Page 80 of Dirty Little Secrets
Like a rat in a lab, he set up the appropriate environmental controls, sat back, and watched. He watched as I succumbed to his charms, to his veiled innocence, to his unnerving patience and gentle approach. I passed his test. But I failed my own.
Or did I?
When our heads hit the pillow, when we drifted off to sleep, I felt, despite my resignations, a sense of comfort. The same solace I find in the stillness ofdarkness. Now I don’t know what to think. It’s all jumbled. Confusing. The equation is no longer linear. It’s no longer quantitative. I’ve wandered away from the realm of simplicity into a world of theoretical principles. I’ve always hated the unknown. But last night, the unknown didn’t seem too scary.
As I push open the door to New York City General, I’m hit with the sterile scent of hospital cleaner. A smell shouldn’t be scary either, yet there are goosebumps all over my arms. No matter where I go, tests always follow. One after another. Endless.
“Excuse me.” I grab the attention of a nearby security guard. “Can you tell me how to get to cardiology? I have an appointment at eight.”
“Follow the blue line to the elevator,” he mutters, pointing to the vinyl strips on the floor. “Sixth floor.”
I should’ve remembered that. But it’s been three years. A lot has changed in three years. The hospital received a facelift. Residents became attendings. People lived. People died. And I fell into the in-between.
My gaze stays glued to the blue line as I walk through the hospital, my heart racing as I near the closing elevator doors.
“Hold it!” I call out, picking up my pace as I round the corner. “Hold—” My shoulder collides with a steady arm, and my purse drops on the ground, all the contents spilling. “Fuck sake’s…” I drop to my knees, reaching for all my crap that’s sprawled on the floor. The man crouches down, and we reach for a pill bottle together. “I’m fine. I don’t need your…” I glance up, taken aback as Quinton frowns, reading the bottle. “Quin? What’re you doing?—”
“Munosol?” His cloudy gaze flicks up, brows knitted together. “Why are you taking immunosuppressants?”
“None of your business.” I stiffen, yanking the bottle out of his hand. My gaze soaks in his three-piece charcoal suit as we both stand up. “Why are you here?”
“Emery…” His deep, gritty tone causes my spine to straighten and my throat to dry. Quin frowns. “Why are you taking Munosol?”
His question registers inside my brain like a command from an admiral, a man of high rank and earned respect. I have no control as my lips part, and I mumble out, “I had a heart transplant.” I swallow. “Your turn. Why are you here?”
“Following up on a clinical trial,” he says in a rush, gaze flitting down to my purse. “How long have you been taking Munosol?”
“Clinical trial for what?” I ask, deflecting as I cross my arms.
“That’s confidential,” he says, clearing his throat. His tone teeters between concerned and angry as he asks, “How long have you been taking Munosol, Emery? A year? Two?”
What is his deal? Did I do something to irritate him? “Closer to three,” I say, glowering at him. He’s being rude, and I don’t know why. And frankly, I don’t care to find out. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m late for an appointment.”
“Emery.” He reaches out, grabbing my arm as I attempt to duck past him. “Wait… Please?—”
I spin around, baffled beyond belief. “What?”
His concerned gaze flits across my face. “What side effects have you experienced? Nausea? Loss of appetite? Vomiting?” He looks down at my clenched fist. “Any tremors?”
“I’m late,Doctor,” I grunt. “I don’t have time to fill out your Big Pharma survey.”
Quin runs a frustrated hand through his thick golden hair. “I’m not…” He sighs. “I’m just?—”
“I’m fine,” I spit out, patting the center of my chest. “Still working, isn’t it? Happy?”
Quin swallows. “I did not mean to overstep my bounds, darling. I apologize for upsetting you.”
“Me?” I ask. “If anyone appears upset, it’syou. My reaction is simply mirroringyours.”
He nods in agreement. “My apologies again. It’s been a… It’s been a long night. I’ve been on the clock since midnight.”
“You’ve been here all night?” I ask, tilting my head. He looks surprisingly well-rested and handsome for a man who pulled an all-nighter. “You don’t look very sleep-deprived.”
He manages a smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Don’t,” I snap back, forcing a scowl. “It’s just an observation.”
“Well, I appreciate the complimentary undertones of yourobservation,” he says with a grin. “And don’t try to deny it, little Emery. There were definite undertones.”
