Page 63 of Bad Blood

“That’s my girl.” His compliment makes me cringe. He winks at me and smiles, striding past me, head held high like a dog who marked his territory. He opens the door to oncology and motions for me to follow, taking his charts from the inbox at the end of the nurses’ station.

My inbox is a couple past his and overflowing. I try to downplay my frustration, walking past him and grabbing some paperwork for my next patient.

His eyes drift over the charts in his basket before he glances up, sensing the heat of my stare. “It’s not too late. He’s still a prime candidate for—”

“He’s mine.”

Lauren clears her throat with perfect timing. “Four-oh-one is here early.”

Kline ignores her. “It was just a suggestion.”

I close my eyes and accept being put in my place to not cause a scene.

His retreating footsteps echo across what feels like an empty cavern. I lift my head, noting everyone is minding their business, and get back to work.

Lauren smiles at him as he passes. He glances over his shoulder, grins at the nurse behind the counter, and swings the door open to his patient’s room, stalling. “Don’t make me regret this,” Kline calls out to me.

“Yeah, yeah.” My indifference comes tumbling out with faux enthusiasm. I roll my eyes and flip open my patient’s chart, studying the contents as a means of distraction.

He takes pride in being head of the department, and I owe him a lot. But not like this. Not under these circumstances. His poor choices are not on me. Stupidity shouldn’t be rewarded. And I’m not an easy target.

Going from Grady’s doctor to my mentor was a leap he didn’t have to take, but having a persistent teenager hounding you isn’t easy to overlook. I knew he would help me become what I needed to be—because he’s the best, or at least he was.

He screwed up.

But I know something I shouldn’t know.

And we all have our secrets.

19

The Death of Me

Brighton

Monday, May 22 nd

9:39 a.m.

The hardest pill I’ve ever had to swallow was learning that this doesn’t get easier the more I deal with it. The shock turns into denial. Denial into anger. Anger into bargaining, and so on.

I could stand behind this curtain for hours listening, but my other patients wouldn’t appreciate it.

“I think you should ask her.”

My heart trips over itself. Who are they talking about? Me? How did I lose track of their conversation?

“Not happening.” A minuscule chuckle follows Dax’s gruff voice.

“Why not? If you don’t ask, we’ll never know. And this is something we need to know,” Liam says.

“Then you ask.”

“I don’t think that would go over well.”

I imagine Liam shaking his head as he tries to wrestle with his inner turmoil.

My ears tune in, trying to rewind to the last part of their conversation I remember. Something about hating needles. The memory gets me nowhere.

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