by Radclyffe
Wynter noted the use of her last name and knew it was a subtle reminder that she was not yet part of the team. She had to earn that right, although none of them would actively exclude her. She simply would be invisible until she had shown that she could do the job and not make more work for them.
“What about the chief’s aneurysm?” Liu asked.
Pearce carefully folded her list and slid it into her breast pocket. “Dzubrow will take it.”
The three men looked at each other, but no one said anything.
“Okay, hit the floors and get your notes done before the OR. I don’t wanna have to clean up behind you.”
Wynter waited until the three men gathered their paperwork and cleared their breakfast remnants before she spoke. “I guess I lost you that case, huh?”
“You didn’t.” Pearce slid her smart phone from the case on the waistband of her scrubs where it kept company with her beeper and the code beeper. The weight of her various electronics pulled her scrubs down over her narrow hips to the point where it seemed like she was about to lose her pants. “Got one?”
Silently, Wynter slid her PDA from her shirt pocket.
“I’ll beam you my cell phone, my beeper number, and the other guys’ beeper numbers. Connie can get you the departmental numbers that you need to know.”
“What’s the chief’s number?” Wynter asked as they synchronized their data via the infrared beam.
Pearce grinned. She’d expected Wynter to be smart. That had been apparent even as a medical student. The one critical number you always wanted to answer promptly was the chief’s. “3336.”
“What’s yours?”
The second most important number. “7120.”
“Then I’m all set,” Wynter said with a small smile.
“I guess it’s time for the grand tour, then. Let’s make rounds, and I’ll tell you about the attendings.”
“How many are there besides Rifkin?”
“Five, but only two are really busy.”
“What about him? Most chairmen don’t really do much surgery.”
Pearce shook her head. “Not him. He does four or five majors, three days a week.”
“Jeez. How?”
“He runs two rooms from eight until finishing Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.”
Wynter groaned. “Friday?”
“Yeah. That sucks. Especially if it happens to be your only night off for the whole weekend.”
“Two rooms,” Wynter noted. “So a senior in both rooms?”
“You got the system down. You and I start and close his cases. He’ll bounce back and forth between the two rooms for the major parts. That satisfies the insurance requirements because he’s there for the critical part of the case.”
Wynter didn’t want to ask too many questions too early in the game, but it seemed that Pearce was willing to provide the kind of inside information that was going to make her life a lot easier. So she persisted. “Does he let you do anything?”
“It depends. Are you any good?”
“What do you think?” The question was out before she could stop it, and she wasn’t even sure why she’d said it. First days were always tough. And now she was starting all over again in a new place and needing to prove herself yet again. She hadn’t expected to see Pearce, not today, and not like this. It rattled her. It rattled her to realize that she’d be seeing Pearce every single day, and every day she’d be wondering if Pearce remembered those few minutes alone when something so intense had passed between them that the rest of the world had simply faded away. She remembered, even though she had no place for the memory.
“Well, you were right about my lip,” Pearce said softly.
Wynter studied Pearce’s face. A faint white line crossed the junction of the pink and white portions of Pearce’s lip, and where the scar had healed unevenly, there was a notch in the border. “I told you you needed stitches.”
“Yeah, you did.” Pearce suddenly stood. “Let’s get going.”
“Sure,” Wynter said quickly, standing as well.
“Hey, Rifkin,” a male voice called. “It’s going on seven. Don’t you have any work to do?”
Wynter didn’t hear the reply over the buzzing in her ears. She stared at Pearce as the pieces fell into place. She saw the nameplate by the chairman’s door. Ambrose P. Rifkin, MD. Ambrose Pearce Rifkin. “You’re related to the chairman?” she said in astonishment.
“He’s my father.”
“Nice of you to tell me,” Wynter snapped, trying to remember if she’d said anything negative about him. “Jesus.”
Pearce appraised her coolly. “What difference does it make?”
“It would have been nice to know, that’s all.”
Pearce leaned close. “Kind of like knowing you have a husband?”
Before Wynter could reply, Pearce turned her back and walked away.
Oh God, Wynter thought, she hasn’t forgiven me. But then, she hadn’t forgiven herself, either.
Chapter Four
“You don’t usually make floor rounds, do you?” Wynter asked as she matched her stride to Pearce’s. The attending surgical staff delegated routine daily patient care—changing bandages, removing sutures, ordering lab tests, renewing medications, and dozens of other tasks—to the residents. The most senior resident on each service ensured that the work was carried out by the more junior physicians. Pearce should be exempt from such menial tasks.
“I see every patient on the service every day,” Pearce said, “but the juniors do all the scut. I just like to make sure they don’t miss anything.”
As they hurried along, Wynter tried to set landmarks in her mind so she wouldn’t get lost the first time she was alone. The University Hospital was a labyrinth of interconnected buildings that had been erected at various times over the last hundred years, and to the uninitiated, it appeared to be a haphazard jumble of walkways, bridges, and tunnels. Despite having a good sense of direction, she was already a little disoriented.
“Thanks for showing me around.” Wynter was starting to huff just a little as Pearce made a sharp right and directed her into yet another dark, narrow stairwell. I won’t gain any weight on this service if this is her normal pace.
Pearce shrugged, taking the stairs two at a time. “Part of the job.”
But it wasn’t, Wynter knew. Many other residents wouldn’t have bothered, leaving her to fend for herself in a strange place with a heavy load of brand-new patients. Nor would they take the time to double-check on the patients the way Pearce apparently did. Even though Wynter barely knew the woman, Pearce’s professionalism didn’t surprise her. She remembered the way Pearce had cradled her face, examining her jaw, her eyes focused but compassionate, her hands—
“Oh!” Wynter exclaimed as she caught the toe of her clog on a tread and plunged headlong toward the railing. She thrust out her arm to break the impact and landed in Pearce’s arms instead. They went down in a heap on the stairs.
“Umph,” Pearce grunted. “Jesus Christ. What is it with you?”
“Believe it or not,” Wynter gasped, “I’m usually very coordinated.” She took stock of her various body parts, uncomfortably aware of Pearce beneath her, sprawled on her back, Wynter’s arms and legs tangled with hers. The pain in her left kneecap did nothing to mitigate the sensation of Pearce’s tight, lean thigh between her legs. Pearce’s heart hammered against her breast, and warm breath teased her neck. “Sorry. Are you hurt?”
“Hard to tell,” Pearce muttered. All I can feel is you. She kept her hands carefully at her sides, because any movement at all would only increase the unintentional intimacy of their position. Wynter was soft in all the right places, and every one of them seemed to fit perfectly into Pearce’s body, as if the two of them had been carved into mirror images. It’s been too long since I’ve gotten laid. That’s all it is. “Any chance you can get off me? I’m going to have a permanent groove in my back from this stair.”
“Oh God, yes. Sorry.” Wynt
er braced both hands on the next stair, bracketing Pearce’s shoulders, and pushed herself up. Unfortunately, the movement lifted her torso but pressed her pelvis even more firmly into Pearce’s. She heard a swift intake of breath just as the rush of heat along her spine took her by surprise. “Oh.”
“Something hurt?” Pearce asked, managing to keep her voice steady. Two more seconds of this full-body contact and she wasn’t going to be able to keep her hands to herself. As it was, her thighs were trembling and her stomach was in knots. “God, you feel good.”
“What?” Wynter asked through a haze of unanticipated and inexplicable sensation.
“Hurt,” Pearce mumbled, fighting down her arousal. “Anything hurt?”
“Oh, no,” Wynter said quickly. Just the opposite. She wondered fleetingly if Pearce was always so warm. She could feel the heat radiate from her even through their clothes. Pearce’s body was firm, but so unlike the angles and hardness she was used to. But then, it had been so long since she’d been this close to anyone that perhaps her memory was distorted. As carefully as she could, she rolled away until she was lying on her back next to Pearce, staring at the watermarked, yellowing paint of the ceiling. “What’s the damage?”
Other than the fact that I’m going to be turned on for hours with no relief in sight? Pearce sat up and rested her elbows on her knees. She rubbed the back of her neck where a muscle had knotted when she’d tensed to keep her head from striking the stairs. Then, she carefully rotated her back from side to side. “Everything seems to be in working order. You?”
“I gave my patella a pretty good crack,” Wynter admitted, realizing that Pearce had probably prevented her from sustaining a really serious injury. Gingerly, she extended and flexed her leg. “Thanks.”
“Here, let me check it out.” Pearce slid down several steps and turned. She bent forward and slipped both hands around Wynter’s calf. “Pull your scrubs up so I can see your knee.”
“It’s okay. Just bruis—”
“Let me decide. We might need to X-ray it.”
“Look. We need to make rounds—”
“Jesus,” Pearce said irritably, “are you going to argue with everything I say?”
“I’m just trying to save time. We’ve got patients to see.”
“And we will. As soon as I check this out. Now pull up your pants.”
Considering the fact that Pearce was standing over her and she had nowhere to go, even if she were able to gracefully extricate herself, Wynter complied. A four-inch abrasion extended over the upper portion of her tibia to her kneecap, which was swollen and discolored. When Pearce instructed her to straighten her leg, she did, watching Pearce’s fingers press and probe her knee. Good hands, in every sense of the word. Certain, proficient, and gentle. The dance of flesh over flesh, no matter how innocent, was nevertheless an intimate exchange. She was always aware of the trust bestowed upon her when she examined a patient, and felt it now in Pearce’s touch.
“Hurt here?” Pearce asked, palpating first the medial and then the lateral ligaments surrounding the joint.
“No, feels stable. I’m sure it’s fine.”
Pearce glanced up, her dark brows coming together as she frowned. “You’re a lousy patient.”
“So I’ve been told. Can I get up now?”
“Slowly.” Pearce straightened and extended her hand. “And don’t full weight-bear right away. Put your other hand on my shoulder until you test the knee.”
Wynter took Pearce’s hand and allowed herself to be guided upward, but she resisted the instruction to lean on Pearce. She’d had quite enough bodily contact for the moment, and she needed to reassert her independence. She’d be damned if she’d let Pearce think she was anything less than capable in all regards. She gradually settled all of her weight onto the injured leg. “All systems go.”
“Good.” Pearce noticed Wynter’s reluctance to touch her and chalked it up to the usual reluctance of straight women to get too close to her, even when they weren’t bothered by her being gay. Somehow, they were still uncomfortable. Usually she didn’t care, and the ripple of disappointment she felt at Wynter’s avoidance was a surprise. She dropped Wynter’s hand. “One more flight.”
“No problem.”
Pearce waited for Wynter to set the pace and followed this time, carefully assessing Wynter’s gait. She was pleased to see there was no evidence of a limp. The stairwell led into a short corridor that ended at a plain brown metal door. She nodded when Wynter gave her a questioning look. Wynter hit the door bar and together they stepped into a brightly lit hallway opposite the surgeon’s lounge.
Wynter looked around, frowning. “Damn. I could’ve sworn we’d be on the fourth floor.”
Pearce leaned a shoulder against the wall, fiddling with the tie on her scrub pants, rhythmically drawing the string through her fingers. She grinned, enjoying the role of tour guide. She didn’t question why. “We were—in the Malone building. Except that the fourth floor of that building connects to the fifth floor of this one. Don’t ask me why.”
“You’re putting me on, right?”
Slowly, Pearce shook her head.
“Oh, I am in so much trouble.”
“No, you’re not. It’s my job to see that you aren’t.” Pearce pushed away from the wall and walked a few feet to the elevator. She punched the up button. “Usually we walk, but I’ll give you a break.”
“Don’t bother. I can handle the stairs.”
“Maybe I can’t.”
Wynter snorted, but smiled. “I feel like I should be drawing a map or dropping breadcrumbs.”
“Pay attention, and in a few days, you’ll know all the secrets to this place.”
“Really?” Wynter watched Pearce’s face, searching for some hidden meaning. They’d been alone for close to an hour, but they hadn’t really talked about the last time—the only time—that they’d been alone together. They should clear the air. She knew they should. But she didn’t want to bring it up. She didn’t want to know that Pearce had been angry with her all these years. Or perhaps she didn’t want to know that Pearce had never thought of her at all.
“It’s not all that complicated.” Pearce turned away from Wynter’s probing gaze. She didn’t know what might show in her face, but she didn’t want Wynter to think that those few moments years before meant anything now. So many things had happened since then, it might have been another life. She was certainly a different person. The elevator bell rang and saved her from thinking about it any longer. “Let’s start at the top.”
“Sure.”
Several minutes later, they stepped out into a dimly lit corridor, and Pearce pointed. “Two wings on each floor. The lower numbers are to the left, the higher to the right. Main surgical floors are twelve, ten, nine, and eight. Intensive care units are on six.”
Wynter groaned. “The ICU is one floor up from the OR? I hate transporting postop patients in the elevator.”
“Me too,” Pearce agreed. “But there wasn’t enough room for them to expand the number of OR suites and still keep the intensive care units on the same floor.”
“How many OR rooms?”
“Twelve general surgery, four GYN, four ortho, and a few unassigned.”
“Busy.”
“Oh yeah.” Pearce started down the hallway on their left and indicated the first room. “This is an APR patient—”
“Wait a minute,” Wynter said, frowning down at her list. “APR?”
“We tend to identify patients by their attending’s initials. This one is Rifkin’s.”
“The colon resection from yesterday, right?” Wynter asked, still scanning the patient names. “McInerney.”
“That’s the one. We finished at six last night, routine case. She still has a drain, an NG tube, and an IV.”
“Is it weird, working with your father?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Pearce said flatly. “Rifkin is the chairman. That’s the only relationship we have in here.”
Wy
nter was surprised by the absence of anger or much of any emotion at all in Pearce’s voice. Nevertheless, she recognized the finality of her tone. She wondered if it was the subject matter or the fact that she was asking that bothered Pearce. Either way, she had clearly stepped out of bounds. What was it about Pearce Rifkin that made her forget the rules? “I’m sorry. That was none of my business.”
“No problem. I get asked it a lot.” Pearce pivoted and walked into the first patient’s room.
It took a moment for Wynter to recognize that the discussion was closed. She hastened after Pearce, and for the next fifty minutes they moved from one patient to the next, reviewing chart notes, pulling drains, updating orders, and generally coordinating each patient’s care. They didn’t speak except to discuss care and treatment plans until everyone on the list had been examined. They worked quickly and efficiently. Comfortably together. Wynter wasn’t surprised. From the very first they’d had a natural rhythm, even when they were sparring.
“Ready for another cup of coffee?” Pearce asked as they sat together at the eighth-floor nurses’ station finishing the last of their chart notes.
“Oh yeah,” Wynter replied. She hadn’t had much sleep the night before. The week had been a whirlwind of activity what with packing and moving, worrying about her new position, and trying to anticipate all the difficulties inherent in her new life. She was beat. A sudden thought occurred to her as she and Pearce started down the stairwell yet again. “Am I on call tonight?”
“New residents always take call the first night. You know that.”
She did, but she still hadn’t planned for it. Foolish.
Pearce put both hands on the push bar of a door that sported a large red sign proclaiming Fire Door—Do Not Open. “Let’s get some air.” She gave it a shove.
“Why not,” Wynter said, glancing at the time. She needed to make a phone call.
“Something wrong?” Pearce asked, checking the sky. The rain in the forecast was nowhere in sight. It was thirty degrees outside, a clear, crisp January day. Neither of them wore coats. The street vendors, as usual, were undeterred by the weather. Their carts, pulled into position each day behind trucks and four-wheel-drive vehicles, were lined up in front of the hospital and throughout the entire campus, dispensing every kind of food from hot dogs to hummus.