Wake for Me (Life or Death Series) (39 page)

Ms. Wilcox had furrowed her forehead back at me. “What the hell do you think?”

I had no idea how to respond correctly to her challenge, or if there even was a correct response.

After that, facts only continued to disintegrate into nonsensical observations. Irrational responses. Sudden strings of expletives. And of course, the ongoing expressions of sexual euphoria, which seemed to only aggravate the patient further, making her less cooperative.

Then, not even halfway through my attempt at a patient history, Dr. Brady came in. As usual, he didn’t simply enter the room like anyone else would have—he arrived, he barged, he
erupted
into the exam room. I was so startled, I nearly dropped the patient’s chart.

“Dr. Tanner, your break started five minutes ago, and…also, you have an urgent phone call in the doctor’s lounge.”

Dr. Brady’s tan, angular face seemed to have a slight flush to it. His eyes, which were usually a deep brown, looked a few shades brighter than usual. Also, he was panting slightly, as if from exertion.

“Thank you, Dr. Brady,” I said, because he must have come a long way to tell me, and from that I deduced that it must be an emergency. My first thought was for my parents, who are in Honduras for the next month. I worried that something terrible had happened—maybe my father’s angina had worsened, or my mother had been bitten by a mosquito that carried malaria.

But after I’d excused myself from the patient’s side and made my way to the doctor’s lounge as quickly as I could, I couldn’t find a single person who knew about a phone call for me.

I returned to caring for Ms. Wilcox, and after consulting a few databases of published medical precedents, I discovered a way to cure her. Yet, for the rest of the day, I felt as if most of my colleagues—particularly Dr. Brady—were operating on a completely different social plane.

Because of my condition, I’m used to feeling this way. When I was eleven, my father told me that my Asperger Syndrome was like a super power that protected me from a whole level of pain that other people—those who weren’t as lucky as I was—would be forced to deal with their entire lives. Based on my observations of others, I can usually appreciate the truth of my father’s words. Like Superman, I am aloof, unaffected. Almost alien, in some ways. And that makes me stronger, in many ways.

I’ve spent years teaching myself the unspoken rules of each social situation. I study people, I take extensive notes, and then I test my observations on a frequent basis, to see what other social situations my notes might apply to.

But today, I felt more like an alien than ever.

Tonight will be better, though, because I’ve got a plan.

CHAPTER TWO

“Happily Ever After Crasher”

Over the last twenty-five years or so, Conrad Brady had developed a knack for picking up on vibes. He could always tell when others were uncomfortable, when their laughter was only out of courtesy, when their patience had reached its limit. Unfortunately, he’d never learned how to stop talking
before
that happened.

“So, this patient is banging the best man in her hotel room, not half an hour before she’s supposed to walk down the aisle,” he told Sam, making the universal ‘banging’ motion with his hands, for emphasis. “And I guess he really
was
the best man, because when she gets to the church she’s still tingling all over. As she’s walking down the aisle, her knees are shaking and she starts to feel light-headed, but like any good Bridezilla, she refuses to let a little thing like Persistent Genital Arousal Disorder get in the way of her Big Day.”

Brady paused, just long enough to take a breath, and to give Sam time to respond with a nod, an ‘uh-huh,’ or a courtesy laugh. Something. Instead, his so-called best friend just kept staring off into the space directly above Brady’s shoulder, forehead wrinkled with impatience. The average person would’ve probably trailed off at that point, letting the conversation limp its way toward an awkward silence.

But not Brady.

“So she’s standing there at the altar, in front of God and everyone, crossing her legs under that big, frilly skirt of hers and just hoping that it’ll stop—or, at least, that no one will notice the ‘O Face’ hidden under her veil. Except, by this time it’s been going on for at least an hour, and her nerve endings are pretty raw. So when the priest goes to tap her on the shoulder, she freaks out, and—whap!” With that, Brady slapped his distracted friend none-too-lightly across the face, for emphasis. “She clocks the priest, right in the mouth!”

Sam flinched in surprise, and several of their fellow diners turned their heads to stare. As Brady watched with barely contained glee, Sam’s fingers tightened around his bright red cloth napkin, and his nostrils flared like a bull about to charge.

It was especially fitting, Brady decided, that they were in a Brazilian restaurant. Maybe, right before Sam reached across the brightly colored tablecloth to grab him by the throat—thus, beginning a blue-scrub-on-green-scrub skirmish—Brady could yell something like ‘Olé!’ for additional comedic effect. Wait. Did they even
do
bull fighting in Brazil, or was that Spain?
Meh
, it didn’t matter. He was pretty sure the joke would come across.

But Sam didn’t react with his typical insincere threats or half-assed attempts of bodily harm, the way Brady was hoping he would.

Instead, he took a deep breath. Then—eyes flicking once again to a spot just to the left of Brady’s face, toward the door—Sam smiled. No, he grinned. He glowed. At the risk of sounding gay—even if only to himself—Brady had to acknowledge the beauty of his previously sullen best friend’s transformation. Even if he secretly resented, and with each passing day, grew to sort of hate the person who was causing it.

With a muffled sigh of defeat, Brady slumped down in his chair and stared morosely at his menu. He’d been begging Sam to come and try out this new all-you-can-eat Brazilian rodízio, Abacaxi Chamejante, for weeks. As an ER resident at Our Lady of Mercy, Brady barely had time to eat lunch, let alone score some quality BFF-time with his number one wingman. Alas, it seemed that Brady was now wingman-less, and it was looking more and more like he’d been kidding himself about that first part, too. Sam wasn’t his best friend anymore, not really. Over the last couple of months, he had morphed into some unrecognizable Sam-based polymer known as ‘Boyfriend Material.’ Gross.

As a pair of expensive high heels clacked by him on a direct collision course with his hetero lunch date, Brady didn’t even bother to look up. If the stupidly joyous expression on Sam’s face hadn’t already clued him in as to who was approaching, the ever-present tattoo of stilettos and the waft of designer perfume would have. Viola Bellerose, Manhattan’s most infamous socialite, had arrived. Just in time to ruin Brady’s day.

He didn’t know why he was surprised that Sam had invited her to join them for lunch. It wasn’t like they were separable or anything. Hell, not even a month-long coma followed by attempted murder could sever their disgustingly public affection. Like a celebrity couple, they had ceased to exist as two separate beings, and were now known simply as ‘Samola.’

“Sorry I’m late,” Viola said. As she bent down to kiss Sam, her designer bag swung off her shoulder and almost nailed Brady in the face. Undoubtedly, that little move had been pre-meditated. Brady scooted farther into his corner of the booth. Glaring at the two of them, he motioned to their extremely hot waitress—Ana, her name tag read—and ordered a Rio Regret. He wasn’t sure what was in the fruity-sounding drink, but he was hoping it had a lot more alcohol in it than the light beer he was currently drinking.

Jesus, he needed to get a life. Or better yet, a girlfriend. Then, maybe Sam would know how it felt to come second to someone who always smelled like champagne and vanilla frosting. Brady’s stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten anything since his protein shake that morning. Maybe he’d order crème brûlée for dessert. Why bother watching his weight when it was so painfully obvious that he was going to die alone?

Forced to watch as Sam and his multi-billion dollar squeeze continued their PG-13-rated kiss, Brady made a subtle gagging sound in his throat, and then downed the rest of his beer so the waitress could take his empty glass and replace it with a tumbler full of Rio-sized Regrets. Hell, maybe he’d try to hook up with Ana after her lunch shift ended. It was probably a little reckless of him to be drinking and banging waitresses in the middle of the day, especially when he was scheduled for another twelve-hour ER shift, which started at 6:00 PM. But after overdosing on this lovey-dovey bullshit, he’d need to find
some
way to kill all these feels he was having.

When the two love birds finally came up for air—at least, temporarily—Sam turned back to Brady, smiling contentedly. Apparently, he’d already forgotten the slap that was intended to goad him into a fouler, but more fun to be around, mood. “So, what happened with that patient?”

“What patient?”

“Yeah, what patient?” Eyes sparkling with interest, Viola ruffled her perfectly-coiffed Hollywood starlet hairstyle. The thin, pink gold ‘promise ring’ she wore on her most significant left-hand finger seemed to glint menacingly in the afternoon sunlight.

Brady shrugged, letting his eyes wander around the packed restaurant in search of his latest target, that sexy little Brazilian waitress. His epic retelling of ‘The Titillated Bride’ had lost its appeal, especially now that Viola was listening. Technically, he wasn’t even supposed to be sharing these kinds of details, but at least with Sam he could pretend like it was a consult between physicians. Viola was a civilian, an outsider. A spy, basically.

“Oh, well after her fiancé brought her into the ER—and then promptly left, most likely to kick the best man’s ass—Dr. Tanner did some kind of cyborg research magic with the internet and figured out that all we had to do was give her Baclofen, and the orgasmic episode would stop.”

“Baclofen?” Viola looked at Sam, who was already smiling at the punch line of Brady’s story, in spite of its lackluster delivery.

“It’s basically hiccup medication,” Sam translated. “The pathways in the brain that control…
that
response…are similar enough that it would work for both. I’m surprised that Traci would think to try that, though, since cases of Persistent Genital Arousal Disorder are so rare.”

Brady scowled. The only thing that irritated him more than playing third wheel to Samola was being reminded of how thoroughly and often Traci Goddamn Tanner made him look like an idiot. Aside from the ill-fitting lime green scrubs he had to wear, Dr. Tanner—aka T-1000, aka the Ice Queen, aka Destroyer of the Bell Curve—was Brady’s least favorite thing about having chosen emergency medicine as his specialty. It was bad enough that she was like three whole inches taller than him, with eyes like glacial laser beams and the body of a Nordic goddess. Did she have to be twice as smart as he was? Was God really that much of a jackass?

“Oh, hey, speaking of things that are rare…” Viola hoisted her massive handbag onto the table between them, and Brady hurried to rescue his second glass of deliciously alcoholic rum punch. “My publicist gave me these tickets for the Yankees game next weekend. I’ll be in Paris for the European launch of
Falling Awake
, but—”

“And there it is,” Brady muttered, crossing his arms. Viola didn’t seem to hear him, but Sam shot him a warning glare. Brady couldn’t bring himself to feel the least bit sorry. Heaven forbid that he—or anyone else—should ever forget that Viola was now a bestselling author, on top of everything else her charmed life had apparently handed to her….

“…I was thinking you two could take the tickets, and have a guys’ day out or something.”

Nice try, sweetheart, but you’re not going to win me over with your cheap bribes
.

“Great idea, Viola,” Brady told her. “Except Sam and I both hate the Yankees with a flaming passion.”

Viola rolled her eyes, but her smile never faltered.

“Everyone hates the Yankees, Brady. But wouldn’t you rather hate the Yankees from the Owner’s Box, while consuming your weight in free snacks and premium beer?”

Okay, fine,
Brady amended silently, and grudgingly.
With your very expensive and hard to obtain...very tempting bribes.

Damn, Viola was cool. That only made him hate her more.

Shrugging noncommittally, Brady signaled the waitress to bring him a third—or was it a fourth—drink. “Maybe. I’ll have to see if I’m scheduled in the ER that day. I probably am.”

“Bullshit,” Sam said. “There’s no way Dr. Grayson won’t give you the day off if you invite him to come along. I’ll ask Dr. Chakrabarti along too, so he won’t be the only attending there. Is that okay with you, babe?”

“Sure,” Viola smiled and kissed Sam lightly on the cheek. Was it Brady’s imagination, or did she just shoot him a victorious smirk when Sam wasn’t looking? “You can invite as many people as you want. The whole box is yours for the day.”

Brady rolled his eyes, but he kept his mouth shut for the rest of the meal. Maybe it was time to admit defeat. It sure as shit looked like Viola had already won.

That was the hardest part, Brady realized: not losing, but admitting the truth to himself about why he’d grown to hate her so vehemently over the past few months.

He could forgive Viola for being painfully out of his league, and for being one of the few people—other than Sam—who saw right through his bullshit act. He could even forgive her for stealing his best friend, because really, it seemed like she’d actually managed to do the one thing that Brady had been trying to do for years: teach Sam how to stand up for himself and go after what he wanted. Unlike Brady, Sam was a good guy. He deserved to be happy.

But now that Sam had finally stopped being such a doormat, it was only a matter of time before he realized that having a screw-up like Brady for a best friend would drag him down in the long run—socially, financially, successfully, grammatically….