I can’t seem to get my head in the game and write. Most likely because everyone is home today. I need quiet to write and I don't have it. Hubs is at the computer in the other room, laughing out loud and then reading to me what made him laugh. Teenagers just woke up so, of course, they feel the need to talk to me, too. I really need an office with a door. Ya know what I’m saying?
At least I’ve been writing this week. Every day this week, actually. Interested in a sneak peek?
I’ll share, but only if you remember that this is rough and unedited. I take full responsibility for any errors in medicalese as I haven’t talked with my emergency room contact to verify accuracy.
Adrenaline surged through Dr. Rebecca Dahlman’s system, revving her pulse, pushing away the fatigue of an overly long shift better than the half pot of coffee she’d already consumed.
“Upon arrival, patient was unresponsive. We were able to get the c-collar on him right away, but had to wait for rescue’s hydraulic equipment to remove the door before we could get him on the backboard.”
Gown and gloves in place, Rebecca ran her gaze over the man strapped to the backboard with orange belts as they swung into trauma one and transferred him to the ER’s bed. Her team moved efficiently around the patient, cutting off his clothes with trauma shears.
The medic continued feeding her pertinent information as she began her own assessment. “Blood pressure is one-twenty over seventy-five, pulse ox one hundred percent. Pupils are dilated, equal and reactive.”
The guy was a bloody mess. Blood covered his face, soaked the left side of his head and shoulder of his shirt. He had a laceration on his left upper arm, deep enough to require sutures, and some bruises were already beginning to form across his chest from the seatbelt doing its job and holding him in place. Other than that, there were no other visible injuries. It was the injuries she couldn’t see that she had to worry about.
“I want a complete set of x-rays,” Rebecca stated automatically as she shifted closer and listened to her patient’s chest. Lungs clear, no abnormal heart rhythm. She looped her stethoscope around her neck and leaned in, searching the man’s scalp for head trauma. “Draw a trauma panel, tox screen and blood alcohol.”
Karen Williams, Rebecca’s best friend and charge nurse for the night, pulled the man’s wallet from the pile of clothes on the floor.
Directly above his left ear Rebecca uncovered the source of all the blood. Pushing her fingers into his hair, she palpated the injury site. The wound immediately began to bleed again. “No skull fracture that I can detect.”
“I’ll want a CT scan of the head and neck.”
“Rebecca.” Karen’s voice was tight and pulled her attention. “It’s Dominic.”
For a moment, a heartbeat really, the words didn’t make any sense. Then, she looked closer. As if in slow motion Rebecca dragged her gaze up the torso, locked it onto the face partially hidden behind long, blood soaked hair. Her breath snagged in her throat and she froze, the sound of her pulse beating in her ears. It was a struggle to keep her hand steady as she pushed his hair away from his face and focused on his mouth, those lips, the bottom one slightly fuller than the top, the thin, straight nose.
“Stud,” she whispered, her voice torn.
His eyes were closed, ringed in thick black lashes. Were they open, she knew they would be the color of the sky just after a cleansing rain.
Her world tilted.
No. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t Dominic. Dominic didn’t have a goatee or a scar across his right clavicle. Dominic wasn’t in California, he was in London. Safe in London.
Not unconscious and bleeding in the middle of her ER.
She lost focus as the room began to spin. Rebecca grabbed the side rail of the bed to keep from hitting the ground. Dom. My God. Her chest felt as if someone stood on it.
“You know this man?” the medic on her right asked.
How could she ever forget? He’d haunted her, both asleep and awake, for nearly three years. She knew his scent, his wicked sense of humor. She knew that were he conscious, he’d be giving her a hard time in that sexy damn voice of his. That he had calluses on his fingers that set her body on fire. Calluses from years of playing the bass, something he did even while asleep; tapping out a rhythm against her hip.
“Yes,” she admitted without thought. Then she pulled her head out of the past and got back to work.
So what do you think? Me, I think I need to get my head back in the game and write some more.