Breaking all the Rules

-Abigail-

Alone in the hospital corridor, I don’t bother to stifle the mammoth yawn taking control of my face as I wrap up another sixteen-hour shift.

“Don’t work yourself too hard there, Abigail,” a male voice calls out. “Otherwise, we’ll never be able to get that dinner.”

Oh … bloody hell.

I roll my eyes before turning around, ready to be nice. I’m always nice. It’s how I was raised: prim, proper, and polite. A good English girl, from a good English family. Taught to mind my manners and keep a stiff upper lip.

Though in truth, nice is the last thing I actually want to be when I see the hospital security guard quite clearly leering at me as he leans over the desk with a smirk. As usual.

“Hello, Stuart,” I manage with a tight smile.

But any apprehension on my part isn’t picked up, or is simply ignored as he carries on twirling a cocktail stick between his teeth and letting his eyes linger too long on the chest region of my scrubs.

“So … you, me, dinner?” he asks. Still looking at boobies, not face.

Another tight smile. “Still a pass, I’m afraid, thanks, Stuart.”

Polite decline issued, as usual, I hustle away as fast as my petite legs will carry me.

Ergh. No wonder I’m single if Stuart is the best on offer.

As I walk away, I shake my head with a reproachful chuckle. Because I know that the choice of date that’s on offer isn’t the real reason I’m still single.

It’s the sixteen-hour shifts and lack of any interest in putting myself out there that’s to blame. Or, rather, protect. After all, I only finished med school last year, and as a first-year resident doctor in paediatrics at New York Presbyterian, I can’t afford any distractions.

Nor do I want them.

This is the best hospital in the state, and I’d fight anyone who said different.

Or, perhaps, give them a stern look and a tut. Again … I am British.

And as I step out into the usual crazy vibe of the emergency room, I head for the nurses’ station to sign out, noticing that my favourite is looking glum.

“Hi, Bertha, everything okay?” I ask, scribbling on the chart she hands me.

She scoffs, but smiles. Her tight curly black hair not moving an inch as she looks up at me over the rim of her glasses; her big frame cuddly and snug in the brightly patterned scrubs she always wears against regulation.

“Honey, this is the emergency room—you know ain’t nothing ever okay in this hell hole.”

I have to chuckle, then nod. “True, okay, perhaps I should rephrase …” I hand her back the charts, then narrow my eyes at her. “What’s with the face, B?”

She lets out a long sigh as she checks the charts, orders meds, updates the board, and loans out a pen all within pretty much the same beat.

“We’re already short-staffed tomorrow, as usual,” she grumbles. “And Dr Weir said he’d cover, but …”

“But he’s already bailed,” I finish for her.

Her eyes move above the rims again. “Surprised?”

I chew the inside of my cheek, fighting not to say what I really think.

Because Dr Weir—Roger—has the same qualifications as me, but his speciality is being a flaky yet egotistical and unreliable pain in the arse who only got the job here because his grandfather’s on the board.

Although I guess I can’t tug too hard at that thread, given my Dad’s also on the board as Chief of Surgery. But I know full well that he’d never give me a free ticket. Quite the opposite.

Regardless of hospital politics, though, I push down my flared feelings, take a breath, and, as usual, just smile instead.

“I can cover tomorrow.”

Bertha pauses her latest signings and shoos away a question. “Nuh-uh, young lady, tomorrow is your only day off this week. And you already covered the extra shift this afternoon. You don’t even work the ER, honey. Give yourself a break!”

I shrug. “It’s fine, I was going to read the new paper on the impact of tapeworms on the juvenile digestive tract, but I’d rather be here and useful.”

She stares, then shakes her head while blowing out a long breath as she returns to her forms. “Honey, we need to find you a man, or at least get you laid.”

“Bertha!” I exclaim, then laugh. “You’re terrible! I don’t want or have time for either!”

I don’t add that I’m also still not over the man who broke my heart while in college.

“Hmm, always time for the right one, honey,” she muses with a mischievous grin. “You’ll see.”

Shaking my head, I shift my backpack and take a step away from the desk. “Whatever you say, B, but right now I’m gonna get changed then run out of here before I get roped into anything else.”

“You rope yourself in, honey!” she calls out as I back up, smiling for true now.

“HELP! PLEASE, SOMEONE, HELP ME!”

My head snaps around, and on instinct, I run as fast as I can in the direction of the front doors — and the sound of the voice.

I stop short in confusion, though, when I see the biggest man I’ve ever encountered standing there, holding an enormous, albeit clearly wounded, dog.

What the —

“Oh no, no, no,” Bertha says before I can speak, hot on my heels and wagging her finger. “You can’t bring that in here!”

“But,” the big man protests. “But he’s bleeding and—“

“I don’t care—this ain’t no animal hospital!”

“I know, but that ain’t nowhere near here and he ain’t got time—look at him!” he yells, flicking his head toward the enormous black dog. “You gonna let him die just ’cos he’s covered in fur?”

Snapping out of my daze, I swiftly put myself in between Bertha, the beast … and the dog.

“Sir, we do not treat pets!” she hollers.

“Bertha, it’s okay, I’ll take a look,” I tell her.

She baulks. “Dr Heaton, you can’t—“

“We’ve a spare exam room,” I interrupt. “We’ll get deep clean in after, but I’m not letting anyone bleed out on my watch. Dog, wolf, or otherwise.”

My voice carries no hint of room for argument, and Bertha knows better than to question when I’m in this zone, even if she grumbles when I turn to crane my neck up at the distressed man mountain—just about able to see him beneath the mass of black, matted fur he’s carrying.

“This way, quick, come on.”

My legs move rapidly to a side room, but with his huge height against my 5’4, he’s there ahead of me in a couple of strides. Because he must be 6’5 if he’s an inch, and forget the Greek Gods, this guy is built like a damn Titan.

He’d have to be to carry the wolf-dog I’m looking at.

“Here, put him on the bed.” I point, and he immediately does as I ask while I snap on some rubber gloves, drop onto a stool and wheel over to the bedside. “What happened?”

“Some fucking asshole mounted the kerb while he was taking a leak, hit him and kept driving,” he explains, shaking his head. “All to overtake a fucking bike.”

I try to look at the injury, but it’s obscured by the fur, and out of the side of my eye, I see him pace angrily, running his hand through his hair. And, over the years, I’ve seen enough patients respond to trauma better than the loved ones subjected to witnessing it. So, I now know how to handle them, as well as those on the table.

“Sir, you need to focus right now,” I tell him. “Your friend here—”

But he’s not listening.

“I swear, if I fucking catch him, I’ll—”

“Hey!” I snap my fingers, then point in his direction, breaking his vent, and making his head whip around to look at me. “Your quest for vengeance can wait—your friend needs you, so pass me those clippers, and I’ll see what we’re working with, and … mind your language.”

He blinks, eyes wide, and then he shakes his head, snatches up the clippers and kneels at my side to stroke the massive dog’s head. “You’re right, I’m sorry, Doc. Here.”

I hear the poor creature whimper when the whirr of the tool starts up. But his owner is soothing him. “Hey buddy, ssshhh, it’ll be okay, it’ll be okay. Doc’s got you.”

“That’s good,” I tell him. “Just keep talking to him; hearing your voice will help. I’ll be as quick as I can, but these were meant for head injuries or body hair, not … bears.”

He turns his head to face me, a small smile escaping at that as his eyes meet mine. And while I’m seated and he’s kneeling, owing to his height, we’re a lot closer than I realise … and he’s simply breathtaking.

Those eyes, that jawline, the lips, and the bloody body—holy cow!

Hello Popeye, someone’s been eating his spinach … Gah! Stop it, Abigail!

What the hell is wrong with me?!

I swallow, blush and look away back to task as I work as quickly as I can to be able to assess the injury while he continues to stroke and soothe.

And, once I’ve shaved the area, we can now both see a large gash across his chest.

“Aww, Dave …” he mutters, heartbroken.

While I, frown. “Dave? Dave, the … dog?”

“Yeah? What?” he shrugs.

“Nothing,” I reply, quickly, then back to work. “Right, I’m going to do a quick patch to stop the bleeding. And I’m going to apply some numbing spray, and I need to sterilise it, and neither of those is going to be pleasant for Dave, so you’re going to need to hold him.”

“Got it, Doc.” He nods, swiftly. “C’mere, buddy, we’re all good.”

He gently, but firmly, wraps his tree trunk of an arm around the dog’s neck, almost in a headlock, as I begin working.

I hear Dave yelp, and while he struggles slightly, there’s not a single part of me feeling under threat as the big man holds the powerful animal under control without seemingly much effort.

“You’re doing really well, Dave,” I purr. “Good boy … that’s it … won’t be long now, sweetie. We got you.”

As I talk in a silken voice, the same one I use when I’m working with the kids, I feel a gaze, and look up to find the giant smiling down over his shoulder at me.

My eyes spark with his dreamy baby blues, and I quickly look away before my face goes as flush as the rest of me now feels.

A couple more minutes, though, and I have Dave sewn up and bandaged, before I strip my gloves and push off to wheel away from the bed.

“Okay, that should buy you some time,” I say with a sigh. “But there could be internal bleeding. He’s going to need an X-Ray, and I can’t do that here.” I pull out my cell. “I think the closest animal hospital is St. Hubert’s over on 25th, about twenty blocks due south. I’ll call you a cab, and—”

“I ain’t waiting for a cab.”

I don’t get to finish, as instead, Goliath is scooping the wounded creature back up into those heavenly arms and jogging for the door.

“Thank you, Doc,” he calls back. “For everything—thank you so much!”

“You’re … welcome,” I murmur as I follow him out, still a little dazed from the whirlwind of events that just happened.

Though, as he leaves, I’m unable to stop myself from checking out what I am certain has to be the finest arse on the planet, as my dog-whisperer sprints out the door. And as I see him disappear into the distance, still running, I have to smile.

He must really love that dog …

***

By the time I eventually get home to my cosy apartment, I’m so tired I just crash out on the sofa— exhausted as usual.

And only when I wake later, with the sun already long set, do I think to stick a microwave meal on. Still yawning as I watch the bland food spin under the light.

The timer dings, and I pluck the tray out with a hot-huh-hiss before heading back to the living room to tuck in and pick up my tapeworm study to read.

But after less than five minutes, I drop it with a sigh.

“Oh God,” I sigh. “Bertha’s right, there’s got to be more to life than this …”