The Devil Gets His Due (The Devils #4)(24)

Marissa Anderson is a character actress. Though I can’t remember the name of a single show she’s been on, you’d think she was Meryl Streep based on how imperious she is when I enter the room. The incision from her Mohs’ surgery has split open, and it wasn’t my shoddy handiwork that’s put her in this position, but she’s going to make sure I suffer for it.

“Where’s Dr. Joliet?” she demands.

I force a smile. “She’s off today. I’m the one on call, but I promise I’ll get you out of here fast.”

“I was told I couldn’t even speak for two days and it still split open!” she says as I inject lidocaine into her nose.

I’d like to tell her that the y-fold on her nose broke open because it was poorly done in the first place and that the next time she needs Mohs surgery, she should go to an expert, not the bitch who does her Botox every three months.

“These things happen,” I say instead.

“So now I go for another two days without talking? I can’t take the rest of my life off work!”

“Ideally, yes. You don’t want to put too much pressure on this until the stitches have done what they need to do.” I get the feeling she still wants an apology from me, but I’m not in the mood to provide it. Besides, I doubt she’s working all that much.

I’m mid-stitch when I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. I know it’s Graham, and he’s probably at my door, and if I wait even the five minutes this will take to finish, he’s going to have a fit.

I ask the nurse to grab it for me. She holds it in front of my face so I can read the text, which is, of course, from Graham. And he does, of course, sound irked.

“Can you tell him the key’s under the mat?” I ask.

Marissa’s eyes narrow. “You still keep a key under the mat? In LA? Are you sure you’re a doctor?”

Sigh. You, Marissa, are no more surprised than I am.

Once Marissa’s sewn up and leaves, giving me one last dirty look, I go to the nurses’ station to chat with everyone.

“I assume Dr. Patel is still torturing residents?” I ask the head nurse.

“Only his favorites,” she replies with a grin. “I think he misses you.”

I laugh. “Right. Patel tormented me my last six months here.”

“I don’t think he meant to.” She must not be much of a judge of character.

They tell me about who’s sleeping together and the craziest things that have happened and I realize how much I’ve missed this. I loved the bizarre diagnoses, the nuttiest patient interactions. I thought I wanted the ease of a private practice—that it meant choosing the kind of cases I’d take, setting my own schedule, and not being at someone’s beck and call—but it’s none of those things. I’ve got a full load of patients angry they keep getting pushed onto a new doctor, and they’re all the same type of patient. There is no longer any variety to my day, and there is nothing to solve, which is far more boring than I realized.

I’m on my way out when Dr. Joliet calls. I half expect an apology for making me deal with her shoddy handiwork.

“Did you take a call in the middle of stitching my patient up?” she demands instead.

“No,” I say flatly. “I did not.”

“Well, Marissa said you did. And that you were brusque and unprofessional and appeared put-out that you had to come in. This isn’t the kind of experience our patients expect, Keeley.”

My eyes sting and it’s not because I can’t defend myself. It’s simply that I miss the hospital, I’m really sick of the job I just started, and I can’t do a goddamn thing about any of it.

No one is going to hire a six-month pregnant woman who left her first real job after a month. No one.

“Okay,” I say. “Sorry.”

Patel was a nightmare. I’m not sure Fox and Joliet are any better.

I order a pizza because I’m starving, and there’s no way I’m cutting up kale and grilling chicken now, not that the food would still be good anyway. Nothing about today has gone to plan: no cooking, no cleaning, no getting us off on the right foot. I’m tired, but above all, I’m sad. I hadn’t realized how much I enjoyed the camaraderie of the hospital, how much I’d miss the noise, the mild chaos, the intrigue. And…it’s Sunday. I just want to eat and relax and watch The Kardashians, and now I’ve got to deal with Graham Fucking Tate instead. At least I was never nice to him in the first place, so he won’t expect much.

I arrive home to discover my apartment completely junked up with boxes, a situation I can’t say too much about since I completely junked it up with a week’s worth of food I never put away. And the clothes I’ve strewn around here…Oh my God, the clothes. Even I am embarrassed, and that’s saying a lot. If I weren’t pregnant, I’d be racing around right now, picking up the skirts, blouses, and bras that are draped across every surface. I’d be throwing out the now-spoiled chicken and the now-defrosted supergreens packs. But…I’m just too tired and too hungry, and I can’t decide if I want to curl up on the couch and take a nap or demolish a bowl of cereal, so I settle for curling up on the couch with a box of Lucky Charms held to my chest like a favorite stuffed animal.

Which is when Graham walks in.

He’s in a t-shirt and deeply in need of a shave. My eyes are drawn, involuntarily, to the bulge of his biceps and triceps as he sets two boxes stacked one atop the other on the floor. I picture those arms braced on either side of my head, his brow damp like it is right now. His jaw tense as he tries not to come.