Page 2 of Tormented Dreams

She still wasn't sure whether she had managed to dodge that particular bullet when the woman proclaimed, "Right, I'm going to have to tag a doctor, in case you need antibiotics. Give me a moment."

With that, she bustled out, leaving Grace feeling self-conscious and guilt-ridden for not being more forthcoming, but hell, what was she supposed to say? If it weren’t for the fact that the nurse had left the wounds uncovered while she went to find the doctor, she would have cut her losses and discharged herself.

CHAPTER TWO

Dr. Xavier Diaz sat at the sparse, utilitarian desk in the duty doctor's office on a chair so uncomfortable, he figured it was deliberately designed to stop anyone from sitting down for too long. Like they'd ever get the chance!

Still, he had an uncommonly quiet five-minute break and aimed to catch up with some of the necessary admin for the patients he'd treated so far today. That way, he just might get home at a decent hour after his shift was finished, instead of having to stay over and finish it after his replacement arrived.

Having his own private practice, he didn't normally spend so much time at the hospital, but he had volunteered himself as an emergency bank doctor with the ER department of the hospital where he had completed his residency because of a desire to give something back to the community.

The idea was that he would only be called in during set times when he would normally be free, if there was an emergency staff shortage. Of course, with the current slew of budget cuts, that seemed to be happening more and more often these days, since the hospital seemed to be perpetually short staffed.

He was just finishing up when there was a knock on the door and one of the practice nurses slipped in.

"Is there a problem, nurse?" he asked with a frown. Usually, he just got paged if somebody needed him.

"I just wanted to have a quick word in private, doctor," she replied, biting her lip and beetling her eyebrows together. Clearly, something was bothering her.

"What seems to be the problem?" he enquired, gesturing for her to take a seat.

She didn't take it but stood on the other side of the desk, shuffling from foot to foot as if struggling with her words.

"It's the patient in bay three," she finally disclosed. "I don't quite know how to read her. I mean, she's not a kid… Not old either, but, you know, mature and smartly—expensively—dressed in a business suit, so she doesn't seem like your usual pushover."

Xavier squelched his impatience that she wasn't getting to the point. There was a lot of that required for the job, but the nurses were usually more direct.

"The thing is," the nurse continued, "she has marks on her back and her shoulders. They're open wounds, and she's being a bit cagey about how she got them. They've clearly not been treated properly, so a couple of them look to have turned septic as a result…" She trailed off and Xavier climbed to his feet, figuring she wanted him to take a look and sign off a script and maybe have a private word in what sounded like a typical case of domestic abuse.

“But…well…it's just that…geez, this is going to sound bizarre!" The nurse blew out a breath, but Xavier could see steel formingbehind her eyes as she simultaneously straightened her spine and looked him directly in the eye. "They look like whip marks!" she finally huffed out. "And it's not just the few that are open and infected… She's covered with them!"

Xavier stilled where he was pulling his suit jacket back on and looked at the nurse. "Where are her records?" he asked with a frown that brought his thick, black eyebrows together into an almost continuous line.

The nurse thrust out a clipboard and Xavier took it, glancing through the details while he continued to button his jacket one handed. There was nothing familiar about the name, although that didn't necessarily mean anything, but the nurse was right, the details were certainly evasive. Address given, but key elements like the house name or number left off. No next of kin listed. No employment recorded, just 'lawyer' listed as occupation. Interesting.

"Okay, nurse, I'll go and deal with it now. Cubicle three, did you say?"

"Yes," she confirmed as she hurried to leave the room and resume her duties. "Thank you, Doctor."

Xavier paused for a moment outside the drab green screen. He could hear the sharp, staccato tapping of what he guessed was a pair of ladies' heels, the rhythm of which implied agitated pacing. It paused the moment Xavier swept back the curtain and stepped inside the cubicle.

"Doctor, I really need to…" The woman trailed off as Xavier ensured what little privacy there was to be had by pulling the screen back into place and turned toward her, giving what he hoped was his most reassuring smile.

"I understand you're busy, but I need to get back to work."

Her eyes skittered off to the side, refusing to meet his own. A lie then.

She fidgeted even though she sat back down on the examination bench, her knee jiggling and her hands wringing together before she made an obvious effort to appear calm and unconcerned.

"Let's get this dealt with then, shall we?" Xavier replied casually, pressing the switch to lay the cubicle bed flat. "The nurse who saw you feels you may need antibiotics, so why don't you lie on your tummy, and I'll take a look."

The woman, who was possibly somewhere close to his own forty-two years, was already dressed in an open backed hospital gown. She followed his instructions somewhat resignedly, but without another word, and stretched herself out on the bed while he collected the tray of dressings the nurse had prepared.

Unlike the nurse, Xavier didn't have to look twice to know that these were indeed whip marks. Maybe a half dozen had split the skin, the rest were minor lacerations and a few bruising welts.

As he made a thorough examination of the rest of her body, while he treated the worst wounds, he also came to the opposite conclusion to his nurse. He knew exactly how the patient had come by these unusual injuries, but, contrary to what would surely be the popular theory, it wasn't the result of any kind of abuse. Well, not the type that most people would automatically conclude, anyway. In fact, they weren't so very different to the type of marks he had left on a submissive or two himself over the years. A little harsher than he'd like to see, but the real divergence was in the aftercare, and he figured there was probably an answer for that too.

"I'm assuming that you don't have anybody at home who can change these dressings for you?" he probed as he finished patching her up.

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