Slippery When Wet

Chapter 2

Two

I left the exam room and walked into a war zone. It wasn’t a war zone like you’d find in the Middle East or Central Africa or even in Eastern Europe. There were no guns. No one wailed. No one was dressed in fatigues or cloth that covered them from head-to-toe.

There were a number of scantily clad girls in neon skirts and threadbare halter-tops. This city was a destination for randy Spring Breakers. So, my first thought was this was a backyard barbecue or beach bonfire gone wrong.

Then I noted that the few guys assembled were in jumpsuits that covered them from head-to-toe. There were smudges on everyone’s faces, shoulders, hands and clothes. I wasn’t a sports fan, but I knew racecar drivers wore flame retardant suits.

I entered the triage area and took stock. There were only four emergency room nurses on call at this time of day. It was lunchtime. A slow time in the ER. The most we got in at this time were work-related incidents; falls from changing light bulbs, ingesting ink through the mouth, ear, and eyes, even temporary blindness from copy machines.

I sifted through the scantily clad girls and sectioned them off to one side of the room. The major concerns in that mix were minor burns on their bare chests, scrapes on their knees, and soot in their weaves.

The men were a little worse-for-wear with burns on their hands. Some were coughing from possible smoke inhalation. Those I sent off with other nurses to check their ABC’s; airway, breathing and circulation. The worst cases would need to be administered oxygen through a mask, but it was likely that most simply needed to breathe some clean air.

I approached a pale man with hair so light-blond it was white. He, too, was in one of the racing suits. There were burn marks along the fabric at his shoulder along with a patch of blood.

“Sir, let me have a look.”

He jerked away from my touch like I was a hissing snake. “Don’t touch me you f*****g coon. You might give me an infection.”

I didn’t flinch at his diatribe. I’d been called worse. He didn’t hit on my least favorite slur; mutt. Because technically, that’s what I was. I was a mix of just about every race from both of my mixed heritage parents, much like my namesake, Cleopatra.

I let him go. Misogynists turned me on because I liked breaking them. Racists made me want to trade my dildos for scalpels. Still, I had a duty to serve anyone who came through those doors.

“I told them to take me to Sisters of Mercy, the Catholic hospital,” the racist said. “But they brought me to the f*****g ghetto.”

He stormed towards the ER doors, holding his shoulder. A small trail of males followed behind him. I caught a swastika on two of their jackets as they turned. Just before they headed out the glass doors of the ER, the doors slammed open and a gurney careened inside.

This blond male’s eyes narrowed and his lips quirked. The guy on the gurney turned to him with a glare. The paramedics blocked them as they rushed patient inside. The paramedics began shouting out stats.

I took a look at the guy on the gurney. He was in one of the racing suits, but his suit was not wholly intact. Fire had made its way into the fabric at his shoulder and leg. His blond hair was pristine, but there were smudge marks on his face.

A girl raced to keep up with the gurney. Her short legs stumbling as they pumped alongside the big men to keep up. Tears streamed down her pretty face as she clasped the injured racer’s hand. Her church girl ensemble seemed out of sorts with his devil-may-care looks.

“MK, babe, I promise I’m fine,” the blond racecar driver said.

But he didn’t sound fine. His voice croaked. He had to pause after every other word. He winced as she touched his shoulder.

I looked him up and down. There was blood on his costume, but I couldn’t immediately determine the location of the wound. This case would be where the action was so I latched myself onto the gurney. I grabbed the chart and began the intake. Dr. West wasn’t the only medical w***e in the building.

“Name,” I demanded.

“Crow.” The racecar driver grinned at me.

“Real name?”

“His name is Christopher Trent,” the church girl, MK, answered in his stead.

I addressed further questions about his identification to her. Once I got the age and details of the patient, I moved onto the important stuff. “Tell me what happened?”

“Car crash.”

It wasn’t the blond that answered. The voice rumbled on a low vibration that arrowed straight to my c**t. The vibration was deep enough that it nearly finished the job that Dr. West hadn’t been able to complete. I looked up, and then up some more, into a tall drink of whiskey.

His skin was like lava; the kind that oozes out of a molten chocolate cake. His lips were plump as though he’d been kissing someone very recently. His eyes were hard and intelligent.

“An accident?” I parroted.

Mr. Lava Cake exhaled quietly. “No.”

His words were steady, but there was guilt rimmed at the edges of his eyes. My pencil stopped moving as I focused on him. I had the urge to heal that wound.

“You think they ran him into the wall on purpose?” MK’s voice went shrill.

“Eagle.” The blond patient glared at his dark-skinned friend. It was a warning.

The other man, Eagle, held Mr. Trent’s glare, but Eagle didn’t say anything further.

“Mr. Trent, tell me what happened?” I addressed the blond, but my attention was focused on his friend.

“Please call me Crow,” said the blond. “I didn’t lose control.” He tried to sit up, but when he did he winced in pain.

“Lie back,” I ordered. “Stay still. You might have a concussion.”

“He hit the guard wall really hard,” said MK. Her voice was tinged with tears. “And then there was nothing but flames.”

“I’m fine, I promise,” said Crow.

But I could tell by the way he favored one side of his body that he wasn’t. His friend, Eagle, must’ve seen the same.

“I need to know where it hurts,” I said.

“I’m fine,” said Crow. “I walked away from it. It was a bad wreck. But I got up and walked away. It’s just some scrapes and bruises.”

“How fast were you going?” I ignored his macho excuses and began examining him.

“Hundred and twenty,” he grinned. “Had it for sure. Smoked them all. Until that i***t lost control of his stick.”

“It’s safe to say you have a concussion,” I said peering into his eyes. “But there may be more going on. We need to wait for the doctor to examine you.”

“You’re not the doctor?” asked Eagle.

I looked over at him. “No, I’m a nurse. Nurse Cleo.”

Even while his friend was in pain, Eagle was checking me out. I had the urge to preen, to lean over and show him how round my a*s was. But I was a professional.

Dr. West came up to us. “I hear there was a racing accident.” He grinned with eyes bright like a middle schooler arriving just in time to the schoolyard to watch a brawl.

“Mr. Trent was traveling at an excessive speed and hit a wall.” I offered him the chart, but he ignored me.

“How fast?” West asked as he began his own exam.

I grit my teeth. I didn’t know if West was intentionally trying to piss me off to get a punishment later, or ignorantly pissing me off to get a punishment later.

“I’m fine,” Crow repeated. “It’s probably just a concussion, like the nurse said.”

“I notice that you’re favoring one side and your breathing is labored,” I said. “That could mean you have some trauma to your back.”

MK trembled and squeaked. Crow glared at me like he’d done with his friend. Like his friend, it had no effect on me.

“Back injuries are common in car accidents.” I turned and addressed West. “So to be safe we should order some x-rays for his back, right Dr. West.”

West made some notations on the chart. Then he turned to me without looking at me. “Nurse Cleo, it looks like we’re good here. Why don’t you get these pain prescriptions worked up for my patient?”

I raised an eyebrow at his tone. Standing next to me, I noted that Eagle did the same.

So, this was purposeful pissation. I had the urge to rattle the cage I had on his c**k. Instead, I tried to communicate the world of hurt he would be in when I got him alone.

“Of course, Dr. West,” I said as sweet as the asinine in me would muster. “Should I also add an MRI and X-ray for his neck?”

West smiled that fake smile; that condescending smile he gave to patients when he used big medical words. “Do you see that on the chart, Cleo?”

Visions of n****e clamps and ball weights danced in my head.

“Put it on the chart.”

West and I both turned to the patient’s friend. Eagle’s eyes were impassive, but his tone had been implacable.

“I don’t see anything that indicates back trauma,” said West. “It’s probably a waste of money. I don’t want you gentlemen to come too far out-of-pocket.”

“Don’t worry about my pocket,” said Eagle. “Worry about my brother. Add the test.”

Dr. West bristled at the command in that deep voice. His eyes lost focus for a second. Eagle plucked the chart out of my hand and handed it to West.

West shrugged as he took the clipboard. “It’s your money.” He made the notation, handed the chart to me, and walked away.

I turned back to the group. “Listen,” I addressed Crow. “Do not get off this gurney. Lay back and relax.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Crow grinned.

I knew I needed to keep my eye on this one. He was trouble.

“He needs to rest.” I addressed this to Eagle. “Don’t let him move too much. He might feel fine but there could be something else under the surface. Maybe I’m wrong, but I’d rather be sure.”

Eagle nodded. Our eyes connected. An understanding passed between us without words. I had a fleeting vision. What would that tall form look like on his knees? Would he come up to my belly button or the underside of my breasts? Would those dark eyes twinkle up at me as I buried his face between my thighs?

The corner of Eagle’s mouth ticked up as though he’d read my mind. One eyebrow quirked up as though to say, try it and see. I walked passed him refusing to pick up the gauntlet he’d thrown down. I may f**k around with doctors, but I drew the line at patients and patients’ sexy friends.

I had ethics; not many, but some.