It’s not every day she sees a founding father’s son here. I stand out like a wolf in a sheep’s paddock.
Frowning, I turn my attention to her again when I feel her watching me. She drops her eyes to the paperwork in front of her. It’s not the same nurse I spoke to the other week when I came by. This one is younger, with shoulder-length red hair and full lips. Unlike the older nurse, she’s nervous around me, but I don’t miss the way she bites her lip when she thinks I don’t notice.
“Where is the doctor?” I bark, and she startles, almost dropping her paperwork.
“I don’t know, sir. I only started my shift fifteen minutes ago.”
“Well, you have five seconds to get him for me. Chop, chop.”
She’s off in the next breath, shimmying her hips down the hallway.
I’m an ass, yes. I’m aware. Do I care? Not in the slightest.
I’m checking the time on my Rolex, debating whether this place is equipped to treat Jessica’s sick mother, when an older man with a balding head and bags under his eyes follows the flighty nurse. The young woman seems more interested in my crotch than her job, and I almost want to point two fingers at my face and say, ‘My eyes are up here.’
But then Dr. Hitchon, according to his name tag, gives me a wary look, and I forget all about the nurse.
“Mr. Ravencourt,” he says. My last name precedes me everywhere I go. It comes in handy at times like these, cutting out the need for unnecessary introductions. He knows he owes his livelihood to my family. He knows I could squash him like a bug.
I get straight to the point, pulling out a checkbook from my back pocket and wiggling two fingers for a pen, which appears like magic. I click it. “How much do you want?”
Hitchon blinks at me, as if this were a comedy. “Excuse me, sir?”
“Mrs. Holt,” I say, by way of explanation. “How much will it cost to heal her condition?”
He opens his mouth, then shuts it. A sheen of sweat glistens on his brow. “Sir, I don’t think you understand?—”
“How much?”
“Sir—” he tries again, glancing nervously at the nurse.
Is he dense?
“Who can I throw money at to heal Mrs. Holt? There must be some treatment you can offer. Something you haven’t tried yet.”
Money solves all problems. Money buys everything and everyone. That’s the philosophy my father taught me as soon asI quit diapers and learned to walk. There must be someone here I can pay to do the job.
Hitchon’s throat jumps. “I’m sorry, sir?—”
I’m getting really fucking tired of this.
“I don’t care what it costs. I’ll pay it.”
He hears the grit in my voice and jerks his head to tell me to follow him.
When we’re out of earshot of the nurse, he clears his throat, a bead of sweat trailing down his temple. “Mrs. Holt’s cancer is terminal and has spread to other parts of her body. It’s too late to operate.” His words are careful, as if he fears my reaction.
My left eye twitches. I glare at the poor man, but to his credit, he holds my gaze steady, even as he sweats like we’re in a sauna together.
“No.” I shake my head, taking a step back as a bitter laugh builds at the back of my throat. Money buys everything. I refuse to accept that there’s nothing we can do.
I thread my fingers through my hair and pull tight, pacing on the spot while the doctor looks like he might just piss himself. “Try something else. Do anything.”
He says nothing, just watches me unravel.
I turn to him and ram my finger into his chest. “That girl in there, Mrs. Holt’s daughter, means the fucking world to me, and I’ll be damned if I have to watch her hurt for a second longer.”
I’m back to pacing, rubbing my mouth and clasping my hands behind my neck, doing everything short of an Irish dance.
