Page 31 of If Cain Were Able

I exit the administrator’s office and find the rest of my team in the hospital lobby. Tonight, we’ll compare notes and come up with what we call our ‘silver-lining strategy’ over dinner, but all I really want to do is grab a shower and fall into bed in my hotel suite.

Chapter 19

Cain

The man holds his hand out. “I’m Fierro Lupida. I work with the arbitration group hired to mediate the issues with the new administration.”

“What do you want from me?” I ask bluntly, returning to my office. After a full day of clinic, I’m out of fucks to give.

“To hear your side of the argument, sir,” he says politely.

“My time is in high demand, Mr. Lupida,” I reply. “I’ve just finished with forty-two patients in clinic, and I’m due in the OR in ten minutes.”

“I understand, but surely a man needs to eat? My group is at your disposal. Why don’t you call me when you finish in the OR, and one of my teammates or I will treat you to dinner at the WinterTree while you lay out your grievances?”

It’s a hard offer to turn down.

“Fine,” I say, grabbing the card he’s holding out. “But it’ll be late.”

“I’m sure we can work something out.”

I’m exhausted.

A quadruple bypass that left my patient needing the paddles three times has me leaving the OR at one in the morning, sticky with dried sweat, and bleary-eyed as I navigate the parking garage through my adrenaline crash.

I think about the phone call I’m supposed to make. I know the hour is ridiculous, but what better way to convey my point about OR time than to make everyone suffer the way my patients and I will suffer if they cut my operating time. The patients will still be there, which means every day I walk into the OR, I won’t walk out of it until this time or later; meanwhile, it’ll sit empty for portions of daylight hours because other surgeons can’t fill the rooms the way I can.

Pulling the card out of my wallet at a red light, I dial the number and smile when a sleepy voice answers.

“Fierro,” the man says in a daze.

“I apologize for the late hour, but I’ve just wrapped up in the OR. Someone owes me dinner,” I say, knowing fully well my fridge is stocked at home.

“Give me five minutes. I’ll take care of it,” the man says, hanging up.

Four minutes later, my cell phone rings.

“Dr. Rosemont,” I answer without looking at the screen.

“Always thought a Double Baconator was an odd choice for a guy who wanted to be a heart surgeon, but to each his own. You still like fries with your Frosty?” A familiar voice asks over the line, causing my stomach to drop into my ass. “Wendy’s is about the only thing open at this hour.”

Hearing Patrick recite the order that I survived on in undergrad sends unwanted emotions rushing past my tired defenses.

“Um, yeah,” I whisper through a pang of loss, remembering our last night together. As soon as it moves on, it’s replaced by confusion. “What are you doing in Boston? And how’d you know I needed dinner?”

“Send me your address. I’ll bring it to you,” he replies without answering my questions.

“You don’t have to⁠—”

“Actually, I do. It’s literally my job,” he says. His voice is entirely devoid of emotion, and I’m struck with a terrible thought. Did I finally break him past the point of repair?

We hang up, and I text him my address, suddenly hit with another rush of adrenaline. I don’t know where he’s coming from, but I really hope I beat him to the house so I can take a shower. I still have my last patient’s blood on me.

But no dice.

When I pull up to my gate, a car is already idling outside.

I hit the button and pull through first. Patrick pulls through behind me and follows me up the winding driveway.