"What are you doing here?"
"Here to work, boss."
Callahan's jaw tightens. "No you ain't. Go on, sit on the porch or somethin'. Busted ribs, and 'goin to work' he says, Jesus H. Christ."
"Hey, I told him not to, but he's here anyways." Michael's got his hands up and spread wide, a symbol of his everlasting peaceful attitude. Which is almost certainly horseshit, incidentally.
"Y'all know what to do. Get to it."
"Hey boss?"
Callahan rolls his eyes at the concerned tone in James's voice. "Yeah?"
"If there's something we can do, don't be afraid to mention it."
"Fuck off, kid. Go get to work."
The eldest leans into the bed of the truck and then shifts a heavy-looking leather bag onto his shoulder, starts moving it toward the house.
"I mean it. You did right by us, I don't want you to think we're ungrateful."
Callahan grinds his teeth together but doesn't say anything. The boy's already doing what he's supposed to be doing. Now if he could do it without the pity and with his mouth shut, that would be an improvement.
The truth is, though, that deep down he likes hearing it. The idea that he could actually get past this.
"You know what you have to do the next couple of days?"
James turns. He's got one eyebrow cocked up. "Yeah, more or less. Place needs a little work to be back in decent shape, so we'll be getting the stables and the fences repaired. That the long and short of it?"
"Sure."
"I got some unfinished business to take care of," Callahan says finally. "I'll be out for a week or so. Don't slack off while I'm gone, and don't let that damn fool brother of yours anywhere near anything heavy."
"No, sir," James says. He tries to hide the smile as he turns away.
That kid was always too god damn smart for his own good. Too smart and too involved in other peoples' business.
There's no way that Callahan can leave things with Morgan. Not the way that they were.
He was up late last night, after all. Nobody to get him into bed or make him go. The damn computer kept him up later than he'd wanted. Took near two hours to figure out how to get times for plane tickets.
Now that the boys are settled in, he's going to have to leave soon. The next plane leaves in a little more than three hours, and he's going to have to be in a damn hurry if he wants to get through the security and be on it.
Chapter Forty-Six
It's still hard to say whether or not it was worth it. The pain is still there. But hard decisions always hurt. And most of the time, in the end, no matter how much worrying you did about it, it's worth it.
That doesn't make it easier in the moment, though. That doesn't mean that sitting in your office feeling self-righteous keeps you warm at night. It doesn't mean that you can take it out to dinner and have a good time.
But in the end, when you do the right thing, you know you did the right thing, at least. It just takes time for the hurt to dull a little bit and for your head to clear.
Well, it had been enough time. She should be feeling better by now. But then again, she'd made hard decisions before, but it had rarely had such a personal effect.
Maybe this was just another growth period. Maybe she'd come out of this stronger, smarter, tougher than ever. The business would thank her. She'd thank herself. In the end, of course.
Right now, she couldn't see the forest for the trees. That was all it was. If she had a clear head, then she wouldn't be questioning her decision to leave without a word every morning, going to bed kicking herself because she couldn't see a single reason that it couldn't have worked except her fears and Andrea's warning.
She was a lonely old woman, and as tough as nails, and all the money in the world didn't change that. It wasn't exactly reflective of the life that the Morgan wanted to lead, having a long line of eighteen-year-old cabana boys who were fucking the maid on the side.
But that was the life that Andrea Neill lead and it was the life she was, apparently, happy with.
Maybe she didn't know what the fuck she was talking about. Then again, maybe she did. Morgan had to keep reminding herself of that. She had to, because if she didn't, then she'd be heading back to Wyoming right then and there.
If that was the right decision in the beginning, she was an idiot for having left. And if leaving was the right decision, then she was an idiot for thinking about going back now. Either way, she'd made her bed, and she had to lie in it.
Which just circled back around to the problem, the one that she'd been dancing around for two weeks now: how to get comfortable with the fact that she already made her decision, and now she's not happy with the result.
She can't go back. She can't decide to have stayed in Wyoming sixteen days later. That's not how life works. You make decisions, you accept the consequences of your decisions. It's simple, it's straightforward, and it's painful for everyone. She's not special in that regard.
She takes a deep breath, checks her phone to see the time. There's an hour until she's supposed to make her next report. There's not a whole lot to report. Sales numbers are up, but it's nothing to celebrate. Growth was slowing, and now they're back on course.
The new factories are getting into things on par with expectations. That's been everything on the business side. Every single thing was 'on par with expectations.'
Well, that was wonderful for the business side of things, because on the personal side of things, nothing was going nearly so well.
But that wasn't going to affect her work, because she wasn't going to let it, no matter how bad she might have wanted to. That would be completely unacceptable. That would be exactly what she'd left Wyoming to try and avoid. And then what a fool she'd look like.
She answers a knock at the door by reflexively calling out to come in, without looking up.
"You wanted to see me, ma'am?"
Brad Lang's got his hands stuffed into the back pockets of his jeans, his shoulders hunched. He looks decidedly unlike the overconfident son-of-a-bitch that he'd been up north. Maybe he figured that taking a week-long vacation hadn't gone unnoticed after all.
"Take a seat," she says. Her voice is even, and to her great pleasure it doesn't sound remotely one bit like she's upset, which makes her a damn fine actor if she might say so herself.
He takes it without a word.
"You know what you did."
"Yes ma'am."
"And you know I can't just look the other way."
"No, ma'am."
"Good luck in your future endeavors, Mr. Lang. You'll get your severance in the mail, and I'd like your office cleaned out by the end of the day."
He looks like he wants to say something, a little glowing ember of something that might be anger. Then he snuffs it out.
"Yes ma'am."
"Go on," she says, nodding towards the door. He stands up and sulks out.
For a minute she's almost sad that she doesn't feel any special satisfaction at seeing him go. He'd been a good employee for her father. It was rare to see a man that young in the position he was in.
At least, that was true in Lowe Industrial. Most of the higher-ups were old hands, people who had been working for her father since they were her age and had practically built the place from the ground up with their own two hands.
The office door opens and Lang steps out, slipping sideways through the door. For a minute, Morgan's almost confused, until she sees him slipping in at the same time.
"What are you doing here?" She shouldn't sound like such a bitch, not right now. Not with him.
"I came to see you."
She takes a deep breath and tries to calm down. Tries to stop her stomach from twisting up and her skin from jumping immediately to over-sensitivity.
"How's the ranch?"
Phil Callahan looks the same as he always has. Jeans and a t-shirt and all of it looks like he just finished a wrestling match in it.
"New. Different. The boys are patchi
ng her up."
"Yeah?"
"Sure." The silence between them is long. Part of her wants to apologize. Part of her wants to seem like she's not some needy little woman who can't bear to be disliked, though, and that part keeps her lips shut. "You know, about that tour. This place seems a little more complete than the last one I was inside of."
She can't bring herself to smile at the joke. "You didn't have to do this, you know."
He steps inside further, closes the door behind him. It seems like it's only another step or two until he's right there, in her space. Until he's standing over her, looking down at her.
She should feel small, she should hate it. She should feel so many things, and she doesn't feel any of that. Her head leans forward in a moment of weakness and her head presses into his chest. It feels good.
His arms wrap around her shoulders and squeeze tight. That feels good, too. "But I wanted to anyways."
She can't do this, but she can't say no again.
"I'm sorry," she says. She's supposed to be strong. She's supposed to be so tough nobody can say a damn thing about her. Her voice sounds weak and afraid and it's not half as bad as she feels.
"You don't have to apologize. Just don't run away again."
Her eyes feel hot, but her arms wrap around his thick chest. "No," she agrees.
She can't hurt like that again.
"I love you."
"I love you, too."
My Smutty Nurse
Medical Erotica
Dalia Daudelin
I've been working at the hospital for almost a year now, mostly in the pediatric ward. I like to talk to the kids, to chat about their parents and their shows and things like that. I really find it very rewarding, and it's helped me get through the long hours even just remembering seeing them smile when they tell me about some animated action hero they've been watching, even though I’ve never heard of them.
I remember my first day coming home, smelling like iodine and feeling like the grave and thinking "this is what I wanted to do since I was a kid," because I really felt truly fulfilled by the work. I was making a difference, and I like to think I still am.
The past few weeks they've had me floating though, keeping an eye on a few folks in other wards other nurses have too heavy a workload and too little time in the day to address them. I figured it would be like what I'm used to: even when they're hurt they'd be full of life and love and every day would feel like an adventure.
It didn't.
At least, not the way I expected. I think I've cried more in the past week than all the time before I started University, and to be honest I was accused of being a crybaby. Not to my face, but I can hear what they’re saying about me.
It feels so... desolate, in the rest of the hospital. Everything is moving so fast. It just feels like everyone around me is rushing to their grave and nobody is taking the time to just… breathe.
I'm sitting in a chair and my eyes are closed and just for a moment, I can't remember where I am.
I open my eyes. It's a bathroom stall, I'm on the second floor. North side of the building. Patrick is my next patient, he returned from Iraq last March and he came in reporting discomfort in his skin. Pancreatic cancer, stage 3.
The truth is, he'll be dead in a year if that. There's nothing to be done for it. No matter where you go, sometimes there are hard truths and I accept that.
I was surprised, though, at Patrick's attitude. He seems to embrace it even more readily than I do, almost not reacting at all.
I don't know why and sometimes I wish things were more like in the pediatric ward because I want to ask why but it feels too personal and he seems too distant.
I stand up and open the stall door. Wash my face. Look in the mirror. I feel like a mess and my looks match. I have deep, dark circles under my eyes and I just want to go back into the stall and try not to break down, but I need to be strong. I push my way through the door and into the bustling hall.
"Hello, Mister Burton," I try to put on a smile for him. He's got his reading glasses on, looking over a paper with a lot of numbers on it. I can't tell what it is but he lays it down and looks up.
"Is it time?" I nod solemnly, take a seat and reach into my coat, producing a bottle and counting out the pills. He takes them without comment, reaching for a glass of water that I hand over readily. He opens his mouth as if to say 'See?' I smile at him.
"Have a good day, Mister Burton." He doesn't acknowledge me, looking at the TV. It’s showing bass fishing.
I can't tell if he's watching it seriously because I'm told that the remote is missing in this room and he couldn't change the channel if he wanted to. I look back at him for a second. His jaw, lightly stubbled, is set hard, like he's still sitting there at attention and his commanding officer might walk in at any moment. His eyes flicker over to me.
"Is there something else?" I shake my head and leave.
Charles is telling me a story. He's describing in such intricate detail the interaction between a giraffe and a lion, and he's making voices for them. The Giraffe is clearly English, and the Lion seems to be from California, or maybe it's the other way around and I've been confusing the story the whole time, which really changes things.
Charles is just a kid; he broke his arm a few months ago. The doctor at the hospital in his old home town set it wrong and it caused a few health issues, but we fixed it, and he's getting better. In a few months he's going to go home to his parents and I'm going to get a new ball of sunshine, however brief its flash might be.
I can't get out of my head that look on Patrick's face when I left, the look like he was waiting for something or someone who never came. I know, I checked. He hasn't received any visitors his entire stay. It's pretty sad.
I've resolved to stay with him during visiting hours tomorrow, try to talk and make friends. Maybe it's not that the adults are different than the kids, maybe I just try harder.
If that is the case—and indeed it might be, I'm not going to let it keep me from being good at my job or being a good person. The day's passing slow today, and tomorrow will be longer, but I've got my resolve and that's all I need right now.
I was tired. I was tired and I'm off but god damn it if I'm going to let this guy know that. It’s been damn near ten minutes now, waiting for him to do anything beyond notice me come in and he hadn't managed it so far.
We've just been watching public access. He doesn't ever seem to take his eyes off the screen, and I know it isn't a mental problem. I was starting to get frustrated, and thinking about leaving, when he pipes up, all of a sudden. His voice was more of a growl, and it almost scared me.
"Are you going to leave me be, or what?" I knew I shouldn't respond but I was too damn tired for thinking things through.
"Do you have some kind of problem with me, Mister Burton? Did I do something to offend you? Here I am, spending my personal time trying to get to know one of my patients and you're bitching about 'leave me be!' " I'm huffing and puffing and I'm about to storm out when his eyes come unglued from the tube.
"I'm... sorry.” He frowns at me, but it’s got an apologetic air. “Miss... ?"
"Lincoln. Sarah Lincoln."
"If you're here to keep me company, miss Lincoln, don't waste your time on my account. I'm sure you've got someplace you'd rather be."
I feel like I'm losing the little bit of attention I had and his eyes lose the brief focus they'd had. I felt like I was drowning. I stumbled for something to say, something to feel like I was helping again.
"What're you watching?" He gave me a sideways glance and grumbled something along the lines of you know what I'm watching under his breath. I could feel my breathing getting ragged and I was a little panicky.
"How, um... how do you like… it?" I'd realized only moments too late that I'd ended the sentence early and tried to cover for it but it showed and I blushed hard and started to scurry out.
"It's alright, I guess. I wish I could get that clicker, but you can't alway
s get what you want, I suppose." I heard his voice, deep and rich, behind me, the most words he'd ever said together to me. I put my smile back on and tried to steady my shaking hands and still my beating heart.
"Um, listen, mister... mister..." and I realized I'd forgotten his name in my panic. "Mister-- BURTON!" I blurted, "If you ever want to, um, talk, then that would be... I could..." and I trailed off abruptly, looking everywhere but his face.
"Talk about what?" It was a fair question but for some reason it hit me like a ton of bricks.
"Well, mister Burton... sir... it might be outside my place to ask, but... do you have any family? Nobody ever comes to visit..." I trail off again, embarrassed at being so direct and dare I say rude to a patient. He smiles a little bit.
"I suppose you hit the nail on the head there, missy. Ever since my wife died..." He makes a face. "People don't really tend to enjoy my company on my own. I guess you could say that." I'm not sure what to do and I blink. Blink again. I blink a third time.
"Have a good day," I spit out as fast as I can. It's abrupt and hardly a fair end to the conversation but I can't think with my foot so far in my mouth. I practically run out of the room, power-walking to the car and I just started bawling. I knew how poorly I'd done and I was so embarrassed to have made a fool of myself but I couldn't help it and I just... I don't know.
I called in sick this morning. I haven't been able to get out of bed since being embarrassed yesterday. I can't even explain it, not really. I don't think I did... too much that was stupid, but every time I think about it, I get scared and the bottom falls out of my stomach. I don't think I can keep going if I feel like this every time I think about going to work. I finally got up for dinner, and I cooked an egg.
I don't even really like eggs, but I'm so out of it I'm worried I'd burn anything else, since eggs are what I learned to cook first. My mother taught them to me and I always liked to cook them to show off for her. That was before.
Today's been a good day. I managed to completely put everything out of my mind. We've got a new little girl, Caroline, and I really think she's going to get better but she just tells the best stories about everything.
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