Baby Did a Bad Bad Thing (Hautboy Series Book 3)
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Authors: Anne Berkeley
Baby Did a Bad Bad Thing
By Anne Berkeley
Copyright by Anne Berkeley
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Table of Contents
“
G
uess who’s in room six twenty-one?” Monica gushed. Her eyes were narrow, slivered with secrecy. Her smile was smug, turning up at the corners. Her knuckles whitened on the counter, grounding herself in place. I almost felt guilty that I was going to spoil it for her.
“Tate Watkins and his wife,” I answered. She acted like the rock star had never spent any time in the hospital before. When, in fact, he and his wife had spent considerable time at Udub after she was attacked by one of his groupies during a concert in Nampa. He'd flown her here for treatment because his mother was a doctor, and happened to be the best in her field. I'd seen him in passing on occasion. Everyone had. From what I heard, he was down to earth.
“You knew?” I could hear the disappointment in her tone.
I lifted my gaze from the tablet in my hands. “They’re my patients.”
“Do you need help?” Monica gestured to my tablet. I thought for a moment that she was going to snatch the thing from my hands. “I could carry that for you.”
“My tablet?”
“Your fuckin’ pen if I have to! Come on, Paisley!”
Annoyed, I cocked my hip to the side. “Tate Watkins is in there with his wife, who’s in preterm labor, and all you can think about is going in there to gawk at him.”
It was bad enough someone had hacked into his wife's tablet. Pictures of the couple and her kid were all over the tabloids. Up until now, they had been pretty close-lipped about their relationship, and even more so about her son. That was blown out of the water now.
Monica snorted and rolled her eyes. “Yeah!”
“So much for the Hippocratic oath.”
I will hold in confidence all personal matters committed to my keeping and all family affairs coming to my knowledge in the practice of my calling
. I doubt she even remembered the words.
“I'm not going to snap pictures or anything. I just want to see him in person. You know, maybe touch his hand or something. See if he feels otherworldly.”
“They’re people, just like me and you. Give them a little privacy.”
Monica’s smile soured. “Moody much?”
“Horny,” I threw out there. It was a distraction, while ultimately true. It had been a few weeks since I’d slept with Henry. It had been a few weeks since I’d
seen
Henry. He was a doctor here at Udub. Lately, our schedules were constantly opposing. When he did get any time off, he spent it sleeping in the call room. I was beginning to think he was avoiding me.
I supposed we had to be together in order for him to avoid me. We weren’t dating, per se. I wasn’t sure how to classify our relationship. Sexual, I suppose. But that was my doing. I hadn’t—didn’t want anything serious. What we had together worked. Why tinker with something if there was nothing wrong with it? Except that it wasn’t working,
lately
.
“Still going through that dry spell?”
“Fuckin’ Sahara.” Turning, I tucked my pen behind my ear. “I think I’m getting carpal tunnel.”
I heard Monica snort as I walked away. “You should just sneak into his room. Surprise him. I’m sure he won’t complain if you wake him up.”
“People with violet hair don’t sneak,” I tossed my hair over my shoulder. It was impossible. “Everybody notices it.” Like a neon sign.
“It's not the violet hair, they notice.”
“Sure.” It was the only thing they noticed. Unlike the strawberry blonde lying in the bed with the stomach like Mount St. Helens—and still managed to look like a thousand bucks—I had mousy hair, and the freshman fifteen that refused to fuck off despite not having been a freshman in some odd years. I just wasn’t noticeable. I was average. Unremarkable.
“Oh. My. God. I
love
your hair!” the musician’s wife exclaimed. The musician stared with consternation at her.
“Is it that bad, then?” I asked him. God, did I just ask Tate Watkins if he liked my hair? In any case, he blinked and smiled abashedly.
“I’m going to dye my hair.” Sighing, Cooper Hale dropped her head against the mattress and shifted cumbrously in the bed. “Maybe I’ll go fuchsia. No, turquoise.”
“Touch your hair and I’ll slap you.” I turned, found a small brunette standing beside the door. She smiled uncomfortably. “I’m family.”
“I can see the resemblance.” Besides the dark hair, she looked nothing like Tate Watkins, and she certainly looked nothing like his wife. There was definitely no relation. “You’re fine. Nobody’s going to kick you out.” I turned back to my patient. “First I’m going to wire you up, and then I’m going to ask you a laundry list of questions. As long as you’re comfortable with others in the room, I have no problem with it.”
“I have a problem with both of them,” she replied. “They’re over exaggerating. I’m fine.” She was playing it down. I could hear it in her voice. She was nervous. But I had to give her credit. She was holding her shit together.
Grabbing the sensors from the cart, I slipped the first onto the tip of her finger. “Mom first,” I told her, and then I slid the blood pressure cuff over her arm. “For this next one, I'm going to need you to roll to your side.” She did, and I looped the elastic belt around her waist. “You're about twenty-eight weeks now?”
“Yes.”
“Twins.”
“Yes.”
“When did the contractions start?”
“A few hours ago. They're decreasing.”
“Intermittency or strength?”
“Both. They were ten minutes apart. Now they're only fifteen.”
“That's good.” Sliding the first sensor into the belt, I watched until I saw activity on the screen. “This one is to monitor your contractions. You can see that you’re coming down from one now.” I straightened to wire for the second sensor, working a knot from it. “And this one is to track the babies’ heartbeats.” Over the speaker, they came out in a muddled whoosh-whoosh, but loud and strong. It brought a smile to my face. “Beautiful.”
The girl immediately broke down into tears. She was rock solid not thirty seconds earlier, but as relief washed over her, she wept like a baby.
Another reason I didn't want anything serious. You get serious and they want a family. Kids. A dog. A white picket fence. The whole nine yards. The notion just didn't appeal to me.
Look what a mess it made of things, including your hormones. No, thank you. I could do without the waterworks and the inflated physique.
Still, I grasped her hand and squeezed. “Their heart rates are good, healthy. But if you're going into labor, you're in the right place.”
Tate Watkins stood. He cupped her cheek, wiped the tears away with the pad of his thumb. “It's not worth all this.”
I patted her hand and retrieved my tablet from the cart, offering them a moment of privacy. I even recited the oath in my head, trying not to eavesdrop on their little tête-à-tête. But I wasn't deaf. They argued over the hacking of her tablet, and whether she was going to continue on voice rest. She was opposed to the idea of typing another single word into the device. He was opposed to the idea of giving up her singing career over a few stolen snapshots.
Politely, I cleared my throat and pulled the stool over beside the bed. “Sorry, need to get this out of the way so the doctor can review your files.”
My patient looked up at her husband. “You should check on Em.”
Indeed, her friend had snuck off. Smart girl. Terrible friend. So much for moral support. My patient's husband on the other hand, shook his head. “I’m not leaving you alone.”
Obviously short on patience, she sighed. “Tate.”
“Coop.”
“I’m fin—”
“Coop.”
“You’re smo—”
“Cooper!” Tate exclaimed, while Cooper huffed in frustration. “I’m not going any-fuckin-where! Now answer the nurse’s questions so we can see the doctor!”
“Ok, um, stress should be avoided,” I intervened. “If at all possible.” I glanced at my chart, and read off the first question. “Do you smoke?” Do drugs. Drink alcohol. All were answered with a firm ‘no.’ I handed her the domestic abuse screening. “I'll need you to sign this. It's just a standard consent form authorizing treatment.” If there was a spouse or partner were in the room, it was one way to ask the question when the patient couldn't provide a verbal response. She looked the form over and signed with a flourish. I tucked it safely in the file, and then began reviewing her medical history in depth. Had she fallen? Was she physically active? Had she lifted a large weight? Did she have bleeding, discharge, nausea or diarrhea? By the time I'd gotten to the latter, her husband looked as though he was reconsidering his decision to stay.
When I pulled out the blood work tray, the patient looked as though she was reconsidering her decision in coming to the hospital in the first place. “I hate needles.”
“You had your tongue pierced," her friend objected. She must've returned during my interview. Her eyes were red and slightly swollen. Her voice was hoarse with tears.
“I didn't have time to think about it. Tate threw it on me.”
“Piece of cake,” I assured. “I'm a pro.”
“You've been doing this long?” She watched nervously as I stretched the latex gloves over my hands. They made people nervous. They made
me
nervous.
“I took nursing in vocational school, got my practical nursing degree. So about two and a half—almost three years.”
“You can get a nursing degree in vo-tech?” Tate Watkins asked, undoubtedly wondering whether I was qualified to treat his wife.
“Just to be a LPN. I went an additional two years in a bridge program to get my registered nursing degree, which makes you an RN. I’m trying to decide if I want to continue, and earn my Bachelors.” Wrapping her arm with the tourniquet, I watched her face void of color. “It’s all mind over matter,” I told her. She scoffed at that. “So tell me about singing. Do you write your own music?”
“Yes,” she croaked. Lying back in the bed, she closed her eyes. “God, I hate this. There’s gotta be an easier way.”
“This is just alcohol,” I warned, wiping her arm down with a swab of cotton. Still, she flinched. Goosebumps rose across her skin. “Play any instruments?”
“No. I suck at instruments.”
“You can't be that bad.”
“Yeah, I can. Tate will verify that.”
“Really?” I glanced at Tate, and found him grinning. He lifted his shoulder bemusedly.
“Not from the lack of trying.”
“Wow.” Carefully, I pushed the needle in. She closed her eyes, but barely flinched. I removed the tourniquet from her arm. The tube filled in seconds. I backed the needle out and pressed a cotton ball to the puncture. “All done.”
“That's it?” She glanced in surprise at her arm.
“I told you I was good.”
“You distracted me with that ‘wow.’ I was insulted.”
“Clever. You caught on to me.” I disposed of the syringe, placed the sample onto the cart and removed my gloves.
“Just because I can't master an instrument, doesn’t mean I'm only a pretty face.”
I glanced up, afraid that I had truly insulted her, but I found her smiling. “The thought never crossed my mind. I was more surprised that you would give up singing if it was your only musical outlet.”
Her smile faded. She averted her gaze. Crap.
“I'm sorry. Being outspoken is the only way you're ever heard in my house. It's a hard habit to break.”
“It’s nothing that isn’t true,” the brunette said. “She’s just being stubborn.”
Cooper’s head snapped up. Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t need everybody and their mother knowing my business!”
“Anything said in this room is strictly confidential,” I assured. My face flooded with heat. God, I’d really stuck my foot in my mouth. Had I not just recited the oath to myself?
“It’s not you that she’s worried about,” Tate replied. “Somebody hacked our tablet last night. Pictures are all over the media.”
“I’ve seen. I’m sorry about that,” I empathized. “I hope the police catch who did it.”
“Thank you. We do too.”
Grabbing the blood sample and my tablet from the cart, I turned to walk out, but my emotions got the best of me, and I paused at the door. “I’m sorry—I know it’s none of my business, but I can’t help recognizing that you’re looking at two separate issues. Your singing career is irrelevant. You’ll still be married to Tate Watkins, and as a consequence, you’ll still be in the spotlight. From what I’ve seen, you enjoy being on stage. You have a talent. If you feel passionate about it, don’t give it up. It’s rare that someone has a solid sense of direction in life, and it seems a crime to squander that.”
“Well said,” the brunette praised.
“So keep the singing career and divorce Tate?” Cooper inquired. I would’ve worried that I’d stepped too far, but she smirked weakly.
“I don’t think that’s what she was saying,” Tate quickly objected. “I don’t think that’s what she was saying at all. Did you not notice the emphasis on squandering your talent, babe?”