Page 17 of The Bad Brother

“I’ll call,” I promise her, not wanting to hear the rest of her threat.

“Very well.” She gives me a final sniff while she adjusts her purse before letting Sheriff Montgomery lead her out ofthe office and toward the elevator. As soon as the door shuts behind them, I feel my shoulders sag.

“I’m so sorry,” I say in hopes of cleaning up the mess my mother’s made. “It won’t happen again.”

“Yes it will,” Dr. Ragnar tells me in that cool, professional tone of hers. “She’s been harassing hospital staff for the lastfour daysand she’llkeepharassing them because you don’t have the balls to simply call her back.”

Her blunt assessment stiffens the back of my neck. “I’ve been working,” I stammer it out while shaking my head. “Only three of my patients have been stable enough to transport after surgery and?—”

“Is that why it’s only Thursday and you’ve already clocked eighty-eight hours?” Dr. Ragnar inclines her head with a faint smile. “Or is it because you’re essentiallylivingin this hospital.”

Oh shit.

I roll the candy tucked into my cheek between my teeth and bite down hard enough to crack it in two, releasing a flood of citric acid that stings my nose and makes my eyes water. “Dr. Ragnar?—”

“Save it.” She says in a dismissive tone that tells me she gives zero shits about my personal life. “Your personal life is of little consequence to me—unless it effects your performance and disrupts this hospital.” Her tone makes it obvious that my personal life is a disruption she will no longer tolerate. “I think your sleeping in your car in the parking garage and having your mother call the sheriff on me while harassing my staff fits the bill—don’t you?”

I nod, agreeing with her because denying it would make me a liar and possibly cost me my job. “Yes.”

“Youwillcall your mother,” she tells me, her tone hardening slightly. “If she pulls another stunt like this, I’ll be forced to reevaluate your position here—understood?”

I nod again, the tears stinging the corners of my lids having nothing to do with the citric acid still burning my sinuses. I cannot get fired, not on top of everything else. I just can’t. “Understood.”

When I say it, Dr. Ragnar’s expression softens slightly. “I take it the place you were living with your fiancé belongs to him and that he asked you to leave when he broke off the engagement?”

No—the condo wasmineuntil Ethan stole it.

It’s obvious that my personal life has been the subject of so much gossip that evenshe’sheard about my current state of crisis. I contacted a lawyer in Dallas and after reviewing my case, he told me there was nothing I could do, aside from possibly suing Ethan for the down payment I made on the condo but that even then, I’d probably end up spending more money on the lawsuit than any possible judgment I’d be awarded.My advice—let him have it. Walk away and start over, Dr. Merrick.Because that’s morepersonal lifethan she cares to hear, I simply nod. “Yes.”

Giving me a quiet sigh, Dr. Ragnar opens the top drawer of her desk and pulls out a pen and pad.

“Here,” she says, scribbling out a telephone number. “This is the number for my realtor.” Offering me the slip of paper, she jostles it impatiently when I don’t move fast enough for her liking. “Call her, as soon as we’re finished, and make an appointment. She’ll help you find something suitable.”

Taking the offered number, I give her a numb nod whileslipping it into my coat pocket. “I’ll call her,” I promise. “And I’ll call Sheriff Montgomery to apologize for?—”

“Sheriff Montgomery was already here when your mother called. He has an arrest warrant for the truck driver from last week’s accident,” she tells me. “He tested positive for both Oxycodone and methamphetamine.”

What little sympathy I had for the man who caused Friday night’s bus crash dries up in an instant. “I see,” I say, careful to temper my tone with as much compassion as I can muster. I’ll admit there isn’t much.

Dr. Ragnar makes a noncommittal sound in the back of her throat. “Give me your pager.”

“What?” My hand flies to my waistband to cover the pager I have clipped there. “Why?”

“Because I’m taking you off the surgical rotation.” She lifts her hand to make an impatientgimmegesture in my direction.

“I have patients.” I give her a panicked headshake. “I can’t just?—”

She arches an eyebrow at me and cocks her head. “Are you suggesting that I’m not capable of attending to your patients, Dr. Merrick?”

“What?” Still shaking my head, I force my fingers to move, wrapping them around the pager that’s been in my possession since I started working here. “No—” Jerking it loose, I hold it out to her. “I just?—”

Taking my pager, Dr. Ragnar opens one of her desk drawers and drops it inside. “You have four days to get your shit together. Dr. Merrick—I suggest you use them wisely.”

I’VE GOT A CHURCH LADY PROBLEM.

Every morning for the past week, I’ve woken up to find at least three of them in my bar, cleaning. Sweeping and mopping. Dusting and polishing. Yesterday, I walked into the kitchen to find one of them cleaning out the grease trap while another scrubbed down my flat top. A small army of them shows up at 10AM, cleans the bar from top to bottom, and leaves before I can figure a way to kick them out that won’t earn me an express ticket to hell. What makes it even worse is that they don’t want anything in return. They’re cleaning the bar for free.

It’s driving me crazy.

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