smile fades. “I don’t have time for fun anymore, but when I did, I loved dancing. Clubs. Just letting loose with my girls.”
His head tilts, his eyes gleaming with curiosity.
“Hang out with me, then you’ll have fun.”
Is he flirting?
I shake my head and grin.
His eyes keep dropping to my mouth. Maybe he likes my smile.
What am I talking about? This rich boy probably has a girlfriend. Not only that, he’s a freaking addict!
“I can’t have fun with you. I don’t make enough money to keep up with your lifestyle. Besides, I’d never do drugs.”
“Never? You sure you don’t want to end up chained to a hospital bed?”
“I’m sure,” I reply, grinning. “Not that it doesn’t look awesome.”
“Bite and a sense of humor. That’s a dangerous combination,” he says smoothly.
Okay. This man is definitely flirting.
I try not to blush or look stupid.
“I’ll go dancing with you,” he adds.
I don’t laugh this time. Because what I just felt, I don’t like. Getting a thrill from men like him is how I find trouble. I don’t need to repeat the past.
“Um... no dancing. Thanks, though,” I say sweetly, but I feel like I’m kicking a guy while he’s in a hospital bed. So I soften it with humor. “Spoiled brats can’t keep up with me on the dance floor.”
“Jesus,” he says to himself. “It’s bad when the lowest rung at a hospital says no.”
“Excuse me?” I furrow my brow. I think that was a slight at me.
His smile vanishes. His gaze turns assessing and cold, holding mine until my own smile slips.
Then—
“I don’t want to get sober.”
A confession, raw and shameless. Not a plea for help. Just a fact, laid between us like a loaded gun.
Of course. The first man to make my pulse trip since Evan has to say something like that.
So I give Killian what I should’ve given Evan: the truth.
With a gentle touch, I rest my hand over his, mostly to cover the face of Freddy Krueger, who is tattooed on the top of his hand.
Very disturbing. Not hot at all. Gosh, he has more going up his arm.
More horror-movie monsters. Yep. Not hot.
Besides, touch calms patients. This is good bedside manner.
He remains still, watching, waiting for whatever generic lines people usually feed him.
“You need to be told what a fuck-up you are more often.”
His brow arches and he blinks, as if unsure whether he heard correctly.
“So listen to me,” I continue. “Are you ugly? A little. Are you a fuck-up? Hell yes. And right now, you’re wasting a life most people would kill for because getting high is easy. So quit feeling sorry for yourself.”
Killian’s deep brown eyes narrow, just for a second. Then, he cocks his head and replies coolly.
“That’s your motivational speech? Tough love?”
“Mm-hm. I bet nobody gives you tough love. That’s bad, because someone as difficult as you needs it.”
“How would you know what I need?”
“I dated a guy with a drug problem. My ex. I was too nice,” I say, admitting my own ugly truth.
“Where is he now?”
“Who cares?” I answer bitterly. “As long as he isn’t in my bank account. I have bills.”
“Tough girl,” he murmurs.
“Yes, I am,” I say halfheartedly.
I squeeze his hand, my touch suddenly more purposeful. I even stroke my thumb over the top like I actually care. Maybe I do. Nurses are supposed to be caring in a different way than CNAs. It’s practice. The energy in the room shifts, more tense, because my truth isn’t as easy for me to say.
“I always thought if I made Evan happy, he’d get sober, but it just made him worse.” My eyes shift from his hand to his eyes, which are almost too intense to look into.
The nurse and another woman step into the room. I startle and jerk my hand free, but not fast enough.
He snatches my wrist. My gaze snaps from the women to him, shocked that he’s grabbing my arm in such a fierce hold. He lets go and looks at the nurse, pretending nothing happened.
What the heck?
I rub my wrist, feeling foolish for getting so close to a patient who’s restrained for violence towards others.
“Uh, HR flagged your overdue training. Gina’s taking over. Go,” the nurse says.
Her judgement is palpable.
Strangely, I don’t really want to go, even though that’s exactly what I should do.
I force a warm smile. “It was a pleasure to meet you. I hope—”
“Save it,” he grumbles.
Maybe part of me still wants to comfort him. Or maybe I want to prove he isn’t dangerous, if only to make my mistake less embarrassing.
Either way, my stubborn self takes over, intent on making him laugh once more.
“If you go to rehab, I hope you have a terrible time, you spoiled brat.” I give a quick wink, something I do with lots of patients to make them smile.
He doesn’t smile.
“Will I see you again?” he asks, his tone casual, but his stare isn’t.
“I’m off for the next three days. You should be released by then. Good luck, Killian.”
He glares, eyes narrowing and dark. No goodbye. No thanks for the advice. Just a look of contempt, as if I wronged him.
I head for the door, wondering where exactly I misspoke. Just as I step out, his words to the nurse slice through the air.
“Give me another fuckin’ pill.”
I sigh softly.
Not because he is exactly as dangerous as I assumed he was, but because I found him charming anyway.