Not Quite Forever (Not Quite series) (8 page)

Her husky laugh told him he was right.

“Raw sugar. Honey if I’m in a restaurant. Refined sugar is bad for you, Doctor. You should know that.”

He pushed away his empty bowl of
nothing but refined sugar
cereal and glanced out the window. “I’m working a midshift today, off a day, then on two mornings . . . have a dinner with the directors of Borderless Doctors after that.”

“OK.” She paused. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I told you my schedule was stupid.”

“Which is easier because you’re single.”

Right.

“Everything is squished together because of Miami and my dad’s birthday—”

“Walt?” she interrupted him.

“Yes?”

“Do you want to see me again?”

He hated how much. “Yes,” he admitted.

“Do you and your colleagues ever go out after a shift?”

He laughed, thought of the dive only a few blocks from the hospital. “Joe’s.”

“Fine. I’ll meet you at Joe’s for a drink on Tuesday.”

This felt too good . . . too right. “Do you pay your bills in advance?”

For a moment, there was silence on the line.

“What?”

“Your bills? Electric, water . . . that stuff. Do you—”

“I understand what bills are. Yes, I do. I hate to think of them stacking up and me forgetting them. Do you?”

He offered a nervous laugh, turned to his computer, and noticed a red “overdue” notice on his water bill. “Of course . . .” He punched in the amount due and hit Send.

“Doctor?”

“Yeah?” He clicked through the bills he normally paid, noticed his cell phone was a couple of days away from being shut off. “Damn,” he mumbled.

“You can’t lie worth shit. I hope you know that.”

He placed the amount due in the empty box, hit Send. “What?”

The rest of his bills were good. Rent was on a monthly payment, cable too—not that he really needed it. He was never home. Automatic credit card, and car payment . . . insurance.

There was silence on the line. “Dakota?”

“I’m still here. Are you done paying your bills?”

“Yeah.”
Wait
. . . did he tell her he was paying bills? “I’m busted, aren’t I?”

“You’re not perfect? That might be a deal breaker, Doc.”

He pushed away from his desk, drank his black coffee. “Tuesday?”

“Tuesday at Joe’s by the hospital.”

He liked that. “Be safe.”

“You too, Doc.”

Chapter Six

Desi Calloway had been her own boss since she was twenty-seven. The literary agency she’d started after her short stint working with one of the big publishers changed her mind about editing for a living. She wanted to represent authors, lots of authors. She’d set out to be a powerhouse in her field and accomplished an impressive list of authors by her midthirties. Closing in on her fiftieth birthday, she was on her second marriage and had one daughter in college. Calloway Literary Agency now employed a half-dozen agents and an equal amount of ancillary staff.

Whenever Dakota visited the New York office, she was treated with a warmth usually reserved for family. The staff knew her by sight from day one. They answered her e-mails within twenty-four hours and never said no.

“You can’t blame them for pushing, Dakota. You’ve been under one contract or another with them for three years. They want the Dakota Laurens machine to keep dealing out new books.”

“I’m not sure I want to write another series right now. I have a single title swimming around in my head.”

“Single title, series . . . they don’t care. Give me two sentences to pitch to them and we’ll get the ball rolling.”

Dakota laughed. “I’ve come a long way from the six-page synopsis.” Or as she more frequently called it, suck-nopsis. An emotionless outline of a proposed book that often veered off course during the writing process. Every writer she knew dreaded writing the things.

“Shoot me an e-mail when you have something. We should have your numbers for the last pay period in the next couple of weeks, which might give us more leverage during contract negotiations.”

“I’ll let you deal with that. I’ll play temperamental artist and make stuff up to sell.”

Desi laughed and wrapped up the call.

For the next hour, Dakota sat with an open notepad and a pen. Some of the personalities she’d met at the Miami conference floated in her head and started to take shape. For Dakota, writing always started with her characters. Who were they, what were their experiences that brought them to the point in life that the book began? She hadn’t been completely kidding when she told Walt that she was writing a character profile on him. Well, not him, but a doctor . . . or maybe a nurse. Perhaps a male nurse and a female doctor . . . she jotted down that idea, asked herself how that would impact the story.

When her ideas crashed to a halt, she’d step into the kitchen and pick a cupboard to clean. Halfway through the kitchen junk drawer her thoughts moved to Monica Fairchild. Without any hesitation, she picked up her cell phone, found the number Monica had given her, and placed the call.

“Hello?” Monica’s cheerful voice was accompanied by a bark. “Gilligan, down!”

“Monica? It’s Dakota.”

“Oh, hey. Can you hold on a second?”

“Sure.”

She heard Monica call her pets outside and had to smile.

“Sorry about that. Seems they just love it when I’m on the phone.”

“Sounds like kids.”

“Bite your tongue. I’m not ready for that.” They laughed about kids and phones for a couple of minutes, discussed how unready they both were for parenthood.

“Walt told me that flying down to the Keys was a bust.”

“Not a complete waste of time, but yeah, not what we thought it might be.”

Dakota started drawing circles on a blank page in her notebook. “Part of the reason I called was to pick your brain a little bit. I’m working on a new book . . . or I think I will be soon. After Miami I thought it would be great to have a doctor or nurse in my next story.”

“Really?” Monica’s giddy laugh was contagious. “I’m not sure how I can help, but I’d love to.”

“That would be great. I can look up facts online, but there are things that happen in every profession that never make it into a book.”

“I completely agree. I’m sure Walt can answer . . . wait, did you say you saw Walt since you’ve been back to LA?”

“Yeah.”

Monica hesitated over the line. “As in a date?”

“Is that strange?”

“For Walt it is. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure he has a personal life, but I’ve never heard about anyone he’d actually say he was dating. Wow.”

Suddenly the need to know more about Walt’s lack of dating became the driving theme of the conversation and her character profile drifted away.

“So the good doctor doesn’t date. I wonder why.”

“I always thought he was just too busy to bother. Between Borderless Doctors and the ER there’s no time.”

Dakota kept drawing circles, filled some in. “He said as much. Still, I can’t imagine single nurses looking the other way.”

“Take it from me,” Monica said. “Hospital romances are overrated. It’s more common that the nurses hook up with the paramedics that come in. At least when those relationships fail you don’t have to see your ex on a daily basis . . . or if you do it’s only briefly.”

Monica went on to tell her about a past relationship gone bad and how difficult it was after.

Dakota flipped her page and asked, “So is there an unwritten rule not to date doctors?”

“Not really. A lot of nurses hooked up in nursing school, but again, those didn’t last long. None that I know of anyway.”

“What about male nurses and female doctors?”

“Now that would be a great book,” Monica said. “I don’t know of any . . . but I can see the hot factor in a book.”

Dakota smiled, placed a circle around the words
female MD, male RN
.

“So are you and Walt going to see each other again?”

“Drinks at Joe’s after his shift.”

Monica laughed. “Joe’s is a dive. Fair warning.”

“Good to know.”

“Walt’s a good guy and a great doctor. He really cares about his patients.”

“You don’t have to convince me to go out with him, Monica.”

They laughed and changed the subject.

Monica gave her the green light to call anytime for nurse and hospital information.

Joe’s was the
Plaza of dive bars. Dakota knew better than to dress up for a simple drink at a bar she’d already been warned about, but having been raised in the South it was against her nature to leave the house without makeup and a little polish. In short, she looked hot but nothing worthy of the Oscars. She told herself the tight black leggings, long shirt that managed to look like a dress, and three-inch heels were her norm when grabbing a drink.

Lying to herself wasn’t a new thing.

Chances were she’d meet a friend or two of Walt’s at the bar. Since he didn’t date, she wanted to make a good impression . . . and that was a first. Most times, she couldn’t care less what people thought of her.

Dark walls filled the bar along with the smell of old beer, smoke-filled ceiling tiles, and musty depression that accompanied dives like this one.

It was seven thirty-five, minutes past the time that Walt said he’d be there. There was a group of twentysomethings in the corner drinking bottled beer. Two sets of eyes from that group found her before she moved her attention away. The bar housed a couple of older men, somewhere in their late fifties, and a couple.

There were tables, but only a few, and a jukebox poured out a mix of contemporary rock.

The place was old, dark, and smelled stale, but Dakota realized when she sat down that it was relatively clean . . . well, except for the ceiling. It might take a California wildfire to take out that dirt.

A table large enough for two sat in the back of the bar where she could keep an eye on the door. She knew there were plenty of eyes on her as she moved through the bar. She chose to ignore them.

The waitress wore jeans and a smile.

“What’s the best whiskey you have back there?” she asked.

The waitress replied with a label that might not have been Dakota’s first choice, but better than she expected. Before the girl walked away, she nodded over her shoulder. “Those guys over there are already trying to buy you a drink.”

Dakota avoided looking over the waitress’s shoulder, knew the younger men in the room were eyeing her.

“Are they regulars?”

“Sadly.”

“If I tell them I’m married?”

“Like that would matter.”

“Big biker boyfriend?”

The waitress was smiling now. “There are five of them . . . does this boyfriend of yours have friends?”

Dakota tossed back her head with a laugh. “Do they have priors? Anyone on parole?”

The girl lost her smile. “You’re a cop?”

“Maybe . . . maybe not. I don’t need anyone buying my drinks.”

The blonde set a napkin on the table and laughed. “I like you. You need Hector to walk you out . . . let me know.”

Dakota lifted both index fingers to the waitress and grinned. “You got it.”

With any luck, Hector wouldn’t be needed.

Fifteen minutes later, Dakota started to wonder. Never going anywhere without a notebook, she jotted down her impressions of the bar and described a character sitting on a barstool watching a recap of an earlier game.

The first two people who entered the bar in scrubs kept her in her seat. Monica had warned her that ER shifts weren’t like any other monster. There was no telling what would keep the staff late and no real way to contact an employee if they were knee-deep in a trauma or an equally difficult situation. The two walking into the bar narrowed their gaze on her the moment they hit the door.

“I’m sorry,” the petite blonde pulled her long hair over her shoulder. “Are you Dakota?”

Relieved she wasn’t being stood up, Dakota lifted her hand. “I am.”

“I’m Valerie.” The girl was small, but her handshake wasn’t wimpy. “This is Nancy. Walt wanted us to tell you he’s on his way.”

Nancy moved into a chair beside Dakota. “Full moon. Nothing good happens with a full moon.” Without a pause, Nancy continued, “I love your books.”

Dakota grinned. “Thanks.”

Valerie waved at the blonde waitress. “Gina, I’d kill for chicken wings.”

So the waitress had a name. “You got it . . . Nancy?”

“Vodka tonic.”

With their orders taken, Dakota’s two new bar friends turned and stared. “You’re really Dakota Laurens.”

Dakota took a swig of her drink. “You make it sound like I’m crazy famous.”

“You are.”

“A couple of bestsellers—”

“At least three that I know about. When is the next Surrender book coming out? I’m dying to know if Cassidy is knocked up.” Nancy was clearly a fan.

“The next book will be out after the holidays.”

Before the women could continue, two more scrub-wearing employees joined them. “There you are . . . you guys rushed out of the parking lot.” The man speaking wore scrubs like the others, his chin sported a slight shadow and a confident grin.

“I’m thirsty,” Nancy said.

Valerie made introductions . . . Dale and
Maria were the next two to pull a second table next to hers. They ordered more drinks and Gina set a big basket of fried chicken wings smothered with barbeque sauce in the center of the table.

“Never fails . . . end of a shift and someone has to come in all messed up from the freeway.” This came from Maria.

Valarie leaned next to Dakota. “Three-car pileup on the Ten.”

“I came from that way . . . didn’t see anything.”

“I think it was from San Bernardino.”

Nancy lifted her cocktail. “Which means I might as well relax. Traffic home is going to suck.”

“Was everyone OK?” Dakota asked.

“Couple of minors. The passenger took the hit, which is why we’re late getting out tonight. She was on her way to surgery when we left.” Valerie drank water with lime.

The staff talked about the accident, the day’s events. Dakota realized that Joe’s dive bar was a place for necessary decompression for the hospital staff. Only a couple of them actually drank. The others ate, laughed, and let the day’s events purge out of their systems.

By eight thirty, Nancy was checking the time on her phone. “I wonder what’s keeping Walt?”

Valerie kept a closer eye on the door than Dakota. By nine, it was apparent that Valerie needed to leave and Maria kept texting someone on her phone. This small group had a one or no drink maximum and all their glasses were empty.

“You don’t have to wait here with me,” Dakota finally said.