Page 70 of Gamble
He listened.
Elijah collapsed into the wheelchair she returned with a few minutes later with a whoosh, relieved to take the pressure off his bum hip.
“You don’t have to wait for me,” he told Nalani for the third time as she helped him navigate the maze of hallways toward the surgical check-in desk. “This could take hours,” he reminded her, hating the idea of inconveniencing his dear friend more than he already had over the last few weeks.
“Shane’s not expecting me back until tonight, and I brought a book,” she replied with the stubborn determination that reminded him why she’d been able to tame Hollywood’s most notorious playboy. “Besides, someone needs to be here to make sure you don’t discharge yourself against medical orders like you did the last time.”
“That was different. I had a concussion and wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“And this time you’re drugged up on pain medication and already making terrible life decisions. Same difference.”
Elijah couldn’t argue with her logic, because she was right. The combination of prescription painkillers and emotional devastation had left him making choices that would have embarrassed his teenage self. Like spending the last four days calling the hospital’s scheduling department with creative stories about why he needed to know when Reagan Murphy would be working… or, more accurately, when she would not be working.
He’d started with claiming to be a patient who requested her as his nurse. When that didn’t work, he’d tried posing as a florist with a delivery. His finest performance had been pretending to be her cousin from Seattle with a family emergency, complete with a fake accent that would have made his high school drama teacher weep with shame.
All of which had finally netted him the information he needed: Reagan wasn’t scheduled for Tuesday. In fact, according to the helpful scheduling coordinator he’d sweet-talked on his fifth call, she wasn’t on the schedule for the rest of the week. Even though he’d achieved his goal, he’d been angry at the helpful nurse for disclosing Reagan’s personal information. What if he’d been a bad guy trying to hurt her?
It was ironic that he had hurt her the most.
The crushing disappointment that he wouldn’t accidentally run into her matched the relief him felt at avoiding her today only. Because as much as he’d convinced himself that staying away from Reagan was the right thing to do, a pathetic part of him was desperate for just a glimpse of her face.
You’re a fucking mess, Keaton.
“Mr. Keaton?” The check-in clerk’s voice interrupted his spiral of self-loathing. “I’ll need to see your ID and insurance card.”
The next hour passed in a blur of medical bureaucracy. Forms to sign, bands to wear, instructions to follow. Nalani stayed by his side through most of it, only leaving when he was called back to the pre-operative area and handed the hospital gown that would serve as his uniform for the next few hours.
“Seriously,” he told her as a nurse directed him toward a changing area. “You don’t need to babysit me. Go home to Shane.”
“Nice try. I’ll be in the surgical waiting room until Dr. Jennings comes out to tell me you’re okay.” She squeezed his hand. “And Elijah? When you wake up, we’re going to have a very serious conversation about Reagan.”
Not this again. He’d been fending off this conversation for days.
Before he could protest, she was gone, leaving him alone with a hospital gown that opened in the back and the growingrealization that he was about to let someone cut into his body while he was unconscious. Again.
Surgery number ten. Jesus Christ. I made it to double-digits.
The changing process was humiliating enough without factoring in his limited mobility. By the time he’d got the gown tied and his street clothes folded, he was sweating from the effort, and his hip was screaming in protest. His only saving grace was that Nalani hadn’t insisted on staying and helping him change.
“Mr. Keaton?” an unfamiliar voice called from outside the curtained area. “I’m Jennifer, and I’ll be your pre-op nurse today.”
Jennifer turned out to be a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and the sort of no-nonsense efficiency that marked her as a veteran of the surgical ward. She got his IV started on the first try, checked his vitals, and worked through a checklist of questions with the professional warmth that made him remember why he’d always liked nurses better than doctors.
“We’re doing a left total hip replacement today, correct?” she asked, making notes on her tablet.
“That’s what they tell me.”
“And Dr. Jennings is your surgeon?”
“Unfortunately.”
Jennifer’s smile suggested she’d heard similar comments about surgeons before. “He’s one of the best orthopedic surgeons in the city. You’re in expert hands.”
“Oh, I know. Richard and I go way back. I’ve been keeping him in business for years. Pretty soon he’ll have to name a wing of his mansion in Brentwood in my honor.” His joke fell flat even to his own ears.
“Multiple surgeries?”
“This is number ten,” Elijah admitted, feeling ancient. “Occupational hazard of my former career.”
