Surgical mask still hanging from his neck and cap sitting cockeyed atop his pile of filthy hair, he strode into the waiting room. The men were in various states of undress in their bunker gear, not one having left the hospital for anything more than to step outside for the occasional and ironic cigarette. Braces half on, filthy Tshirts, bunker trousers, and boots made a grungy mess of the waiting room. One man was sprawled in a chair with his turnout coat draped over his head, SPELLACY stenciled in white across the top. He was snoring.
“Dr. Moreau.” A tall, muscular man with serious brown eyes and a tired voice approached him, Keller dark and glowering at his side. “I’m Lieutenant Liebgott, Deck’s chief.” He put his hand out to Naim.
“Yes, I remember from earlier. Thank you,” Naim replied, shaking the man’s hand and nodding at Keller.
Before he could say anything more, Keller jumped in. “My wife was already down here and said everything went fine. I told these bastards to go home, but they wouldn’t hear it from anyone but the surgeon.” He grunted, his arms crossed over his chest and his bunker gear making him look impossibly bigger and more intimidating. Keller wasn’t a particularly tall man, but he was dark for his German heritage, and his coloring seemed to emphasize his build—one that bore a striking resemblance to a Sherman tank. Whenever he was around Keller, Naim always felt a vague sense of irritation that his own Middle Eastern coloring did him no such favors.
“Right, of course. Well, I understand their concern, although hearing from Je—Dr. Keller is almost better than the horse’s mouth,” Naim said as kindly as he could.
“She told us the surgery went well. No complications?” Liebgott obviously needed reassurance when it came to his men.
“Yes, yes, everything went well.” The other men started to wander over to where they were talking, so Naim spoke up, frowning. Christ, they were all so damn big. Naim was perfectly content with his five feet almost nine inches and wiry-not-skinny build, but being around these men was making him feel fragile. He wasn’t, and he didn’t like it. “We were able to remove the pipe without any further damage, but the existing damage is already severe. His recovery, you have to know, will be a long one.”
“Fuck that.” A tall, scruffy man whose chestnut-colored skin was now literally black from smoke and soot spoke up. “Deck is a beast. He’ll be back on the job in a week, fucking watch.”
“Shut up, Peyton.” Liebgott didn’t look at the man. “I’m sorry, Doctor. Please go on.”
Naim blinked, uncomfortable with the increasing scrutiny he received from the firefighters. “Right.” He cleared his throat. “Well, it is in his favor that he’s strong and healthy. We are, however, concerned about a possible pleural effusion—”
“What is this? What thing are you talking about? Fucking hate doctors,” a short man built like a fireplug complained in a foreign accent. Naim briefly remembered when Jen had laughed at her husband over the city’s new physical fitness requirements for firefighters. Not that Keller needed any encouragement. Apparently, the entire squad took the new requirements to an entirely different level.
“Bosko.” Keller snapped at the man before Liebgott had the chance. “Watch your fucking mouth.” Apparently, the man forgot Keller’s wife.
Naim cleared his throat again, ignoring the interruption. It didn’t usually bother him when people took their anxiety over loved ones out on him, but his patience was wearing thin; he needed rest. “Because of the smoke he inhaled in the fire, his lungs were already compromised.” It was hard for him, in his exhausted state, to remember to speak not-doctor, especially given this Bosko character’s already unpleasant demeanor. “The intubation and anesthesia irritated the tissue further, so there is a danger of fluids collecting in his lungs.”
Every one of the men eyeballed him now, with the exception of the fellow, Spellacy, who was still snoring softly under his turnout coat.
“How serious is this? What exactly are we talking about here?” Liebgott’s jaw worked.
Naim shifted his weight and rubbed his tired eyes with a thumb and forefinger. “Frankly, it’s not something I would lose sleep over. We won’t know for at least a day, and it’s a treatable condition. Given that he’s going to be here through recovery and rehab, we will be able to keep a close eye on him.”
Liebgott sighed and looked to Keller, but Naim, reading his thoughts before he could speak, went on. “Dr. Keller, I have no doubt, will keep herself involved in his care.” He looked Liebgott in the eyes and nodded as he spoke. “She’ll pay special attention to him. It would be unethical of me to say everything will be fine, but honestly, Lieutenant? Go home. Get some rest. We’ve all had a long day.”
“My wife is a softhearted sucker, Lieb.” Keller, arms still folded, looked suspiciously like he was pouting. “I hate to say it, but she’ll make sure the stupid fucker is fine.”
Liebgott snorted. Facing Naim, who mentally shook his head at Keller’s seemingly bottomless well of hostility, the lieutenant smiled and shook Naim’s hand again. “Thank you, Doctor. Thank you very much. Perhaps we haven’t been as sensitive as we should to your own experience today.” He shot Bosko a look. “Jen was right. You are a hell of a doctor.”
Naim smiled for the first time that day. “Thank you, Lieutenant, but I’m simply doing my job. Just like your Dekker did for me.”
So, maybe burning to death this morning wouldn’t have been such a bad thing. Naim stood in front of the door to Jen’s office, finally having summoned the strength, both physical and mental, to knock. The door swung open, and Dr. Jennifer Keller, Chief of Surgery, St. Sebastian Hospital, frowned at him.
“You look like shit.” She raised her brows and had a hand on her hip.
“Do I? I feel like I’ve just spent a week at the spa.” Normally when he defied her, he would at least pretend to be contrite. But normally when he defied her, he hadn’t spent the earlier part of the day trying not to immolate.
Jen stepped aside and swept her arm dramatically in an enter gesture. Naim walked into her office and collapsed into one of the two faux-leather chairs in front of her desk. St. Sebastian’s was not known for its glamour.
Jen clicked her heels across the small office, took her seat behind her hyperorganized desk, folded her hands in front of her, and stared at Naim. Naim sighed and closed his eyes.
After what felt like an interminable silence, Jen spoke. “How’s your head?”
“It’s…” Naim realized his head was actually pounding and the stitches under his hairline throbbed. “It hurts.”
“Good.”
“Jen—”
“Don’t. Not now. You look like shit, I know you feel worse, and if we do this now, I’m afraid you’ll say something you’ll regret.”
“Yes,” he sighed, “I probably would.”
“And then I would have to tell my husband that you were mean to me,” she teased, “and he’s already not happy with you for helping Deck.” Naim managed a small chuckle at that, but he knew he wasn’t out of the woods yet. Jen was letting it go for now because she was both kind and practical. An official reprimand at this point would only lead to an unfortunate confrontation that would be unproductive and, they both knew, harm their relationship, both personal and professional.
“I’m not even going to ask what that’s about,” he said. “Trying to make sense of your husband when I have a head injury might just put me in a coma.”
Jen smiled and stood. “Go home, Naim. Sleep. And don’t come back until Tuesday. Leave your ringer on so I can text you every few hours and make sure you’re not in that coma.” She was back to being his supervisor just like that, already making notes in her phone, rearranging schedules to cover his work for the following day. Naim stood wearily, considered thanking her, but then changed his mind. Don’t poke the bear.
“Good night,” he said instead.
“Go.”
Naim smiled, nodded, and walked out. He left his car at the hospital, too tired to drive, and took a
taxi home, stripping out of his scrubs as soon as he locked the door to his apartment. Having left a trail of clothing along the hallway, he paused at the bathroom, considered a shower for about three seconds, and then moved on. He collapsed onto his bed, on top of the duvet, and was asleep within a minute.
Several hours later he woke with a start to Jen’s second text, confused and aching everywhere. He replied automatically, staring blankly at the screen.
He’d been dreaming, and it felt good. He tried to call it back, chasing the dream as it faded from him. He saw a face through a fog of dream haze, but in the dream Naim felt safe. Warm and happy. Large, strong arms gripped him tightly. Hot breath, a soft mouth and fair skin that rose in goose bumps as his fingertips brushed across a broad, damp back.
He sighed as the image faded, rubbed his eyes and turned over, ignoring the painful throbbing over his eye and in his lap.
He was used to being alone.
Chapter Two
The first thing Deck became aware of as he woke was someone smacking him in the head. Hard.
“Waking up now, you stupid fuck?” Smack. “Huh? Are you awake?” Smack. “You dumbass, shit-eating, half-wit motherfucker.” SMACK.
“Fucking Christ, Freya. Knock it off.” Deck heard Peyton and silently thanked him, still struggling to open his eyes. Everything hurt, his head was too big, and he couldn’t focus on Freya as she glared at him, nose to nose.
He groaned.
Freya finally backed off, stood up straight, and glared at him harder as he blinked, still trying to focus. “You stupid son of a bitch. Get the fuck out of that bed right now, so I can kick the shit outta you.”
Deck unglued his lips from each other and tried to move his mouth over a tongue covered in fur. “Wha—what’s going on?”
“What’s going on?” Freya demanded, causing his fuzzy head more pain. Was he hungover? He didn’t remember drinking. Wait, no, he hadn’t been drinking. He’d been working, when something…happened. His cousin was still standing over him, vomiting a litany of foul names at him, while he tried to get his brain to do something resembling anything. Since she’d stopped hitting him, Peyton was chuckling. Asshole.
As Freya yammered about what a shit head he was and what she was going to do to him if he got himself killed, he started to remember.
He remembered the fire and the man who’d shoved him to the floor when the ceiling came down. Vague bits of being carried through a brick wall, an unfamiliar voice shouting not to touch it, and dark, giant eyes looking down at him. He remembered excruciating pain, needles, and someone telling him to cough, then cough harder as something was pulled out of his throat. Surgery.
“Freya,” he managed to croak, “stop.” His voice rasped and hurt, and talking made him cough, which, he discovered, brought a whole new world of pain to his body. He groaned again and closed his eyes.
“Seriously Frey, that’s enough.” Peyton took pity on him.
He could practically hear her grinding her teeth. “Dick.” She stomped across the room and threw herself into a chair.
“You really did pull a number, bro.” Peyton approached the bed and sat next to him. Deck opened his eyes, giving his friend what he hoped was a questioning look. He didn’t want to try talking again.
“Apparently, while we were all busy fighting a five alarmer, you decided to play vampire. Got yourself three feet of copper plumbing right through the chest. Missed your heart by a fucking beat.” Peyton chuckled—because he no doubt found himself spectacularly entertaining.
Freya cursed louder from her chair, and Deck tried speaking again. “What—” He tried clearing his throat, which just hurt more.
Peyton turned toward the chair of excessive profanity. “Freya, go make yourself fucking useful, and ask someone if he can have some water.” When he turned back, Deck rewarded him with a nod of gratitude as Freya stormed out in a cloud of foul language.
“Not much more to tell, man. They got it out, your heart is okay, but you’re a fucked-up mess right now.” Deck sighed as much as he could in response. “Something about your lungs…rehab…the whole shit. You’re down for a while, bro.” Peyton grimaced and took a deep breath, “Which, is actually for the best because, uh—”
Deck opened his eyes again and tried to pull a face. He knew what was coming.
“Well, you’re suspended like shit, man.”
Fuck.
By afternoon he lay half asleep, half pouting, and resenting every part of his life. Everything hurt, but he refused to click that fucking Dilaudid button because it made him stupid, and he was suspended from work for eight weeks—the third mark on his sheet, and pure bullshit. Not that it mattered anyway, since it looked like he was going to be recovering from this other bullshit for even longer.
There was nothing Deck hated more than being stuck in bed—alone, anyway. The few times he’d taken an injury severe enough to land him in the hospital, he’d bailed before the end of twenty-four hours whether the doctors agreed or not. The thought of being in here for more than a night made him twitch; the thought of several weeks made him consider the Dilaudid button.
Peyton had finally dragged Freya away an hour earlier after she abused Deck some more, then started in on the resident on duty who’d come to check on him. Peyton promised to return without her and told him to expect the others later. But Deck didn’t particularly want to see anyone right now—except maybe Keller. He could use someone to curse at and threaten.
At that thought, exactly the wrong Keller peeped her head through the door. “You’re awake?”
“Hmm. Sort of.” His throat still gritted and hurt, although Freya had helped somewhat by shoving ice chips—literally—in his face earlier.
Jen entered and sat next to his bed, taking his hand gently. “I spoke with Dr. Gainey,” she said, referring to the resident on duty. “She said things are looking good. You have a low fever, but your lungs don’t sound any worse.”
Deck made a face, and Jen sighed. She reached across him to the bed tray, picking up the spirometer.
“You have to use this. Your lungs are a mess already, and the extubation was a problem.”
“It looks like a sex toy,” Deck groused.
Jen giggled. “This is serious, Deck. If you end up with a pleural effusion, we’ll have to drain your lungs again. And that means cutting again. And more time in that bed.” She raised her eyebrows.
“Fuck that. Gimme that thing.” Deck meant to snatch it from her but barely managed to lift his arm before his hand and the hosed contraption fell to his lap. “Mother of all fucks. Are you fucking kidding me?” he rasped.
“Deck, breathe and relax a little. This is going to take time. It isn’t like anything you’ve dealt with before.” She reached back to the tray for the cup of ice as she raised the back of his bed to bring him upright. “You actually could have died this time.” She lifted the cup to his mouth, and tilted some ice into it.
“So I hear,” he grumbled after swallowing. “But I didn’t. It’s gonna take more than shitty plumbing to kill me.”
“It wasn’t shitty plumbing, Deck. It was your own recklessness. Keller told me what happened.” She gave him more ice. “You had no business going back in there on your own. Even if I do owe you a debt of gratitude.”
“Wha oo mead?” He danced the cold chips around his mouth.
“The man you saved in there. He’s a surgeon here, and a dear friend. As a matter of fact, he’s the one who tended to you at the scene and performed your surgery.”
“‘At wath nith uh hem,” Deck said thoughtfully before swallowing. “I guess he wasn’t hurt then?”
“A few stitches to the head, some cuts and scrapes.”
“Wait, what? A few stitches where?” Deck gaped, and Jen took the opportunity to shove more ice into his mouth.
“He was fine, Deck; no one was going to let him near you if he couldn’t handle it. Actually, it was my husband who spoke for him.” The words were already out before she gr
imaced and closed her eyes.
“Keller? So, this doctor was half-conscious and bleeding out the ears when he cut my heart open?” Deck was glad the state of his voice wouldn’t allow him to screech.
“Nobody cut your heart open, drama queen.” Jen fished lip balm out of her coat pocket and applied some as she spoke. “Naim is a fantastic surgeon, and Dr. Barrett was there as well.” She reached out and smeared some pink goo onto Deck’s dry lips. He cringed and pulled back.
Despite that, he smacked his lips together, then fish-mouthed, signaling for more ice. “Isn’t that the hotshot heart guy?” he asked as she pulled the last bits from the bottom of the cup.
“Yup.” She fed him the few, drippy shards. “He’s amazing, and he said Naim did an amazing job on you. Pretty ironic considering you wouldn’t have been on that table in the first place if you hadn’t gone in there after him.”
“Right. He’d be dead and I’d be—”
“Deck.” Jen’s voice lowered, and her tone held a warning. They both knew where his mind had gone, and they both knew it served no purpose to think it. Before the refinery fire three years ago, Deck had never taken the chances that he took now. He lowered his gaze from hers.
She went on as though he’d not spoken. “Anyway, the point is, you’re a reckless lunatic. Naim is alive, and provided you follow orders, you’ll be back on the job…soon.”
“Define soon.”
“I can’t say. I’m not your doctor. Nai—Dr. Moreau will be in tomorrow. We’ll let him look at you then and take it from there.”
Deck blinked. “Moreau. Dr. Moreau? You’re kidding.” He suppressed a chuckle in favor of fake outrage. “You let Frankenstein’s vet operate on me? The fuck kind of hospital are you running?”
Jen sighed. “You’re an asshole, Deck. Just for that I’m sending in two girls to help you go to the bathroom after you’ve had a nap.” She picked up the spirometer. “But first, let’s work on your lungs.”
Smoke and Mirrors Page 2