Cameron's Control (Novella #1): The Enthrall Sessions (Volume 4) (14 page)

“Very enthusiastic employee,” I said dryly.

“I like her.” He tucked his smartphone away. “He could have had a gun, Cameron.”

I shrugged. “Give them medical attention. Whatever’s needed.”

“I’m handling it.” Shay’s phone buzzed and he read the screen. “Emma says they’re from out of town so we may just be in luck.”

“They can’t sue us,” said Mia. “They attacked us.”

“Press charges,” said Shay.

“My aversion to the press won’t let that happen,” I said. “Let’s put it behind us.”

“What’s going on at Cedars?” asked Shay.

“I have a colleague who had a difficult case.”  

“It can’t wait till tomorrow?”  

I gave a shake of my head. “I’ll send Scarlet flowers.”

Scarlet would understand, she always did. In fact everyone in my life was used to my frequent exits, and right now Mia also seemed to be handling it well.

Seeing her in danger had triggered a desire to do whatever it took to protect her at any cost.

Within ten minutes, the towers of Cedars Sinai loomed.

“Shay, take Mia home,” I said. “Stay with her. I won’t be long.”

“Sure.”  

“I can’t come with you?”

“I won’t be long.”  

She looked uncertain.

I let out a long sigh. “The first time you lose a patient you don’t think you’ll ever be able to breathe again. Doctors grieve, despite the emotion being taboo.”

“Have you ever lost a patient?”

I held her gaze.

She took my hand. “Can we do anything?”

“Get some rest. I’ll be home soon.”

The car dropped me off outside the ER.

Comfortable with leaving Shay to watch over Mia, I headed on through the sliding doors and a stale warmth hit me. The waiting room was half full, the faces of the patients a mixture of frustration and boredom.

I withdrew my ID from my wallet and security let me through.

The place bustled with its usual frenetic energy, a mixture of organized chaos and tension. In the middle of this controlled storm, I lingered at an unused console and shook the mouse to awaken the computer screen, tapping in my code to access the system.

With a few taps, Tavon’s schedule over the last five days came up.

I entered his last patient file, which ended with a time of death. Mr. Ray Arnold had been admitted into the morgue.

I went back to read Tavon’s pre-op notes. He’d yet to document his report post-procedure, so I moved on to the OR nurse’s detailed narration, and then the anesthesiologists.  

The surrounding mayhem continued around me.

In a flurry of brunette locks, Payton gave my arm a tap. Her brightness was a nice distraction from the data I’d been engrossed in. She held an IV bag of potassium. Other than a chipped fingernail, she looked perfectly groomed for this time of the morning, and even her lipstick was holding up.

“Did you get to speak with Tavon?” Her southern accent was strong, her breathless tone revealing.

“I did, thank you, Payton. How are things here?”

“Better. Did you get into a fight?”

“You should see the other guy.”

“I don’t doubt it.”  

“Only a few more hours and shift’s over.”

“Thank goodness.”

“Planning anything nice?”

She lowered her gaze. “I was meeting a friend but something came up.”

“His loss.”

She narrowed her gaze. “Who says it’s a guy?”

“Perhaps a spa day is on the cards. Time to rejuvenate.”

She blinked at me as though the idea hadn’t crossed her mind. “Maybe I will.” She glanced over toward the computer screen.

I’d already exited the file. The Cedars logo came back on view.

Her phone buzzed. “Gotta go.”

She scurried off down the corridor, her long lean frame attracting looks from a few other staff, but she seemed oblivious.

I headed on out, avoiding patients pushed in wheelchairs or on gurneys, staff hurrying by, and I nodded to a few who I recognized.

The pungent scent of bleach faded as I stepped out of the building and headed across the street, making the short distance to the south tower.

From chaos to calm. The Cedars cafeteria was deserted.

I perused the line of cereals and went for two bowls of oatmeal. Joining them on my tray were two fresh paper cups of decaf breakfast tea. I paid for the food at checkout and headed on farther back into the generous seating area. There were numerous tables and chairs and quite a few preferable red booths.

A handful of night staff were taking their breaks, most of them spaced out and counting down to hitting the sack. A few stared up at the walled TV screen, an anchor on CNN spewing the latest doom and gloom.

Tavon sat in the far right corner.  

His deep brown eyes inherited from African American parents exuded kindness. Those rugged good looks were forged from years of putting medicine first. His stubble matched my own.  

“Hey there,” I said, placing the tray on the table between us and easing into his private booth.

“Dr. Cole,” he said. “Thank you for being here.”

“Cameron,” I said. “Of course.”

His gaze lowered to my mouth. “What happened to you?”

“All part of the therapeutic process to let you see I too am human.”  

“Seriously, what happened?”

“A misunderstanding.”

His frown deepened. “And I thought I had a rough night.”

“How are things at home?”

“Good. This conversation—”

“Strictly confidential.”

“I appreciate that.”

I lifted the bowl of oatmeal toward him and took one for myself. Same with the tea. “So, what’s up?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “There’s the usual strains. You know, long hours, taking a little more time these days to shake off the day when I get home.”

“How did the affair start?” I ate a spoonful of oatmeal.

“Excuse me?”

“With Payton?”

He stared at me for a long time. “You spoke with her?”

“Bumped into her when I came through the ER.”

“She told you about us?”

“No, you just did.”

He looked perplexed. “It’s nothing.”

“I’m afraid Payton doesn’t feel that way.”

He jolted upright. “You sure you didn’t—”

“Talk to her about your affair? No, I merely picked up her tone of affection when she spoke your name. You didn’t tell her why you’d called me?”

“I don’t need her to know—”

“She’s your professional equal.”

“This has nothing to do with what happened in the OR.”

“I believe you.”

“Then why bring it up?”

I shrugged. “An observation. It’s what I do. I’m assuming that’s why I’m here.”

“You do have a reputation for seeing beyond the ordinary.”

I feigned surprise.

“Um, well this is awkward,” he said.

“Not as awkward as why I’m here.” I took another bite of oatmeal. “This is good.”

He blinked at me, his face full of doubt.

I’d knocked Tavon even more off balance.

Cruel, but necessary.

He sat back, his face worn with worry. “The Septal Myectomy was going great, vitals were stable, the—”

“You have to try this—” I pointed with my spoon. “Delicious.”

He blinked down at the pot. “Kind of lost my appetite.”

“Humor me. Try it.”

He scooped a mouthful of creamy oatmeal with his plastic spoon and nodded in appreciation. His lowered eyelids revealed he really was hungry.

As Tavon ran through what happened in-between mouthfuls, I made a mental run through of what I knew about this procedure. It was complicated and risky, requiring the patient to be placed on cardiopulmonary bypass for up to six hours. The technique was so delicate it could only be conducted by a skilled surgeon on a still heart.

He didn’t need to know I’d reviewed the minute by minute documentation of the surgery, and with each word he spoke I checked off my review of his case.

“No one would have known how affected I was,” he said. “I just left ICU and went right to the coffee room. Asked Payton to text you.”

“I see.”

He rested his hand on his chest. “I have this sense of doom. Can’t shake it. It’s really bad.”

“The fact you called a psychiatrist and not a therapist reflects self-awareness.” I took a sip of tea. “To a degree.”

“How do you mean?”

“Your diagnosis.”

“Excuse me?”

“How long have we known each other?”

“Three years.”

“I’ve been meaning to break it to you and now’s a good a time as any.”

He looked surprised.

“It’s quite clear to me you’re a psychopath.” I gestured to his drink. “Try the tea. It’s refreshing.”

He stared at me, waiting for the punch line.

I nudged the cereal to the side and patted my pockets. “My pad’s in my office. I’ll call you in a prescription.”

“Not funny, Cameron.”

“From what I’ve seen so far, you really are worthy of this classification of personality disorder.”

“Psychopaths show no remorse. They lack empathy, they…”

“Exactly.”

He frowned, as though mulling it over. “What is this?”

I gestured to my mouth. “The reason I got punched was because I was outside taking your call and someone attacked my girlfriend. She’s fine by the way, considering—” I raised my hand. “Not that you care. Being a psychopath.”

His gaze swept the cafeteria warily.

“There’s a line of therapy we can proceed with—”

“I have feelings,” he said. “I have guilt over Payton—”

“That’s fear of getting caught.”

“Still, it’s an emotion.”

“It’s merely a reflex of concern that you won’t be able to continue fucking her.”

He glared at me.

“Your diagnosis is a hard pill to swallow.” I resisted cringing at that choice of words.

“Now listen, I’m a good surgeon. No, great surgeon. I’ve dedicated my life to medicine. Obsessed over getting it right. And yes, I screwed up but how many more lives have I saved?”

“So what you’re essentially saying is losing a patient happens from time to time?”

“Yes.”

“And sometimes we get it wrong?” I raised my spoon. “Not that I’m saying you did.”

He turned his hands over. They’d stopped shaking. Tavon’s face was marred with confusion.

He was young. Brilliant. And a great surgeon.

I had to push him over the edge so he’d be relieved when he came back to firmer ground. I needed to anchor him to a sense of safety. Get him to trust his own judgment again.

“When was the last time you ate?” I said.

“Five, yesterday.”

“The surgery started at four fifteen and went on for six hours. You stayed in intensive care for a further two hours trying to save your patient. You didn’t leave his side.”

“You read my report?”

“Yes.”

He looked thoughtful. “I had lunch. A snack before surgery.”

“You were fine during the surgery. Performed every incision flawlessly. After leaving the ICU, you spiraled. Became hypoglycemic. You need to eat. This—” I pointed to the oatmeal – “will return your blood sugar to normal.”

“I do feel a little better.”

“Let Payton meet a nice single man. One who will take care of her the way she takes care of her patients. No more cheating on your wife.”

“As if it’s any of your business.”  

“Why did you marry Lynette?” I asked. “After all, she was the most incredible woman you’d ever met.”

He frowned at me.

I added, “You’re an egotistical bastard who wouldn’t have settled for less.”

He gave a look of relent. “Do you talk to all your patients like this?”

“You’re not my patient,” I said. “You don’t need therapy. You need to grow a pair.”

He rolled his eyes. “Psychopath? Was that the best you could think of?”

I arched a brow. “You’re off the reservation. Thought I’d join you. See what it feels like in the cheap seats.”

He let out a laugh. “Are you like this all the time?”

“Feel better?”

Tavon caressed his brow. “Fuck you.”

“I take it that’s a yes.”

“It’s a fuck you.”

“You’re smiling again.”

“This is the quiet rage of a psychopath.”

“Nice.”

“And I thought I was messed up.”