I get to work, trying not to look in the direction of Mac’s office, or at the gym across the road, where Zeth is no doubt training hard, thrashing the shit out of a sea of unsuspecting wanna be fighters.
Later, after lunch (which I work right through), a familiar, beaten up looking Hyundai pulls up on the street outside the garage, and I instantly know this means trouble. I fixed that car a few weeks ago. Not only that, but I had the pleasure of driving its owner to her class at Seattle University.
Kaya.
She climbs out of the car, pulling her coat tighter around her shoulders, jerking the fur-lined hood up over that pixie cut of hers. For a moment, I trick myself into thinking that she’s not coming into the garage. Why the fuck would she? People don’t just show up at other people’s places of employment, wanting to have a chat. It just doesn’t happen. But the way she slams the car door closed and makes a beeline right for me is unmistakable. I should know better than to think Kaya Rayne conforms to any form of social etiquette.
“Hey.” The word forms on a cloud as her breath fogs the air. “You got a minute? I need to talk to you.”
I look at her like she’s crazy. “No, I don’t have a minute. I’m at work. I—fuck, Kaya. Leave. Please. I’m in enough shit as it is already today.”
A hurt look flashes across her cold-flushed face. “You really need to hear what I have to say, Mason. I’m not messing around.”
“Neither am I. If my boss sees you here, talking to me, my ass is in the can.”
“Don’t be such a baby. Listen to m—”
“I’d love to listen to you. Standing around, shooting the shit with you while you tell me about your day sounds fucking spiffy, but if Mac catches me socializing while I’m on the clock, I might as well pack up my tools and take off right now. Can we do this later?”
Kaya, lost in her gigantic parka, frowns at me, and I already know the power of that frown. She probably uses that thing to get whatever she wants, whenever she wants. It’s probably been used to bring men far more resilient than me to their knees.
“When?” she ask.
“I don’t know. Later.”
“Tonight?”
“Fine. Yes, tonight. I finish at eight. I’ll meet you at the café on the corner. Now, please. Just go!”
She goes.
Chapter Eleven
SLOANE
You never get used to the smell of vomit, even when it’s your own. I’m supposed to be attending a check up in thirty minutes so I can get signed off and back onto the OR floor, but there’s no chance of that happening today. I’ve been puking my guts up since lunchtime, and it doesn’t look like I’ll be stopping any time soon. I grab the bottle of blue Gatorade in front of me and swig some, swirling it around my mouth before spitting it into the toilet.
Jesus. Talk about stomach bug.
I’m shaky on my feet as I make my way off the emergency room floor and up to the ICU. That’s where I run into Oliver. He smiles when he sees me. In fact, he grins from ear to ear. The grin fades when he gets a good look at me, though. “Goddamn, Romera, you look like death warmed up. What the hell’s the matter with you?”
I chug the Gatorade, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Still sick,” I say, pulling a face.
“Then you probably shouldn’t be here,” he says.
“Screw you. I’m already off surgery. You can’t send me home altogether. I’ll go mad.”
“You stay here and you’re gonna infect half the people you see in the emergency room. That’s all I’m saying.”
I know he’s right, but damn. I really don’t want to be quarantined at the house. I’m no good at being ill. I don’t know the meaning of bed rest. I’ll end up gutting the kitchen, spring-cleaning like a crazy woman, or back burning all the dead shrubs and deadfall at the rear of the house. I’ll probably end up starting a forest fire. “Don’t you dare report me, Oliver Massey,” I say. “I’ll never forgive you. I swear I’ll take it easy. I’ll do paperwork upstairs or something. I promise I won’t infect anyone.”
He looks doubtful. “All right. But you’re submitting to an IV before you go anywhere, okay? You look like dog shit.”
“Gee. Thanks.”
He takes me by the arm and drags me into an examination room, pulling on a pair of rubber gloves with way too much flourish. He’s enjoying this. With a ridiculous waggle of his eyebrows, he pushes down on my shoulders, forcing me to take a seat on the edge of the gurney behind me. “Now. Dr. Romera. Do you happen to have a severe case of explosive diarrhea?”
“Gross. No.”
“Hmm.” He’s disappointed, I can tell. “That’s strange. Everyone else has had it. Myself included. Really humiliating when you’re sleeping at your new girlfriend’s house.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yeah.” He holds the back of his hand against my forehead, checking my temperature.
“We have far more accurate ways of doing that, you know?”
“I’m too lazy to grab a thermometer. Besides, you don’t have a fever. You’re fine.”