Absolute Power (Southern Justice #1 (19 page)

Today, I was blessed to listen to Lainie tell me how she survived her first night in her apartment—alone. Her almost daily sessions with her counselor were forcing her to break through the fear that was threatening to consume her.

“Girl, at first I kept hearing all these noises.” There was a hint of joviality in her voice. “But then I told myself this is an old house, it’s gonna have grunts and groans, just like old people.”

She was returning to work, as well. She said she was tired of feeling like a slug all the time. “Claire, if I eat one more pint of ice cream, I’m gonna need a zip code for my ass.” That brought on the famous roll-on-the-floor-and-laugh-our-asses-off moment.

We made plans for the weekend, but only if I didn’t have a date with a hot doctor. Her mood was so high; I couldn’t bring myself to tell her Sean hadn’t called me since the other night. I had sent him one text message, very brief and neutral, but five days later he still had not responded.

I had barely clocked in at work when Kitty practically tackled me, shoving me sideways down the hall into an empty exam room. “What the hell, Kitty?” I hissed.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Her hands fluttered about her face. “Be quiet,” she warned in a raised whisper.

She was looking through the blinds, which covered the window, ducking down as if someone could see her. “What are you…?”

“Shh!” Her eyes were big and her index finger was vertical to her lips. “I said be quiet.” She lowered her voice as the words left her mouth.

It was funny, really. Such a polite young lady, using words which were frowned upon by today’s society. Listening at the door, her eyes trailed off in concentration. Finally, when she was sure whatever her fear was had passed, a smile formed on her youthful face. Kitty closed the distance between us, grasping my shoulders in her hands. “You’re never going to believe this.” Her eyes were expressive, face serious. Actually, she was starting to scare me.

“What?”

“Shayla is walking around the floor without a single stitch of makeup on.” She closed her eyes, held her breath for a few seconds, and waited for my response.

“You’re funny.” I tried to walk around her, not willing to fall for her jokes.

“That’s not all, Claire.” She grabbed my arm to keep me from leaving the room. I looked into her eyes, questioning the sincerity of words.

“Her cleavage is completely covered
and
the scrubs she is wearing
are actually her size.”

Shayla was the only nurse I knew of who managed to find scrub tops with a plunging neckline. Her work clothes were always skin tight and when she bent over, you could see the crack of her ass, along with her lack of underwear.

I thought about her recent admission to dating Dylan and rationalized this had to be the root cause. “Maybe her new boyfriend made her tone it down.” I shrugged my shoulders.
Or perhaps she’s trying to impress Priscilla by not looking like a tramp
, I thought to myself.

Kitty was shaking her head vigorously. “Nope, I heard her tell Portia they aren’t seeing each other like that anymore.”

Well, that would certainly explain her absence during dinner and his lack of contradiction with his mother’s implication.

“She also said she was, quote, ‘taking a break from dating,’ unquote.” Kitty’s face said it all: unbelievable and completely out of character. “Oh!” Kitty exclaimed, her body jolting. “She even dyed her hair brown, or took it back to its natural color, whatever.”

I walked around the corner with the intention to only clock in and start my shift. However, what I found around the corner was a brunette nurse, dressed in hospital issued green scrubs that were hanging off her body leaving no trace of curves or her tight waist. When her eyes met mine, it was like looking at a stranger. Gone was the MAC makeup experiment she normally wore, in its place was a fresh, clean, and youthful face. Her dark tresses were pulled into a low ponytail.

“Hey, Claire.” Her cheery voice, completely unusual for her, greeted me.

“Shayla?” Even with Kitty’s warning, it was like passing a bad accident. You knew by the amount of red and blue lights, it was something bad, but you still gasped and thanked the powers above it wasn’t you.

“Yes, it’s me,” she answered as she bobbed her head from side to side.

“Wow, Shayla.” I sank into the chair beside her and reached over to clock in on the computer. “I have to say, you look great.” I turned to meet her eyes, watching as she searched mine, looking for the punch line or to catch any deception. She would find neither.

“I’m trying something new. Got some good advice from a friend and I wanted to see if it worked.” She shrugged her shoulders as she continued to make notes on a patient’s chart.

“Well, I hope you get what you want out of the new you,” I told her honestly.

“Thanks, Claire. That means a lot.”

Shayla’s dramatic change did more than turn heads; it left the floor in a state of calm. She carried herself with professionalism, helping more with patients and less with tacky flirting. Several times, I found myself having real conversations with her—books I’d read, movies we’d both seen and foods we could never live without.

Two hours before the end of our shift, an ambulance arrived with a prisoner from the county jail. Shayla and I readied ourselves with gloves and protective gowns, due to the report the patient was bleeding and combative. Pulsating alarms warned us the ambulance was backing into the ambulance bay. The light inside the rig allowed us to see the man who was strapped to the gurney. My heart leaped into my throat as I realized who our new patient was. The back doors of the ambulance swung open as one of the paramedics started to pull out our patient.

“Frances Greyson, twenty-eight year old male. Stab wound to the left thigh…” He rattled on and on about his vitals and blood loss. Frances lay motionless, his cold, dark eyes fixed on me.

“Trauma room six,” Shayla directed, my focus on the fear his presence created in me. Here was the man who had done so much damage to my closest friend. Now it was my job to give him care and compassion.

Following the gurney down the hall, I had less than a minute to collect myself and bring back my professional attitude. Dr. Gillman would need me to do the initial assessment.

Grasping the bottom of the sheet he was laying on, I assisted the paramedics with transferring him to the hospital bed. I avoided looking into his face again until I absolutely had to.

Shayla was an angel in disguise as she crossed the room with the vitals machine and began to handle it for me. This was it, I had stalled long enough. With a deep breath and a mental pep talk, I looked in his direction.

“Mr. Greyson, I understand you were involved in an accident. Can you tell me what happened?”

Just above his left eyebrow, an angry, red cut sat unattended. It was old and most definitely infected. Swelling around the area told me we might need to lance the wound in order to drain it.

His lower lip also sported a nasty looking gash; although it appeared to be healing much better than the one on his brow.

“I can tell you to suck my dick with those pretty lips of yours.”

Oh, how could we forget the eloquent words this man was known for? Here I’d thought he spoke like an uneducated thug for Dylan’s benefit, yet here he was, sharing it with me.

“I understand you have a cut to your leg, I’d like to have a look to see if we can help you.”

Without dropping his gaze, he reached down and pulled the sheet back to reveal a white bandage secured with medical tape. From the description I had received from the paramedics, I’d assumed this would be a bloody mess. This was not the case, as the dressing was blood free.

I peeled back the tape causing Greyson to wince as I managed to pull a few leg hairs in the process. “ Sorry.” It was an automatic response, as I was anything but. Under the bandage was a cut perhaps two inches long, no bleeding and no drainage. The dressing I’d removed was pure overkill.

I wrapped the used gauze in my gloves as I pulled them off, tossing both in the proper trashcan.

“Good news, Mr. Greyson, your cut is superficial. However, I’m going to let Dr. Gillman look at the laceration on your face.” I backed away, my reassuring smile pinned to my face. “I’ll let him know you’re waiting.”

Before I took a full step out of the room, his voice followed me. “I’d rather you strip off those panties and sit on my face.”

Dr. Gillman stood just to the left of the desk, a smile on his face as he stared at his cell phone. Kitty had confided in me when he had finally asked her out. Perhaps she was the reason for the smile he was currently sporting.

He looked up from his phone as I filled him in on the status of the patient. “Claire, I know I don’t usually ask this of you, but I want you in the room with me as I examine this piece of shit.”

His comment caught me off guard. Dr. Gillman was usually such a mild-mannered and gentlemanly individual. Ironically, I thought that was the first time I’d ever heard him swear.

“Of course.”

Dr. Gillman led the way back into the room. “Mr. Greyson, we meet again.” His tone even, but definitely not friendly.

“Yeah, I remember you. How about you slip out of the room and give me a minute alone with nursie over there?”

Dr. Gillman stopped momentarily, looked at me, and then back to Mr. Greyson. “Sir, that’s strike one.”

Mr. Greyson laughed and looked between the two of us. “What’s this, a kinky kind of baseball?” His voice was disbelieving and amused. “Hey, if it’s ball you wanna play, I’ve got a bat she can hold in her sweet little hand.” He laughed and wiggled his eyebrows.

“Mr. Greyson, I can assure you my nurse is not interested in anything you have to offer, as she is not a fan of Pee Wee ball.”

It took every ounce of self-control I had not to laugh when I saw the fire flash in Mr. Greyson’s face from anger and embarrassment.

“Now, as I said before, you have one strike,” He crossed his arms against his chest. “You don’t want to try for any more, or you won’t like the results.” His voice was laced with seriousness and confidence, but his eyes were as cold as Mr. Greyson’s. It was feral and oddly erotic.

Mr. Greyson sucked air through his teeth as he looked away from us to an empty corner. Dr. Gillman motioned for me to come to his side of the bed.

“I can see what you mean with this cut, I can smell the infection from here.” He used his gloved hand to feel around the wound, Greyson wincing from the touch of his fingers.

“Do you hurt anywhere else?”

Greyson continued to look away, “My ribs are killing me.” He confessed in a voice of barely a whisper.

“All right, we will get an X-ray and have a look.”

Dr. Gillman went on to explain we needed to open the wound above his eye to remove the pus, just as I’d expected. He was then going to order an antibiotic and some pain medication for him.

Sitting back at the nurse’s desk, I ordered the X-ray and labs he wanted. “So what was with the strikes reference?” I questioned, as this was completely out of character for him.

Dr. Gillman paused what he was doing and turned his body in my direction. “Do you remember when I was attacked in the parking lot?” His blue eyes were so gentle, voice calming. It was easy to see why Kitty liked him.

“Yeah.” I nodded my head, trying to figure out where he was going with this.

“Well, it was Detective Morgan who came to my room when I woke, asking me what I remembered.” He placed his right arm over the back of his chair, legs extended under the counter.

“As you know, he is the same Detective who was involved the first time this punk came in after he attacked a young lady.”

“Yes, he came into the room when Mr. Greyson decided to act up. He ordered the cops to take him to jail since he refused treatment,” I added.

“I knew he was close to the case and would want to know he was back in the ER, so I called him.” He shrugged. “Dylan told me to give him enough rope to hang himself. If he got out of hand to let him know and he would come down and take care of him again.” He smiled proudly and returned to his charting.

Could we expect a visit from Dylan? Would he actually get out of bed in the middle of the night for some prisoner he put behind bars? I shook my head at my ridiculousness. More than likely, he was in some random girl’s bed and needed an excuse to blow her off.

Lab and X-ray confirmed Mr. Greyson did indeed have four broken ribs and a nasty infection. Dr. Gillman dug through his medical history and found he had been treated many times for drug dependency, including having a current prescription for a drug to help with heroin withdrawal.

I stood in the medication room, looking between a bottle of normal saline and a bottle of lidocaine, the same stuff they use to numb your gums at the dentist. Dr. Gillman had ordered a strong antibiotic injection. It came in a powder and would need to be mixed with one of these two bottles in order to administer. If I went with the normal saline, the injection would be incredibly painful. If I chose the lidocaine, he would only feel the prick of the needle. Normally, I wouldn’t have debated. I would have made certain my patient wasn’t allergic to lidocaine and mixed it. But this wasn’t a normal patient, this was the motherfucker who attacked an innocent girl and turned her world upside down, making her afraid of her own shadow.

“Claire,” Dr. Gilman called as he opened the door to the med room. “Don’t you dare use the lidocaine to administer. He has a heroin dependency issue. Use the normal saline.”

He turned away, but then looked over his shoulder. “That’s the order I’m placing in his chart. This is my decision, you got me?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Mr. Greyson never moved or said a word as Dr. Gillman took the end of a sterile Q-tip needle and pushed it into the corner of the wound, draining the pus and green discharge. I knew it had to hurt, but he kept the hole small, reducing the need for any stitches. We then wrapped his chest in large ace bandages as Dr. Gillman broke the news to him, he would only be prescribing ibuprofen for pain.

“My nurse is going to give you a potent antibiotic injection in your hip.”