Doctored Vows - Chapter 4

“You’re regretting your decision now, aren’t you?” When I peer at Alla in bewilderment, she tosses a bag of contaminated waste at my feet. “Don’t act surprised, Dr. Genius. Rumors of your promotion circulated the hospital hours before you arrived.”

I sigh in relief. She isn’t referencing my shameful cowardice in front of the most confident man I’ve ever met. She’s talking about the promotion that was shoved to the back of my mind when a far more enticing package ripped it from my thoughts.

The event that will be forever referenced as the “shower incident” has kept my clit in a constant state of arousal all evening. It won’t stop buzzing—which is concerning to admit since I’ve yet to work out how the man in the shower is connected to Mrs. Ivanov.

When Alla peers at me with an arched brow, waiting for a reply, I say, “Why gossip about something that may not occur?”

She gives me with the same look everyone gives when I enter the cafeteria with a packed-from-home lunch.

It is the look of pity.

She knows as well as I do that I could never turn down the offer Dr. Sidorov handed me this morning. It is the only lifeline available and still below what I need.

For future reference, anything with “medical” attached to it is expensive—for both the patient and soon-to-be doctor.

“I’m not regretting anything…” Except not stepping into the bathroom thirty seconds earlier.

I hide the disgust attempting to cross my face by lugging a second bag of biowaste that cannot be incinerated onto the cart so it can be disposed of into a landfill that will be uninhabitable for years to come.

“Not even the dozen or so donut holes I gorged.”

Alla bumps me with her hip before locking her eyes with mine so I can see the truth in them when she says, “We could have survived without you tonight. It’s been quiet.”

“I know. I just…”

Since I’d rather look like an idiot than admit how desperate I am for this pay, I shrug. I’m burning the candle at both ends, and it is catching up to me. I’m one hour of overtime from burnout, but obligations don’t stop because you’re tired—or horny.

Once we have the cart loaded into the van hazardous waste is transported in, I peel off my gloves and hairnet, dump them into the trash, then turn to face Alla, who ditched the hazmat gear ten minutes ago. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Not if I can help it.” When my brows furrow, she explains, “When Mr. Bolderack heard you were leaving, he filled in the rest of your shifts with a person from the temp agency.” My heart falters for only a second. “You’ll still be paid as if you worked. You just don’t need to show up.”

This can’t be my life. How did it switch from chaotic to surreal in a matter of hours?

Although I’m dying to sleep in, just like my patients will always come first, so will my morals. “I should still come in. It won’t feel right to be paid and not work.”

When Alla twists her lips, I assume she is considering my objection. I learn otherwise when she says, “If you show up, I’ll tell Boris you said yes to his umpteenth request for a date.”

My mouth slackens as my eyes widen. “You would never be so cruel.”

Boris is lovely, but the name his mother chose for him matches his face.

He’s a human bulldog.

Realizing she has me at her mercy, Alla says, “Enjoy the time off.” She wheels a cart full of waste down the corridor. “And try to get some sun on those legs while you’re at it. They’re whiter than a hospital sheet and will look as red as the ones we collect from the OR if you don’t prepare them for the sun bonanza they’ll get hit with next month.”

Giddiness flutters low in my stomach while I recall the three-day getaway I have planned with one of my oldest friends, but it doesn’t alter the facts. “I’m not planning to spend the time sprawled on a pool lounge.”

“Why not?” Alla asks, clearly disgusted.

“It’s a hen party, not a vacation.”

She cocks a brow. “A destination hen party. That screams margaritas by the pool and heatstroke that will put your head more in a tizzy than any orgasm you’ve ever had.”

A groan rumbles in my chest when I fail to recall how giddy an orgasm should make me.

It’s been so long that the memories are as dusty as the cobwebs between my legs.

I take a mental note to learn how to school my expressions better when Alla says, “Or perhaps you should work on whatever is going on with you right now.” She leans in and takes a big whiff of my shirt. “Is that desperation I’m smelling?”

Yes, yes it is.

Since I can’t say that, I return her hip bump before mouthing my thanks for a reason to leave guilt-free. I’ll run from controversy before I will ever encourage it.

“I love you, girl, and don’t act like you’re about to become a stranger. Whenever you dump a clunky chest clamp on the OR floor and leave it there, you’ll think of me.”

“I will.” I laugh, aware she is joking. After working with the department responsible for cleaning up a surgeon’s mess, I will never leave any theater in disarray. “But if you think you’re getting out of Donut Holes Thursdays, you’re sadly mistaken.”

Her smile competes with the OR light haloing her head. “I’ll see you then.”

“You will. Bye.”

I wiggle my fingers in farewell. Alla uses her whole arm.

My steps are extra spirited as I walk toward the locker rooms all intern doctors use. Even with HosSterile having their own lockers for their staff to use, I keep my belongings in my hospital-issued locker. It saves taking up a space someone else may need.

When a severe bout of tiredness overwhelms me, I increase my speed. My apartment block is only a ten-minute walk from the hospital, so if I keep my focus on my bed and not a hope for a re-run of the event that’s kept my pulse rampant for hours, I may achieve eight hours tonight instead of the four to five I usually get.

“Where are you?” I murmur when my dig through my locker fails to find the envelope Dr. Sidorov placed my offer in. I took it with me to the ER since my chat with Dr. Sidorov made me late for my shift, but I swear I left with it once my shift was over. I stuffed it under my arm before I…

My breath catches halfway to my lungs when I recall the last place I saw it.

I left it in Mrs. Ivanov’s room.

When I close my locker door more abruptly than required, I apologize to the intern working the graveyard shift for startling him before making my way to the surgical ward. I’m not angry I need to visit Mrs. Ivanov again. I’ve been chomping at the bit to get an update on her condition all evening. I’m annoyed that excitement was the first emotion to blister through me—excitement that has nothing to do with the speed of Mrs. Ivanov’s recovery.

My patient’s health should be in the forefront of my mind, not my wailing libido.

“You didn’t happen to pick up an envelope from Room 12A earlier tonight, did you?” I ask the nurse on duty at the desk. “It was white with a Myasnikov Private seal on the top corner.”

“No, sorry.” Before she can ask any of the questions in her eyes, a patient buzzes, demanding her attention.

I smile to assure her we’re both fine before entering the corridor Mrs. Ivanov’s room is located in. Since it is early, my knocks are faint. Most people are asleep at this time of the morning. I’m the only fool burning the night oil at all times of the day.

“Mrs. Ivanov?”

I brace the door’s hinges so they only give out the slightest creak when opening before I tiptoe into the silent room.

I’m halfway in when I am startled by a light switching on. It beams from the corner Mr. Ivanov was shadowed by the night we met. Except it isn’t Mr. Ivanov’s almost sable eyes staring back at me. It is those belonging to my supervisor—the man I’ve been avoiding all day.

“Dr. Abdulov. You scared me.” He leers at my skittish response but remains quiet, prompting me to ask, “Why are you sitting in a dark room?” I blame the late hour for my daftness. “And where is Mrs. Ivanov?” Her bed is empty, and not a single trickle of water can be heard.

My eyes snap back to Dr. Abdulov when he says, “She was discharged earlier this evening.”

“Already?” When he nods, I ask, “Who authorized that?”

His glare leaves a sour taste in my mouth. He’s clearly unappreciative of my line of questioning, but instead of calling me out on it, he lowers his eyes to the contract I came here to find. It is out of the envelope and ruffled like it has been flicked through. “Why haven’t you signed that yet?”

I snatch up the document and place it back into the envelope before replying, “Because I’m unsure if this is the direction I want to take. I want to specialize in⁠—”

“You specialize in whatever offers the biggest incentive.” Again, he nudges his head to the contract. “That far exceeds anything you will receive in the public sector.”

“Health isn’t about profits.”

He scoffs as if I am an imbecile. “Says every first-year intern.”

“I’m a third-year surgical resident.” His chin juts out sharply when I say, “Who would never let a patient’s livelihood be jeopardized by undermining her medical condition.” He attempts to interrupt me, so I speak faster. “A B12 deficiency isn’t a joke. It can cause severe complications if not monitored and corrected by a team of medical professionals.” I use my last word sparingly, because what I’ve witnessed the last three months under Dr. Abdulov’s guidance hasn’t been close to professional. “I will organize a discharge plan for Mrs. Ivanov this evening and forward it to her GP in the morning.”

He slows my steps to the exit with a gravelly tone. “Mrs. Ivanov is not your patient.”

“From what I’m hearing, she isn’t yours either, because if she was, she’d still be admitted.”

I crank my neck back to authenticate the anger in his snarled huff.

It is genuine. He looks seconds from ripping the contract out of my hand and tearing it in shreds, but for some reason, he doesn’t.

He issues me a brief goodbye before he enters the corridor before me, leaving me utterly speechless that I dodged his wrath for the second time in under twenty-four hours.