chapter Two
* * * * *
As it turns out, he makes it through surgery just fine—the bleeding wasn’t as bad as the doctors had originally thought. As soon as he’s set up in his recovery room, his entourage wants to know whether they can go back and see him. I’m tasked with the unfortunate job of explaining to a bunch of groupies and band mates that visitors aren’t allowed at this time of night, except for family. And though several attempt to persuade me that “music makes family of us all,” I hold firm. The pack finally disperses, for the time being at least.
In between patients, I check on our in-house celebrity. He’s resting, deep in a morphine sleep. I’m glad that everything went well—not just for his sake, but because god forbid our hospital gets a reputation for bungling the surgeries of celebrities. Not that I think rock stars are important, necessarily, but they can be to some people. I go about my work, and the hours continue to creep on by. After the initial excitement of Mr. Hales’ arrival, everything else seems pretty mundane. As I’m making the rounds, Dr. Kelly beckons me over to Slades’ room. He looks like a nervous little kid.
“He’s just waking up,” Dr. Kelly tells me, “I want you to be there, in case he needs anything.”
“OK,” I say, “But I have other patients. I’ll work him into—”
“No,” Dr. Kelly says, “You stay with him. I know it’s a little unreasonable to ask, but he’s not exactly a typical patient.”
“Do you want me to ask him for an autograph when he’s awake?” I ask dryly.
“No need for snark,” Dr. Kelly says, “Just do it, would you?”
“Of course,” I say, and brush past the doctor. I’ve never seen Dr. Kelly so much as crack a smile, now here he is, beaming and giddy and acting for the world like...well...a crazed fan. Who would have known he was the hard rock type?
I walk into Slade Hale’s room and have to stop a moment to catch myself. He’s propped against the crisp white sheets, his head leaning to one side. His black curls are splayed out against his pillow like a halo, and his body finally seems to have relaxed. This thick, muscular arms lay at his sides, and his mouth is pulled up into the faintest of smiles. He arches his back against the bed, testing out his newly reclaimed consciousness. I take one deep breath after another, trying to compose myself. I don’t give a damn that he’s famous, but he might actually be fatally handsome. I’m not used to dealing with gorgeous men, especially famous ones. I force myself to adopt my most professional demeanor and wait patiently at the foot of his bed, giving him time to realize that I'm there.
As if in slow motion, his rich brown eyes open and swing toward me like twin beacons in the darkness. Every cell in my body adjusts, and aligns to his gaze. I’m paralyzed, rooted to the floor. His eyes linger, and finally focus. Slade Hale draws in a deep breath as he takes in his surroundings for the first time. For a moment, confusion clouds his perfect features—then he starts to put the pieces together. I watch him take in the hospital bed, the harsh overhead lights, and finally, me. His expression lingers somewhere in between disgruntled and pompous, and I try to cherish the moment of silence before he inevitably opens his mouth and starts to speak.
“Excuse me, little girl,” he says, his voice rich and smoky, “Would you be a dear and wrangle a medical professional for me?”
My jaw falls open as the ire behind his words smacks me between the eyes. I feel a red hot surge of outrage break over me. I’ve never been what you might call an even-tempered sort of girl. I never learned how to keep my mouth shut, or how to abide self-important idiots. I plant my hands firmly on my hips and level my very best don’t-you-dare-screw-with-me face at the smug celebrity.
“Excuse me,” I shoot back, “I happen to be the nurse who’s been tasked with looking after you. In case you’re keeping track, that means that I’m the one controlling your morphine drip.”
“You’re my nurse?” Slade says, cocking an eyebrow at me, “I thought it was take your daughter to work day, or something.”
“Nope,” I say, “Apparently it’s look after a condescending douche bag day. Hooray for me.”
“You’re not allowed to talk to me like that,” Slade says, struggling to sit up in bed, “I’m the patient. I’m injured here.”
“You’re fine,” I say, rolling my eyes, “You’ll be out of here by the end of the week.”
“The end of the week?” he moans, his perfect jaw tensing, “That’s unacceptable.”
“Tell that to your internal organs,” I suggest.
“I need to speak with whoever’s in charge,” he says adamantly.
“You already are,” I tell him, crossing my arms, “So I’d take the machismo down a notch. Is there anything you need that I can actually help you with?”
“I need to get out of this place immediately,” Slade says, “My tour leaves tonight. I have shit to do. We’ve got a show—”
“Don’t you have ‘people’, or something?” I ask, “You famous types aren’t much for doing your own work, are you?”
“So you know who I am,” Slade says, grinning smugly.
“I had to ask,” I sniff, “Though I was tipped off by your entourage clogging up the waiting room. Do they always look that unwashed?”
“Let me guess,” he says with a mean laugh, “You don’t like rock music?”
“Not particularly,” I say.
“No...” he says, “Let me guess. You’re more the Sarah McLachlan type?”
“Carol King,” I correct him, “But thanks for the overarching generalization.”
“Any time,” he says. “What’s your name?”
“Nurse Baxter,” I tell him.
“Your first name,” he clarifies.
“It’s Julia,” I say warily.
“What do your friends call you...?” he prompts with a sly grin.
“You’ll never know,” I inform him with a less-than-sweet smile of my own. We glare at each other from across the hospital room. I had expected him to have an ego, but this is something else entirely. It’s hard to keep my eyes from wandering all over that exquisite body of his, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that I find him attractive. Why do the best exteriors always house the most vile personalities? Such a waste.
I reach for the blood pressure machine and undo the cuff.
"May I check your blood pressure Mr. Hale?" I ask politely.
He groans audibly and puts out his muscular arm. I immediately notice the intricate tattoo designs interweaving along his entire arm, and although I've never been much for tattoos - his did look sexy on him. I wrap the blood pressure cuff around his arm and secure it snuggly, press the start button on the machine and grab my stethoscope from around my neck to listen to his lungs.
"May I pull your shirt up so that I can listen to your lung sounds?" I ask, desperately controlling the quaver in my voice.
"Hey, hey, at least wait till the second date," he jokes. I'm sure he can tell how uneasy he's making me.
I do my best to ignore the jab and lift up his hospital gown.
Oh my God...look at those abs, I think to myself, Ryan Lochte ain't got shi...
"I can assure you this isn't a free show young lady," he laughs.
Now, I've been a nurse for a little while now, and I don't think I've ever turned this shade of red before, especially not in a patient's room. The way he's making me lose my cool definitely has me worried. I place my stethoscope over his beautifully sculpted pecs and attempt to change the topic, "Take a deep breath for me please."
He does.
We do the charade a few more times, and I make sure that my mind's eye gets a good picture to take home. I finish and pull his gown back down.
“Everything sounds good, and your vital signs are near perfect. I’m going to check on my other patients,” I tell him, turning toward the door.
“You’re leaving?” he asks. He sounds genuinely offended.
“Yes,” I tell him, “There are other people that exist in the world who also need medical attention.”
As if on cue, Penny appears in the doorway with an anxious smile on her face. For a long moment, she stares dumbly at Slade, grinning from ear to ear. I clear my throat, and she tears her eyes away from the rock star long enough to look at me. “Dr. Kelly wanted me to know that he’s reassigned the rest of your patients.”
“What?” I hiss, pulling her out into the hallway, out of earshot of Slade.
“He wants you to stay with Slade and make sure he’s comfortable,” Penny tells me, “It’s a big deal having a celebrity here. You’re the best nurse here right now, and Dr. Kelly wants to make sure that this guy gets the best possible treatment.”
“He might not want me to stay after all, if that’s the case,” I mutter.
“What do you mean?” Penny asks.
“I mean, I’m not sure if I can be in the same room alone with that man and not throttle him,” I say heatedly.
“Come on,” Penny says, giving me a push back toward Slade’s room, “I’m sure he’s not that bad.”
She disappears from sight as I begrudgingly turn my attention back to the rock star. He looks let down, all of sudden. “What is it?” I ask.
“I was hoping she’d stick around,” the man says, “You two would look great co-starring in some of my nastier nurse fantasies. Do you have anything to wear other than that jumpsuit?”
“You mean my scrubs,” I say, “That I am required to wear on the job. Which this is. My profession. I’m not sticking around so that men like you can belittle me and get their rocks off while—”
“Whoa, whoa—” he laughs, “I was just trying to pay you a compliment.”
“Is that what that was?” I say, “Because from over here it just sounded like rampant sexist and an unchecked ego.”
“Well...It was probably that, too,” he says, “But mostly I was just trying to tell you that I think you’re very pretty.”
“Gee, mister!” I squeal sarcastically, clapping my hands together, “I guess I can quit my job and spend the rest of my life trailing you around from seedy hotel to seedy hotel with blow jobs at the ready!”
“That would be nice,” he says with a smile.
I open my mouth to tell him that he’s the most despicable, vile, pathetic excuse for a man that I’ve ever laid eyes on, but just at that moment, Dr. Kelly pokes his head through the door. Of course.
“You’re up!” the doctor smiles, “That’s great. Mr. Hale, I just want you to know that we are going to give you the best care that we possibly can. I’ve assigned Julia here to be your personal nurse for the duration of your stay. She won’t leave your side once—so if you need anything at any time, don’t hesitate to ask her. I’m sure she’ll be more than happy to accommodate your every need.”
“I certainly hope so,” Slade says, leering at me.
I stifle a shudder.
“Fantastic!” Dr. Kelly says, clapping me on the back, “You two carry on! And make sure our man here wants for nothing.”
He practically skips away, pleased as punch to be housing a rock star for the time being. That makes exactly one of us. I close the door after him and turn back toward Slade, doing my very best to remain professional. But between the overwhelming force of his physical charm and the despicable nonsense that keeps pouring out of his mouth, it’s a rather herculean effort.
“Is there anything you need that I can actually get you?” I ask.
“Not anything that you’d be willing to give up. Yet,” Slade says, tucking his hands behind his head. I try not to stare as his biceps bulge beneath his tanned skin, his tattoos flexing and stretching under the duress.
“How did you get hurt?” I ask, trying to focus on something besides what my patient might look like naked.
“I’m not entirely sure,” he says.
“How can that be possible?” I ask. “You showed up here bleeding internally, with a head wound. Events that lead to that kind of injury generally warrant notice.”
“I don’t exactly live a safe life,” Slade said, “I don’t keep score of head wounds.”
“Still,” I pressed, “You must remember what you were doing right before you woke up here.”
“Sure,” he says with a sigh, “My band was a playing a midsized venue in town. A one-off sort of deal, before we hit the road for the real tour. It was a pretty rambunctious crowd, more so than usual. Someone started a pretty epic mosh pit toward the end of our set, and I decided to join in the fray. One thing led to another...”
“Can you be a little more specific?” I ask.
“Sure,” he says, “I noticed that there was a scrawny little kid trying to hold his own in the pit. He must have been, like, fourteen or something. Toothpick arms, the whole thing. He accidentally hit some big guy—grazed his arm or whatever. The big dude gets his buddies and turns on the kid. Just brutal stuff, totally uncalled for. So, what am I supposed to do? Let this poor little dude get the shit kicked out of him at my band’s show? No way. So I went in after him.”
“Against three guys?” I ask, amazed.
“Yeah,” he says, “They landed a few good punches, obviously.”
“That seems uncharacteristically chivalrous of you,” I say suspiciously.
“Hey,” Slade says, sitting up straight, “You don’t know the first thing about me, kiddo. We’ve known each other for all of five minutes.”
“First impressions are pretty powerful,” I tell him, “And yours was pretty subpar.”
“Yeah?” he says, “How did I come across?”
“Like a misogynistic man-child,” I say.
“Huh,” he says, “Well, you came off as an uppity elitist ice queen whose box hasn’t been opened in so long that there’s probably dust collecting in it.”
“That’s right,” I say, refusing to let him get the last word, “Go ahead with the Madonna/whore thing. A binary is probably the most complicated idea you can wrap your head around. Black and white. Man and woman. Slut or prude.”
“I just call em like I see em,” he says. “No need to get all hysterical on me.”
“Hysterical!” I exclaim, “Going old school sexist, are we? I like the vintage flair.”
“Thanks,” he smiles, “I like your big blue eyes. And a couple other parts of you that I won’t mention by name.”
“I’m not a collection of parts for you to admire,” I tell him, taking a menacing step toward the bed, “For the time being, I’m the person in charge of your sorry ass. So if you have any hopes of being discharged by the time your precious tour leaves, I would suggest that you be a little nicer to me. You really have a lot of—”
His sudden outcry cuts me off, and I let my sentence go unfinished as his face twists into a mask of pain. I switch into nurse mode at once, and draw back the bed sheets to check out his surgery wound. As I tear away the blankets, I notice that he's not wearing any underwear, leaving his groin uncovered. I try very hard not to gape, but can’t quite tear my eyes away from the impressive specimen resting between his legs. Convinced that I’ve officially left professional tact by the wayside, I peer at his stitches. Everything looks OK, but he’s practically writhing on the bed.
I reach for the morphine drip, hit the button, and let another dose course into his body. In a matter of moments, his tensed muscles begin to relax. Beads of sweat stand out on his smooth forehead, and as he looks over at me, a new expression settles onto his face for just a minute—it looks very much like fear. For a second, I forget his arrogant swagger, and his offensive remarks. I remember that he is my patient. And just like with any other patient, I’m going to do my best to help him.
“It’s OK,” I say, placing my hand on top of his. A warm pulse runs up my arm as my skin brushes against his. I just hope that I’m not blushing too obviously this time.
“Thanks,” Slade smiles, the morphine dulling his edges for the moment, “That feels good.”
I don’t know whether he’s talking about the drugs or my hand on his. I smile kindly at him, having regained my professional composure. Dr. Kelly doesn’t seem ready to let me leave Slade’s side, so I might as well make the best of the situation. I pull over a chair with my free hand and sit down beside the rock star.
“You’re going to be fine, you know,” I tell him.
“That’s good,” he says, “I’m not quite done living yet.”
“Glad to hear it,” I say, “Though your kind has a pretty high mortality rate, truth be told.”
“My kind?” he asks.
“Rock stars,” I say.
“Oh,” he says, “Right.”
“What, did you forget?” I laugh, “That morphine must be pretty good stuff.”
“I haven’t exactly been famous for very long,” he tells me, loopy on the drugs, “We just sort of...happened. My band, I mean.”
“Sorry I’ve never heard of you before,” I say.
“It’s cool...” he drawls, “Now you have.”
“What’s your music like?” I ask.
“It’s pretty heavy,” he says, “Just short of hardcore, I’d say.”
“So, a lot of screaming?” I ask, wrinkling my nose.
“Some screaming,” he admits, “But not too much. I don’t write lyrics just so they can get lost entirely.”
“You write the lyrics, huh?” I ask.
“Yep,” he says, closing his eyes happily, “And the music.”
“Well, look at you,” I say, enjoying the warmth of his hand perhaps a bit more than I should.
“I’m a man of many talents,” he says, turning toward me. He blinks one eye sluggishly, and I let out a bark of laughter. I take it that he’s trying to wink at me, but the morphine makes his attempt clumsy.
“Easy, tiger,” I tell him, taking my hand away. “It’s no fun to berate you while you’re under the influence. Save your bullshit for when I can yell at you properly.”
“You...” he says, on the brink of another nap, “Are what I like to call...a buzz kill.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls,” I remark.
Slade lets out a soft little laugh and lets his head rest against the pillow. In an instant, he’s asleep again. I lean back in my chair and let out a long breath. It’s too bad he can’t be so angelic while he’s awake. I’m at once tempted to run my fingers through his curls as well as slap him across the face for all the manly bullshit he’s heaped on me in the last ten minutes. I manage to resist both urges, though it takes sitting on my hands to dissuade me entirely. I can only hope that he heals quickly and gets out of my life as soon as possible.