Page 12 of Day Shift

Tate continued to babble on about security concerns, his knowledge ancient, from a decade ago. I nodded, barely listening. My mind was on Anastasia. I needed to make it up to her for missing our birthday somehow. Scrolling through the ridiculously long list of calls I’d missed while in jail, I came across her name. She had called earlier today and last night. Dammit, she must have been desperate to find me. Of course, she had no idea I’d been sitting in the slammer. I dialed her number, each ring twisting the knot of guilt tighter in my chest.

Voicemail.

“Hey, it’s Nik. I’m so sorry I missed seeing you yesterday. I’ll explain everything soon. Just…stay safe, okay? Call me as soon as you get this. Love you, little sis.”

Chapter six

At St. John’s Hospital, things could change in a heartbeat. One minute we would be doing routine checks, and the next we were in the midst of an adrenaline-fueled emergency. It was all a part of being at a frontline level II trauma center. We always had to be ready for the worst-case scenario, even though we often had long periods of quiet, like right now.

Leaning against the nurses’ station, I gulped down my third energy drink of the day, eyes on my brother, Atticus, as he finished up scribbling the last notes on a patient’s chart.

“You sure you don’t want to switch jobs for a day? I could use a break from all the surgical procedures,” he joked, glancing over at me and stretching his back with a theatrical groan. His role as an attending emergency department physician sometimes left him envious of my more predictable nursing duties.

“And miss out on handling all the paperwork and patient hand-holding? Never,” I shot back with a smirk, snatching the clipboard from him.

“I’d trade the scalpel for your blood pressure cuff any day. At least you get to sit once in a while,” he bemoaned, rolling his eyes as he tucked his pen into his scrubs pocket. Turning away, he pulled the next clipboard out of the rack and headed down the hallway.

“Like all nurses do is take patients’ vitals,” I snapped, letting out a groan. He just waved the chart in the air and kept on walking. I loved him, but sometimes he could be such a douchebag.

I left the nurses’ station and made my way to room seventeen to see my next patient, Mrs. Jenkins. She was an elderly woman who had been admitted several hours ago because of a sudden spike in blood pressure—her reading was 201/104. Not good. Pushing open the door, I paused, taking in her startled expression. It wasn’t unusual for patients to be taken aback when they first laid eyes on me. I didn’t exactly fit the stereotype of a nurse. My large, muscular frame and the array of tattoos running down my arms and hands often made me look more like a hit man than a healthcare professional.

Mrs. Jenkins glanced up at me, her eyes wide with something akin to fear, then quickly looked down.

“Good afternoon,” I began, softening my voice as much as I could. “I’m Conan, and I’ll be taking care of you today.” She flinched slightly at my introduction, a reaction I’d seen more times than I could count.

“Oh, I-I see,” she stammered, her eyes flicking to my tattoos before darting away. Her hands fidgeted nervously.

I smiled gently, going to stand beside her. “It’s all right. I know the tattoos can be a bit surprising. I promise I’m here to take good care of you.”

She gave me a tentative smile, carefully avoiding looking directly at my inked arms. “It’s just…you’re not what I was expecting,” she admitted.

“Understandable.” I laughed softly.

Unfolding the blood pressure cuff, I carefully wrapped it around her slender arm. I made sure it was snug but not too tight, just above her elbow, where the brachial artery pulsed beneath.

I attached the other end to the digital monitoring machine. After double-checking the connections and ensuring the cable was securely plugged in, I pressed the start button on the monitor’s interface. The machine emitted a series of soft beeps as it began tracking her vital signs.

Next, I tried to find a way to connect with her in a more personal way, to show her the person I was behind the ink. “You know, when I’m not at work, I like to play the guitar. Would you like to see a video? I think it might be a song you know.”

Raising her brows, she nodded. I had piqued her interest. So I pulled out my phone and found a video of me playing an acoustic version of “Here Comes the Sun” by The Beatles—a song I figured would be familiar to most people. I let her hold the phone as I moved to check her other vitals. With the stethoscope pressed against her chest, I instructed her to take deep breaths while I listened for any abnormalities. Next, I attached the pulse ox to her fingertip. This provided a real-time reading of her oxygen saturation levels. Then came the placement of an IV line in her arm. Everyone hated this part, but it ensured we had immediate access for medications if needed. As the music played and I gently tended to her, her expression softened, and she even began to hum along quietly.

“That’s lovely,” she said with a faint smile when the song ended. “You’re very talented.”

“Thank you.” I was pleased to see her relaxing. “Music helps me unwind. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

While the machine beeped softly in the background, I told her about the other tests we’d be performing. “We’re going to check your electrolytes and enzymes, maybe get a chest X-ray and a brain scan, just to rule out any possibility of a stroke or heart attack. It’s all routine, just making sure we cover all our bases.”

She nodded, her earlier fear now replaced by grandmotherly warmth. We continued chatting for a few minutes about music and her favorite songs. When I left her room to chart her vitals, I chuckled, remembering her horrified expression when I’d first walked in. It was always interesting to observe how people reacted to meeting me for the first time. If she’d seen all the tattoos on my torso or the giant skull across my back, I doubt she would have ever relaxed. It often took time to show people that beneath the tattoos was a caregiver committed to their comfort and health.

The day was rolling along when I managed to snatch a rare quiet moment with Atticus in the break room. He’d just brewed a pot of coffee when I walked in and flashed me a quick grin over his shoulder.

“Black as midnight, strong as an ox. Just how you like it,” he said. “Want a cup?”

“Sure, it will complement the three energy drinks I’ve already had,” I said, flopping down into the nearest chair and breathing in the scent of freshly brewed coffee that was wafting through the room.

“I’ve noticed you’ve been hyped up all day by the way you’ve been hustling,” Atticus said, setting my cup down in front of me and taking the seat beside mine.

His eyes were weary, but he was still sharp as a tack, as always. Hospital life did that to you—drained you physically yet fueled you emotionally.

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