Savage Things (Chaos & Ruin Book 2) (2 page)

I see this happen. Every. Single. Day.
 

“What have we got?” I pull gloves on as I stand outside the front of the hospital, waiting for the ambulance to show up. This is my first call this shift; it’s been a quiet morning, which is good considering everyone is out sick with the flu and we’re operating on a skeleton staff. I didn’t have to shoulder anyone out of the way to take this call, and that’s a rarity for sure. Normally people are climbing over one another to get to the ‘loading dock,’ as the interns so eloquently call it, especially when the patient en route might require surgery.
 
All surgical staff must maintain an average of hours in the OR to comply with St. Peter’s competencies policy; claiming a patient before anyone else can get to them is often the difference between learning on the job or spending hours at the end of the month trapped in a starkly lit skills lab in your free time, and free time isn’t something folk around these parts like to part with unless one hundred percent necessary.
 

“Little girl,” Gitte, one of the nurses tells me. She’s new—young but very efficient. The nurses like to haze new members of their team when they arrive, a real trial by fire, and Gitte was no exception. However, unlike most new team members, Gitte handled every situation with grace and ease. When faced with the most intense trauma cases, she remained stoic. She was the epitome of cool, calm and collected. When told she needed to clean bedpans and change catheters for an entire shift, she didn’t complain. Instead, she accepted the clipboard Gracie, the head nurse, handed to her and she went and found her first patient, smiling kindly, talking to each person as she moved from room to room.
 

That was the biggest test. Usually seasoned nurses—any health care provider, really—will think themselves above the basest of tasks after a couple of years treading water in a trauma unit. To come in and accept bed pan duty with a smile and actual interest in each and every patient is, well, it’s almost impossible.

“The EMTs have scanned her info ahead. Millie Reeves, six-years-old. History of Lennox Gastaut Syndrome, with both tonic and myoclonic seizures. Previously admitted to St Peter’s four times in the past eight months, as well as twice over at Halle and Prentice Medical. She seized for approximately eight minutes in the ambulance. Patient is still unconscious.”

I mentally store this information. “Meds?”

“Both clobazam and sodium valproate in the field.”

“Jesus. Risky.” Administering clobazam and sodium valproate together can be very effective, but you also need to know exactly what you’re fucking doing, otherwise you’ll end up killing the patient. The EMTs are well trained, though. There’s no way they would ever administer a drug if it weren’t necessary. “Have pediatrics paged. Let them know they have a regular on the way in. Is Dr. Massey here today?”

Gitte frowns. She scans the tablet she’s holding in her hands, presumably searching through the on-call roster to see who’s working this morning. She shakes her head. “He’s not meant to be here,” she says. “I swear I saw him in the ICU an hour ago, though.”

She could have done. Oliver Massey’s brother was recently brought into the hospital with serious internal injuries; Alex, a fire fighter, had been crushed while trying to help drag an unconscious woman from a car wreck. He’s been recovering well from his extensive surgeries, but not well enough to make it out of intensive care. Not yet, anyway.
 

“See if you can find him. Tell him I’d love a consult if he has the time.”

Gitte nods, slips her tablet into the pocket of her scrubs and hurries back into the hospital building. I’m left alone, fingers twitching, heart bouncing around in my chest, adrenalin zipping through me, making my stomach pitch and yaw. It’s early but Seattle is already wide-awake and charging. In the midst of the city, St Peter’s Hospital is at the heart of things. Located at the convergence of three different neighborhoods, you can’t see or hear the docks from here but you can smell them, the sharp bite of salt in the air, and you can
feel
somehow that you’re close to the water.
 

Somewhere on the other side of the city, Zeth Mayfair is thrashing the living shit out of a heavy bag, his hands hopefully wrapped up tight as he works out his early morning frustrations. For a second I lose myself, thinking about how the muscles in his back flex and pop as he hits and swings at that bag. The way he moves is animalistic, raw and dangerous. It would be all too easy to lose a full day watching him work out and train in his fighting gym. All too easy indeed. There are people here that need me, though. People here that need saving.
 

That thought brings me rushing back into the present. I love Zeth, more than I ever knew was possible, but I figured out a long time ago that I can’t allow him to linger in my thoughts here in this place. It’s not safe.

I try not to think about the sound of his fists thudding forcefully into the heavy bag. I try not to think about the intoxicating smell of his sweat as he trains. I try not to let myself melt as I remember how hard fighting makes him.

I try not to think at all.
 

I wait another two minutes before I hear the approaching ambulance. If six-year-old Millie Reeves isn’t seizing anymore, there’s no real need for the wailing Doppler shift of the sirens, or the frantic flash of the red and blue lights on top of the vehicle that I see speeding into the St Peter’s parking lot, but sometimes the EMTs will leave them blaring in order to get their patient to us in good time.
 

I barely register who’s driving the ambo or who’s climbing out of the back with the patient. All I care about is the child, and what I can do to fix her. I’m faced with the little girl on the gurney. She’s so, so small. Smaller than any six-year-old should be. It would be less surprising if her chart showed she was four years old instead, but no, the paper I’m handed on a clipboard confirms her age as six. I check her vitals, all of which are weak and stressed but within acceptable ranges, and then I take hold of her hand, squeezing it in my own. That’s when I look up. That’s when I see the tall guy hovering beside the gurney, anxiety vibrating off him in spiky waves.
 

He doesn’t say anything. He looks me dead in the eye and challenges
me
to say something. I get the impression he’ll implode if I utter words he doesn’t like, however, and that makes me uneasy. I thank the EMTs, noting vaguely that the ambulance was dispatched from Alex Massey’s firehouse, and then I turn to the young guy in front of me. “You’re Millie’s father?”
 
I don’t wait for him to respond. I begin pushing the gurney inside. I need to get Millie up to pediatrics and hooked up to an IV as soon as possible.
 

“No. Brother. I’m her legal guardian, though. Our parents are dead. I’ve taken care of Millie since she was born, pretty much.”

“I see.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You don’t
see
. Unless you’ve been caring for a seriously ill little girl for the past six years, how can you?” His attitude is really shitty—shitty enough that I stop pushing the gurney and spin on him. I’m not pissed at him. He’s too young to be dealing with this responsibility. He’s barely an adult himself, but he’s clearly not thinking straight right now.
 

“Look around you, Mr. Reeves. Look at where you are. No, I haven’t been caring for one sick little girl for the past six years. I’ve been caring for twenty of them.
Thirty
. I’ve been caring for seriously ill one-day-olds right along side seriously ill eighty-year-olds.
For
a
decade
.”

He has the humility to look away. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m just…”

“Stressed out and scared?”

“Yeah. Exactly.”

“It’s okay. I know what that feels like, too. Come on. Let’s get your sister comfortable and we can talk about where we go from here.”

Chapter Two

ZETH

Violence isn’t a choice. It’s a state of being. It’s simply your nature. There’s no running from it. No fucking hiding. And even if there was a way to shake the coding of your DNA and hide from your truth, what would be the point? Being violent feels good. Roaring as you smash your fists over and over into some weak piece of shit’s torso feels good. Watching the blood spray from people’s noses and mouths as your knuckles connect with their faces? Guess what? That feels good, too.

Only a certain few people in this world understand how liberating it feels to pound on someone’s head until they lose consciousness. Likewise, it’s just as liberating to have your head pounded on. At least you know you’re alive. At least you know you’re experiencing everything you can, ‘cause you can feel it no matter what. And that’s what life is, right? Experiencing? Feeling? Bleeding?

My phone’s ringing on the other side of the gym, but I can’t answer it right now. It’s probably Michael, checking in to see if I need him for anything today. I’m midway through handing a Brazilian dude’s ass to him, so the call is gonna have to wait.
 

Blood hits the canvas. Could be mine. Could be his. Who fucking cares? We are both savages, and we’re both giving in to our most primal urges to dominate. The only difference between me and the guy I’m matched against right now is that I won’t quit. I won’t give in. It’ll be a chilly day in the underworld before that happens. I don’t give a fuck who he is, how big he is, how bad the odds are. I’ll
die
before I submit.
 

The Brazilian guy I’ve just tossed against the metal links of the cage I’ve had constructed in the gym spits on the boards and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He jerks his head toward my phone, frowning, sweat running down his face.

“Important? You need to get that?” he gasps.
 

Why can’t people go three full rounds without trying to come up with an excuse to call a time out? There’s always something:
my wraps are coming loose. My eyes are stinging. I can’t remember if I left the oven on at home.
These motherfuckers all know what they’re getting into when they step into the cage with me. They’ve all stood by and laughed as I’ve knocked people out cold, broken noses and stripped countless guys of their dignity. But no, they’re convinced
they’re
going to be the one to put
me
down. Has to happen sometime, after all, I hear them whispering to each other. Pretty difficult to hear them whispering later, when they’re faces are swollen and bloody like freshly ground meat and their jaws are wired shut. Still, they come back and train. Still, they’re on the doorstep every morning, wanting to spar, to receive more punishment, because they’re intrigued.

I don’t pause to get my phone. My opponent throws up his hands and defends himself at the last second, as if he’s hoping I’ll change my mind and turn my back on the fight after all. I rain down a succession of jabs on him that probably don’t hurt all that much but are hard enough to daze him. He can’t know which way is up. When I pause, bringing my own clenched fist back up into a guard position, my opponent straightens, relieved the assault is over from the look on his face, only to drop like a sack of shit to the floor when I power my right knee up and drive it into his side.
 

Suck on that, asshole.

He makes a gasping, sucking noise, wheezing helplessly on the ground as I stalk around him, considering my options. He probably has at least two broken ribs right now. Do I give him chance to tap out on the fight, or should I be merciless? I could get down and grapple with him, easily getting him in a chokehold while he’s vulnerable. It would be lights out for Mr. Brazil in less than eight seconds if he doesn’t do something beside flop around like a fish out of water.
 

My phone is still ringing.
 

If I don’t choke him out, I could always get him in an arm bar. Break that shit, too. I pace around him like a lion, looking for other possibilities.
 

My phone begs for attention.
 

I could get him in mount. Lean on his chest. Make him gasp some more. I could straddle the fucker and have done with him once and for all. Nothing like some ground and pound to finish a fight quickly. The guy rolls onto his good side, curling his knees into his chest, his eyes rolling, the whites visible. He must be in a shitload of pain.
 

 
My phone grows louder somehow.
 

“Fuck’s sake.” It’s impossible to fucking concentrate like this. Mr. Brazil is going to have to wait a moment. I plan on grabbing my phone and silencing the damn thing, but when I drop down out of the cage, the soles of my sneakers scuffing on the dusty concrete floor, and I make it over to my cell, I see a number on the screen that won’t bear ignoring. Or rather, I’d be smart not to ignore in the least.
 

It’s a New Mexico number.
 

I shoot a glance back toward the cage where my opponent is now on his knees, right arm braced across his stomach, head hanging low as he tries to figure out his shit. I doubt he’s going anywhere any time soon. I’ll head back to help him in a second—Sloane will crucify me if I hurt a gym member and then didn’t give them medical attention afterward—but I’m undoubtedly about to have a conversation that shouldn’t be conducted out in the open.
 

I head up to my office, running up the stairs, taking them three at a time, and I slam the door closed behind me. “Yeah?”

“Hey, brother-in-law. What’s new?” Once upon a time, I would have been a weapons-grade asshole to the man on the other end of the line, but these days Louis James Aubertin the third and I have a more congenial arrangement. He’s married to my girlfriend’s sister after all. And apparently this is what family is all about: playing nice.
 

“Didn’t think I’d hear from you any time soon,” I tell him. “How’s life in the dust bowl?”

“Dusty,” Rebel agrees. “Hot.” He pauses, and then says, “
Busy
.”