And then I see her.
Okay, full disclosure: the first thing I see is her ass. Which is round and curvy, an amazing ass just begging for my hands all over it as she’s bent over someone in a chair. The second thing I see is her hair, which is dark brown with redder streaks in it, and so shiny-straight it looks like a waterfall. It looks familiar somehow.
The third thing I see is her eyes when she stands up and turns around. Those eyes are big beautiful anime eyes: enormous and round, with thick lashes, and they’re the delicious color of melted milk chocolate, and they’re staring back at me in recognition.
It’s the first girl I’ve kissed since Becky left me, the one I ran into at Lonnie’s last weekend. The gorgeous one. The one who was kiss-cheating on her boyfriend, a guy so good-looking he could be a quite believable model for the sun god Apollo.
Well, just fucking hell.
I take a deep breath, and then I walk away.
FOUR
Finlay
Three patients later, I’m totally work-focused when Alison Sadler calls me into an exam room to consult with her on a diagnosis. She shows me the chart of a 23-year-old male in generally good health, presenting with abdominal pain, vomiting and nausea, and says she thinks she knows what’s going on but she’d like my advice. Alison’s a new intern. She’s got good instincts, but sometimes she wants validation, and I gather this is one of those cases.
“Psoas sign positive,” Alison says. “Pain in the right lower quadrant, increasing over the past several hours. Abdominal rigidity. Decreased bowel sounds.”
I eye the patient. It’s that guy from the waiting room that looks like mythical Apollo, all wavy blond hair and chiseled features. I already fucking hate him, and I can’t even look at her.
Apollo is sort of grayish-green. Which fits with the diagnosis I have in mind.
“I’d like to see a white count and check if it’s elevated,” I tell Alison, “but I think you’re on the right track here.”
“Still waiting on the labs,” she says. “I don’t know why they’re slow tonight. I’ve ordered a CT scan, and we’re waiting on that too.”
“McBurney?” I ask.
“Haven’t checked yet.”
“What the hell is McBurney?” Apollo, the patient, asks. “Ow. And who are you?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Alison says. “This is my colleague, Dr. Gunn.”
“Shouldn’t that have been Dr. Knife?” Apollo says. “Ow.”
The beautiful girl sort of snorts through her nose, obviously trying not to laugh. I look into those melted-chocolate eyes for just a second, and then have to wrench my eyes back to the patient. I get a whiff of alcohol and one of vomit, and rub my nose unobtrusively.
“Dr. Sadler, you want to go ahead and test McBurney’s Point?” I step a little closer to watch her do it. She puts her splayed hand on the patient’s abdomen from belly button to hipbone, then taps a finger on his belly.
Immediate pain makes the patient howl, jackknifing his body almost in two before he collapses back onto the bed, panting and swearing.
“I’m really sorry,” Alison says. “It’s an excellent diagnostic for appendicitis.”
With the patient’s noise there’s a bigger whiff of alcohol in the room now. I mention to Alison that she might want a BAC as well as the white count.
“Already asked for it,” she says, typing into his chart. She looks up at me. “That’s what I needed the advice on, actually.”
“Have you been drinking, sir?” I ask.
“Two margaritas,” the patient says, “which I threw up.”
I find it’s easier if I don’t think of him as her boyfriend. If I don’t think of him as her boyfriend, I don’t want to throttle him. As much.
“You didn’t eat anything,” Beautiful Girl says.
“I’m not drunk,” Apollo says. “I’m a little bzz—um, buh—um, a little tipshee. I mean tip. Sy.”
“Well, that’s kind of a concern for us,” Alison explains. “I’d like to order an appendectomy as soon as possible, so we don’t risk the appendix rupturing. But in order to operate, we would need his blood alcohol content to be lower than it is right now.”
I lean over to speak softly to her. “Shoot him upstairs to Surgical. Then he’s their problem.”
“They’re going to want to see labs.”
“Their problem.”
Alison nods. “Okay, let me go light a fire under the lab then.” She goes out, tossing a glance over her shoulder at me that says she has no idea why I’m not rushing back to my next patient.
I’m wondering that, too.
“Not literally,” I say to Apollo and his (I wish it weren’t true) girlfriend.
She snort-laughs again.
She really is gorgeous. Those melting eyes, the shiny hair, the luscious body. Her mouth is as soft and full as I remember. I check out her hands: long fingers, beautiful dark pink nails that match her scarf, and no rings. I want my hands on her. I want to rip that rose-patterned scarf right off her neck and give her a damn hickey, in front of everybody.
“Don’t make me laugh,” Apollo snarls. “It hurts!”
“Poor baby,” she says, and bites her lip.
“We were wrong,” he says to her. “Weren’t we, Dr. Knife?”
“About what?” Belatedly, I offer my hand. “Finlay Gunn.”
“Finlay Gunn?” Apollo repeats. “Did your mother hate you?”
The beautiful kiss-cheater looks embarrassed. “Wade. C’mon, be nice.”
“He’s too fucking good-looking to waste time being nice. Which just goes to show you where we were wrong.”
I’m confused.
Beautiful Girl tilts her head at me. “We were watching Grey’s Anatomy reruns and saying that no real doctor would be that attractive in real life.”
That might be a compliment. Unless they’re talking about Alison, who has nice long legs and a stunning head of thick, curly, dark hair. “Who, Dr. Sadler?”
“No, you,” Apollo says. “Doc McKnife.”
I’m beginning to think he’s getting drunker by the minute, as the alcohol works its way into his bloodstream.
Apollo points at me. “You’re not gay, are you? I couldn’t be that lucky.”
Holy shit, he didn’t just say what I think he said.
But he did. Beautiful Girl’s cheeks have flushed poppy red. It looks sexy on her. And now that I’m noticing, she has beautiful tits, too, under that scarf she’s wearing. Round and generous. I tell my dick to shut the fuck up. Holy shit, do they think I’m gay?
I am SO not gay.
Was she kissing me last week because her boyfriend is gay and she’s his beard but she really wants out? Because if so, I would get her out. The reckless mood, in this exam room that I should have left five minutes ago if I was really doing my job, seems to be infecting me. “I’m not gay.”
“Wade, you’re drunk,” Beautiful Girl says. “You should shut up now.” She eyes him. “You don’t even recognize him, do you?”