“If he hasn’t overdosed,” Mark continued, “we’re no worse off for trying the Narcan. It won’t have any adverse effect on him if there are no opioids in his system. But if he has indeed overdosed, this could very well save his life.” He glanced over at the respiratory therapist, who had just entered the room and begun setting up the ventilator. “If this doesn’t work, we’re going to have to put him on life support, Mrs. Ward. He’s not breathing very well on his own, so we’ll have to let that machine do the breathing for him.”
“Let’s just pray it works, then,” Mr. Ward said quietly.
Mrs. Ward straightened her spine. “Why are you wasting valuable time on this—” She grimaced and waved in the direction of the medication Mark still held clutched in his gloved hand. “I know my son, doctors. He would never do drugs. What do you normally do for people with a bad flu? That’s what you should be doing for him. Have you even done a flu test, for heaven’s sake? Checked him for West Nile Virus? Whatever he’s got, it’s really bad, and if I have to, I’ll have him transferred to another hospital.”
Just then, Brent began to stir. “Mama?”
“Yes, baby.” She rushed to his side and took one of his limp hands in hers. “I’m here, Brent. Mama’s here.”
Mark had Jolene check his vitals. “Looking better,” she said. “The Narcan seems to be working.”
Mr. Ward let out a huge sigh of relief, and his wife burst into tears.
Mark placed a hand on Mrs. Ward’s shoulder as she sobbed over her son. “We’ll probably have to administer another dose or two of the Narcan,” he said. “He’s not out of the woods yet, but it appears the worst of it is over. We have Dr. Whitham to thank for figuring it out before it was too late.”
Mrs. Ward shot a look in my direction, and I wasn’t sure if she was appreciative or resentful. If she wanted to hug me or hit me. Then she turned her attention back to Brent, who had roused even further. His lips looked much better—more plum now than blueberry.
I stepped over to Mr. Ward, who had remained more stoic than his wife. “I think you should stop by the pharmacy on your way home and pick up a naloxone overdose kit.”
The man looked horrified. “You think this will happen again?”
I shrugged. “From what you’ve told me and the fact that he’s just overdosed, I’m inclined to believe your son has a serious drug problem. This may not be the end of it. We can get him through this part of it, but it’s up to you and your wife to provide him with the ongoing support he needs to stop using. A counselor will stop by before he’s released to educate you on the dangers and recommend some rehab programs.” I patted him on the arm. “I wish I could make this easier for you. I really do.”
Tears welled up in his eyes, and he swiped at them with the back of his arm. “Thanks, Doc. You saved our son’s life, and you’ve been really nice to us. My wife… She means well, but she doesn’t—” His voice cut out and he swiped at a fresh spill of tears.
“She’s in denial,” I said. “I get it. I’ve had to deal with the same type of thing with my family, especially my father. Sometimes parents just can’t accept certain truths about their children.”
He barked out a laugh through his tears. “I can’t imagine your family not being proud of you, kid. You’re a doctor. And a hell of a good man, too. I can tell. You were so patient with Helen when anybody else would have wanted to shake the teeth out of her head.”
I smiled and chose not to admit that I may have wanted to shake the teeth out of her head, just a little bit. Mr. Ward thought what I had was patience, but it was something more akin to empathy.
I felt for people more than most. It was why I was so good with the families, and why I was always getting nominated to deliver the bad news when we lost a patient in the ED. I was the soother on our team.
Mark was the charmer. He was the one who could defuse the situation when someone got irate and started making threats. He also dealt with the higher-ups, like Dr. Rosenfeld, who was our immediate supervisor. I knew it didn’t benefit me professionally to let Mark handle most of the office politics, but he was so damn good at it I hardly had a choice. I didn’t have his silver tongue or his infectious smile. I didn’t have his charisma or the commanding presence that made everyone stand just a little bit straighter when he was in the room.
If one or both of us were in the doghouse with Rosenfeld, I was just as likely to make things worse as better. I had a tendency to get defensive, but Mark knew just how to handle him. With a smile and a few well-chosen words, he could make everything right again.
But when it came to dealing with the families in times of worry or sadness, I definitely had the edge. Mark came off as too put-together, too perfect. People who were tearing their hair out with worry or mourning the loss of a loved one needed someone to come down to their level. Someone who could wallow right along with them and hold their hand without being overbearing or obtrusive on their moment. I could blend in that way, but Mark always seemed to hold himself apart—and just a little bit above—everyone else.
Dr. Perfect. That’s what I called him when I was pissed or annoyed with him, though I’d never said it aloud to another person. It was my own private joke with myself. My way of dealing with the feelings of inadequacy that were part of the package when you worked with someone like Mark Johnson.
I looked over at him. At his perfect hair and perfect features. His perfect bedside manner. He was assessing Brent Ward with a calm precision that belied his earlier confusion when he hadn’t been able to figure out what was wrong with the man.
He glanced up and caught me watching, and his lips curved upward in a little smile. “I’ve got this, J. Why don’t you go see what else they’ve got going on before we get the entire ED backed up? We don’t want to have to stay late.” Then, just before he turned his full attention back to the task at hand, he winked at me.
Fucking winked.
Longing surged through me stronger than ever before, and my heart squeezed so hard I thought it might stop beating. God, why did he have to be straight? Just this once, couldn’t I get what I wanted?
2
Mark
It took two more doses of Narcan to get Brent Ward fully stabilized. By that time, it was the end of our shift, and I sat down at a computer to chart.
Just as I was finishing up, I heard the familiar rise and fall of Jason’s voice, gentle like the waves that rhythmically touched the shore at our summer home on Azure Lake. It brought the same kind of peace, especially when I was wrung out from a grueling shift.
I watched him, taking in every detail with hungry eyes. His dark blond hair was more disheveled than usual, a sign that he had seen a number of patients. He had a habit of running a hand through his hair just as he left one patient, then smoothing it down just before he approached another. It was like his reset switch, and just like every damn thing he did, it was adorable.
He was talking to Diego, a young radiology tech who had just started a few months ago. Diego was handsome, dark-haired and dark-eyed like me, but with a complexion like coffee and cream. He laughed at something Jason said, and I could see even from a distance that Jason’s blue eyes sparkled with delight.
I strained to hear what they were saying. Something about a TV show? Jason never talked to me about TV shows. I didn’t even think he watched TV. He read a lot, and he had told me about some of the science fiction books he liked. I wasn’t much of a reader, myself, but I’d enjoyed listening to him explain the plots, and I’d even found myself thinking that I could really get into an audiobook if Jason were the one narrating it. It was his passion that intrigued me. His eyes sparkled when he talked about books—much like they were now as he listened to Diego talk animatedly with his hands.
TV shows? Really?
I felt my jaw clench because deep down I knew that it wasn’t the subject they were talking about that had put that look in Jason’s eyes. It was Diego’s plump lips and perfect white teeth, and his dark eyes that roved Jason
’s body like he was slowly undressing him.
Fuck. I needed to get a grip. Jason Whitham was not for me. Even if I was out—and I wasn’t—Jason and I were a terrible fit. And besides, sometimes I felt like I was falling all over myself around him, but he never responded. Never flirted with me. Not like he was with Mr. Glow-in-the-dark teeth over there.
By the time he wrapped up the conversation—with a lingering arm touch from Diego—I was seething. But I had no right to be pissed. Jason was gorgeous, and he was out and proud. He was bound to draw attention from other men, and I had no claim on him. None whatsoever except platonic friendship, and even that was a slippery slope as much as we worked together.
Doctors had big egos, or perhaps fragile was a more fitting descriptor than big. Patients were our number one concern, but right behind that was the ability to save face. Doctors who didn’t have the respect of their peers had a tough row to hoe, as my grandmother always liked to say. I’d seen doctors who had lost that respect. There was an air of defeat about them, as if they were shells of the men they had once been. They went through the motions and did their jobs, but they moved on the periphery of everyone else, and the desperation showed on their faces. It was in the lined expressions that seemed to silently beg: see me, validate me, give me a reason to go on.
Maybe I was jaded because I’d seen too many doctors in my twenty-eight years. My father, Arthur Johnson, was the owner and CEO of Johnson Pharmaceuticals. The company produced a handful of brand-name drugs that had put me through medical school and provided my parents and me with a palatial lifestyle. I was spoiled, I knew it, but I’d just never known hardship. At least not where money was concerned.
My personal life left a lot to be desired, though. Being in the closet was no way to live. The problem was that, after two miscarriages, I was the only child my parents were able to produce. I was their sole heir—the future of the Johnson bloodline. That meant I was expected to marry within my social class and produce more heirs, preferably with at least one son in the mix to carry on the family name. I wasn’t going to do that with clandestine Grindr hookups.
Over the years, my parents had paraded the city’s most eligible ladies in front of me, and I had refused to get involved with any of them. I was pretty sure they’d figured it out by now; their son was not interested in women. Sometimes I thought I saw it in their faces—the disappointment—but they weren’t about to admit it out loud. That would make it real, and the reality that their son was gay was not one Arthur and Lyla Johnson were willing to accept.
Once, my father had pulled me into his home office and poured us both a glass of whiskey, then proceeded to quiz me on my private life. Had any particular girl caught my eye? Was I about ready to settle down? When my answers proved too evasive for him, he asked me point blank if there was something wrong with me. Not if I was gay, but if there was something wrong with me.
Then he’d brought up Claire Forrester, the beautiful daughter of his friend, Chaz. Won’t you just give her a chance? he’d asked, then waggled his eyebrows. I have it on good authority that she’s very interested.
I knew this, of course. Claire had made no secret of being madly in love with me since senior year in high school, when she had been homecoming queen and I had been king. Now she was a lawyer, married to another lawyer, and the two of them had produced three children, all blond and beautiful like their parents. But at the time, she was still interested in me.
Frustrated with my ambivalence and fueled by the three glasses of whiskey he’d downed, my father had eventually resorted to comments that still made me cringe when I remembered them. She’s got some firm, round tits on her, he’d said. Definitely more than a handful. And that ass. If I was twenty years younger…
Even though I knew what he was trying to do, it had still made me angry on my mother’s behalf. Then, as if the opener hadn’t been bad enough, he’d gotten even more graphic.
Can you imagine what she would be like in bed? Jesus Christ. A girl like that? I’ll bet she’d suck you dry and then make you a sandwich. A lady in the streets and a whore in the sheets. That’s the kind of girl you want, Mark.
By that time, I’d been so thoroughly disgusted with my father that I’d slammed my half-drunk second glass of whiskey on his desk—without a coaster—and stormed out of his office. Had the old man thought he could entice me to marry some girl by disrespecting my mother and talking like a sailor on shore leave? Even now, the thought of it made my face heat with embarrassment and rage.
“You look tense,” Jason said from right behind me.
I jumped and spun my chair around to face him. “Yeah.” My voice was too rough, too vulnerable, as if I hadn’t spoken in years. I cleared my throat. “I guess I am a little wound up.”
Jason clasped his hands in front of his body and offered a tight smile. “Well, you need to calm down. Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad.”
I glanced at his clasped hands and couldn’t help wondering if it had been Diego who was tense, would Jason have reached out and massaged his shoulders? God, why did he seem so different with me than with the hot X-ray tech?
There were moments when I thought Jason had finally thawed completely, but then he’d always go back to—what? Walking on eggshells? Handling me with kid gloves? Sometimes I wondered if he thought I judged him for being gay. Maybe he was afraid if he showed me any affection I would think he was coming onto me and report him for sexual harassment or something.
“So, what were you and Diego talking about?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
He shrugged. “Nothing, really. He’s been binge-watching a show I recommended to him.”
I turned back to the computer screen and fiddled with the mouse, waking the screen up from sleep mode. “Huh. I didn’t think you watched TV.”
Did that sound like an accusation?
“I don’t watch much, but this is an older show I watched a couple of years back.”
“Oh, yeah? What show?”
“Uh, it’s not really anything you’d be interested in.”
“Try me.” I knew I was embarrassing myself, but I couldn’t seem to stop. It was pathetic and childish, but I didn’t want Diego to have his little private thing with Jason. I had seniority, and dammit I wanted in on it.
Jason sighed, and even though I wasn’t looking at him, I could hear the eye roll loud and clear. “Looking. It’s a gay show. Like I said, nothing you’d be interested in.”
I froze, feeling like a spotlight had suddenly been turned on me. I’d seen every episode of Looking. I could have written a dissertation on the show. But I couldn’t admit that to Jason—not to anyone—so I settled for being just as catty and nosy as I could. Fuck my life.
“So, Diego is gay, too?” Of course, I already knew the answer to that. Straight men didn’t eyefuck other guys.
“Maybe,” he said with a hard-edged sound that could have almost passed for a laugh. “Are you making a list or something? Planning an uprising?”
“That’s stupid, and you know it. I was just curious. You two seemed… I don’t know.”
“Gay?” he said, the word dripping with sarcasm.
Oh, he was really trying to piss me off. How he pulled off being self-deprecating and condescending at the same time was anyone’s guess, but I wasn’t about to let it slide.
“You’re being an asshole,” I said, turning to face him. “When have I ever given you any reason to believe I’m not cool with your sexuality? With who you are.”
He bit his lip, looking as contrite as I’d ever seen him. “Never. I’m sorry, this has just been a long day.”
“All of our days are long,” I pointed out. “Long and tiring and annoying as hell.”
“Yes, they are.” Jason fell down into the chair beside me and slumped. For a few seconds, he only stared down at his hands where they lay limp on his thighs. Then he raised his gaze to meet mine, and his lips tilted in a little smirk.
I mirrored his smirk and leaned towa
rd him a fraction. “I hate it when we fight.” My voice was low and purposely seductive.
He let out a loud guffaw of laughter. “Shut up.”
We just sat there grinning at each other like a couple of jackasses until Jason shook his head and laughed again. His smile was bright enough to chase away the dark thoughts that had consumed me only moments before, and I had the urge to reach out and touch his face. To run my fingertips over his cheek, his lips, the smooth line of his jaw. I needed to feel his skin just one time.
But then Dr. Rosenfeld came in and ruined the moment.
“Fine work today, boys.” He patted me hard on the back, and I flinched at the unexpected contact.
“Thank you, sir,” Jason said.
Rosenfeld beamed down at me, all but ignoring Jason. “The father of the young man who overdosed asked to speak to me, and he had only good things to say. He wanted to tell me personally what a wonderful doctor he had.”
“Well, I appreciate that, but Jason—”
“He said you were the most caring, professional doctor he’d ever had the pleasure of meeting. Wanted to know if he could nominate you for something.” Rosenfeld chuckled, his hand moving to my shoulder and massaging.
“Well, that was very kind of him,” I said. “But Jason is the one who should be nominated for something.”
Rosenfeld’s hand faltered on my shoulder for a split second, and he glanced up at Jason as if only just noticing he was in the room. Then he started massaging again, kneading my shoulder almost painfully. “Jason is an excellent doctor, but this is about you. The patient named you specifically, so false modesty isn’t going to get you out of this one. Just take the compliment, son.” He slapped me once more on the back and left the room.
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