The Infamous Ellen James (Infamous Series)

by Alcorn, N. A.

  "Sure, no problem." I'm waiting for his reaction when he finally realizes what this little old woman is here for.

  "Uh, Elle. Undercarriage? I'm pretty sure that's not a medical term."

  "Well, that's what the sweet old lady kept telling me, so that's what I wrote down.”

  God, I'm such a bitch, but honestly, I can't help myself when it comes to him.

  I follow John into bed one to assist with Mrs. Franks's examination. I'm acting like a good, resourceful nurse by obtaining a speculum, but I know that once this little old woman drops her pants, her uterus is most likely going to be sitting on the bed.

  I can hardly hold back the laughter.

  I tend to have an issue with laughing at inappropriate times, such as church, funerals, extremely awkward moments, or like this magical moment we're about to experience right now. I'm finding myself slightly overwhelmed by the hilarity of this entire situation. Unfortunately, John is completely aware of my issue with holding back laughter, and I notice that he's practically scowling at me.

  I quickly turn around and act like I'm busying myself with one of the cabinets while John asks Mrs. Franks to remove her pants and underwear.

  Damn my tendency to laugh at the most outlandish scenarios possible!

  I'm practically shaking with quiet laughter at this point, and occasional snorts are escaping my nose while tears stream down my face. The fact that I know that John knows I'm laughing at him is making this situation even more comical.

  I speedily attempt to pull myself together and turn around to help him when he sternly asks me to hand him a pack of sterile gloves. No way should I expect a physician to grab his own gloves. That would be absolutely crazy, right? I mean, that's a nurse's job.

  Are you sensing my sarcasm? It's mighty heavy right now…

  I discreetly wipe the tears from my cheeks before I grab a pair of size eight gloves from the cabinet. After I hand John the gloves, Mrs. Franks gives me a look of concern and asks if everything is all right.

  "Of course, Mrs. Franks. I think I managed to get some dust in my eyes," I tell her while still trying to hold back the overwhelming urge to burst out laughing. I assist Mrs. Franks with placing her legs in stirrups while John continues to explain the type of examine he will be administering.

  Sure enough, once I place her little chicken legs in stirrups, her "undercarriage" is hanging all the way out. That's right—Mrs. Franks's uterus is actually hanging out of her vagina.

  John slowly glances my way and I quickly turn my head before I am faced with his pissed off glare. The quiet laughter threatens to take over again and I have to suddenly excuse myself before I cause an embarrassing scene right there in bed one.

  Let's be honest. This entire situation is like a comedy sketch. I'm in a patient room witnessing my ex-fiancé's face all up in eighty-year-old saggy va-jay-jay, which also happens to have a giant uterus attempting to make the great escape.

  Oh thank you, karma, you snarky little bitch.

  Chapter Ten

  “Sometimes you feel like alcohol is the fuel to greatness. Then you wake up the next day and realize you're just one YouTube video away from becoming the next VH1 reality star with a giant clock hanging around your neck, desperately trying to get Flavor Flav to shoot his special sauce on your face.”

  Amy and I decide to make it a girls only night and stuff our faces with large amounts of chocolate and red wine. We choose to watch the movie Bridesmaids because Kristen Wiig is a riot and the plane scene is our absolute favorite.

  We have a nice selection of Reese's Cups, M&M's, cookie dough, and whipped cream.

  The dinner of champions, my friends.

  We agreed to just drink one bottle of our favorite Merlot.

  We stick to that plan hardcore…for about forty-five minutes until we realize that we're out of alcohol. You'd think a bottle of wine would last longer than forty-five minutes. I head into the kitchen and pull out two more bottles of Merlot from my secret stash, pop the corks, and hand one to Amy before resuming my designated spot on the couch.

  "What. The. Fuck? Where did you find these?" Amy is giving me an evil stare.

  "Uhhhhh…my secret stash," I state with a laugh before taking a large swig from my bottle.

  "I can't believe you've been hiding alcohol from me! I thought we were friends! What else is there? What else are you hiding? Candy? Ice cream? Condoms?"

  I nearly spit out my wine when she mentions condoms. Luckily, I manage to contain my laughter and avoid staining our living room carpet red. There is one thing I refuse to do, and that is waste alcohol. I never ever waste alcohol.

  "Of course I have a secret stash. Are you blind? If you knew about my secret stash, then you wouldn't have that bottle in your hands right now, because you would have already drunk it," I answer with a serious look on my face.

  Shit gets real when we're talking secret alcohol stashes. I'm a grown-ass woman, and if I want to hide my alcohol like I'm on the show Hoarders, that's my own personal right.

  Amy looks pensive as she thinks about my last statement. After a good thirty seconds of silence, which is rare in this apartment, she finally gives me a response. "Okay. You win. You're one hundred percent right that I would have already drunk this alcohol if I'd known about your secret stash."

  I let out a large sigh of relief at her willingness to wave the white flag. I honestly didn't have the strength to be involved in WineGate 2013 tonight.

  "How many Reese's Cups do you think I can eat in fifteen minutes?" I attempt to change the subject and choose one of our all-time favorite topics of discussion.

  "You bring this up at least once a month, but you never actually prove yourself. Bring it, James. Show me what ya got!" Amy cheers loudly before running into the kitchen.

  She comes back with a stopwatch, an extra bag of Reese's Cups, a notepad, and a pen.

  "What's the pen and paper for?" I sit down in front of the coffee table, mentally preparing myself to crush a bag of Reese's Cups' like a woman who just got her period and is gorging herself after two weeks on a low-carb diet.

  "To keep tally of how many Reese's Cups you can eat. Duh." Her tone is completely serious, and I glance up to see if she's actually joking.

  She's not. She's one hundred percent serious right now.

  "Are you fucking with me right now? You know you could just count the wrappers or even just count out loud as I eat them. I mean, it's only fifteen minutes."

  "Oh. Well, maybe I was kidding with you."

  "Let's just go with that assumption." I'm laughing a little at her expense, but I can't help myself. Occasionally, Amy has these rare moments that are absolutely hilarious and have me temporarily questioning what goes on inside that head of hers.

  Fifteen minutes later…

  I'm lying flat on my back, trying to avoid throwing up chocolate covered peanut butter. My mouth is watering like a faucet and my esophagus feels like it's boiling in undigested candy. I'm so nauseous that I can't even sit up straight, and I'm sure the large amount of wine I've consumed isn't helping my cause.

  When I was eight minutes into my Reese's Cup challenge, Amy and I ran out of wine. We both decided that I obviously could not go on with the challenge unless I had more wine to help wash the candy down. Logical, right? Amy managed to find another bottle of some cheap red wine in the kitchen pantry. Now, I'm two bottles-of-wine deep, and I just consumed eighteen Reese's Cups in fifteen minutes. Fuck.

  "What do you think about that new surgeon who's watching over Dr. Grey's practice?" I continue to stare up at the ceiling of our apartment, counting the tiles and tiny cracks that are dispersed throughout. I'm trying desperately to get my mind off the fact that I might hurl all over our living room carpet.

  "I think he's pretty hot and seems to make 'fuck me' eyes at you," Amy answers before beginning her routine of drunken hiccups.

  "'Fuck me' eyes? You're crazy, you know that?"

  "Yes, I know I'm crazy. That's why you love me so much. A
nd yes, 'fuck me' eyes. Dr. Hamilton wants to thrust you something fierce."

  Well, his dick sure seemed interested when he kissed me senseless in the supply room the other day…

  “I feel like I've met him before. I get this feeling of déjà vu whenever I'm around him."

  Amy giggles a couple of times and then glances over at me from the couch. "You need to start working on your 'Thrust me, Dr. Hamilton' campaign.'"

  I just look over at Amy and start laughing.

  There is no way I'm going to let her know about the supply room incident. If I let her know that Dr. Hamilton and I kissed, she would seriously lose her shit. And Amy with two bottles of wine in her system and losing her shit is not a good scenario for me. I can already picture her tracking down his number and inviting him over to our apartment tonight with, "Hey, Dr. Fuck-Me-Eyes, you should come over and bang my Elle into next Tuesday."

  Yeah, that definitely wouldn't make things awkward for everyone at work tomorrow.

  "What, Elle? I'm serious. With a body like that, I bet that man would screw you senseless. Can I at least be in the room when you two bang it out for the first time?"

  "Sure thing, dickhead. If Dr. Hamilton and I get our freak on, I'll make sure you have a front-row seat. Actually, I'll just bring him back to your room and let him bang me while you're sleeping right next to me."

  "Yessssss! That's what I'm talking about! And I most definitely will not be sleeping while he's pounding your snatch," Amy says before she starts singing a song that consists of one only verse…

  I get to see Elle and Dr. Fuck-Me-Eyes thrust.

  Yeah, definitely not a good idea to tell her about the kiss in the supply room.

  I stay on the floor for a good thirty minutes and manage to recover from my sugar-alcohol overdose. I'm still shitfaced, but that feeling is always welcome in this apartment. Amy and I continue to laugh hysterically as we watch Bridesmaids. We're both drunk to the nines, and this can be a dangerous scenario when we are left alone together.

  The Merlot has stained both of our teeth red and we take at least fifty selfies with our phones while giggling uncontrollably. We take a few minutes to drunk dial a few of our closest friends and then decide to take a gander at funny YouTube videos. Amy scrolls to a Harlem Shake video and we both start laughing, remembering my performance the other night at Murphy's.

  "Hey, friennnnd, we should post my Harlem Shake video on YouTube!" I slur to Amy as I pet her hair.

  "Whaaat? No way! Are you sure you want that on YouTube?" Amy is already scrolling to the saved videos on her phone.

  "Hell yes! My video is awwwwwwesome and YouTubers will love me!" I throw my hands in the air and fall back onto the carpet.

  "Everyone will love you, Ellie Belly! I'm gonna load it up right now!" Amy announces as she drunkenly starts to upload a video to YouTube.

  ***

  The next day at work is grueling, and working through a wine headache is always a little bit of a struggle. Amy and I take turns seeing patients in the emergency room. We keep up a constant supply of coffee and Tylenol, and this seems to get us through the day.

  As I head towards the nurses' station, I notice Tony and Amy sitting around one of the computers, laughing riotously as they look at his phone. I quietly sneak up behind them and attempt to figure out what they're watching. I can tell YouTube is pulled up, but Tony's giant head is blocking my view of the video.

  "Hey!" I shriek in attempt to scare both of them.

  They both jump and then turn around quickly at the sound of my voice. They have this deer-in-headlights look as they try to discreetly hide Tony's phone screen from my view.

  "What are you guys doing?" My voice is laced with irritation, and I'm sure the wrinkle lines in my forehead are showing with my scowl.

  "Uh, nothing, Elle. We're just browsing the web, looking at stupid stuff." Amy looks nervous and Tony is frantically trying to click out of YouTube on his phone. I swiftly move around Tony and snatch his phone from his hands.

  "Shit! Elle! Give that back!" Tony shouts at me while furiously attempting to retrieve his phone.

  "Tony, stop grabbing for your phone or I swear I will tell Nurse Ratchet to float you to Med-Surg tomorrow." Tony slowly puts his hands to his sides, and that's when I notice the title of the video they are watching—Harlem Shake Epic Fail.

  Oh, fuck me.

  I push Tony out of the chair and slowly sit down before clicking play. I'm then faced with the video that Amy recorded of me at Murphy's.

  Oh my god! Why is this on YouTube?!

  I glance down in the right-hand corner of the screen and see that there have been over five hundred thousand hits.

  "Five hundred thousand hits! Amy, you are so dead!" I scream as I watch a video of myself awkwardly thrusting my pelvis in the background at Murphy's Pub.

  "You made me upload it last night! Tony just happened to find it while scrolling through YouTube on his break!" she shouts back at me while still trying to contain her laughter.

  I made her put this ridiculous video on YouTube?

  And then…it hits me.

  I remember drunkenly petting her hair and telling her to upload the video to YouTube, saying, "Youtubers will love me!"

  Son. Of. A. Bitch.

  "Motherfucking fuck. Fucking shit!" I stomp my foot on the ground like an insolent toddler.

  I sluggishly start scrolling through the comments and see Shirley Swallows Goes Viral posted over and over and over again. My best friend and I have managed to make me an overnight YouTube sensation.

  I will forever been known as the girl in the Shirley Swallows t-shirt who awkwardly pelvic thrusts.

  Well, that's just fan-fucking-tastic.

  Chapter Eleven

  “When life gives you 550-horsepower and a little cocksucker challenging you to a street race, you burn rubber and show him that women can drive muscle cars just as well as men.”

  By the end of my shift, I decide that I'm not actually going to kill Amy for posting the infamous Harlem Shake Epic Fail YouTube video. Although, I'm still entertaining the idea of cunt punching her tonight while she is sleeping.

  I sit down next to Tony, who's feverishly charting his patient assessments on one of the computers in the nurses' station. I have no doubt that these are assessments that most likely should have been charted hours ago. This is typical Tony. I love the guy to death. He's a fantastic nurse, but his time management skills blow some serious ass.

  “How's Rachel doing?” I ask him as I type out a note on the last patient I discharged.

  “She's great.” Tony's face lights up with a huge smile. “I think I'm going to propose to her.”

  “Seriously? Oh my god, that is awesome! I'm so happy for you!” I jump up out of my chair and wrap my arms around his broad chest, hugging him tightly.

  Tony laughs and gives my arms a gentle squeeze. “Thanks, Elle. I really appreciate that.”

  Despite his lack of time management skills, Tony is truly an amazing man. He started dating a sweet girl named Rachel over a year ago, and they've been inseparable ever since. I have no doubt in my mind she will say yes, and Tony will get his much deserved happily ever after.

  I finish up with my last patient and let out a huge sigh in relief. I'm exhausted, it's after nine p.m., and I'm in desperate need for a drink at Murphy's. I see Amy sitting at the nurses' station and decide to extend a tequila branch her way. Yes, tequila branch instead of olive branch. Amy and I are notorious for our alcohol consumption, and this is one part of our friendship we both proudly embrace.

  "Hey, I'm going to head out. Meet me at Murphy's after you finish up?"

  Amy looks up from her large stack of patient charts. "Is this you offering a tequila branch my way?"

  I feign frustration and give an exaggerated sigh. "Yeah, I guess I forgive you for being such an asshole and allowing that video to go viral on YouTube."

  "All right, sweet cheeks. I'll see you there once I'm done charting."

 
I glance up at the large white clock that sits above the nurse's station. "It's nine o'clock right now. How about you try to get out of here before ten, slacker?"

  Amy scratches her cheek with her middle finger before saying, "Hey, why don't you get off my ass and go change your stank-ass scrubs?” She grins widely at me. “I'll see you around ten."

  I laugh a little at her inappropriate gesture. "Like you should talk. I'm pretty sure you still have remnants of bed four's GI bleed on your pants."

  She smiles at me and then looks down at her pants. "Just for that comment, I'm wearing these to the bar so you can smell me all night long."

  "Okay, nasty. I'll see you around ten." I blow Amy a kiss and walk towards the locker room.

  "Love your tits!" Amy yells a little too loudly for a professional hospital setting. I just shake my head, knowing full well that if I turn around, the inappropriate banter will start spewing from her mouth, so I do what any sane person would do…I keep walking.

  I head to the ladies' locker room to change out of my scrubs and into something more appropriate for drinks after work. I throw on my faded skinny jeans, black knee-high riding boots, and my favorite vintage Pink Floyd tank. I love this tank because it is so comfortable and shows just enough cleavage to give a little sex appeal. I brush my long auburn locks up into a pony tail and put on just enough makeup to hide the fact that I've worked sixteen hours in the emergency room.

  As I head for the parking lot, I notice Trent Hamilton leaning against the wall just outside of the ladies' locker room. His jet-black hair is tousled, and his piercing blue eyes are covered with thick black lashes. His attire gives no hints to the fact that he is one of the most respected trauma surgeons in the country. A black leather jacket, a white V-neck tee, faded jeans, and black boots make him look more like he just got off of a Harley rather than just having finished a long shift in the operating room.

  Mmmmmm. Hot guy eye-candy. Is there anything better?

  After visually eye-fucking him for a good thirty seconds, Trent finally looks up at me as he slides his Blackberry in the back pocket of his jeans. I bet his ass looks fantastic in those jeans.