The Nurse's Not-So-Secret Scandal

He pulled her bottom half close. Could not stop himself. “I sure wish I’d been there to see them.” And enjoy them. He drew in her sensual scent. God help him he wanted her. While Kyle liked his women small, Fig liked ‘em tall and thin. Just like Roxie. He went for full body contact—skin to skin from head to toe.

At first she stood rigid, looking away from him. He slid his hands up her sides, teased the outer curve of each breast. She reacted, an infinitesimal softening, a barely noticeable exhalation, both of which he may have missed if he wasn’t so attuned to her. “You want me,” he observed.

“To move your hands,” she replied.

He did. To her upper back where he proceeded to hug her close. Her cell phone rang.

Dag-nab-it. He released her.

She took a step back—still not looking at him—set her stethoscope on the table and pulled out her phone to check the screen.

Fig forced himself to stop thinking about how good she’d felt pressed against him, how much he wanted to see her beautifully formed body in nothing but some sexy, barely there undergarments, and resumed focus on his mission—to determine if Roxie was the one responsible for 5E’s missing Demerol. While his brain made a smooth transition, his body was not so easily redirected.

Roxie returned the phone to her pocket without answering it, and, with a deep breath, she turned and headed for the door like she’d forgotten all about him. “Hey,” he called after her, holding up her stethoscope.

Seeing it, she snapped two fingers. “Right. I’ll be needing that.”

When she grabbed it he held on and waited for her to look him in the eye, making note that hers were bloodshot—damn. “I’m sorry you had to sit home on a Friday night because of me.”

She laughed. “Don’t kid yourself, Ryan. There are plenty of men who enjoy my company.” She stared him down. “Really enjoy it. And just because you weren’t up for a good time doesn’t mean I didn’t have one.” She yanked the stethoscope from his hand. Over her shoulder she said, “For the record, I never sit home on Friday or Saturday nights. Ever.”

Her phone buzzed.

She retrieved it and looked at the screen. “I hate men.” She glared at him. “I’m done with the lot of you. Every single one. So tell your kind to stay the hell away from me if they value their man-parts.” Then she slammed out the door.

Fig waited, wanting a little distance between Roxie and his man-parts. At least for now. He smiled, taking her words as more of a challenge than a warning.

Roxie burst out of the lounge, her heart pounding, rage coursing through her system. She looked at the text message, again: “It’s done.” “¡Coño!” And the colossal jerk had sent her the link. She eyed the darkened hallway of even-numbered rooms, wondering if she had the strength to hurl the phone hard enough to break through the reinforced glass window at the far end. The way she felt? Probably. But what would that solve?

The video was out there for anyone with a computer to see. Her friends. Her coworkers. Her family. Of course Roxie would shrug it off, make like she didn’t care. But she did. What went on in private between two consenting adults was supposed to be just that. Private. The thought of people watching, knowing, sat like a pregnant hippo on her chest.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

“The Lord doesn’t give us more than we can handle.” Roxie whispered her mantra of the past ten years and leaned her back against the wall, wishing He didn’t have so much confidence in her.

Each time she thought things couldn’t get worse something inevitably happened to prove her wrong. She slipped her hand into the pocket of her scrub coat and wrapped her fingers around the three cartridges of injectable Demerol. At least that she could fix before anyone found out.

Or so she’d thought until she reached the nurses’ station at the center of the H-shaped unit and froze. What was Victoria doing at work so early? And why was she verifying the narcotic count with the night shift? The hippo gave birth to twins that landed heavily on her gut and set off a tumultuous, acidic churn. There’d be no hiding her stupidity now. Victoria was going to be livid.

“You okay?” Fig stopped beside her, standing way too close. She took the opportunity to draw on his calm and confidence to rejuvenate her dwindling supply.

“Just fine.” Always fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Roxie hoped if she said it enough it would turn out to be true.

“You’re looking pale.”

“We Latinos don’t pale,” she snapped. Not like him. Did the man ever get out in the sun? She looked up at the strong features of his handsome face and the rounded smoothness of his enticingly bald head. Actually had to look up. How often did that happen? At just under six feet, Roxie was usually the tallest person in the room. Aside from the fact she’d had a terrible day with her mom and had been really looking forward to their night out, his height played a small part in why she’d been so angry about being stood up. In search of the perfect shoes to wear on their date, actual heels, Roxie had torn through dozens of stores, had spent hours looking. Did he have any idea how difficult it’d been to find a pair of hot-pink glossy patent-leather peep-toe platform pumps? In a size thirteen? When would she ever have another opportunity to wear them?

“Hey, Rox,” one of the night nurses called out from room 504. “Would you help me out? I need to get home on time today.”

“Sure thing.” Roxie glanced at the schedule board across from the nurses’ station to confirm her assignment. District one. As usual. Even-numbered rooms 502–508. Eight beds. Two empty, awaiting new admission post-ops. One pre-op due in the operating room at 7:30 a.m. She glanced at the clock, 6:45, then turned to Fig. “When Victoria’s done would you tell her I need to speak with her? It’s important.”

“My first official unit-clerk task.” He lifted his pad and pen and wrote something down. “I’m on it.”

Then Roxie got to work, assisted her colleague, took a quick report and sent her pre-op patient off to the O.R. On her morning round each of her patients had a problem. Pain. High blood pressure. Low blood pressure. Hypoglycemia. Constipation. Fever. An infiltrated IV. And two saturated dressings.

Finally, by 11:00 a.m. she had everyone settled and could take a quick break for some much-needed sustenance. Only, on her way to the nurses’ lounge she met up with a recovery room nurse pushing a sleeping patient in her direction. “You’re supposed to call first,” Roxie said.

“I did,” the plump nurse at the head of the stretcher said. “The guy who answered said to come on up.”

Roxie glared at Fig. “The floor nurse gives approval to accept patients from the recovery room. Not you,” she told him.

“Oops. Duly noted,” Fig answered, making a note on his stupid pad. “It won’t happen again.”

She eyed the girth of her new patient and looked back over to Fig. “Make yourself useful. Come help us transfer this patient to her bed.” May as well see if those muscles worked as good as they looked.

Fig stood, something strangely uncertain in his expression.

“No,” Victoria said from behind him. “He’s here as a unit clerk. The only contact he’s to have with patients is from behind this desk.”

What the …?

Roxie’s stomach growled. She didn’t have time for this nonsense. “All available hands to 502A,” she called out. “Chop-chop, ladies. My blood sugar is starting to drop.” That was sure to get their attention. No one wanted a cranky Roxie around.

With the recovery room nurse’s help Roxie lined the stretcher up next to the bed and locked the wheels on both. “Welcome to 5E, Mrs. Flynn,” she said to her new patient. “My name is Roxie Morano and I’ll be your nurse until seven o’clock this evening.” She raised the bed so it was the same height as the stretcher, transferred the bag of IV fluid to the bed pole and placed the catheter drainage bag by the patient’s feet so it didn’t pull during transfer. As the recovery room nurse gave report, Roxie checked the patient’s right-sided chest dressing, which was covered by a surgical bra, and inspected the drains and tubing.

“Fifty-nine-year-old, morbidly obese female. Status post right-sided modified radical mastectomy.”

Roxie noted the drainage in each of the two bulbs, labeled R1 and R2, to establish a baseline and pulled her report sheet—which contained pertinent information on each of her patients—from her pocket. She unfolded the paper and set it on the over-the-bed table. In the blank box reserved for room 502A she wrote in the patient’s name and diagnosis, last set of vitals and time of last dose of pain medication. Then she jotted down her observations. Patient arousable to verbal stimuli. Catheter draining clear yellow urine. Dressing clean, dry and intact. Drains to self-suction with scant red drainage in each. IV infusing to left forearm.

When Victoria and Ali—her other best friend and the nurse working in the district next to hers—arrived to help, Roxie directed, “One on the stretcher side, one over here by me.” She stood on the side of the bed, at the patient’s upper body, so she’d be responsible for pulling the heaviest part of her. As her colleagues got into position Roxie spoke to her patient. “We’re going to slide you onto the bed, Mrs. Flynn.”

The groggy woman nodded in understanding.

“Keep your hands at your sides and let us do all the work,” Roxie instructed.

Each staff member grabbed a hunk of the bottom sheet.

“Everyone ready?” Roxie locked eyes with each woman. Just last week a patient on 4B fell between the stretcher and the bed during a transfer, suffering a severe hip fracture as a result. Not on Roxie’s watch. “On my count of three. One. Two. Three.”

Using every bit of strength she possessed, Roxie pulled. If the grunts around her meant anything, her coworkers were giving it all they had, too. Yet the patient barely budged.

Fig entered the room.

Victoria told him to leave.

“What kind of man would I be if I let four lovely ladies struggle when I could help?”

“Are you sure?” Victoria asked, handing him a pair of latex gloves from the box on the wall.