Hotshot Doc(30)

“I’ve never seen him like this. Something must be going on outside of work,” she tells me on Wednesday. “If I were you, I’d steer clear.”

I don’t take her advice.

I can’t steer clear of him. We stand across from each other at an operating table for hours on end and I’ve done nothing to warrant this sort of attitude on his part.

My work has been flawless. I’ve been a model employee. He is allowed to be quiet and professional. He’s allowed to not want to be my friend, but he is not allowed to be rude!

So, I brush past her desk and knock on his office door, cross my arms, and wait for him to let me in.

He doesn’t.

I press my ear to the door and listen for a phone conversation. There isn’t one.

“Dr. Russell, could I have a word please?”

I ensure my tone is even and calm, but still, I hear an annoyed groan followed by the creaking of a chair, footsteps, and then the door is yanked open.

He stares down at me with cool, calculating eyes. His scrubs have been replaced with a sharp gray suit. His hair is perfectly tousled. I ignore these details and focus on the important part: how much I despise him.

“What do you need?” he asks.

Right. What a lovely tone to take with your hardworking new employee.

I resist the urge to cower, and instead, I lift my chin and meet his gaze head-on. My hands are on my hips in what I hope is a power pose.

“I’d like to speak with you about my job performance.”

His brows furrow. “Job performance?”

“Yes. Is there something more you’d like from me? An even earlier start time? An even faster response time? A larger bladder?”

He doesn’t find my sarcasm amusing.

“Your work is fine.” He steps back and starts to close his door, but I block it with my foot.

“If my work is fine, why are you being so rude to me? Have you not forgiven me for being late on the first day? Because I think my work since then has shown how seriously I’m taking this opportunity.”

He looks down at my foot and then back up at me, patronizing expression firmly in place.

“Bailey, do you enjoy filing paperwork with HR? Because if you don’t move, they’re going to have a lot of questions for the both of us—namely, why I felt compelled to close your foot in my office door.”

“Oh good,” I say, throwing my hands up in defeat. “Now you’re threatening bodily harm.”

I swear there’s almost amusement shining in his gaze before he toes my foot out of the path of his door with his fancy oxford then shuts it in my face.

“What a show of professionalism, Dr. Russell,” I shout to the closed door.

As I walk away, as furious as ever, Patricia shakes her head. “I warned you.”

Things only escalate on Friday.

Dr. Russell seems more short-tempered than usual. His blue eyes are icy and hard, glaring at me from across the operating table. I have no idea what his problem is, but I’m determined to push through, to brush off his antagonizing energy and do the job he’s paying me to do—but it’s not that easy.

“Bailey, if you’re determined to take forever with the curette, I’ll hire someone else to hand it to me.”

I bite my tongue and resist the urge to sling the instrument at his face.

“I wanted to make sure it was the right size,” I say, handing it off carefully and returning my attention to my cauterization forceps.

“Well your effort was in vain. This isn’t the right one.”

YES IT IS, YOU EGOMANIACAL JERK.

“Would you like a different one?” I ask, my voice so gentle it nearly verges on being passive-aggressive.

“Yes, Bailey,” he drawls out slowly, like he’s worried I can’t comprehend simple words. “I’d like the correct one.”

The operating room is absolutely still. Sure, everyone makes a show of pretending to work, but in reality, their ears are trained on us, waiting to see just how much of his bullshit I’m willing to take.

No doubt they’re anticipating an imminent blowup, but I harness what can only be described as the patience of a saint, take a deep, yoga-worthy breath, and reply sweetly, “Of course. Let me get that for you right away.”

I think I have it. I’ve beat him at his own game by keeping my cool, right up until I turn and my elbow collides with the sterile instrument tray that was resting precariously beside me. In a flash, it crashes to the ground and metal pings in every direction. Implants scatter. Pedical screws disappear beneath the operating table.

My mouth hangs agape behind my mask.

One of the nurses gasps.

The anesthesiologist peeks out from behind his curtain and his eyes widen in shock.

Dr. Russell turns quickly to the device rep. “Do we have another sterile set?”

I swear the man’s chin quivers as he shakes his head. “Not a complete one.”

My eyes pinch closed and I brace myself for the impact. Biting words from Dr. Russell are about to rain down on me like an enemy siege. I will not make it out alive.

“Pick everything up and get it in the autoclave. Now.”

His voice is cool and precise, like the blade of a knife sinking into my gut. I yank off my gloves, fall to my knees, and start crawling around the operating room floor as quickly as possible.