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Swallowing hard before taking a deep breath, I head to the nurse's desk with my head held high, knowing I need to see which bed I need to head to first since the ER is full. Doc looks my way as I get near, while Prue sneers at me. I ignore both and lean over to grab my clipboard with my assignments.
"Morning, Pixie," he rasps near me, and I hum nonchalantly back as I read the first chart of a four-year-old girl who has cut her forehead falling off her bunkbed, the poor pickle.
"Doc, baby…." I try to keep my face straight as shock shoots through me.
She doesn't call him Lucas?
"Prue, I'm busy, as you can see. The room is full of patients. Why are you even here?" he growls impatiently. He's talking to her, yet why can I feel his eyes on me?
If I look at him, will we make eye contact?
She huffs, stamping her heeled foot, she whines, "I'm heading to Louisiana to see my family for three weeks. I haven't seen you in?—"
He cuts her off, "Prue, I'm trying to work. Have a safe trip, yeah? Just make sure you let Breaker know when you're back."
Okay, was it just me, or was that cold?
Wait, he doesn’t want her to let him know when she’s back?
I shake my head and look back over the chart, furrowing my brows. The little girl's chart and the report of how the injury occurred doesn't add up.
Something is off….
I look at Doc, whose eyes are already on me—just as I thought, and I say, "I have a—" but Prue cuts in and snaps, "We're trying to have a conversation here, Kenny, so why don't you fuck off."
Doc tenses, anger radiating from him, and I just raise a brow toward her, ignoring how she got my name wrong on purpose like a child.
Calmy, I reply, "Huh, funny because I'm pretty sure you're not here for a consultation." She narrows her eyes but I just smirk. "I need the doctor in charge of the ER today, and that happens to be Doc, so why don't you turn around and leave before I have you escorted out. Because this four-year-old in our care is a priority over you!"
Her eyes widen at my retort, before she sputters, "Doc, you’re…surely you're not going to let her speak to me that way."
He shakes his head, not once looking at her as he’s giving me his full attention. He asks, "What do you need?"
I furrow my brows, show him the chart, point to what I noticed, and state, "This little girl has come in for a cut on her forehead. It states here," I point on the side of the chart, "that she fell from the bunkbed, but down here, her father says he was in the shed and was told she head-butted the slide? Yet, when you read here, the nurse who admitted her stated the little girl said her momma pushed her into the counter where a knife was."
He narrows his eyes, reading what I have, before he growls, "Call social services on fourth, and I don't want you going in there alone. It could be nothing but…."
I finish off his words, "She could have been hit, and the nurse who signed her in missed it."
He nods, anger rolling from him in waves, and my jaw ticks. Becky, a nurse who likes the brothers a little too much, is the one who signed her in. Instead of focusing on the child, she was most likely focused on Doc, just like she is now from behind the desk. The child could be in danger, for God's sake!
Growing up, I was shoved a lot, shouted at, andshoved in a closet for hours on end, heck I have a row of burns down my back from my mother and her friends. I was six, and she hated that my father didn't show her the attention she wanted. She thought that hurting me would work, but all it proved was that he didn't love me.
Months before then, I learned not to tell a soul how I was treated. Alex is aware I help with the bills, and that Momma has gone off the deep end, but he doesn't know about the abuse. No one does.
No one ever will….
I shake my head as Prue still glares at me. I ignore her, hating that she's still here, and I glare at Becky and round the desk. Becky, seeing me coming, clears her throat and goes to another bed like her ass is on fire. As Prue starts to whine again because, instead of kissing her bye like I thought he would, he turns and storms toward the security, filling them in like the woman doesn't exist.
Actually, come to think of it, I've never seen her kiss her.
Prue's breathing gets hard, her eyes fully on the man who owns me, the man who chose her.
I pick up the phone and dial social services.
"Huntersville Child Services," a woman recites.
I clear my throat. "Good morning, this is Kennedy Gray, I'm a nurse in the ER, and I have a potential case regarding a four-year-old little girl who has come in with a laceration on her forehead.”
