CHAPTER SIX
Austin
Sunday
A full two-day breakafter Thursday night’s events was exactly what I needed to recharge my battery. It took us almost two hours to stabilize that poor kid, Candace. She needed surgery, and we had set up a transfer for her to be relocated to a burn center, which took longer than expected. In any case, I didn’t get home until eight the next morning.
Sundays are usually busy during the day but slow at night, so I’m hoping for a quiet shift before the week starts.
“Austin, Austin, Austin,” Daisy drawls. “Boy oh boy, do I havethepatient for you.”
Daisy is the administrator who takes in all patient information, and when things are disastrous, she prioritizes the patient list in order of importance … those with the most critical injuries or illnesses to be examined and treated first. However, with nothing but a few broken bones and a couple dozen stitches this afternoon, we’re working on a first-come, first-served basis.
“You’re not sticking me with Old Lady Shoomer again, are you?” I ask her. “I know to beware when you ‘Austin, Austin, Austin’ me.”
“No, dummy.”
“Good because, let me tell you, I can deal with just about any bodily fluid, missin’ limbs, and what not, but I cannot handle her oozing bunion another time this week.”
Daisy shivers and convulses. “This is why I prefer sitting behind a computer screen. Y’all can have fun with your oozin’ bunions back there.” She waves her hands toward triage.
“Okay so if it isn’t an oozin’ bunion, what do you have in store for me?”
Daisy smiles, but not just any old smile. It’s her “I’m-up-to-no-good” smile. I’ve known Daisy most of my life since my sister used to babysit her when she was a kid. I’ve got about ten years on her, and it shows most days. “Triage, bay four,” she says, pinning her tongue between her teeth.
“Payback is a—”
“Watch your mouth, Austin Trace.”
“Just sayin’,” I reply with a quick wink. Daisy is always sticking me with the worst patients. She thinks it’s funny, but I also think sometimes Clara may tell her to do it. As a result, I do win the battle of the worst ER stories most days, but I’m just not sure it’s always worth the win.
I head into triage while whistling to my own tune when I’m interrupted by a couple fighting in the bay I'm supposed to be tending to. “What’s going on in here with y’all?” I ask, interrupting their argument.
The guy takes a seat in the corner and fidgets around nervously as if he can’t sit still. Then there’s the girl. She’s not nervous or fidgety. She’s fiery mad about something, most likely the wrist she’s cradling.
“What’s your name, darlin’?”
She tosses me a gaze full of fury, and I’m wondering what the hell I said wrong. “Darling?” she questions.
Okay, she’s definitely in a mood. “Uh, buttercup?” I press my luck.
“Scarlett. My name is Scarlett, not ‘darlin’ or ‘buttercup’. Actually, I’d be willing to go out on a limb and say it’s probably written on the folder you’re holding in your hand. I don’t recall registering at the front desk with the name Darling or Buttercup.”
“Noted,” I tell her. “Mind if I asked what happened? Horseback riding, fence jumping, or just a silly ole’ flyin’ pig?”
She groans and throws her head back into the pillow. “My God, I’ve literally been in this godforsaken state for less than five hours, and I’m already about to lose my fucking mind.” She covers her face and takes a deep breath before composing her anger. “We were trying to find some kind of civilization, but this bonehead behind me found a wicked stellar shortcut that was disguised as a fake path because what looked like pretty green grass was just a big gaping hole. Down I went, and here I am. Fun, right?”
“Ah, you fell for the ole’ fake grass trick, huh?” I joke with her, hoping to cool her anger down a bit. “It’s actually a way some farmers keep coyotes away from their land.” I’m totally screwing with her, but with her biting attitude, I think she needs to take back what she’s giving out.
“Aww, you’re just so funny, aren’t ya?”
I clear my throat, trying my best not to smirk at this uptight princess who is not from down south, and it’s not just her accent that gives it away. I slip on a pair of gloves, then move to her side and slide my hand carefully under her wrist to check for swelling. I find her palm swollen at first touch, so I look up at her face to gauge her pain level.
Her eyes are wide, and under the fluorescent lighting, they’re a very vibrant hue of brown mixed with different shades of green. I try not to pay attention to the beautiful contradiction the colors hold against her messy auburn hair that’s up in a high ponytail with strands of loose curls spilling out onto her shoulders. I’ll also try not to notice this is a smoking hot chick under my care, but then again, I’d have to be blind for her looks not to catch my attention. Scarlett’s forehead scrunches as I press into her palm, and she grits her teeth. “Does that hurt?”
“Yeah,” she says breathlessly. “It’s swollen, and it doesn’t feel good.” She rolls her eyes. “Unless you’re into that sort of thing.” That last part is muttered under her breath, but it’s awfully forward of her to say something like that without knowing me at all.
“It might just be a sprain, but I’ll have a doc come in and check you out to determine whether you need X-rays or not. I’m guessing you will. I’ll be right back.”
