The New Doctor, page 1
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
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From The Author
First 2 Chapters of Book 2
The New Doctor
The Bad Boys of Beantown - Book 1
M.L. Sapphire
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any or by any means including scanning, photocopying, or otherwise without prior written permission of the copyright holder.
All characters are 18-years-old or older and consenting adults. These scenarios are fantasies and are not meant to be a guide for your sexual life.
Copyright © 2020 M.L. Sapphire
All Rights Reserved.
Other Books By M.L. Sapphire
The Professor
New Neighbor
Personal Training
Father Figure
Loner
The Surgeon
1.
“I can't believe it's Doctor Malarch's last day,” Ken said.
“I know,” I replied. “He's been here forever. He's been working here longer than I've been a nurse.”
“He's been working here longer than I've been a nurse,” Ken said. “And I've been a nurse a lot longer than your sexy little behind has been.”
Ken motioned like he was going to grab my butt. We both laughed.
“I wonder who Dr. Malarch's replacement is going to be,” I said. “Have you heard anything?”
“Not even a pip of a peep. And I have eyes and ears all over this hospital. As far as I know, they haven't hired anybody yet.”
“You'd think they would've hired a new emergency room doctor by now. Dr. Malarch put in his notice a month ago.”
“Honey, you know how this place is,” Ken said in his Southern accent that I absolutely adored. “They do everything backward.”
“You do everything backward,” I replied with a smirk.
“I would do Dr. Malarch forward, backward, and sideways,” Ken said, snapping his fingers three times. “I hope whoever they hire to replace him is as handsome as he is.”
“No. Just no. Don't get me wrong. I love Dr. Malarch. But he's got to be sixty-years old. I don't understand what you find attractive about him. I like men a little bit older than me. But not so much that they're old enough to retire.”
“If they're old enough to retire, they're almost old enough to die. And if I can get my name on their will before that happens: cha-ching!”
“You're so bad!” I said, whacking Ken in the arm.
We both laughed. But our laughter was short lived. It had been a quiet day in the ER, but that changed when two paramedics came busting through the door with a man on a stretcher. Ken and I put our game faces on and rushed out from behind the nurses' station. Dr. Malarch emerged from a patient's room and calmly approached the paramedics.
“What have we got?” he asked.
“Thirty-five-year-old male. Unresponsive. Gunshot wound to the right shoulder. He lost a lot of blood. Vitals are weak, pulse is thready.”
“Put him in room thirty-one,” Dr. Malarch ordered. “Ken, call surgical and get someone down here immediately. Nurse Silvia, you're with me.”
I nodded and followed the doctor into room thirty-one. Even though I'd been working as an ER nurse for several years, I still got a blast of adrenaline whenever things got hectic. My pulse doubled and I could feel my heart beating in the back of my throat. Pulling out a handful of gauze from a drawer, I used it to replace the blood-soaked gauze one of the paramedics was holding on the wound. Within seconds it went from white to red.
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.
That was the last sound you wanted to hear in the ER. I glanced up at the monitor to confirm what I already knew: the patient was flatlining.
“Pushing epi,” Dr. Malarch said, calmly injecting the patient as if he'd done it a million times before – because he had.
I replaced the blood-soaked gauze with some fresh gauze, which quickly turned into more blood-soaked gauze. The drugs caused the patient's heart to start beating again, but not properly.
“He's in V-fib,” the doctor said. “We need to shock him. Angel, get the paddles.”
“Yes, doctor,” I replied and brought him the defibrillator.
“Everybody stand clear,” he commanded. “Charging paddles. Administering shock.”
Zap!!!
The patient's body flopped on the blood-covered table like a fish out of water. He looked awful. I'd seen a lot of patients in rough shape, but this guy was barely clinging onto life. His skin was as white as a ghost – the few parts that weren't covered in blood.
“No response. Administering another shock. Charging paddles. Everyone stand clear.”
Zap!!!
Again, the patient's body nearly jumped off the table. And again, the shock had no effect.
“One more time,” the doctor said. “Stand clear. Charging paddles.”
Zap!!!
The room fell silent for what couldn't have been more than half a second, but it felt like an hour. All eyes were on the monitor.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
“We've got a normal rhythm,” Dr. Malarch said. “Where's that surgeon?”
Just as he asked the question, the surgical team came rushing in the room. Me and the paramedics knew that was our cue to leave. As soon as I got out into the hall, I ran into Ken.
“Red is so your color,” he said.
I looked down at what had been clean blue scrubs and a pair of white latex gloves just a few minutes earlier. Now both were blood red.
“Gee, thanks.”
“Is he going to make it?” Ken asked.
“I don't know. He's in pretty bad shape.”
“I wonder what happened. He doesn't look like the usual gunshot victims we get in here. I've seen it all, but I've never seen someone come into the ER wearing an Armani suit with a bullet hole in it.”
“How do you know it's Armani?” I asked.
Ken shot me a look and said, “What did you call me the other day? The gayest man in all of Boston?”
“In all of Massachusetts, actually,” I corrected.
“Ahhh, that's right. That's how I know it's an Armani suit. Because I'm the gayest man in Massachusetts. That's also how I know his shoes are worth more than my my entire most-expensive outfit. At least if he dies, he'll go out in style.”
“You're so bad,” I said.
“And you're so red. Go get cleaned up while I'll get started on the paperwork. Our shift's almost over. Hopefully we can get it done quickly and get out of here on time.”
I walked past room thirty-five on my way to the bathroom. The surgical team was working on getting the bullet out of the man's shoulder. Ken's eye for fashion was spot on, as always. The man was dressed very nicely. It was hard to tell with all the blood everywhere, but he was. Now I was curious.
I wonder how a man wearing such an expensive, stylish suit ended up with a bullet in his shoulder, I thought to myself as I went to go get cleaned up.
2.
I was pretty good at not bringing my work home with me. Usually, as soon as I walked out of the hospital, I forgot all about Boston General until I had to be back there again. But that night I couldn't help myself from thinking about the man who'd been shot. I wondered if he'd survived. I wondered how he'd gotten shot. I wondered a lot of things about him. And on top of all that, I wondered why I was so curious about him in the first place.
The next day I was scheduled to work second shift and so was Ken. The first thing I did when I got to the hospital was ask him how the patient with the gunshot wound was doing.
“He died shortly after we left yesterday,” Ken said, followed a pause just long enough to tug at my heartstrings. The second I was about to ask a follow-up question, he continued: “But then they brought him back to life again.”
“Ken!” I yelled, pinching his side as hard as I could. “How is he right now?”
“He's fiiine,” Ken said, flapping his wrist. “Well not fine, fine. He's still unconscious. But he's going to be fine. The doctors expect he'll make a full recovery.”
“Any idea how he got shot?”
“No clue. I'm as curious as you are, dear. I just got in so I haven't had a chance to ask around yet. But I'll let you know if I hear anything.”
I began my rounds, going from room to room. We had a few patients in the ER, but it wasn't very busy. The last room I checked in on was room thirty-one, the one with the gunshot victim.
Well, damn! I thought when I first saw the patient. You certainly clean up nicely.
I never would've guessed that I was looking at the same bloody mess of a man – albeit a well-dress, bloody mess – that was lying here when I'd left the day before. They'd cleaned him up and changed him out of his bloody suit. He had a sheet covering the lower half of his body, but most of his torso was visible – except for his shoulder are
Look at those abs! That chest. And those arms. This guy takes good care of himself. What a handsome man. Without blood all over his face and in his hair, he looks great. And now that he's actually got a healthy amount of blood pumping through his veins, he doesn't look like Casper the Friendly Ghost. He's actually pretty tan.
“He cleaned up nicely, huh?” Ken asked, poking his head into room thirty-one.
“My thoughts exactly,” I replied.
Ken disappeared and I went back to admiring... I mean checking on the patient. I took his vital signs and everything looked good.
“I'll be back to check on you in a little while Mr.,” I said, realizing I didn't know the patient's name. I'd entered all his vitals into my tablet without even looking at it. “Mr. Trent Rogers,” I added and smiled, as if the sleeping patient could hear or see me.
I continued to do my rounds, taking vitals, passing out meds, and doing other nursely activities. Every time I went into room thirty-one, my mind would wander:
Who are you? How'd you get shot? You want to take me out for a drink after you wake up?
While I was in there, Ken popped in and shut the door behind him.
“Still not awake?” he asked.
“Not yet. How's the young man in room twenty-five doing?” I asked. “Have the doctors figured out what's wrong with him yet?”
“They're no closer to a diagnosis than they were yesterday. And his condition just keeps getting worse. First it was the blood clots in his legs, then the inflammation in his knee, and now he's having trouble seeing out of one of his eyes. The docs keep pumping him full of heparin and prednisone but don't know what else to do.”
“Poor thing. He's only a teenager. He must be so scared. And I can't imagine what his parents mus be going through.”
“I know. The kid can be a real assholes sometimes, but I guess I can't blame him. I'd be a jerk, too, if my body was falling apart and I didn't know why.”
Ken left the room closing the door behind him. I went back to entering Trent's vitals into my tablet when I heard a deep, raspy voice.
“Check his balls.”
“Excuse me?” I said, spinning around to look at the door.
No one was there. It was still shut. I glanced down at the patient. Eyes and mouth still closed.
That was weird, I thought, then went back to my tablet – the hospital's tablet, technically.
“And check his mouth, too,” the same raspy voice said.
I nearly jumped out of my sneakers when I looked down at the patient. Trent's eyes were wide open.
“Jesus freakin'...” I screamed, leaping back. “Jeez! You scared the shit out of me!”
“Sorry about that,” Trent replied and laughed, picking his head up off the pillow – but only for half a second. His head went right back down and he winced. “Guess I shouldn't laugh for a while.”
“You shouldn't do anything for a while,” I replied. “You've been shot.”
“Really?” he asked with a smirk. “I hadn't noticed.”
“What happened to... Wait a minute. First, why did you say 'check his balls' and 'check his mouth?' Was that just the ramblings of a man waking up after nearly dying twice or did you actually mean something by it?”
“I overheard you talking to that other nurse – to who I assume is another nurse. The young man with the clots, inflammation, and eye problems. Has anyone checked his mouth or his testicles?”
“I don't think so,” I replied. “Why would we?”
“To look for sores. See if he has ulcers in his mouth or on his testicles.”
“Mr. Rogers!” Ken said, bursting into the room. “Welcome back! You gave us all quite a scare. Looks like Angel finally got you to wake up.”
“Please, call me Trent,” the patient said to Ken, then looked at me. “Angel?”
“It's short for Angelina,” I replied, then whispered in Ken's ear. “Stay with Trent for a minute. I need to go check something out.”
“Ohhh kayyy,” Ken replied.
I went down the hall to room twenty-five. The young man was lying in bed with headphones on. I motioned for him to take them off and he did – but not without giving me a dirty look first.
“Sorry to bother you. I want to check two things really quickly, then you can go back to your music.”
“Whatever.”
I first checked the young man's mouth. Just like Trent has predicted, there were a number of large ulcers on his gums, cheeks, and tongue. Then, I made sure the door was closed and briefly inspected the young man's testicles. Sure enough, there were several sores all over them. I tried not to react, but I guess I didn't do a very good job.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I'm not sure,” I replied, honestly. “But I know someone who might. I'll be back in a little bit. You can go back to your music now.”
“Whatever.”
I marched right back into Trent's room. Ken was still in there talking to him about designer shoes.
“And so then I said to her, 'Bitch, these ain't no Pradas. You better give me my money back. And then she has the nerve to say...”
“How did you know he'd have sores in his mouth and on his testicles?” I asked Trent, interrupting Ken, something he often did to me – and everyone else.
“Because it's textbook Behcet's Disease,” he replied matter-of-factly, as if that was common knowledge.
“Are you a doctor?” I asked.
“I sure am. I had to be.”
Ken and I both looked down at Trent, confused.
“Well, I didn't want to go around being Mr. Rogers my whole life,” he continued with that smirk again. It was quite handsome. “So I went to med school so I could be Dr. Rogers instead. Has a much-nicer ring to it, don't you think? But more importantly, it doesn't make you think of the sweater-wearing puppet guy.”
“How'd you get shot?” Ken asked. “What happened?”
“It's a long story. But don't worry: I'll tell it to you. Just not now. I'm going to rest for a bit. Go tell the attending that the young man in room twenty-five has Behcet's and should be referred to a rheumatologist.”
Ken and I looked at each other.
“Go!” Trent said. “Look at me. I'm not going anywhere.”
“You promise you'll tell us what happened?” I asked.
“Come here,” Trent said and held out one of his large, masculine hands. “I pinkie swear I'll tell you how I got shot. Just not today. Right now, I'm going back to sleep.”
I locked my pinkie with his thick, strong finger. We both smiled.
“Looks like you two just had a little moment,” Ken said once we got out into the hall. “A pinkie promise is no joke. Now he has to tell you.”
For the second night in a row, I thought about Trent while watching Netflix in my apartment. At least I knew his name now. It's not often that I'm eager to get to work. But I couldn't wait to get to the hospital the next day to find out what happened to Trent.
3.
“What do you mean he's gone?” I asked.
“He checked himself out this morning,” Ken replied.
“Did you find out what happened to him? Did anyone?”
“I assume the police did. A little birdie told me that they came in to speak to him early this morning. Then, after they left, he signed himself out.”
“So much for that pinkie promise,” I said.
“Girl, any man that doesn't respect the sanctity of a pinkie promise is no man that you want in your life,” Ken said, holding out his pinkie. “Now I want you to pinkie swear that you're not going to dwell on it. Come on. Pinkie swear.”
“Fine,” I replied and locked pinkies with Ken, if only to get him to stop waving it in my face.
I did my best to honor that promise. But I couldn't help but wonder about Trent. How does a handsome, well-dressed physician end up with a bullet in his shoulder? I really, really wanted to know. Google was no help. I was able to find Trent Rogers, MD, but no mention of a shooting. According to the internet, Trent worked on the other side of the country out in Los Angeles. That just added more mystery. How did a handsome, well-dressed physician from LA end up shot in a Boston hospital? I was afraid I'd never find out.
