He is tall—broader than me, with the kind of functional muscle that comes from lifting heavy things,not a gym membership. He wears ceil blue scrubs that are wrinkled and stained with something dark that I desperately hope is iodine. Under the scrub top, he wears a faded black t-shirt with a white skull logo.
His hair is a disaster of dark brown curls, pushed back from his forehead by a hand that is currently holding a half-eaten bagel. He hasn't shaved in at least three days.
"Dr. York," I say, drawing myself up to my full height. "I assume you are responsible for the noise pollution in the hallway?"
The man takes a bite of the bagel. "If by noise pollution you mean the sweet, sweet sounds of Brian Johnson, then yes. Helps the rhythm. Keeps the blood pumping." He extends a hand. "Jax O’Connell. Trauma."
I look at the hand. There is a smear of dried blood on the cuticle of the thumb.
"Maxwell York. Cardio," I say, keeping my hands firmly on my box.
Jax grins. It’s a lopsided, boyish grin that displays a chipped canine tooth. It is infuriatingly charming. "I know who you are, Princess. Everyone knows the Ice King. Didn't know you came down to the dungeons."
"Princess?" My voice drops fifty degrees.
"Figure of speech." Jax walks into the room—struts, actually—and tosses the bagel onto his disaster of a desk. "So, Sterling said I had to make room. I cleared off the left side for you."
"You call this cleared?" I walk to the empty desk. I run a finger along the surface and hold it up, showing the grey smudge of dust.
"I’m a surgeon, not a maid," Jax says, dropping into his chair. The springs squeak in protest. He kicks his feet up onto the desk—right next to the open bag of chips. "Look, we juststay out of each other's way. You do your... whatever it is you do. Knitting arteries? And I’ll handle the meat and potatoes."
"Meat and potatoes," I repeat, horrified. "You are referring to human beings."
"I’m referring to the guy who just came in with a fence post through his abdomen," Jax says. He gestures to the glass wall.
I look. Through the fishbowl window, I can see into Trauma Bay 1. A patient has just been wheeled in, thrashing and screaming. The paramedics are shouting vitals. The monitor is alarming.
The casual slouch vanishes from Jax’s body instantly.
He is up and out the door before I can blink.
I shouldn't watch. I should unpack my succulent and set up my computer. But I can't look away.
I watch Jax O’Connell enter the chaos.
The change is instantaneous. The pirate is gone; the soldier appears. Jax doesn't shout, but the room orients around him. He moves with a brutal, efficient economy. He cuts the patient's shirt away with shears, his hands moving so fast they blur.
Through the glass, I see the problem. Tension pneumothorax. The patient is suffocating, his chest cavity filling with air.
Standard protocol requires a sterile field, a scalpel, a chest tube kit, and anesthesia.
Jax doesn't wait for any of that.
I watch, my breath catching, as Jax grabs a massive needle from a crash cart, pours a bottle of Betadine over the man’s chest—splashing it everywhere—and stabs the needle between the patient’s ribs.
A hiss of escaping air is audible even through the glass.
The patient’s thrashing stops. The vitals on the monitor stabilize.
Jax pats the man on the shoulder, says something that makes the terrified patient nod, and then turns around.
He looks through the glass, straight at me.
Jax winks.
Then he wipes his bloody hands on the front of his scrubs and walks back toward the office.
I feel a strange, uncomfortable sensation in my chest. It is a flutter. An arrhythmia.
