When One Night Isn't Enough

The door to Exam Room One, where Ali had gone to admit a new patient, was closed. Jared slammed it open. A tall man, the back of his hospital gown flapping open, exposing his red and blue plaid boxer shorts, had Ali pinned to the wall, one arm clamped around her waist, holding her, while his hips jabbed in her direction and a hand behind her head crushing her lips to his while she fought to turn her head and push away.

“Get your hands off my nurse,” Jared said, keeping his voice deadly calm, trying not to escalate the situation.

“Easy, Doc,” the assaulter said with a minimal slur. “Ali and I go way back. We were just getting reacquainted.”

Ali struggled in his hold. “We were not. Let go of me, Bobby.”

“I’d listen to the lady,” Jared said, walking into the room, one careful step at a time, letting the door close behind him. “Or you’re going to find yourself flat on your back on that stretcher, in four-point restraints, with a garbage bag full of ice on your groin.” He walked up next to Bobby, close enough to smell the booze on his breath and see the lust in his bloodshot eyes. “Here in the emergency room, that’s the only treatment we offer for swollen genitalia.”

“Come on. Give me a break,” Bobby said, still holding on to Ali. “I’m getting married in a few hours.”

“Lucky girl to score a winner like you,” Jared said, hoping the patient would come after him, provide justification for him to fight.

It worked. Sort of. The patient turned to Jared, must have loosened his hold because Ali broke free, stumbled toward him, into his waiting arms. Eyes locked with the sexual predator, he held her and murmured, “You’re okay.”

She nodded against his chest and inhaled a shaky breath.

The second she moved to step away from him, Jared released her, not wanting her to feel at all restricted. And as if she hadn’t just been attacked, she gave him her report. “Twenty-five-year-old intoxicated male involved in an altercation with a bouncer at a strip club. Suffering from facial trauma, abdominal and rib pain. Vital signs within normal limits, documented in his chart.”

“I’ll take it from here, Ali. Go take a break.” Jared didn’t want any witnesses when he “helped” his patient onto the stretcher.

“I’m fine,” Ali said. But her voice trembled.

Jared wanted to take her back into his arms, to hold her, comfort her, let her know she was safe, that he wouldn’t let anyone hurt her. But he needed to deal with the deviate first. “Can you climb on to the stretcher alone, or do you require my assistance?” Jared asked, more than willing to “assist.”

In what was probably his first good decision of the early morning hours, the man climbed on to the stretcher.

Jared walked over to Ali, keeping the man in his sight. “Your lip is bleeding,” he whispered, lifting her chin to get a better look, hating that a remnant from her altercation marred her beautiful face. “Go clean it. You don’t know where his foul mouth has been.”

With a surprised look, Ali reached up to touch her swollen lower lip.

“I’m guessing in your condition …” he looked at the man’s tented hospital gown “… you’ll have a hard time giving me a urine specimen, which means I’m going to have to insert a catheter into your bladder to obtain a urine toxicology screen.”

Nah. He winked at Ali. Let the idiot sweat for a few minutes.

“Like hell you will,” Bobby said. “Where are my clothes? I’m getting out of here.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Jared said, channeling composure. “Not until the police get here. You see, I have zero tolerance for men who mistreat women.”

“Let’s not make this into a big deal,” Ali said.

“I’ve treated too many sexual assault victims to let his behavior slide.”

“Sexual-assault victim?” Bobby piped up. “Are you nuts? It’s only Ali. She was playing hard to get. No harm.”

“He’s right, Dr. P.” Ali looked defiant, but he’d seen the flash of hurt at Bobby’s cruel words, the glitter of tears in her eyes as she turned to leave. “It’s only me. No harm.”

“You …” Jared pointed to the drunk “… stay put. Do not leave that stretcher.” Then he followed Ali. “Ali, wait.” Halfway to the staff lounge she stopped, but didn’t turn to look at him.

When he caught up to her she said, “We knew each other in high school. Leave it alone, it’s over.”

“You need to teach that man a lesson. He needs to know the way he treated you is not okay.”

“What I need,” she said wearily, “is to clean my lip, shake this off and get back to work. And what Bobby needs is to be examined, treated and discharged so he can go get married.”

Like Jared would let him off that easy. “You don’t want to stand up for yourself, fine. I’ll do it for you. I’m calling the police.”

Fire blazed in her eyes. Good. With all of her negative energy directed at him, she wouldn’t focus on how vulnerable she’d been, on how that punk had disrespected and degraded her.

“Tomorrow you’ll be gone, Dr. Padget. I, on the other hand, live in this town. If you call the police, I’ll be stuck dealing with the fallout, the questions, the rumors and people dredging up Bobby’s role in a past I’m not all that proud of.”

“Your past has nothing to do with what happened tonight. A man tried to force you.” His voice cracked. He couldn’t say the words, wouldn’t consider what might have happened if he hadn’t heard her scream. “If you don’t want to press charges, fine. But I can’t overlook this. I have to report the incident. I’m sorry.”

“Yes, you are.” She looked up at him, not a tear to be found in her angry blue eyes. “A sorry excuse for a man I thought wanted to be my friend.” And she stormed down the hall into the lounge.

He’d made her mad. Nothing new there. But deep down it bothered him. He didn’t want her to hate him, didn’t want to leave on bad terms. Huh. Never bothered him before. Why did she matter when no one else did? “No. More. Tequila,” Ali insisted that evening when their waitress walked over with her second, no, third tray of the Sunday night special: Watermelon Margaritas. “I have a nice buzz going. Next stop sloppy drunk.”

“Says the woman who rarely orders anything stronger than seltzer with lime. What’s going on with you?” asked Victoria, Ali’s best friend since eleventh grade and the head nurse on 5E. Short dark hair and makeup flawless, her taste in clothes impeccable, she looked more ready for dinner at the country club than a night out with the girls.

The waitress set each of the four drinks she carried on the table then cleared off the empty glasses.

“Come on, Ali,” her friend Polly, a fellow E.R. nurse, slurred. “We’re shelebrating.”

“Soon you’re going to be puking if you don’t slow down,” said Roxie, a nurse from 5E, a medical surgical floor, as she wiped up the spillage when Polly wobbled her glass on the way up to her mouth. Roxie was tan, tall and thin to Polly’s pale, short and chubby. Roxie was loud and outgoing to Polly’s quiet and shy. Roxie was the bad girl to Polly’s good girl. The two couldn’t be more opposite, yet they’d been best friends since Ali, who floated between the two units, had introduced them last year.

“We didn’t order these,” Victoria said, always the pragmatic one.

“Maybe we did and we don’t remember,” Roxie rationalized. “I say we drink ‘em.”

“They’re from him.” The waitress pointed to a man at the far side of the bar.

O’Halloran’s Tavern, a favorite hangout for Madrin Memorial Hospital personnel, served delicious food and trendy drinks in a casual atmosphere that offered something for everyone. Small groups of onlookers crowded around both pool tables in the back, where a mini-tournament was in progress. A few guys she recognized from work guzzled beers while throwing darts in the corner, thankfully in the opposite direction from where Ali and her friends sat listening to the jukebox. A football game played on a large television screen beside the bar.

From their spot along the side wall, all four women scanned the bar, glasses raised in homage to their mysterious benefactor.

Dr. Jared Padget. Who, with a cunning grin, raised his beer mug in their direction.

Ali almost broke the stem of her glass in two. He picked a bad night to make his final move. She sipped her cocktail as she watched him, doing nothing to hide her blatant perusal. His black leather jacket gave him an air of bad-boy toughness that attracted her even more than the tight-fitting scrub pants he wore at work.

The hairs on her arms lifted, her body softened, remembered how it felt to be wrapped in his arms, to feel the solid wall of his chest against hers.

As the ten-year anniversary of her mother’s death, the other reason for girls’ night out fast approached, she could barely control the tumultuous feelings churning inside her. Prior to her second drink, she’d actually considered a screaming run through the streets to release the building pressure.

Sadness that her self-absorbed mother had been so consumed by trying to find a man she could love as much as Ali’s father, she had spent little time tending to the unplanned result of their dysfunctional union. It hurt that she had never been able to earn her mother’s love, and now it was too late.

Anger at her playboy father for getting her mother pregnant and, despite claiming he’d loved her, refusing to marry her. Rage that he flitted in and out of their lives when it had suited him, giving her mother false hope that each time he’d returned he’d been there to stay.

Thanks to Dr. P.'s arrival she added lust, frustration and disappointment to the unstable concoction. Lust for his body, frustration she couldn’t knock that cocky grin from his face and disappointment, in herself, for wanting him even though he was the worst sort of man.