The Doctor's Mates Book 1
Author
Corinthe Davies
Reads
169K
Chapters
45
Chapter 1
ANASTASIA
The blue hospital door burst open with a clamor. Startled by the sound, I choked on a piece of cheddar popcorn.
“I’m not spending another second near those assholes.” Mia tossed her hands in the air as she stomped across the break room.
I coughed to dislodge the kernel in my throat, and my phone clattered to the ground. I wiped cheese dust off on my scrubs and bent down to make sure the screen hadn’t cracked. “What’s going on? What assholes?” I asked.
It was a relatively calm night at the emergency room, though I didn’t like to jinx things. And I had only been on my dinner break for ten minutes.
“Two huge guys brought their buddy in with a gunshot wound. He clearly needs surgery. But this guy’s friend wouldn’t let me or the nurses near him. What’s the point of bringing him into a hospital if he’s not going to let me do an examination?”
Mia ripped open her locker door and grabbed a pack of cigarettes. She had sworn she was going cold turkey at the beginning of yesterday’s shift. I mean, no judgment here—it wasn’t like I didn’t have my own vices.
She glared into her shadowed locker. “And then he had the audacity to yell at me in Russian like I have any fucking clue what he’s saying—”
Doctor Mia Chen and I had been residents at the same hospital in Colorado and were offered jobs at the ER after we passed our board exams.
Mia kept her cool with patients and in the operating room. I respected her for that. What I didn’t really care for was when she dropped her walls and emotionally dumped all over me.
I should have been glad to have a work friend at all, but at the moment, it was annoying.
“Okay,” I began slowly. “Did he say why he didn’t want you touching his friend?”
“Do I look like I know Russian? Ana, I know you’re on break, but you gotta take them over for me. I’m going to smoke and pray to Jesus I don’t come across another Russian mobster prick tonight.”
I paused at the sink just before I could turn on the faucet. My fingers trembled. I glared down at them, willing them to be still. “Why are you assuming they’re in the mob?”
Mia gave me a long, withering look with lifted brows. “Babe. It’s just us. C’mon.”
I rolled my eyes. So she didn’t know. “Wow. Way to jump to conclusions. You are such a shining example of humanity. A humble healer of the everyday people. It brings a tear to the eye, honestly.”
Mia stomped off while flipping me the bird. I smirked, earning that little jab since I was now the proud doctor of the aforementioned asshole trio.
I tugged on my lab coat and headed for Room A, laptop tucked under my arm. The moment I stepped inside, I stopped.
Blood was smeared all over the floor and exam table. My patient was gone. Only two maintenance workers in full-blown hazmat suits stood there cleaning, and both stopped to blink at me.
“What happened?” I asked with an upraised palm.
Gabe, a middle-aged man who had worked at the hospital for decades, pulled off his mask and jerked his head toward the hall. “They got moved to the back. The blond guy was screaming and scaring everyone.”
“Got it.” I spun to leave, but Gabe called my name again. I glanced over my shoulder.
“Have security go with you. I’ve seen guys like that before.” He shook his head. “And whatever you get paid? Trust me, it won’t be worth what you deal with in there.”
I smiled and gave him a quick wink of understanding before heading toward the far back of the ER.
This part of the hospital was generally unused for the simple fact it was old and lacking in amenities that the newer front wing had.
I slowed as the fluorescent lights above me ominously flickered. And for a second, I stared up at them. Being back there sometimes felt like stepping into the opening scene of a horror film.
I took a sharp breath, squared my shoulders, and plastered on my biggest professional smile before pushing through the door. “Hi there! I’m Doctor Hansen—whoa, that’s a lot of blood.”
A ridiculously large, tanned, heavily tattooed brunette man was bent over, clutching his side. Blood was spurting between his fingers.
His raven-haired companion had a hand pressed over the wound, as if sheer force alone might stop the onslaught of red.
Before I could step closer, a tall golden-blond man in dark jeans and a leather jacket moved in front of me.
I had to crane my head up to meet his ice-blue eyes. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I registered he was insanely beautiful.
Actually, all three of them were.
Mia had failed to mention that part. I guess she was hung up on the screaming and yelling.
The golden-haired man said something in Russian. I blinked, noticing for the first time that his eyes were bloodshot and his pupils were blown wide.
Without thinking, I rested my hand on his shoulder.
He stopped mid-sentence with a sputter, staring down at the point of contact. His mouth fell open like I had committed some terrible, unspeakable act.
“I’m here to help.” I tapped my name tag. In big block letters, it clearly read DOCTOR beneath my name and cheesy, grinning photo.
The picture had been taken on the first day of my residency. Some jerk in administration said I could only update the photo if I agreed to go on a date with him.
So it probably didn’t do much to sell the whole reassuring symbol of calm and experience thing. But hey, I was trying.
The blond stared at my name tag for an unusually long time.
“Anastasia. Hansen,” he read. His accent was gone, his words now soft. I blinked at the abrupt change of demeanor.
“Um, have you experienced any notable head trauma lately? Or partaken in any interesting street drugs?”
He merely stared. Nervously, I patted his shoulder again.
“Sorry. Right. We’ll circle back,” I said. “I think your shot friend probably needs to see me first. I’m just going to examine him, not hurt him. I signed an oath and everything. Yes?”
Reluctantly, he shuffled aside with a sheepish nod.
The larger male holding the patient’s wound gave me a double-take. Suddenly, he straightened as if he were sizing me up and vice versa.
Who the hell were these guys?
I was five-foot-four, one hundred and thirty…ish pounds, with zero muscle. The super fit physical therapist I had a crush on last year told me I was adorably soft, which meant I wasn’t as thin as I should have been.
Man, seriously, screw that guy.
But my point was, I wasn’t threatening. My eyes flicked down, urging him to take a look at my goofy damn ID photo as I had done with his friend.
“I know you’re worried about your friend,” I began gently as his shoulders slumped. “But I’m here to help. Nothing else.”
The man swallowed and the broad column of his neck flexed. Slowly, he nodded.
I gave him a small smile of thanks and reached up for a fresh pair of neoprene gloves above the sink.
They had taken off his shirt, exposing the full span of his wide, muscled back. This guy was in incredible shape. Though, to spare repeating myself, they all were…to the point it almost looked photoshopped.
Blood soaked the skin around a ragged puncture wound.
“Okay, bullet puncture that”—I leaned closer and gently lifted the raven-haired man’s hand so I could check the other side”—looks like it went clean through.”
“That’s a good thing,” the black-haired guy said.
I blinked at him. “Not always. You’ve got to worry about what it hit on the way out.”
My hand rested lightly against the patient’s back. After a second of deliberation, I decided not to press or probe around the wound.
Internal bleeding would be the real problem.
With that in mind, I grabbed my paging radio and clicked the talk button.
“Hey, it’s Hansen. I need a CT and MRI scan. And just in case, get the operating room prepped stat for a gunshot wou—”
The radio was smacked out of my hand. I watched it clatter across the floor.
“Hey!” I cried out. “What the hell?”
“No operating rooms.” The black-haired male’s eyes were nearly as dark as his hair, fixed on me with an intensity that made my chest tighten. “No scans. There’s not enough time.”
