Blood And Roses: Fallen Part 8

Huh. So he's not going to help me figure this one out. And he wants me to close my eyes? The room's already dark, and he wants me to make it even darker. I guess that's how it is with us, though. We met in the dark-something that Zeth arranged on purpose. It adds a certain electrifying element to the s.e.x. And I know Zeth well enough to know that he didn't switch the light off in that hotel room because he was embarra.s.sed or he didn't want me to see his face. He did it because it robs you of a defense mechanism.

As children, the majority of us are innately afraid of the dark. It's an unknown ent.i.ty, and can hide innumerable frights and scares. The bogeyman; the monsters under the bed; the ghosts hiding in the closet. It takes strength to overcome those fears as we grow older. Strength to a.n.a.lyze our dread and learn to accept it. To learn from it. To embrace it. In his own warped way, I think Zeth hides us away in the dark because he wants to make me fearless. It's taking time, but I'm slowly becoming less and less gripped by panic whenever I find myself in this position.

"Now put your hands behind your back," he tells me.

My nipples brush the cold wall in front of me as I lock my wrists together behind my back. I gasp silently, shocked by the chill. What is he doing? What is he going to do? I can sense him prowling around behind me. I get that sensation-a tingly, hyperaware expectation in the skin that comes when someone is mere inches away from making contact with you. My neck, my shoulder, my back. My b.u.t.tocks. His hand is taunting me with its closeness. I know it; I can sense it. And I'm desperate for it. I realize I'm swaying a little, rocking ever so slightly on my heels as my body answers the pull it feels toward his.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up when I feel his lips gently brush my ear. "Stay still, Sloane. Otherwise I won't be happy. You want to make me happy?"

A part of me kicks against this. The feminist in me who thinks a woman should never allow herself to be subjugated by a man. But then there's the part of me that's being breathed on by Zeth Mayfair, and it appears that part of me is getting final say. "Yes. Yes, I want to make you happy."

Zeth makes a pleased rumbling sound at the base of his throat. There's more movement from behind me and then something is being lifted over my head. Half a second of panic ensues where I wonder what the h.e.l.l he's doing, and I almost risk opening my eyes. I know he's watching me, though. I keep them shut.

"Good girl. That's my good girl," he says, repeating it over and over again, like he's soothing a wild animal. That's how I feel right now-unsure and nervous. Alongside that is the thrill, though. The thrill of stepping into the unknown. Of handing the reins over to someone else and trusting them implicitly. I suck in a sharp breath as something insanely cold touches my neck-metal. It feels like metal. Zeth gathers my wet hair in one hand and lifts it out of the way as he finishes placing something hard and solid around my neck.

A collar. It's some sort of collar.

My blood feels like it's boiling with adrenalin as I hear a firm and definitive click from behind me. Whatever this thing is, it's now well and truly clasped around my neck.

"You can breathe, Sloane. It's not tight." Zeth brushes a hand down my front, skimming his fingers across my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "Not until you want it to be."

I inhale, realizing that he's right-I'm holding my breath, and the collar isn't actually tight. It fits snugly at the base of my neck, giving my windpipe plenty of room. Zeth surprises me then. He runs his hands down my front again, trailing demanding fingers over my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, down my stomach, slowly over my hipbones. He skims them across my b.u.t.tocks, heading upward, and then travels up my spine. When he reaches my hands, which are still obediently where he told me to put them, held behind me, he laces his fingers through mine, holding one of my hands. The action is so intimate and rea.s.suring that any lingering doubt over our little game vanishes in a puff of smoke. Even when he raises my arm a little higher up my back and I feel another press of cold metal and hear another series of clicks-a handcuff. The other wrist gets cuffed, too. I try to drop my arms so that they rest over my b.u.t.t, but I get halfway and I can't. My shoulder injury sings with pain, but it's not enough to make me object. My hands remain lifted halfway up my back even as Zeth lets me go, held there by a tautness, connected from the handcuffs to the collar. There has to be a chain or something, connected between the two.

Zeth trails his fingers down the groove of my spine, making a hungry, humming noise. "Your skin is f.u.c.king amazing," he says. "You're like a statue of some f.u.c.king Greek G.o.ddess, made out of the most perfect marble." His hands go to my hips, and then he's firmly guiding me forward, pressing the whole length of my body against the wall. I have to turn my head, my cheek resting flat against the plasterwork, which brings my ear close to Zeth's mouth. He moves forward, crus.h.i.+ng himself up against me so that my pinned hands behind my back are filled with muscle and burning hot skin-his temperature's still not quite right, but I think his elevated heat has more to do with the ma.s.sive erection he's jabbing into my a.s.s cheeks than anything else. He slips a leg in between mine and pushes them open a little farther so that he has better access to what's between them.

I'm already wet enough that he could thrust inside me right now and I wouldn't complain. He doesn't do that, though. Instead he slides a hand between my thighs, groaning a little when he feels how ready I am.

"You're killing me, angry girl," he groans into my ear. "I wanna f.u.c.k you so hard. I wanna feel you coming all over my d.i.c.k." He slips his fingers forward, purposefully skating around my c.l.i.t, just deviating close enough to make my body vibrate with expectation. He stops all too soon, but then replaces his hand with his c.o.c.k, rubbing back and forth between my legs.

I'm desperate, desperate to push back and let him thrust himself into my p.u.s.s.y, but I know he'll disapprove. Plus there's his stomach injury; it's surprising he can even do this right now.

I shouldn't be condoning it. I should not be- My mind goes utterly blank as Zeth rocks back and then pushes forward again, finally teasing his fingers over my c.l.i.t with such precision that I almost jump a foot in the air at the momentary intense burst of feeling that rockets around my body.

A sharp sting of pain cuts through the pleasure and I trace the source back to my sore shoulder-Zeth's biting me there, not holding back. The pain of it is dizzying, but it's also awakening. I can feel every square inch of him, feel the energy snapping between our bodies. He hooks a hand around my waist from behind and I suddenly realize I'm very vulnerable. He's so much bigger than I am; he lifts me with one arm and makes light work of carrying me back to the bed I slept in. The sheets are at the bottom of the bed, still exactly where I kicked them off before I got into the shower. Zeth sets me down, and he rips the sheets off the mattress, throwing them to the floor.

He sits on the edge of the bed, then, facing me. With the faint, silver moonlight s.h.i.+ning in through the skylight above us, I can just about see the devious smile on his face. "Where do you think we go from here?" he asks.

"I don't know. I have a pretty good idea."

"Why don't you show me your pretty good idea, Sloane?"

Much like telling me to select something from his bag back at Julio's place, I'm sure this is an experiment on his part. Of course, this is the game. He wants to see if I've figured him out yet. He wants to know if I can guess at his dark little fantasies. I don't know for certain, but I can probably make an educated guess. With my hands tied behind my back, I'm kind of limited, but I still have a few options left open to me.

Zeth's eyes follow me, s.h.i.+ning brightly in the dark as I drop to my knees. He doesn't tell me if I'm right or wrong. He simply reaches out and carefully strokes my hair. His c.o.c.k is rigid, the tip of it brus.h.i.+ng his belly as he sits there, breathing softly. I shuffle close to him, and I carefully lick from the base of his erection all the way up, s.h.i.+vering a little as his hand stops stroking my hair and he gathers a handful in his fist. Hair pulling's not something I thought I would be into, but this isn't just hair pulling. This is Zeth commanding more of me. This is him a.s.serting himself over me, setting out the ground rules. I am his, and I am to behave. If I don't, there will be consequences. Despite the part of me that just said no woman should ever allow a man complete power over her, Zeth's authority over me doesn't feel like he's conquering me. He's not dominating me. It feels as though he's throwing down an ultimatum-this is who I am and what I need from you for this to work-that I can either accept or walk away from, and my decision is one hundred percent my choice. That doesn't mean that he holds a violent power over me. Neither does me accepting his ultimatum mean that he's won anything, or if it does then it simply means he has won my trust.

I look up at him, and our eyes lock. He's waiting on me, and the pressure-a pressure that would have terrified me before meeting him-only makes me want to make him wait a little longer. I don't, though. I take him into my mouth, moving slowly. I don't close my eyes; I keep them fixed on him as I slide up and down, tracing my tongue over his c.o.c.k, sucking gently. Zeth's hand tightens in my hair, pulling a little harder. He angles his hips upward slightly, though I can tell the s.h.i.+ft hurts his stomach. I push down, taking him deeper, and my throat spasms as the tip hits the back of it. It's not a pleasant sensation, but Zeth's reaction makes it pleasurable.

"f.u.c.k. G.o.d, Sloane. Your mouth..." Your mouth is f.u.c.king perfect. Those are the words he said to me back at the hotel when we first met. Words that turned me on even before I knew the man who had given them to me. Words that have stuck with me ever since. I speed up, fired on by the tension I can feel building in his leg muscles, which are pressed against either side of me.

I love doing this. I love feeling his c.o.c.k growing harder in my mouth. Pippa once told me that going down on a guy is something she only ever does if she feels she has to, but holy f.u.c.k if I don't absolutely love going down on Zeth. The taste of him alone is enough to drive me crazy.

His legs have begun to shake by the time I decide I want more. I push upward, and Zeth lets go of my hair immediately, lifting his hands. His chest is rising and falling much quicker now, though it seems as though he's trying to hide it. I get to my feet, and he tips his head to one side.

"What now, angry girl? What do you think I want?"

I walk toward him in between his legs, so that my body is almost flush with his, my b.r.e.a.s.t.s at the same height as his face. Carefully I climb up so that I'm kneeling over him, my knees on either side of his hips. "I think you want to move up the bed. I think you want to rest your back against the headboard," I tell him.

I sound so sure of myself. I don't recognize the voice I'm using to essentially tell him what to do, but I like it. There's no question in that voice. No room for argument. Zeth sucks his bottom lip into his mouth as he thinks, probably considering whether he actually wants to do what I'm telling him to, and then he narrows his eyes, s.h.i.+fting himself carefully back up the bed so that his back is exactly where I said it should be, resting against the headboard.

"And now?"

I don't answer this time. I just follow him up the bed, crawling forward on my knees so that I'm straddling him again. I want to be able to use my hands. I want more than anything to be able to touch him. Dig my nails into his chest. Cause him some sort of pain. Instead I grind into his lap, groaning a little as his c.o.c.k rubs against my p.u.s.s.y. His hands move to my hips, pulling me down a little harder, and I arch my back, thrusting my b.r.e.a.s.t.s into his face.

I know what he would do now, even though I'm not sure I want him to. My hesitancy isn't a part of this game, though. I push it aside, telling him what I suspect he would want next. "You want to use your teeth, Zeth."

He looks up at me, smiling a very small, imperceptible smile. "I do want to use my teeth," he agrees. His hands move from my hips, and then he's squeezing my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, biting down on my left nipple. He doesn't just graze me; he bites down so hard that I cry out in pain.

"Let it in," he says. "Your fear of pain restricts you. If you let it just be, it liberates you, Sloane." He bites me again, and this time I push into him, doing as he says. The sharp sting he causes travels around my body, setting my nerve endings on fire. Miraculously, his advice seems to work. Now, instead of startling me, the force of the sensation makes my body burn.

"s.h.i.+t, Zeth. Oh, f.u.c.k!"

Zeth groans his approval. "What do I want now?" he pants.

"You want-" This one is a little harder for me to get out. "You want to tighten the collar," I pant. I remember the last time he cut off my windpipe, and I remember how it made me feel: panicked. Terrified even, but also extraordinarily turned on at the same time. Just the thought of it makes me dizzy. My p.u.s.s.y is aching, I want him inside me so bad, but I know he wouldn't f.u.c.k me yet. He would make me wait. I'm still rocking my hips into him, his c.o.c.k throbbing and swollen between us, and our bodies are starting to sweat. Zeth makes a growling sound at the back of his throat. He leans forward and bites at my jawline, grazing his teeth there, nipping at me.

"You're not fooling anyone, Sloane. I know you want that, too."

I don't deny it. I can't. As soon as his hands begin to cinch the fastener of the collar tighter, a violent judder runs through my entire body. My face p.r.i.c.kles; it feels as though a pressure is building in my head as I labor to breathe. There's still enough room for me to do that, but only just.

Zeth grunts, and then he leans down and licks the skin above my breast. "Your sweat's addictive. It's like a drug. I want to lick it all from your body." Hands on my hips again, he pushes himself forward, pressing his hard-on right up against my c.l.i.t. "That feel good, angry girl? What else do I want, that you want, too?"

This is a slight change in the game. Now he wants me to admit to the things he does to me that I enjoy. With my head swimming from the reduced oxygen it's receiving I feel like I'm suddenly incredibly light. Like I'm floating. I still feel myself blush a little when I find myself admitting something I thought I would never admit. Zeth did something to me back at Julio's villa, and I liked it very much. It just seems too dirty to even own up to, but somehow I manage it.

"You-you want to play with my a.s.s."

Zeth's hands grip onto me so hard that I'm sure his fingers are going to bruise. He inhales in a swift, fast pull of oxygen that tells me I've surprised him. "Oh, Sloane..." he says, sitting forward a little. "You want me to touch you?"

I nod, and the collar pulls that little bit tighter. f.u.c.k. f.u.c.k, I really want him. I feel like I'm going to explode if he doesn't push into me soon. "Yes," I gasp. "Yes, I want you to touch me. I want you to touch me there."

With what could almost be mistaken to be an amused laugh, Zeth slides both of his hands between our bodies. In his left, he takes hold of his c.o.c.k, and starts sliding his hand up and down it very slowly, squeezing tightly. With his other hand, he reaches beneath me, lighting stroking his fingers through my p.u.s.s.y. He doesn't linger there long, though. He reaches back even farther, and then he's gently rubbing me in a place I never thought I would specifically ask to be shown some attention.

It feels...it feels amazing. I find myself moving again, tilting my pelvis so that Zeth has better access, but also so I can push back against him. I want more. I want him to go farther. It doesn't seem like I'm being too subtle about this, because Zeth carefully increases the pressure, until the finger he's using is partially inside me. It's a shocking sensation, but after the initial sting of pain wears off, it sends a rush of burning heat around my body.

"Oh-oh my f.u.c.king-" I can't speak. I can't get my words out. Zeth hisses, as though my reaction is more than he was expecting. And he likes it. He slowly begins to press the tip of his c.o.c.k against my p.u.s.s.y again, but this time he moves past my c.l.i.t and he angles himself all the way back so that he almost slides inside me. Back and forth, he repeats this, all he while working his finger a little deeper into my a.s.s. It's all...I can't...my brain can't seem to cope with the mult.i.tude of sensations. My head starts to spin so badly that I think I might pa.s.s out.

"What do I want now, Sloane?" he asks, his voice so low and hoa.r.s.e and full of need that I feel like screaming. This is turning him on as much as it is me; I can read it in every line of him. In the fierce glint in his eye, as he watches me intensely, falling apart in his hands.

"You want to be inside me," I tell him. "You want to be inside me so bad. You're gonna come all over my p.u.s.s.y if you don't sink yourself in deep right now."

"Motherf.u.c.ker," Zeth hisses. "I wasn't until you said that." He guides himself back, so that the very tip of his c.o.c.k is entering me again. "Are you ready, Sloane? Do you need me?"

"Yes! G.o.d, yes!"

He doesn't hold back after that. He immediately starts to push up into me, but I lift myself off him, stopping him in his tracks. "No." I shake my head. "Not there, Zeth. You don't want to be there. You want to be where your finger is."

Even in the dark, I can see the fire intensify in his eyes. His whole body is suddenly vibrating underneath me, but he still says, "You're sure that's what I want?" He doesn't mean that, though. He's asking me if it's what I want. He's never done that before. Not ever.

"Yes, Zeth. It's what you want. It's what you really, really want."

He doesn't need telling twice. He inserts his hands under my thighs and lifts me, sliding himself forward so that he's lying a little flatter on the mattress and is slowly, carefully pus.h.i.+ng upward. Pain like no other grabs hold of me, but then he's working his fingers over my c.l.i.t, teasing me, forcing the pleasure back into my body. The war between the sensations seems to be waged for no more than thirty seconds before the pain and pleasure seem to combine. I begin to push back against him. I can barely breathe; my body feels like the end of a live wire, ready to spark and burst into flames as soon it's touched.

Zeth slides a little flatter onto his back, bridging his legs. Strong hands press against the flat of my stomach, and he guides me back so that I'm leaning against his thighs. My bound hands are in the perfect place to stroke over those thighs; tensed and powerful, they feel amazing to my touch. In this position, Zeth has better leverage to thrust into me, but he doesn't. He lies completely still, watching me, letting me move as fast as I like, which means I'm in total control. Even knowing that makes me braver; I use my hamstrings to lift myself, and then I set in a rhythm, working up and down. It hurts, but it's the most intensely enjoyable pain I've ever experienced.

Zeth rumbles deep in his chest, his fingers digging into my skin everywhere-my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, my hips, my back, my thighs. He doesn't seem to know where he wants to touch me more. It feels like he wants to pull me in every single direction and crush me to him all at the same time. I really begin to lose it when he pinches my c.l.i.t. I buck against him, gasping, and it sets of a chain reaction of sensation-a rapidly rising burst of pleasure, emanating from deep within the very core of me.

"Oh, f.u.c.k. f.u.c.k, Zeth. I'm gonna-I can't-"

"Ride it, angry girl. Do your worst," he rasps out, and then I'm coming. I can't stop myself. This o.r.g.a.s.m is different to any he's ever given me before. It's so intense my eyes are literally watering. It doesn't feel as though it's overcoming me, but rather breaking me apart instead. Shattering me. I can feel the slickness of my come all over Zeth's fingers, all over his pelvis, and I'm not ashamed. I'm so, so turned on, I can barely see straight.

"Oh, s.h.i.+t, Sloane, you're so f.u.c.king tight. I'm gonna f.u.c.king come inside you." Zeth's muscles tense so hard, it feels like I'm being held in a vice. He roars, his body locked tight underneath me, his back curved up. It's as though he's lost complete control over himself; he rocks up and forward, wrapping his arms around my body, his forehead pressed against my shoulder.

My heart is still slamming in my chest. Zeth remains there, panting, and I have such an unbearable urge to reach forward and wrap my arms around him. To hold him to me. I can't, though; my wrists are still cuffed behind my back. My post-o.r.g.a.s.mic haze doesn't last very long, either. It suddenly becomes very, very painful to have Zeth positioned where he's still positioned. Still hard and still throbbing.

I wriggle, and Zeth instantly lifts me off him. Without saying a word, he uncuffs me and removes the collar from my neck. I collapse in a boneless heap on the bed, wincing at the strange and moderately unpleasant stinging that I now have to contend with.

Zeth just stares at me, his eyes a little distant. "Worth it?" he asks.

I feel laughter building in my chest, but I quickly stifle it; laughter seems like a very bad idea right now. G.o.d knows how much of a mess I'm in, and I sure as h.e.l.l don't want to make it worse. "Worth it," I tell him.

I carefully get up, tensing my muscles against the unique discomfort I now find myself in, and I turn to look him over. I can't see any blood pouring from his injury, but that doesn't mean he's not in a lot pain after that. "How about you?" I ask him. "Worth it?"

A faint grin spreads across his face. I doubt it's a conscious thing-he probably has no idea how breathtakingly beautiful he is when he smiles like that. That might seem like a strange way to think of him, but it's true. He's beautiful in the same savage way that most of Mother Nature's truly dangerous creations are. "Yes," he tells me. "Worth a lot more."

That makes me grin, too, but I manage to hide mine as I collect the towel that I abandoned on the floor an hour ago. It's extremely gratifying to know that he enjoys being with me as much as I enjoy being with him. I never thought it would be so important to me, but it is. Zeth doesn't ask me where I'm going when I head for the door. Suffice it to say I feel the need for another shower. I'm halfway out of the door when he says, "Hey, angry girl?"

"Yeah?" Oh, boy. I'm even answering to the name now. Zeth gives me one of his patented I'm-such-an-a.s.shole smirks.

"Just so you know," he says. "You're very good at that game."

First day back.

6:14 a.m.

Absolutely freaking perfect.

Since my car was towed to the wrecker's yard after the crash, Zeth volunteered Michael to get me to work. The poor guy drove like a madman, but still...even early morning traffic heading into Seattle is a b.i.t.c.h, and now I'm late.

Pre-Zeth Sloane would be losing her cool right now, but as I walk through the doors of St. Peter's, the me that takes risks and does things that could possibly land a person in jail isn't all that bothered. Fourteen minutes in the history of my career as a doctor. Fourteen minutes won't kill anyone. The niggly Pippa voice tuts at the back of my head, airing out its disapproval-fourteen minutes could kill someone. If there was an accident and you were late to work, and there was no one available to treat- I cut off the pointless narrative as I rifle through my locker and pluck out clean scrubs. Hair tie to pull back my hair, hand sanitizer in the pocket, flats changed over to sneakers, and this doctor is ready for work. I'm stuffing my clothes into my locker when I notice the orange envelope that's half slipped in between my hairbrush and an emergency unopened can of Red Bull on the top shelf. Working at the hospital is a lot like high school in some respects-there's plenty of drama and people sleeping with other people they shouldn't be, and when we want to pa.s.s notes to each other, we shove them through the vents in each other's lockers. Or rather other people shove notes into other people's lockers. I have neither shoved nor been the shove-ee before. I collect up the envelope and stick it into the pocket of my pants. Maybe I'll catch a moment to read it later, after I try to slip onto the emergency room floor without my tardiness being noted.

As it goes, no one makes any comments because the place is in uproar when I arrive. There's a rapidly spreading pool of blood on the floor, and three nurses are trying to pin a patient-a young woman, vomiting said blood, who appears to be convulsing at the same time.

"Dr. Romera, if you've got a minute!" the male nurse calls, wrestling to keep the woman's arms from flailing so wildly. If the woman is having a seizure, standard procedure is to the support the head and leave the limbs well alone, but this woman's in a gurney. She could break her arm if she hits the rails.

I rush to the patient, reaching for my flashlight. When I s.h.i.+ne the light into the woman's eyes, the pinp.r.i.c.ks of her irises tighten even farther.

"Has anyone taken bloodwork?" I ask.

"Doubt she's got any left!" the nurse-it's Paul, one of the longest serving members of staff at St. Peter's-grunts out. "We'd have tried but we can't get her still enough."

"How long has she been seizing?"

An EMT appears in the scuffle, blood sprayed up her face. She looks like she's in shock; a narrow yellow band across her right top pocket might look like a regular part of her uniform to a member of the public, but it tells me that she's probationary. "Four minutes in the rig. She-she was complaining of stomach pains and then-I didn't-there was so much blood!"

I look around for the girl's partner, but there's no one to be seen. "Where's your senior paramedic?"

"I don't-I don't know. She ran to the bathroom as soon as we got the patient inside."

A series of possibilities are forming inside my mind. "Okay, either way she's been seizing too long. Push ten ccs Fosphenytoin. We need to move her to radiology. We need to see what's going on inside her. Ma'am? Ma'am?" I get no response. Not that I really expected one. Still, I have to try. "Ma'am? Have you taken any medication?"

Nothing.

"What you got?" Oliver appears out of nowhere, relieving one of the nurses who was trying to get hold of the woman's legs. An instant sense of relief floods me. It's one thing being thrown into the deep end after being away from work, but it's another thing entirely having someone die on you within the first three minutes of your s.h.i.+ft.

"Vomiting blood. Grand mal seizures. Could be Wilson's," I tell him.

Another nurse returns with the Fosphenytoin and lifts the woman's sleeve to find a vein. Shock races around the team working on her as we all see the liquid-filled blisters marking the woman's skin.

"This isn't Wilson's," I say, almost to myself. I lift her s.h.i.+rt from her stomach and the blisters are all over her belly, too. They're everywhere. Practically forming right before my eyes. No, this isn't Wilson's disease. This is something much, much worse. "Everyone, get into hazmat. Right now," I clip out. "She has chemical poisoning."

The thing about chemical poisoning is that, ever since 9/11, whenever a case presents itself, a small part of your brain instantly starts screaming TERRORIST ATTACK! TERRORIST ATTACK! in giant capital letters. News reporters often tend to do the same.

There are four news vans outside St Peter's by the time our patient dies. Nannette Richards was only twenty-six, just finished a masters in marine biology, and apparently on her way to the airport to go and visit her boyfriend in Florida when she dropped down on the ground and started seizing in a gas station three miles from the airport.

There would probably be less panic revolving around Nannette's death if the EMT who brought her in and provided mouth to mouth resuscitation hadn't immediately fallen sick and also started vomiting blood, too. Now it seems as though the whole hospital is falling apart. A lockdown order went out thirty minutes ago, at which point four nurses came around and confiscated our cell phones, to avoid 'unnecessary panic to the public' should we decide to tell our family members or loved ones something that might be taken out of context.

"My mom called me eight times earlier. She's probably losing her s.h.i.+t right now. She's totally going to think my face has melted off like that guy in The Rock," Oliver informs me, as we stand on the peripheries of the ER floor. We've been observing the breakdown in civilization as patients try to leave and are subsequently told by security to return to their seats until the good doctors-my colleagues and I-can ascertain if they've all been infected with some violent and deadly strain of biological warfare. The guards don't use those words, of course. The term, 'for your own safety' is bandied around a lot, as is 'thank you for your patience.'

Oliver s.h.i.+fts, scrubbing his hands up and down his face. "Do you think we'll be out of here by dinner? I have somewhere I need to be."

"Hot date?" I ask. His frown grows significantly deeper.

"My sister's in town. She's supposed to be cras.h.i.+ng at my apartment, but if she can't get in..."

He looks p.i.s.sed. Everyone is p.i.s.sed. The patients, security, the nurses, the other doctors. Me. I'm p.i.s.sed that something so absolutely and categorically unheard of would happen on my very first day back at work. Like I haven't had enough drama over the past few weeks. "Sorry, Ol. Maybe she can book into a hotel for the night?"

Oliver scoffs at that. "You've clearly never met my sister. Hey." He shoves an elbow into my ribs. "There's Bochowitz."