Page 114 of Wistful Whispers
“I had nurses and orderlies clamoring to get on your service. Not because of your surgical skill—which is a goddamn shame because you have the talent— they wanted their shot at the legend. Dr. Orgasm or whatever the fuck they call you. You turned my goddamn hospital into your personal playground. You built a brand on pleasure and pretense, and now you want to cry foul because the spotlight’s too hot? Understand this—I turned a blind eye to the bullshit because of your talent. I knew those women were seeking you out and gave you the benefit of the doubt. Tried to subtly steer you away from fucking up your career. Got ahold of them after the fact to make sure they didn’t fuck things up for you.”
Shit. Shit.Shit. I recall his words. I’ve heard the gossip. Interpreted all of it as another threat.
Was I wrong? Were we all wrong?
“I didn’t realize…”
He narrows his eyes. “I’ve been around the block a few times. Knowledge doesn’t matter. Perception does.”
A long silence falls. He lets it settle, lets it stew.
“Do you know how many phone calls I fielded from colleagues after the Black case?” he asks quietly. “How many whispers I heard in the halls about how I killed a little girl? I bet you didn’t know I had to face the hospital board to keep my position here.”
I meet his gaze. “I couldn’t lie under oath.”
“Betrayal of the man who has the power to crush your career.” He raises an eyebrow.
I take a breath. “I didn’t betray you. I spoke my truth.”
“The truth according to a bitch lawyer who wanted a win at any cost.” His eyes gleam.
It takes everything I have not to defend my girlfriend. She prepared me for this too. I say nothing and force my expression to stay neutral. If I get through this, he and I are going to have a heart to heart about how he speaks about women. “She was Black’s attorney. She asked for my opinion. I gave it.”
He snorts. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
I don’t take the bait.
He leans forward again. “Let me be clear, McGloughlin. I’m not here to debate the past. I’m here to determine your future. Right now? Trust me. It’s hanging by a thread.”
I nod once, resisting all urges to bite back. “I understand.”
“You’ve got three more years.” He regards me as if I’m a specimen under a microscope. “Three years of grueling hours, pressure, and scrutiny. Assuming I keep you here.”
I wait.
“Why should I? Keep you here.” He squints.
I lean forward. “Because neurosurgery is what I’m meant to do. Because I came here alone. I’m not hiding from what happened. I could’ve transferred. I didn’t.”
Silence. Then, “You’re not out of the woods.”
“I didn’t expect to be.” The first waves of relief wash over me. Did I pull this off?
“You’ll be watched,” he adds. “More than ever before.”
“I understand.”
“If you make even one misstep—” He cuts himself off. “You’ll be gone.”
I shake my head. “I won’t give you a reason.”
He considers me for a long moment, then finally pushes back from his desk. Stands. Walks to the window.
“Do you love it?” he asks, almost absently.
“Sir?”
“This field. This work. Neurosurgery. Do you love it?”
