Chapter 6
The Night Shift
Jax
03:14 AM.
In the army, we called this the witching hour. It’s that dead zone between the late-night adrenaline of the bars closing and the early-morning hustle of the first shift. It’s when the world is quietest, which means it’s when the ghosts are the loudest.
I am currently sitting in the Fishbowl, staring at the water stain on the ceiling tile that looks vaguely like a map of Kosovo.
I should be home. My shift ended four hours ago.
But my apartment is quiet. And silence is the enemy.
If I go home, I have to lie in the dark and listen to the hum of the refrigerator and think about the faces of the people I couldn't save. If I stay here, in the hum of the hospital, I can pretend I’m just "catching up on charts."
"You are still here."
The voice makes me jump. My hand flies to thestack of files on my desk, instinctively checking for a weapon that isn't there.
I spin the squeaky chair around.
Maxwell York is standing in the doorway.
He looks... different.
He’s not wearing the white coat. He’s not wearing the tie. He’s in his navy scrub pants and a black turtleneck sweater that fits him well enough to be illegal in at least three states. His hair is slightly looser, as if he ran a hand through it once, possibly by mistake.
He looks tired. But on him, exhaustion looks like high-fashion heroin chic. On me, it just looks like a hangover.
"Jesus, Max," I breathe, rubbing my face. "Put a bell on, will you?"
"I walked normally," he says, stepping into the room. "You were dissociating."
He closes the door. The sound of the latch clicking shuts out the low hum of the ER.
"I’m working," I lie, gesturing to the closed laptop in front of me. "Paperwork. Sterling wants Henderson’s post-op notes filed in triplicate because he’s praying we screwed up so he can bill us for the sutures."
"The surgery was flawless," Maxwell says quietly. He walks to his side of the room. He stays behind the blue tape line, but he doesn't look at it. "Mr. Henderson is extubated and complaining about the Jell-O. He will make a full recovery."
"Because of you," I say.
Maxwell pauses. He is standing by his desk, adjusting the leaves of his succulent.
"Because of us," he corrects me.
He turns to look at me. The blue eyes are softer tonight. The ice is melting, just a little, around the edges.
"Why are you here, Jax? You’ve been on duty for twenty hours."
"I could ask you the same thing, Princess. Don't you have a coffin to sleep in before the sun comes up?"
"I was checking on the patient," he says stiffly. "And I... I prefer to do my charting when the building is quiet."
"Liar," I say softly, echoing his words from earlier.
He freezes.
