I kept the answer simple, my eyes straight ahead. I had no problem with the truth, but that didn't mean I liked what I had to say. “I don't have any family.”
2
Nori
I splashed some water on my face, then looked in the mirror. I'd pulled my nutmeg-brown hair into a ponytail before I'd left my little San Antonio one-bedroom apartment, but that had been twelve hours ago.
Twelve hours in RN hours, to be specific.
That equaled a hell of a lot more than real-life hours.
Hence the reason I needed to fix my hair again. After all, I had another four hours to go. Sixteen-hour shifts weren't overly common at the San Antonio Military Medical Center, but my friend Claire's son had some sort of sporting event last night she'd wanted to go to, and I'd offered to cover her shift. It wasn't like I had a husband and kids to worry about.
My boyfriend, Tanner, had an understanding when it came to each other's time and space. We'd been together since my senior year of college and still didn't live together. We had keys to each other's places, but generally called to let the other know we were coming. Even if we left clothes in one place or the other, it was clear that, no matter how comfortable we felt, the apartment was mine, the townhouse was his. And we both liked it that way.
Tanner Boswell was the sort of boyfriend any woman would've loved. Dark brown hair, bright green eyes. Tall, athletic. He was charming, gorgeous. Rich.
I still sometimes had a hard time believing he'd picked me over all the other women he could've had. I was pretty enough, I supposed. Heart-shaped face, teal eyes, nice curves. But a man like Tanner wasn't only interested in looks. He was the sort of man who liked a particular type of woman, and when he'd met me four years ago, he'd shown me that I was that kind of woman. I supposed it didn't hurt that I wasn't after his money and wasn't pressuring him to marry me.
And he was amazing. Generous. Strong. Supportive of my career, but still the sort of man who wanted to protect what was his. He never made me feel like being an RN was somehow inferior, like I should've gone further in school, tried to be a doctor. While I knew my parents were proud of me, there were times they acted as if becoming a nurse was just one stop on the path to becoming a doctor. Tanner knew I loved what I did, and he never acted like it wasn't enough.
It wasn't easy, especially working the burn unit. The people here were in a lot of pain, and the wounds were ugly. Debriding, cleaning, changing bandages...all of it was unpleasant at the very best, and it was rarely at the best. Then there was the psychological component. These injuries were often disfiguring, debilitating. I'd minored in psychology, so I tried to help as much as I could. That was the whole reason I'd gone into the medical field.
To help people.
Like I hadn't been able to help...
I pushed the thought away before it could finish. It was never good to start down that path, especially not at work. I needed to be on my game. The slightest mistake could cost someone their life. Pneumonia, infection, lung failure, sepsis – all of them could be minor complications with fairly easy treatments. Unless they weren't caught early enough.
I took a slow breath and then let it out even slower. When I was done, I intended to go home and sleep for ten hours, but right now, I was going to get another cup of coffee, then head to see my least favorite patient.
I tried not to think of my patients that way, as best and worst, favorite and least favorite, but it was hard sometimes.
I understood people being angry about what happened to them. I understood depression. Hell, I even understood taking all of that, plus the pain they were in, and taking it all out on someone else, even people who were trying to help them.
I didn't get people who were simply mean.
Leta Coffee was forty-two years old and one of the meanest people I'd ever met. She'd been in my ward for the past three weeks, and she'd been a pain in my ass every single minute of it.
Of all my patients, she wasn't the best off physically, but she was far from the worst. The second wife of a retired general, she expected us to defer to her every wish, and even went so far as to bark out orders regarding her treatment. When she didn't get her way, she cursed at us, pouted, and generally behaved like a spoiled toddler.
Her burn was deep and painful, and it'd leave a nasty scar, but it was on her upper thigh, near her hip, and could easily be covered most of the time. She, however, acted like what happened was something everyone would stare at every time she walked into a room. Like she could compare it to all the soldiers I'd seen over the past few years. The ones coming in with limbs burnt off, their faces unrecognizable.
The thing that bothered me the most was, it was her own fault. The burn had been the result of Leta passing out drunk while smoking a cigarette and drinking a cocktail. The alcohol had spilled on her clothes and the flammable material caught quickly. I actually thought she was lucky she hadn't been hurt more.
I pushed my personal feelings aside as I reached the door to her room. I had to be professional, and that meant I couldn't let my opinions regarding the patient influence my care. I put as genuine a smile on my face as I could manage before heading inside.
“You have my meds?” Leta snapped as soon as I stepped over the threshold. “I've been buzzing this fucking button for ten fucking minutes.”
A part of me wondered if she spoke like this at any of the functions her husband attended, or if this side of her personality was reserved solely for people like me. I'd met her husband a couple times, but hadn't been able to get a clear image of him. He smiled, was polite enough, but I always felt like he was playing to a crowd.
“Let me check your chart,” I said. I was pretty sure I knew the answer, but it never hurt to be certain. Leta continued to curse about the incompetence of her care here while I confirmed what I'd already known. “No, Mrs. Coffee, you still have four hours before you can get another dose.”
“Fuck you,” she muttered. “It hurts now.”
I didn't bother telling her that she should have started the process of being weaned off her meds three days ago, but her husband's influence kept her doctor pushing the limit. None of us were particularly fond of Dr. Maine, but this made us like him even less. He was a new guy, just hired a few months ago, but his attitude was shit.
I let Leta's words wash over me as I did my thing, making my notes. When she'd first come in, I tried to start conversations, tried to draw her away from the pain and toward things she loved. That was what I tried to do with all of my patients. Take their minds away from the pain, remind them what they had to live for.
She hadn't wanted to hear it. All she wanted to do was focus on everything that was wrong, everything she was missing. She was a truly unpleasant woman.
“Someone will be by a bit later,” I said. I'd interrupted her, and she gave me a dirty look, but I knew that if I'd waited for a break in her tirade before speaking, I'd never leave.
Usually, I'd tell someone to press the call button if they needed anything, but I didn't with her. Leta already knew how to use the call button, and she had no problem considering everything an emergency. As much as we tried to keep ourselves professional, there were times that woman earned herself a few choice nicknames.
I walked out before she could start again. The next room brought a true smile to my face. I wasn't supposed to play favorites, but if I had to choose one, it would've been Ivar Durward.
Twenty-two, with jet-black curls and startling cornflower blue eyes, his coloring was his best feature. He was only a few inches taller than me, overweight, and had an unfortunate combination of features that made him look perpetually surprised. He was a comic book nerd, a self-proclaimed techie geek, but didn't have any of the stereotypical awkwardness that one would've associated with a guy like him. He loved to talk to all of us.
The one thing he didn't talk about, however, was which part of the military he was involved with. Not that any of us asked. All of us knew what we needed to know about our patients. If t
hey didn't volunteer extra information, we didn't ask. We respected what each and every one of these men and women did, no matter where or how they played their role.
Ivar's personality just made it easier than some.
“Hey, if it isn't my favorite nurse.” He grinned at me, or at least as much of a grin as he could manage with the amount of scar tissue he had on his face. “Miss Nori Prinz, when are you going to give all this up and marry me?”
I rolled my eyes, but couldn't help but return the smile. “Why would I want to give up this?” I asked as I reached for his chart. “I'm sure you don't have anything even half as exciting as what I get to do here.”
“I don't know,” he teased, his eyes sparkling. “If you like bedpans that much, I'm sure I could buy some.”
I chuckled and moved up to the front of the bed to check his dressings. The burn on his face had been less severe than the ones on his arm and hand, so they were uncovered now. His hand and arm, however, were still swathed in gauze and needed new applications of the antiseptic constantly.
I tried to be as gentle as possible, but cleaning something this badly injured was never a pleasant process. Ivar tried to keep things light, joking and talking about this or that. I knew it was his way of keeping his mind off the pain, so I just nodded confirmation that I was listening, and kept my eyes on the work.
I wished I didn't have to look at it. I'd seen a lot of burns, but the ones on his arm and hand were the worst. It'd been acid of some kind rather than fire, though I knew that only from the burns themselves. It looked like someone had thrown it at him and he'd raised his hand to protect his face. The acid had eaten away most of the skin and muscle on the back of his hand and forearm, leaving it nearly bare to the bone. He'd already had two skin grafts, but if things didn't start looking better soon, I was worried they’d have to take his hand, maybe his arm all the way to the elbow.
“Almost done,” I said quietly. My eyes flicked to Ivar's face. He was pale, and I could see the sheen of sweat on his skin. “Just a little bit longer.”
“Do you think I'll ever be able to use my hand again?” Ivar asked suddenly, his expression strangely serious. “The doctors just keep telling me to wait and see.”
“I don't know,” I answered honestly. “All I can tell you is to make sure you do everything they tell you to do. Listen to your physical therapist, do your exercises, but don't overdo it.”
“One of the doctors mentioned that I should look into getting some help around the house,” he said. “Since I'm right-handed and all.”
“That might not be a bad idea,” I agreed as I fastened the last of the bandages in place before stripping off my gloves. “I can't tell you how much use you'll get back, but I can tell you it'll be a long process.”
“Thanks, Nori.” He reached over and touched my arm. “It means a lot to me that you were honest and didn't try to sugarcoat it.”
I gave him a smile that was sadder than the one I'd given him before. “I wish I could say that you'll be all okay and good as new in a few weeks, but you're a tough guy, Ivar. You'll get through it.”
“You know,” he said. “You're right.” He tried to give me the kind of smile that he always did, but not all of the sparkle reached his eyes. “Maybe you should be the person to come help me.”
I shook my head and smiled. “I'm a nurse, Ivar. You need an assistant.”
“I have one of those,” he said. “And a gardener and a housekeeper. But you know what I don't have? A nurse.”
“You're impossible.” I laughed. “I'm not in the private sector.”
“You should be,” he said. “It'd pay a hell of a lot more than you make here. Especially if you got some higher end clients. And with the references your former patients would give, I don't think that'd be a problem.”
“I don't know about that,” I said. “I'm nothing special. All of the nurses here are excellent at their job.”
He caught my hand with his good one. “I'm serious, Nori. I don't know how I would've gotten through any of this without you.”
His fingers tightened around mine, but I knew he wasn't hitting on me. There was nothing sexual about his touch.
“If you ever decide that you want to work independently, come to me. I'll get you in touch with the right people.”
“Thanks, Ivar.” I smiled as he released my hand. “I'll keep that in mind.”
As I left his room to continue on my rounds, I pushed his offer aside. It wasn't going to happen. I loved working at the hospital, despite the occasional Leta Coffee. I'd come here because I wanted to make a difference, specifically to the military men and women who found themselves here. It was my way of serving.
I'd have to have a hell of a reason to leave it for the private sector.
3
Xavier
It had taken Zed all of two minutes to scope out our prospects for the night. We'd gotten a bit of a later start than Zed wanted, but I'd told him it was his fault. I'd been happy with the jeans and t-shirt combination I'd picked, but Zed had vetoed it. He'd eventually come up with a black t-shirt that I'd been meaning to throw away because it'd shrunk an entire size. Zed had insisted it was fashionably tight. I'd worn it more to shut him up than anything else. At least he'd let me keep the jeans.
No matter how many times I told him that I was perfectly capable of dressing myself and finding a woman, he didn't quite believe me. As obsessed with my apparent lack of fashion as he was, if I hadn't known how much he loved women, I would've thought he was gay.
“Let me guess.”
A woman's voice came from my right.
“You're the wingman.”
I turned to see a tall, athletically built woman with short, cinnamon-colored curls walking toward me. She had a pleasant face and knew how to use her makeup to accent her best features, which were clearly those dark blue eyes.
“What gave it away?” I asked wryly.
“Your friend is dancing with my roommate.” She gestured toward the dance floor where Zed had plastered himself to a petite blonde.
I chuckled and gestured to the barstool next to me. “Let me buy you a drink.”
“Thanks.” She sat down, crossing one impossibly long leg over the other. “I'm Nance.”
She put out her hand for me to shake, and I did. Nice and firm, without being masculine. “I'm X.”
“X?”
I grinned. “Yeah. It's short for Xavier.”
She nodded and gave me a lingering once-over. “I like it. Easier to scream in bed.”
My eyebrows went up, and I didn't bother to mask my surprise at her forward comment. “I suppose it is.”
She smiled at me and motioned to the bartender. “Madras, please.”
“Another Jack and Coke for me,” I said when he looked over at me.
“Nice ink.” She motioned to my left arm.
“Thanks.” I glanced down even though I knew what it looked like.
The vines wound up my arm from my wrist, disappearing under my shirt sleeve, then across my shoulder and chest until they connected with the rose I'd had done over my heart. Two sets of initials were inside the rose, AH and MH. That had been my first tattoo. Two months after my eighteenth birthday. Two months after I'd decided I was going to do something with my life.
“Do you have others?”
Nance's voice pulled me out of the past and I was grateful. While I wasn't quite as determined as Zed, I wouldn’t say no to sex, and this conversation had the potential to end in bed. Much better than thinking about my miserable childhood.
“I do.” I pulled up my right sleeve and twisted toward her so she could see the barbed wire around my upper arm. “There's a flag on my shoulder.” I straightened and pulled up the bottom of my shirt. “And this one.” The Celtic sun around my belly button had been part of a dare my senior year of high school.
“Nice.” The admiration in her voice and eyes made it clear that she wasn't just referring to the quality of the design and the ink. “Army?”
I nodded. “That obvious?”
She shrugged, a smile playing around her lips. “Not exactly. Your friend likes to talk.”
I laughed. “Yes, he does,” I agreed. “What about you?”
“Do I like to talk?” she teased.
I took a drink and waited for her to actually answer. This wouldn’t be anything beyond a night of sex, maybe two nights if she wasn't busy tomorrow, but I'd never been good at the sort of hookups that didn't have at least some of this song and dance.
“I'm a teacher,” she said. “Kindergarten.”
“Married?” I asked as I looked down at her hand. I may not have been looking for a relationship, but I still had rules, and one was that I didn't help women cheat.
She shook her head. “Why bother?” She leaned closer and put her hand on my knee. “It's a lot more fun meeting people like you.”
“Really?” I asked as I leaned toward her, giving her the opportunity to slide her hand higher up my thigh.
She nodded and put her mouth next to my ear. “I also have a tattoo. And a piercing.”
My dick jumped at her words, going from mildly interested to very interested in a matter of seconds. I could take or leave tattoos or piercings on women, but something about Nance told me that I definitely wanted to find hers.
“You think your roommate will care if I take you back to your place without her?” I asked. “I'm pretty sure Zed'll end up back there tonight anyway.”
She slid off the stool and moved between my legs. With me sitting, we were the same height. Her eyes met mine, then flicked down, as if she couldn't hold my gaze very long. I wondered if she was second-guessing her flirting. I hoped not, because I didn't want to sit around here, trying to find someone else.
I slid my hands up her legs to her hips and pulled her closer, fingers just barely on her firm ass. “Look at me,” I said.