Sorry, Bro

Chapter One

Bryce’s chest and abs retained the tell-tale glisten of the balmy New Orleans weather. As the cool air of the hospital locker room washed over him, goosebumps spread across Bryce’s back, prickling the short, dark hairs on his forearms and in the valley between his pecs. He shivered, and his nipples hardened as he pulled his white V-neck swiftly up over his head.

“Fuck,” Bryce breathed.

He could dry at least of a few of the droplets of cold sweat from his body before he got dressed. Bryce ran his damp shirt roughly across his shoulders and around his lower back before balling the fabric in his hands and tossing it into the bottom of the open locker in front of him.

Bryce had ridden his rusted, hand-me-down bicycle up Esplanade Street, across North Rampart and a mile into the Central Business District, and the whole way, his body had seemed to pull humidity towards it. An otherwise leisurely ride had left him completely damp and uncomfortably chilled once he had arrived at the hospital to change into his scrubs. By now, the bumpy journey across the glass-littered, cracked sidewalks and potholed streets had become a well-practiced performance.

Summer in New Orleans made Bryce yearn for a beach—even a desert, anywhere without so much sticky humidity. Or better, for a job that would afford him a car, with air conditioning, to ride to work in.

Bryce’s hard nipples burned in the chilled air, and his skin tingled. He and his girlfriend, Tatum, hadn’t had sex in over three weeks—and his body knew it. His bed—now, at least—was colder than the artificial chill in the hospital locker room.

Bryce had come to New Orleans from New Jersey to escape two things—a routine life and the cold. Against his parents’ wishes, he had followed his high school girlfriend, Jennifer, to medical school in New York. Soon afterward, he’d dropped out to study nursing. In New York, so close to his family, and so close to the same girlfriend he’d had since he had been fourteen, it was hard to escape routine. Work, subway, sleep, tired sex, work, subway, sleep, more tired—and unfulfilling—sex.

After finishing nursing school, Bryce had figured he could find a new beginning in New Orleans. Everything was different—different scenery, different people, different weather, a different hospital. That had been nearly a year ago. “Damn,” Bryce breathed. An entire year.

Nothing had changed. Not really. Maybe the food was richer in the south, and maybe the weather was hotter and balmier. And maybe his girlfriend was named Tatum and not Jennifer, but everything was fundamentally the same. Work, bike, sleep, tired sex. Maybe a quick fuck in a seedy bar bathroom if he could get Tatum to shoot enough tequila.

But New Orleans should’ve been different.

At the very least, Tatum could’ve been different. She had been a real firecracker—in the beginning. Sex three times a day had turned into one drunk fuck a week, if that. And if they weren’t drunk fucking in the back of a bar, they weren’t fucking at all. For the past few months, Tatum had spent Bryce’s off night drinking and weekends taking trips to Biloxi with the Uptown sorority girls. Hell, they were seeing so little of each other now that it would be no surprise if Tatum were fucking tourists on Bourbon and Ole Miss fans at the cheap casinos in Mississippi.

Tatum would say, “You work too much. You’re so boring sometimes, hon, and I need excitement.”

There was no changing it.

Bryce shook the sweat from his head and smoothed the moisture back through his short, dark hair before pulling on the top of his scrubs. He wrapped a red bandana around his head, just above his sunburned ears.

Bryce fumbled at his belt and unzipped his fly. Just as his nipples had sprung to life as the cool air washed over them, his penis hardened slightly. “Fuck,” he whispered, glancing surreptitiously up and down the row of lockers. A moment before, the room had been empty.

Now, at the opposite end of the row, a tall, shirtless man had just tossed a striped polo into a navy blue gym bag. He turned just as Bryce looked his way.

Bryce hitched his shorts back up around his hips and pivoted to the left so that he faced the corner. His black boxer briefs wouldn’t have been enough to hide the fact he’d gone more than three weeks without sex. He glanced back over his shoulder and met the new arrival’s eyes for just a moment before whipping his head back around. Without hesitating, he dropped his shorts and scrambled into his scrub pants. The man wouldn’t have been able to see the growing bulge inside Bryce’s underwear, but he still felt awkward changing in front of another guy while his cock was hard. Or worse, he didn’t want to be accused of sexual harassment or indecent exposure and lose his job.

The outline of Bryce’s penis was barely visible through the thin, blue fabric of his pants. He grabbed a clipboard from the back of his locker and held it casually over his crotch as he turned and walked towards the exit. He didn’t look up, but saw the man’s face turn towards him as he swept out of the door and onto the main floor of the hospital.

He clutched the clipboard as he made his way through the drab, fluorescent-lit hall and up a flight of stairs. Once he reached the nurse’s station in the Coronary Care Unit, he had himself under control and tossed the clipboard aside.

Trina, the nurse tech, smiled up at him. “What’s up, tiger? You’re a little early today.”

Bryce shrugged. “Figured I would get an early start on the rounds.” He forced a smile.

“You should smile more often. You have a nice mouth,” Trina said. She smiled back and flipped her dark hair before reaching into a deep drawer from which she produced a stack of multi-coloured papers and plastic folders. “Here are the charts,” she said. “By the way, they’re two short in surgery. You may have to cover for some of the nurses there, especially if we get a surgery up from the ER.”

Bryce grimaced. Just what he needed. He never liked the sight of blood or guts. Not that it ever really bothered him, not after a year of medical school. It was just…he was never so keen on the idea of the unexpected. In a way, surgery was like taking a car apart to figure out what’s wrong with it. Even with a diagnosis, surgery was a messy, red crap shoot, minus any potential winnings. He’d have to spend a boozy night at Harrah’s for that.

“My lucky day,” Bryce said. His boner had shrunk to a manageable size now. And after Trina’s announcement, it wouldn’t be something he’d have to worry about until the end of his twelve-hour shift.

“How’s Tatum?” Trina asked casually. Bryce had told her that the two of them had had some problems. What it boiled down to, Trina had pointed out, was that the two of them lacked anything in common.

Bryce had considered Trina’s observation. When the two had met in a bar on Toulouse Street, Tatum had seemed provocative, exciting—new. But in their relationship, it had become increasingly common for Tatum to need a drink before she would put out. And more and more frequently, Bryce felt unsatisfied, even after the most acrobatic and creative of fucks.

Bryce flipped back the cover of the top folder, a deep purple, and studied the chart for the new patient in three-oh-four. History of arrhythmia. Chest pains late the evening before. No evidence of a coronary event, but the hospital was keeping him under observation for a day or so to make sure nothing more serious had caused the irregularity.

Bryce closed the folder, but he didn’t look up. “Tatum?” He paused. “She’s the same.”

“Have you talked to her?”

“Wouldn’t change much.” Bryce shrugged. “I love her, that’s all that matters, right?”

Bryce told himself that he loved Tatum. Maybe that’s why he kept putting up with her shit. If it wasn’t the sex, then it must be love that kept him coming back.

Trina eyed him. “Then, maybe—”

The phone at the nurse’s station buzzed. Trina reacted instantly and clutched the boxy receiver against her cheek. “Hello? Still no-shows? I’ll send him.” Trina furrowed her dark eyebrows and looked up. “They need you in the operating room Bryce. Assault with possible trauma to the head. The surgical assistants are still no-shows.”

Bryce knew better than to ask any questions. He nodded, dropped the stack of charts and dashed down the hall to the nearest elevator.