Jacked (Trent Brothers #1)(130)

His partial smile was disarming.

“I just wanted to say you did a good job with the ped patient, Micah Brown. Doctor Tomic said your keen eye saved us precious time getting the patient into the O.R.”

His verbal pat on the back felt amazing. “Thank you, sir.”

“You ever consider taking a shot at pediatric trauma full-time? You’re really great with kids.”

Me? Kids? Hell no. Had the boy been located another ten miles in the opposite direction, he would have been treated by a dedicated ped trauma team at Children’s. “I’m actually going for my tox fellow.”

“Tox?” he echoed, surprised. “I heard that. Why? No, wait. Not for me to judge. Explains how you knew about the drug interactions.” He checked his pager. “Probably saved his life.”

“We did. He coded on arrival.”

His smile was thoughtful. “Then you saved his life twice. Would be a shame to lose someone of your caliber to another department. But if the lab is where you would be happier, then I wish you luck. Some doctors just aren’t cut out for emergency med.”

His underhanded comment stung. “I love working here. I’ve made the cut for five years now.”

Doctor Weinstein shrugged. “Then why leave? This is where you make a difference, not down in the basement in a lab.” His name echoed over the central paging system. “I hope you reconsider, Doctor.”

He left me holding my future with a pat on the shoulder and a wry grin.

My pager was going crazy. I rushed down the hallway to ready for my next patient.

We all stood in teams, getting briefed, planning our responses to the preliminary assessments given by the ambulance crews. One patient was already non-responsive; the paramedics were conducting CPR en route, although we were probably looking at a DOA.

As soon as my patient arrived, male, nineteen years old, we sprung into action, all of us knowing what role we played in this young man’s survival. The EMTs briefed us as we transferred him.

I brushed his shoulder, trying to calm him down so we could do our jobs. “Jamal, can you hear me? My name is Doctor Novak and you’re at University Hospital. I need you to hold still, all right? We’re going to take good care of you.”

My surgical resident, Nate Cooperman, helped roll Jamal to his side. “No exit wound,” Nate announced.

I slid my hand up Jamal’s back. “It’s in the midline. I can feel it. Can we get a chest tube?”

I was doing my job as the team leader, keeping everyone calm and on task when our patient grabbed my shirt, pulling with more strength than I thought he would have considering his present state with two bullet holes in his body.

He started to speak; his words garbled and incoherent at first. Fighting with a hulking teenager was not on my agenda. Hands and arms mixed in, trying to free me. Jamal pulled me right to his face, his eyes wild with primal fight or flight survival instinct.

“Cah, cuh, Carter…,” he stuttered in between moans of pain, begging me with his eyes to listen.

“Carter?” I said and Jamal nodded.

“Muh…” He shook his head, wincing in pain. “Man… Mancuso…,”

“Carter Mancuso,” I repeated, fighting the arms and hands that were trying to break me free. “Let me go,” I ordered over my shoulder.

Jamal’s nods were short and quick jerks. His other arm waved weakly in the air. That’s when I noticed he had his hand shaped like a gun.

My eyes flew back to Jamal. “Carter Mancuso shot you?”

Jamal nodded and then visibly relaxed, relieved.

“Jamal, we’re going to put a tube in your chest because your lung is collapsed, okay? I know it hurts but you have to try and stay still for me. You’re going to feel a little pinch and burn, but that’s the numbing medicine going in.”

Within nine minutes, we had him stabilized, prepped, and ready for surgery.





IT DIDN’T SINK in at first, the name my patient had conveyed to me. We’d been so busy that non-essential details like names didn’t register. Vitals, CT scans, central lines, and knowing which came first dominated. It wasn’t until I briefed the detective assigned to the case that it dawned on me why that name sounded so familiar. I called Adam right afterward.

“Erin, got a minute?”

No, I didn’t, but there was Randy Mason, ex-* boyfriend, standing three feet away, shoulders hunched with the expectant look of a ten-year-old boy who wants something.

Shit.

It had been almost two weeks since his girlfriend Mandy messed with my head, telling me I’d lost my opportunity for the fellowship, and in that time I strategically ignored and avoided him. There was nothing Randy could say that would make a difference, and it was easier to hate him than feel defeated.

I stopped in front of him, not even bothering to ask what he wanted. He had six seconds, and that was being generous.

“Look, I know you’re pissed at me.” He scratched his head and glanced around. A med student brushed my back as he rushed past. Two nurses hurried in the opposite direction. “Can we go somewhere private to talk?”

I held my ground. “Say what you need to say.”

Randy scowled at me and snagged my elbow, towing me along reluctantly. We stopped outside of a utility closet tucked beside a large steel rack of starched, white linens. I pulled my arm out of his grasp. “What?”