by J. Saman
Stepping out into the warm July morning, I take a sip of my decaf just as my phone buzzes. Only my mother calls me this early and though I’m tempted to ignore her, I answer her on the third ring.
“Good morning, Mother.” Yes, my mother is one of those mothers who insists on being called Mother. Probably because she was never a mom and quite the opposite of a mommy. Mommies love you. Mommies have your best interests at heart.
Mommies protect you from the boogeyman.
“Finnigan,” she says and I inwardly groan at the use of my full name. My snooty, aristocratic mother should never have let my piece of shit, alcoholic father name me. Who gives a fuck if he was worth a half a billion dollars? What good was that money when he was beating us senseless? “How are you this morning?”
“Fine, thank you. How are you?”
“Very well.” Our conversations always begin the same and I wonder what she would do if I ever told her that I’m not well. That things can be real shit sometimes. “I was talking to Olivia Prescot’s mother last night at the club.”
And here we go.
“Uh huh,” I say only half listening, as I start my walk back uptown so I can get some rest before I have to do this all over again.
“She informed me that Olivia recently ended things with that man she had been seeing.”
“Wonderful,” I mock. I have no idea who Olivia Prescot is nor do I care.
“I’m glad you think so because I gave her mother your number.”
“I hope you’re kidding, Mother.” I freeze in the middle of the sidewalk. Something about my mother just makes me goddamn furious.
“Finnigan,” she starts slowly. “Olivia is a very smart, beautiful woman. She works as a marketing director for Precision Cosmetics.” Right. Like that makes any sort of difference with me. You’d think she would know better by this point?
“Mother,” I growl, because my patience with her seems to be evaporating faster than usual. “I am not interested in dating Olivia Prescot or any of the other daughters of the women at your club. I’ve asked you to stop giving out my number. The last woman you forced upon me, thinks I’m a dick for telling her I’m not interested. Pretty soon, your friends will start to shun you.” Not that I care, but I’m hoping my threat acts as a deterrent to my overly exploitive mother.
“Language, dear. And I doubt it. No one gets accepted to that club without me.”
How this woman stayed with my father as long as she did is a mystery to me. She was completely different while he was alive. Silent and meek. Now she’s a bigger bitch than I am an asshole, and that’s saying something.
“How nice for you. I have to go.”
I disconnect the call without waiting on her required pleasantry and then I head home to try and sleep for a few hours. But I’m restless. Unable to make sense of my thoughts. I just need…something. I don’t even know what. Just a change from my ordinary.
Leaning my back against the rough exterior of the neighboring building, I take a sip of my coffee and shut my eyes. I’m probably just tired. Speaking with my mother certainly doesn’t help with anything.
“Long night?” she asks and I inwardly sigh.
Gia Bianchi, how did you find me?
Will I ever be able to escape her now that I’ve seen her again? If I hadn’t started this new job, I’d seriously consider leaving for something else.
“Something like that,” I say, unable to look down upon her.
“But you get to go home and sleep, right? Why bother with coffee?”
“It’s decaf. I’ll still get to sleep. Why are you up so early?”
She doesn’t answer right away and her silence is like a train wreck. I can’t help but look, hoping to see something which will give me the sick thrill I love to pretend I don’t feel. And when my eyes find hers, I realize that’s exactly what she was waiting on.
“Early riser. Now I survive on caffeine and carbs. Very healthy.”
My eyes scroll down her sensational body, taking in her exercise outfit and lingering on those tits I like so much and say, “Seems to do well by you.” And this is why I can’t be around this woman. Because I don’t know how to shut the fuck up.
She grins. Maybe even blushes a little, though that’s a bit more difficult to tell.
“Do you want to come with me? Let me buy you some breakfast? You know,” she hedges, shifting her weight to the other foot, “to thank you for saving me from certain catastrophic and painful death.”
Yes. “No,” I answer instead and she nods, but it’s the sort of nod that’s more of an obligation than an affirmative. If she’s hurt, she’s hiding it well. “Sorry, I’m just really tired.”
“Sure,” she says with an easy shrug and I hate that shrug. I want her to be disappointed. I want her to want me to come have breakfast with her. “Of course. Another time, maybe.”
Oh, Gia. If only.
She doesn’t wait for me to say anything else, she just smiles at me, her perfect white teeth reflecting off the sun. “See you around, Dr. Banner.”
Then she turns around and walks off, but not in the direction of the coffee shop I just vacated. No, she’s headed home, I think. So it’s not like she was going in there anyway.
Dr. Banner.
I cannot stand how she just did that. I should only be Finn to her. Never Dr. Banner. Dr. Banner is the man who told her that her father was dead. Finn is the man she should forever stay away from. We are very different and yet, that difference is everything.
Because even though I need Gia Bianchi to stay away from me, it’s the last thing in the world I want.
Chapter 4
Gia
I get a text page twenty minutes before the end of my shift that I need to go down to the emergency department and evaluate a patient. This pisses me off for so many reasons. First, I hate the ED. I think I’ve already covered why. Second, the majority of doctors in the ED are completely incompetent when it comes to pregnant women. It’s like these women have some rare and terrifying disease which makes doctors stupid, eliminating all logic and common sense with how to treat them.
I don’t bother wasting time on trying to find someone else to go, I just suck it up and do it.
For one very specific reason.
The hopeful butterflies in my stomach aren’t playing it cool at all. They’re completely giving me away.
Opening the back door of the ED, I waltz over to the nurses' station because the page did not tell me who asked for the consult or in what room to find the patient. She directs me over to sutures area and tells me the request came from an intern and a medical student. The pretty young nurse laughs when I roll my eyes at that. Strolling down the long corridor, I can’t help but scan the hallway and rooms–without trying to be obvious–for Dr. Banner. Yes, that is still what I call him in my mind.
Of course, he’s not any where to be found and as I enter the sutures room, I want to sigh. A woman, probably seven or so months along is sitting on a gurney with her arm on a blue Chux pad, showcasing a two-inch laceration. And off to the side, standing as far away from her as the room will allow, are Larry and Curly.
“You called for an OB consult?” I ask them, stepping into the room and smiling at the poor patient who was unfortunate enough to have these two idiots providing her medical care.
“Yes,” the one on the left with very blond hair says. “I’m Dr. Thomas and this is Andrew Thomas, no relation. He’s a medical student.”
“Hi,” I say to both of them, in no mood for socializing. I want to get to the bottom of this and get out of here. It was a very long and exhausting shift and I don’t want to be late in meeting Colin. I’m always late when we meet up and it annoys him. Can’t exactly blame him for that. “What’s the problem?”
“Well,” Dr. Thomas says, his eyes flittering past me over to the gurney where the patient is seated, “she’s pregnant.”
I glance over at the woman who is shaking her h
ead and rolling her eyes and I can’t blame her for that either. I would be too. “I can see that.”
“We can’t stitch her up until you clear her,” That’s Andrew Thomas–no relation, now.
“What exactly do you need me to clear? She’s pregnant.” I raise my eyebrows at them. “What does that have to do with her arm lac?”
They both exchange nervous glances and now I sigh. “Okay, come with me and pay attention.” I turn around and move across the room until I’m standing next to her. “Hello, I’m Gia Bianchi, one of the midwives here in the hospital. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“You too,” she says with an air of frustration. “Look, all I did was cut my arm open after having to jump out of the way from a guy riding his bike on the sidewalk. I sliced it on one of those metal fences on the side of a building.”
“Did you fall?” She shakes her head. “Did you bump your belly?” Another headshake. “Any abdominal pain or cramping?”
“Nope.”
“What about back pain?”
“No more than usual. I’m seven months.”
I knew it, I mentally high five myself. “Any blood or fluid from your vagina?”
“Definitely not.”
I smile at her expression. “Are you feeling the baby move?”
“Yes,” she sighs. “The baby is fine. I just want to get my stitches or whatever they have to do and go.”
“I completely understand.” I turn back to Larry and Curly and say, “She’s cleared. I don’t think we need to check a fetal heartbeat,” I turn back to her, “unless you’d like me to.”
The lady shrugs again. “Sure. Why not. I’m here and I can never get enough of that sound.”
“I hear you on that.” I pull out my pocket doppler and gel which I always carry with me for a consult, because if I’m not on the labor and delivery–L&D as we call it–floor, there is never any gel to be had. “You guys can start. But if you’re using actual sutures instead of liquid, use regular lidocaine. No epi.”
Both of their eyes widen and then Andrew Thomas–no relation–grabs the bottle of lidocaine that’s on the table and goes to switch it for one which does not have epinephrine in it. In the small dose that’s in the lidocaine, it’s probably safe, but why risk it? Especially with these two.
Lifting up her shirt, I feel around for the baby’s back, enjoying the way it moves beneath my hand. “Do you know what you’re having?” I ask her.
“A girl. We’re going to name her May. Like the month.”
“Beautiful.” I squirt some gel onto her abdomen and slide the diaphragm of the doppler around until I find the heartbeat and when I do, I check the rate. “Perfect. One thirty-five. Baby May sounds great.”
“Thank you,” she says. “Who knew there would be all this production for a cut.”
I really have nothing to say to that, so I just smile, make my goodbyes to her and the two Thomas’s and get the hell out of here. Typically, I would go back upstairs to chart, but I want to leave the hospital so I have time to shower and change before I meet Colin.
We’ve been dating for about six weeks now, but we’re still far from serious or even exclusive. He made that last one clear when we were about four weeks in. And I probably should have sent him packing then, but I didn’t. He’s a nice guy, good looking, patient with my demanding and ever-changing schedule and decent in bed. So I don’t exactly mind the fact we’re not serious or exclusive. It actually fits my life pretty well.
I find an abandoned computer on a rolling cart, log in and start documenting on my consult. I’m just reading over my note when I feel someone behind me. Spinning around, I find myself peering directly into those blue eyes I was hoping to see.
“Did you change specialties?” he asks playfully.
I laugh, shaking my head. “No, I was summoned down here by an intern and a medical student who were terrified to suture a woman’s arm because she has a baby growing inside her.”
“Ah,” he says with a knowing nod. “I wish I could say they’re the only ones, but a lot of us are afraid of them.”
I laugh because the thought of him calling me down for a consult like the one I just had doesn’t bother me nearly as much as it did for the other two. “Are you one of those people, Dr. Banner?”
He steps into me a little, not a lot, but enough so I can feel his presence and smell his oh-so-enticing scent. Sandalwood and citrus, I think. My stomach swoops and the sensation makes me want to smile bigger. “Finn, Gia. Call me Finn.”
“Finn,” I repeat because I haven’t allowed myself the pleasure of using his first name yet. He has forever lived as Dr. Banner in my thoughts. It somehow felt safer that way.
“Did you mouth off to my intern and medical student the way you did Michael Sanders?”
“What?” I laugh the word.
“That day in the ED when I first met you.” He shifts so he’s even closer. His arm is touching mine now. Just his stupid white coat, but it’s deliberate. As deliberate as all the other times he’s touched me. No other way to take it. “You told Dr. Sanders you weren’t as clueless as the black gown would have him believe.”
“I can’t believe you remember that,” I gasp, because that has my mind running circuits right now. He remembers what I said over a year ago? And he’s touching more of my arm with his now. And his head is dipped purposefully close without being overly intrusive.
“It was impressive and definitely memorable. No one ever mouths off to Dr. Sanders. He’s the epitome of a hard-ass with his staff.”
“Jealous, were you?” I grin up at him, not even trying to hide the fact I’m flirting with him. I can’t stop the cruel pleasure of it.
“Very. But now I get to be the hard-ass so it all works.”
“Is that right? Should I mouth off to you too then?”
“I can think of better uses for your mouth,” he says quietly, his head leaning in closer as he does, his blue eyes darkening as his pupils begin to dilate. My heart rate begins to spike and my breathing picks up. I can practically taste the mint on his breath.
I don’t think I’ve found my voice yet. I swallow. Clear my throat. “Are you just starting your shift?”
He shakes his head. “No. Just finishing up. A bunch of us are going out if you’d like to join.”
Shit. Why does this keep happening? “I would, but I can’t tonight.” I hope he can hear the regret in my voice. “Another time though?”
He gives me a short tight nod and then he does that thing where he looks away, up at nothing. He did it last time, after I told him about Colin. His eyes close slowly and when they reopen, his features are wooden. He takes an intentional step back, becoming distant and unapproachable.
I can’t see past the blinders he has up. They obscure everything.
What the hell just happened?
“Probably better if we didn’t,” he says and I think those are my least favorite words put together. He goes from burning hot to freezing cold in a matter of seconds and I don’t know how to keep myself balanced with that. How to navigate through.
“See you around, Gia.”
That’s becoming our line. I don’t want that to become our line. I want more of the line where we can think of better things to do with my mouth. I want him to show me in explicit detail just what those things are. But Dr. Finn Banner isn’t going to do that with me. I can see it written all over him.
I sigh, feeling so very defeated with him. With myself. “You too, Finn.”
He’s already gone. Just like that night. But really, what the hell? I mean, all I said was I can’t do it tonight. I didn’t even tell him I have plans with another man. It’s not like he asked me out on a date. He asked me to join a group of people.
So why the fuck does he get all sulky like that? It’s aggravating. And infuriating. And every other synonym which works in this situation. I sort of want to scream, I like you, Finn. I want you to ask me out on a real date
. I want to throw my hands up in the air and yell, show me something real.
But I don’t know if there is a point to that. Maybe he’s right. Maybe it is better this way. And really, why do I like him? Because he flirts with me? Because he’s gorgeous?
Pathetic.
He’s not even all that nice to me.
I leave the ED in a mood. Not a good mood either. I haven’t seen Finn–fantastic, now he’s Finn–in weeks and now he’s all I can think about. Again. Last time it took me a solid two weeks until I wasn’t totally consumed with thoughts of him. That really only gave me a week’s reprieve, which isn’t a lot.
I feel like he has a story. At least that’s what I convinced myself of. He’s movie star caliber hot. Smart. Funny. A doctor. Really good at the whole flirting thing. I mean, why is a guy like him single? And what’s with the whole, probably better if we didn’t, bullshit?
He’s got to be hiding something, right? STDs? Yeah, that must be it.
Sadly, that thought doesn’t put me off from him. Probably because I know that’s not the situation. Finn doesn’t have STDs. But he doesn’t exactly scream player either. If he was, he would have made his move already.
I need to let it go. I don’t know him. I’ve only met him a few times and each of those encounters have been brief. Memorable, but brief.
I get home, shower off the day of birthing babies and slip on a black, low-cut V-neck dress with cutouts in the back. The color looks good against my hair which is nearly the same shade and I put on some shimmery eyeshadow and red lipstick because why not.
Colin likes a bar that’s coincidentally only a couple of blocks from the hospital, but in the other direction from my apartment so it takes me almost fifteen minutes to walk over there in my four-inch heels which I really shouldn’t be wearing, as my feet already ache from spending the whole day on them.
Stepping inside, I immediately spot Colin waiting for me at the bar, a new beer in his hand. I’m hoping that means I’m not all that late. “Hey,” I say as I reach him, placing a small kiss on his cheek.