I’m so relieved that she agreed to my plan to keep her from killing herself that it feels like a weight has lifted off my chest. I came up with it by the seat of my pants.
But I became a doctor for a reason: to save lives. I wasn’t about to just leave her there.
“Here. I’ll get on, and you climb on after me. I’ll show you where to put your feet.” I look her over. “Do you have anything to put your hair up with?”
She didn’t, so I take a strip of gauze from my saddlebag’s emergency kit and tie her hair in a low ponytail. “Here you go.”
Mom and Dad have never understood why I would leave their land in Wyoming, which expands every year and is full of every possible luxury or bit of wilderness that a man could possibly need. But I wanted to make my own mark. It wasn’t enough for me to simply inherit Father’s pharmaceutical company—or the ranch built by its wealth—and coast on his achievements.
So med school it was. And then my specialty, and then my residency. I started climbing the ladder at Ravenwood in my late twenties, when most people my age were still finishing grad school. I was far too focused on my goal to let myself waste time.
My attention is brought back to Madelyn as she adjusts her ponytail. She’s skittish, shifting nervously when I touch her. I don’t feel too bad about that. I don’t know what hell she has been through, but as long as she isn’t jumping off a fucking bridge I figure she’s better off for my intervention. I just know I can’t expect her to treat me like a hero because of it.
I help her get the helmet on, wrap her in my leather jacket, and get on the bike. After a few moments of hesitation, she gets on behind me. I feel her arms slip around my chest under my arms, and feel an unexpected jolt of pleasure.
Shit. This woman is distraught enough to be contemplating suicide. I can’t even think about my attraction to her until she’s stable. I absolutely have to make certain that she’s okay first.
First, do no harm, I think as I rev the engine. “Okay. Hold onto me firmly, and if you get scared, let me know.”
She buries the front of her helmet in my back as we take off down the road. Her arms squeeze me tight—she’s already scared. But she doesn’t stiffen up and she doesn’t tell me to stop, so I keep going.
There’s a possibility that she’s playing me and will jump off the damn bike as soon as we get up to speed. I don’t know what I’ll do if she does that, besides get an ambulance here as fast as I can.
In a way, we’re both forced to have faith in each other. As we leave the bridge behind and drive off into the dark, I can feel her relax just a little, and continue to do so bit by bit as we get closer to the coastal highway. We can’t talk, and besides monitoring her and the road, I’m pretty much left to my thoughts.
I was made head of Ravenwood Hospital’s Cardiology Department early last year after the old head, Dr. Emil Blanchley, retired abruptly after breaking the nose of the head of the psychiatric wing. I can’t say that I blame him one bit for landing that punch—Dr. Westridge is a prick. But rules are rules, and while some members of the board chuckled about it, Blanchley was told to retire immediately if he wished to keep his pension.
I’ve been scrambling to clean up after him ever since, going through years of neglected paperwork that has demanded many late nights. Blanchley might’ve been an incredible doctor, but a pencil pusher he was not. I’ve been forced to plow through it in chunks while struggling to keep up on current papers. All this administrative crap frustrates me most because it does nothing to directly serve patients.
I know it’s pretty unusual for a department head to have a hero complex, but I have helped save lives since taking the position. It’s just been indirect, not hands-on. But I do everything that I possibly can.
Everything from getting a kid from a poor family a transplant to keeping the department on the cutting edge of modern cardiology medicine; I go after it all with everything I have. I’m not an ex-army tough guy like my Dad, but I still fight—for my patients and for my department. Even if I have to fund the battles with my own money.
This mess with Madelyne is just another day at the office in that respect. I’m trying to save a life. But the question is, how best to do so?
If she’s suicidal, by law, I’m supposed to turn around and hand her right over to the psychiatric wing for a 48-hour hold. If I don’t and she kills herself, I’m liable. But if I do ... she’ll end up in the hands of the worst department head on the entire Ravenwood staff.
Dr. Westridge isn’t just a bad doctor, he’s a bad administrator. All kinds of rumors fly around this place about the psychiatric wing. Unacceptably high suicide levels. Unexplained deaths. Complaints of abuse.
He and I have clashed on a variety of subjects, including his insistence on keeping certain mentally ill cardiac patients in restraints, even when it endangers them. He loves drugs, often keeping his patients on levels of sedatives that sometimes endanger them as well. And he loves petty power plays— even among his equals—making him nearly impossible to work with.
The rest of us on staff keep hearing reports of complaints and lawsuits filed against Westridge and wonder when he will finally run out of money for settlements. As far as I am concerned, he doesn’t belong anywhere near a patient—ever. But so far luck, money, and a talented lawyer have protected him from any serious consequences.
I can’t send Madelyne to him. I know too well what will happen if I do. The man will make everything worse. He seems to have a talent for it.
If I take her across state lines, though, and into a major city like Portland, I can get her into a hospital with someone who has to be more competent and ethical than Westridge. Now that she’s starting to calm down, maybe I can get her to agree to that as a plan if she needs to be hospitalized.
We emerge from the access road onto the coastal highway and sweep northward along its cliff-hugging curves, the sea shimmering under the moon to one side of us. I can see the gleam of lights from little hamlets dotting the hills above us, and the sheets of cloud from the dying storm have all lowered into a hilltop crown of fog.
It’s a view worth living to see. I hope my passenger notices.
I check in with her, reaching back carefully to pat her hand with my gloved one. She squeezes my fingers briefly and I go back to driving, temporarily satisfied. Well, she didn’t bail back on the road, and I doubt she’s going to jump now that we’re out here.
On we drive, past several cliffside houses and a rest stop, until finally I slow down to take a break at a turn-off that leads up the hill to my home. It has a couple of benches and an old phone booth. I pull up by one of the benches and get off to stretch my legs and talk to her.
“How was that?” I ask as she awkwardly pulls off her helmet.
“It was ... a little overwhelming, but I ... I’m glad you took me for a ride. Where are we going?” Her voice sounds so hesitant and tentative that I wonder if she thinks I’m leaving her here.
I open my mouth to offer her a ride back to my place, and then I have to stop and wonder at my motives. Behave. “Well,” I say slowly, “where do you want to go?”
She looks out over the ocean silently, wrapping her arms around herself. “As far from here as we can,” she finally murmurs. “That’s where I want to go.”
I think about the two days off work I have coming, and mentally count the cash left in my wallet. I live more modestly than I have to, so I usually have a decent amount of liquid assets. I might have to visit a bank at some point, but ...
“Any specifics?” But of course, she shakes her head. She really wasn’t thinking past tonight. I’m glad I was smart enough to pick up on that.
“All right, up the coastline it is, then. I’ll just get us some clothes to change into in the nearest large town.” I give her a smile, and see a gleam of something like hope in her eyes.
Chapter 4
Madelyne
I freeze up when he asks me where I want to go. Up until half an hour ago, I didn’t want to b
e anywhere. But now, staring out over the silver sea and the wild night stretching above it, I start to think once again about an escape that doesn’t involve dying.
If I can get across state lines, I can ditch this hot but potentially overcurious guy and take off. By the time that Aaron gets back home and discovers that the police are searching for me, I’ll be nothing but a memory to him. I don’t know much about the outside world after ten years locked away in the hospital, but I’m certain I can figure out some way to survive.
At least I’ll finally be free, even if I don’t last long.
Half an hour after I tell him “north,” we make our first stop. It’s a little too close to the hospital for comfort, and the lights are too bright for me. But it’s a public place, it’s dry and warm, and best of all, nobody here is paying attention to much of anything besides their meals.
We’re sitting in a chrome, white, and red fifties-style café that’s half full of tourists and truckers. It’s done up for Halloween, with clusters of carved pumpkins and those jointed cardboard monsters that they always put up in the nursing station back at the hospital. Over half the people there, including a sleepy gaggle of kids, are in costume, making my weird “borrowed” outfit look normal.
Good. I absolutely cannot afford to stand out in any way.
Aaron is in no rush, and I can’t afford to let on that I am. Just act normal, I tell myself firmly as I ball up in a chair and glance nervously around.
“I just really need coffee if we’re going for a long ride, and this is the best local place.” He gives me that smile again. It’s like a flash of light cutting through the gray clouds around me, and I can’t help but try on a small smile in return. It feels strange on my face.
“I understand.” I take a sip of my own. It’s bitter, and I wince and dump sugar and cream into the mug as I realize that I’ve never actually had coffee before.
He smiles a little. “They make the coffee strong here. Sorry, I should have warned you.”
“That’s okay, I just ...” I have to stifle a cough. Yikes. Do they use this stuff to clean floors?
He presses his lips together and looks away like he’s trying not to laugh. “I’ve gotten so used to it that I don’t notice. Hospital staff go through strong coffee like water.”
I feel my blood turn cold for a moment before forcing my smile to stay on. Crap. I knew he might work at the hospital. He’s not from the psych staff ... who is he? “Oh, you work at Ravenwood?”
“Yeah, I’m the head of the cardiology department.” He flashes a boyish grin that says the opposite of “respected senior hospital staff” and I just stare at him. “We went through paperwork hell today, so I was working late. Pretty glad of it now.”
“Yeah,” I reply, a little breathlessly. He’s talking calmly, openly. Not patronizingly or demandingly, or in broken bits of sentences or stream of consciousness. Not like a doctor or attendant, not like a patient either. Like a man—an ordinary man.
It is such a new experience for me after so many years seeing only the same few people day after day that it refreshes and fascinates me. Everything about him fascinates me, especially his clear, honest concern for a total stranger. Suddenly, even if I still don’t care if I live or die any more, I realize that I’m curious about some part of life again. “I’m ... glad that you did too.”
The look of relief on his face surprises me. Why does he care so much about what happens to me? Nobody else ever has. The gesture is so alien, in fact, that something in me starts whispering about how he must have some ulterior motive.
Maybe he wants sex. If that’s true, he’s going a long way to get it. I have mixed feelings about the idea. On the one hand, I know nothing about sex and know I can’t handle being hurt again so soon. On the other, he’s both hot and kind—a combination that I have never seen before.
I really hope it isn’t all an act.
“I’m pretty glad to hear you say that. Truth is, I was worried when you were pretty obviously thinking of jumping into the damn gorge.” He takes a bite of his muffin while I blink at him, at a loss for what to say. He chews, swallows, and goes on, never breaking eye contact. “You want to tell me why?”
My stomach does a flip. I can’t tell him about escaping the hospital if he works there, or he’ll be obliged to bring me back. So I decide to piece together the bits of truth that I can tell him. I’m careful not to lie—he deserves better than that, and he’s smart enough that he would probably be able to tell.
“Well, I ... have been on my own since the age of ten, and I ended up in the custody of someone really ... terrible.” I swallow more coffee and let it warm me. The cream has helped that bitter taste, but it still reminds me of soap.
“And ...?” his eyes narrow slightly, and I freeze for a moment, wondering if I’m being foolish by giving him any truth at all. But what’s my best option? I can’t just tell him nothing, not any more than I can lie to him.
“He had control over me. I mean, I was technically a ward of the state, but, um ... he was the one with custody. And it was ... nasty. And I’d rather not get into the details.” I manage a bite of my blueberry muffin. It’s fruity and subtler than I’m used to; everything at the hospital was blandly sweet, and I barely ever tasted so much as an apple.
He looks troubled but nods. “That’s understandable. So what happened? Did you become depressed?”
“No,” I say sadly. “I finally escaped from him. But ... I was with him for ten years. Since I was a kid. No schooling, no socializing, no access to the outside world.”
I spread my hands, wishing I was a lot more eloquent. Maybe if I had more practice at normal conversation I would be better at this.
He’s staring at me in horror. “So ...” he says finally in a low, shocked tone, “you were someone’s ... captive?”
“He always said it was for my own good. That I was too sick to go outside. But the truth is ... it was a game to him. A power trip.”
My head is already clearing. This is the longest I have gone without a full dose of tranquilizers in ten years.
“He sounds insane,” he mumbles in amazement, setting down his cup.
“Yes, he is all of that and more,” I agree distractedly. “He doesn’t legally have the right to keep me anywhere anymore, since I’m twenty now. I should have been able to get away when I turned eighteen, but he simply ... didn’t let me go.”
It was worse than that—a lot worse. The drugs, the mind games—the doctor constantly trying to tell me that I was sicker than I was, and that I could not trust my own mind. It makes me sick to think about, and I quickly distract myself with nibbling on my muffin.
“How did you escape?” He takes a swallow of his coffee, still staring at me wide-eyed.
“I managed to keep from swallowing some of my tranquilizers and slipped out. I’ve never given th—him any trouble, so I was never watched too closely after lights out.” It’s all true, and comes out smoothly. Let him think I’m talking about a private home and not a ward in his own hospital.
“Jesus. Do you know what this guy had you on, and where he was getting it?” He sounds outraged—for me. That’s something completely new.
I stare at him, really not sure what to say. I, of course, know the meds that have been forced on me: three amber ovals of Seroquel totaling maybe 1200 milligrams daily, and four two-milligram bars of Xanax totaling eight milligrams. They were given to me at precise times, day and night, so that I was always being interrupted to swallow more pills. I couldn’t even sleep through the night.
“I don’t actually know. He didn’t put me on them because I’m depressed; they were all tranquilizers.” That’s as specific as I’ll get, I decide. If I show too much knowledge of my meds he’ll likely start asking questions about who explained them to me. It wasn’t that control freak, after all—it was one of the nurses. I’ll plead ignorance and hope it doesn’t matter all that much.
“This guy sounds crazy. I wonder if he was supposed to be taki
ng them himself and just pushed them off onto you.” He drains his mug and gestures to the waitress, a chubby redhead wandering around in a pair of black cat ears. “Do you think he’ll come after you?”
“I’m absolutely sure of it. He’s ... possessive. He will want to get me back. And I would rather die than go back.”
It’s the truth, and it’s all the truth I can manage.
“So you’re not suicidally depressed—” he starts, and I cut him off more sharply than I intend.
“No. He always told me I was crazy so I wouldn’t have any confidence in myself, but it’s crap. I’m depressed because of my circumstances, and I wanted to kill myself because I thought it was the only way out. You came by and offered me an alternative. I took it.” I stare him firmly in the eyes, clinging tight to my one scrap of pride.
He rakes a hand back through his spiky bronze hair and sighs. “That’s both a relief and a problem, because if even half of what you are saying is true, then you have bigger issues than just recovering from depression.”
Dr. Orgasm (A Holiday Romance Collection Book 2) Page 2