Page 35 of Gamble (Black Light #38)

ELIJAH

T he automatic doors of Cedar-Sinai Medical Center whooshed open with the institutional efficiency that made Elijah’s skin crawl.

When his hip had stopped resembling an overripe eggplant, and Dr. Jennings had cleared him for surgery.

Which meant that at seven-thirty on a Tuesday morning, he was shuffling through the hospital entrance like the broken-down old man he’d become.

“Wait here. I’m going to find you a wheelchair,” Nalani said much too brightly for his dark mood.

“You don’t have to do that. I’m sure I can drag my ass to the surgical check-in desk,” he groused.

“I’m sure you probably can too, but I’m trying to think of all the people we’re going to meet along the way. I’d rather not expose them to your grumpy ass when you are hobbling along in pain. Stay here.”

It was an order. Oh, how things had reversed in such a short time. He was now so useless that even sweet Nalani was barking orders at him, the dungeon master. And the worst part?

He listened.

Elijah collapsed into the wheelchair she returned with a few minutes later with a whoosh, relieved to take the pressure off his bum hip.

“You don’t have to wait for me,” he told Nalani for the third time as she helped him navigate the maze of hallways toward the surgical check-in desk. “This could take hours,” he reminded her, hating the idea of inconveniencing his dear friend more than he already had over the last few weeks.

“Shane’s not expecting me back until tonight, and I brought a book,” she replied with the stubborn determination that reminded him why she’d been able to tame Hollywood’s most notorious playboy.

“Besides, someone needs to be here to make sure you don’t discharge yourself against medical orders like you did the last time. ”

“That was different. I had a concussion and wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“And this time you’re drugged up on pain medication and already making terrible life decisions. Same difference.”

Elijah couldn’t argue with her logic, because she was right.

The combination of prescription painkillers and emotional devastation had left him making choices that would have embarrassed his teenage self.

Like spending the last four days calling the hospital’s scheduling department with creative stories about why he needed to know when Reagan Murphy would be working…

or, more accurately, when she would not be working.

He’d started with claiming to be a patient who requested her as his nurse.

When that didn’t work, he’d tried posing as a florist with a delivery.

His finest performance had been pretending to be her cousin from Seattle with a family emergency, complete with a fake accent that would have made his high school drama teacher weep with shame.

All of which had finally netted him the information he needed: Reagan wasn’t scheduled for Tuesday.

In fact, according to the helpful scheduling coordinator he’d sweet-talked on his fifth call, she wasn’t on the schedule for the rest of the week.

Even though he’d achieved his goal, he’d been angry at the helpful nurse for disclosing Reagan’s personal information.

What if he’d been a bad guy trying to hurt her?

It was ironic that he had hurt her the most.

The crushing disappointment that he wouldn’t accidentally run into her matched the relief him felt at avoiding her today only. Because as much as he’d convinced himself that staying away from Reagan was the right thing to do, a pathetic part of him was desperate for just a glimpse of her face.

You’re a fucking mess, Keaton.

“Mr. Keaton?” The check-in clerk’s voice interrupted his spiral of self-loathing. “I’ll need to see your ID and insurance card.”

The next hour passed in a blur of medical bureaucracy.

Forms to sign, bands to wear, instructions to follow.

Nalani stayed by his side through most of it, only leaving when he was called back to the pre-operative area and handed the hospital gown that would serve as his uniform for the next few hours.

“Seriously,” he told her as a nurse directed him toward a changing area. “You don’t need to babysit me. Go home to Shane.”

“Nice try. I’ll be in the surgical waiting room until Dr. Jennings comes out to tell me you’re okay.” She squeezed his hand. “And Elijah? When you wake up, we’re going to have a very serious conversation about Reagan.”

Not this again. He’d been fending off this conversation for days.

Before he could protest, she was gone, leaving him alone with a hospital gown that opened in the back and the growing realization that he was about to let someone cut into his body while he was unconscious. Again.

Surgery number ten. Jesus Christ. I made it to double-digits.

The changing process was humiliating enough without factoring in his limited mobility.

By the time he’d got the gown tied and his street clothes folded, he was sweating from the effort, and his hip was screaming in protest. His only saving grace was that Nalani hadn’t insisted on staying and helping him change.

“Mr. Keaton?” an unfamiliar voice called from outside the curtained area. “I’m Jennifer, and I’ll be your pre-op nurse today.”

Jennifer turned out to be a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and the sort of no-nonsense efficiency that marked her as a veteran of the surgical ward.

She got his IV started on the first try, checked his vitals, and worked through a checklist of questions with the professional warmth that made him remember why he’d always liked nurses better than doctors.

“We’re doing a left total hip replacement today, correct?” she asked, making notes on her tablet.

“That’s what they tell me.”

“And Dr. Jennings is your surgeon?”

“Unfortunately.”

Jennifer’s smile suggested she’d heard similar comments about surgeons before. “He’s one of the best orthopedic surgeons in the city. You’re in expert hands.”

“Oh, I know. Richard and I go way back. I’ve been keeping him in business for years. Pretty soon he’ll have to name a wing of his mansion in Brentwood in my honor.” His joke fell flat even to his own ears.

“Multiple surgeries?”

“This is number ten,” Elijah admitted, feeling ancient. “Occupational hazard of my former career.”

“What did you do?”

“Stuntman. Twenty-five years of jumping off buildings and crashing cars for the entertainment of others.”

Jennifer’s eyebrows rose. “That explains a lot. I bet you have some stories.”

“More than you’d want to hear.”

She finished her notes and checked her watch. “We’ll be taking you back in about thirty minutes. Is there anything I can get you in the meantime? Extra blankets, a chaplain?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

After Jennifer left, Elijah lay back on the narrow gurney and stared at the acoustic ceiling tiles, trying not to think about how empty his life had become.

A little over two weeks ago, he’d been looking forward to Friday night dinners and long phone conversations that lasted until dawn.

Now he was facing major surgery with no one to worry about him except his surrogate daughter and his co-workers, who were equally concerned about finding his replacement than his recovery.

This is what you get for pushing away the best thing that ever happened to you.

The sounds of the pre-op area filtered through the thin curtains around his bed—quiet conversations between staff, the beep of monitors, the occasional laugh from someone who was nervous enough to find everything hilarious.

It was a symphony he’d heard too many times before, but this time it felt different. Lonelier.

“Mr. Keaton?” Another voice interrupted his brooding. “I’m going to need to ask you a few more questions before we take you back.”

This nurse was younger, in her early thirties, with the focused intensity that suggested she took her job seriously. She worked through another checklist—allergies, medications, next of kin—with practiced efficiency.

“Emergency contact?” she asked.

Elijah hesitated. Years ago, he’d continued to list his ex-wife as his contact, but now, over twenty years after they divorced, he knew naming her would be ridiculous. The ache in his chest squeezed him hard when he realized he’d come so very close to being able to list Reagan Murphy as his person.

“Nalani Ione,” he said, providing her phone number from memory. “She’s in the waiting room.”

“Relationship?”

The daughter I never had. Probably the only person who gives a damn whether I live or die.

Even he realized his self-pity game was in rare form this morning. Going under the knife had that effect on him. “Friend,” he answered.

As she made notes, Elijah studied her face, wondering if this nurse knew Reagan.

Cedar-Sinai was a massive hospital with hundreds of nurses, but the surgical department was smaller, more close-knit.

Did she work with Reagan? Had she heard about the weekend in Vegas?

Did she know about his cowardly text message that had ended everything?

He was desperate to hear her name. To meet someone who could share any small tidbit about her he hadn’t stuck around long enough to learn on his own.

The question sat on the tip of his tongue until he swallowed it.

He couldn’t bring himself to do it. What could he say?

‘Hey, do you know Reagan Murphy? I broke her heart a few weeks ago, and I’m wondering if she’s okay. ’ That would go over well.

The nurse finished her questions and moved on to the next patient, leaving Elijah alone again with his thoughts and regrets.

Through the gap in his curtains, he could see the controlled chaos of the pre-op area—staff moving efficiently between patients, families saying goodbye, the occasional doctor making rounds with a clipboard and a serious expression.

He let his mind imagine seeing her in the controlled chaos.

Elijah knew with no bias that she was the most beautiful nurse on the staff.

She probably had doctors and male nurses hitting on her like crazy.

Even more importantly, he knew in his soul that she was the kind of nurse patients loved to have taking care of them. Patient. Kind. Smart as a whip.

Christ, he had it bad. He should be over her by now.

Instead, all he could think about was what was she doing right now on her day off.

Maybe she was having a cup of coffee with that roommate friend of hers, the one who was getting married soon.

Maybe she was going about her life, moving on from their brief connection, finding someone better suited to her vanilla sensibilities.

The thought should have made him feel better and the part of him that truly cared about Reagan did hope she had moved on, if for no other reason than to not be in pain.

Pain he’d caused. Unfortunately, the biggest part of him wanted to rip out his IV and hobble home to his couch where he could keep punishing himself for being such an asshole.

“Okay, Mr. Keaton, it’s time.” A different voice this time—male, cheerful, belonging to someone who was about to wheel him into surgery.

“Already?”

“Time flies when you’re having fun,” the orderly said with the forced cheer that suggested he’d made the same joke a thousand times. “Let’s get you down to OR 3.”

The journey through the hospital corridors was a blur of fluorescent lights and ceiling tiles, punctuated by the occasional glimpse of concerned family members waiting for news about their own loved ones.

Elijah had made this trip so many times over the years that he could navigate to most operating rooms blindfolded, but this time felt different. Final, somehow.

Stop being so fucking dramatic. It’s hip replacement surgery, not brain surgery.

The operating room was exactly what he’d expected—bright, sterile, full of expensive equipment that hummed and beeped with electronic efficiency.

The surgical team was already assembled, blue-scrubbed figures moving around the space with the choreographed precision that would have impressed his old stunt coordinators.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Dr. Jennings’s voice called out from somewhere behind a surgical mask. “Ready to get that hip fixed?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Elijah replied, surprised by how rough his voice sounded.

The anesthesiologist appeared at his side, a young guy who looked like he should still be in medical school but probably had more training than most of the doctors Elijah had worked with over the years.

“I’m Dr. Kim,” he said, checking the IV line. “I’m going to give you something to help you relax, and then we’ll get you off to sleep. You’ll wake up in recovery with a brand-new hip.”

“Not my first rodeo,” Elijah managed. “Just try not to put me under too deep. I’ve got a low tolerance for anesthesia.”

“We’ll take good care of you. I’m going to start with a mild sedative, and then I’ll ask you to count backward from ten. Sound good?”

Elijah nodded, already feeling the first welcome wave of medication hitting his system. The sharp edges of the room softened, and the constant ache in his hip faded to a manageable throb.

Around him, he could hear the surgical team making final preparations.

Someone was adjusting lights, someone else was organizing instruments on a sterile tray.

Dr. Jennings was discussing the procedure with what sounded like a resident, using medical terminology that Elijah had heard enough times to understand.

“Okay, let’s get started,” Dr. Kim said. “Count backward from ten for me.”

“Ten,” Elijah began, his tongue already feeling thick and uncooperative. “Nine... eight...”

A figure in scrubs leaned over him, checking something on the monitors attached to his chest. Everyone was masked and capped, anonymous medical professionals going about their work with practiced efficiency.

But as his vision blurred and his consciousness slipped away, Elijah stared up into a pair of eyes that were achingly familiar.

Green eyes with flecks of gold around the iris. Eyes that had looked at him with desire and trust and something that might have been love, before he’d ruined everything with his cowardice and self-pity.

Reagan .

His last conscious thought before the anesthesia pulled him under was that he must be hallucinating. The drugs were making him see what he wanted to see, conjuring the face he’d been dreaming about for weeks.

Because there was no way Reagan Murphy was standing over him in that operating room. No way she was looking down at him with those beautiful eyes that had haunted his dreams.

No way she was here to witness him at his weakest, most vulnerable moment.

The darkness claimed him, and Elijah Keaton disappeared into the chemically induced void of surgical sleep—his final wish a prayer she’d been real.