But maybe we should?
I huff and shake my head. This is ridiculous. I don’t really want to, do I? It’s just the thrill of being noticed, of being asked that’s getting to me. And by a man who is probably the polar opposite of my type in just about every way. I like nice, professional men—other doctors, not bad boys. And the tattoos and muscles, not to mention the circumstances of his arrival, put J.J. Santos squarely in the “bad boy” category.
I slip past the waiting room where Dr. Yao is talking to a large group of people, one of whom I recognize as the haggard gangbanger so insistent that J.J. be saved. The other members of the group include a tall, willowy, middle-aged woman with dark hair and swan-like grace, who is nodding at the doctor and trying to force a hopeful smile. Probably J.J.’s mother.
Beside her is a younger version of her, a girl who can’t be more than sixteen, but who has the same solemn, wise-beyond-her-years look. There’s a younger man on the mother’s other side—a brother, most likely. All three of them have similar features and tall, solid builds that remind me of my own family.
They are a stark contrast to the gangbanger and the beautiful bronze-skinned, dark-haired woman at his side. They both look worried, but relieved when they ask about J.J.’s brother Maddox and Dr. Yao turns to inform them that, he’ll be fine, likely discharged in a day.
When Dr. Yao leaves them, he slips up beside me at the nurse’s station and taps his tablet to open the patient’s chart.
“Big family,” I say. “Good thing he’ll pull through.”
“Sure is,” Dr. Yao agrees absently.
“Who are the other two? Do you know them? They aren’t related.”
He looks up and glances over his shoulder, then shakes his head. “No one you want to know.”
“This was a gang-related shooting, wasn’t it?”
“I can’t really comment. Better to let the authorities handle it.”
“It’s not like I’m going to turn to a life of crime just by knowing who they are. Tell me.” I lean in, too curious to let it go.
The nurse behind the counter lets out a soft snort, and Dr. Yao sets his tablet down and gives her a warning look. I redirect my attention to her, eyebrows raised.
She leans close, nodding toward the attractive couple. “That’s Celeste Flores, Arturo Flores’ daughter. The fine male specimen next to her is Leo, her boyfriend and Arturo’s lieutenant.”
The name piques my curiosity even more. Since moving to Los Angeles, I’ve heard a lot of name-dropping and speculation about the rich and famous. We’ve had our share of high-profile patients since I’ve been a resident, and the staff is always abuzz whenever it happens. The rumor mill is alive and well among both the nurses and the doctors.
Arturo Flores may not be a movie star, but he’s as notorious as they come. His name carries as much weight—if not more—in this town as any of the major producers. Hollywood types are a dime a dozen, but men like Arturo tend to keep a hospital in business. Today’s events are proof.
“So, what does J.J. Santos have to do with them? Is he a criminal?” I’m not sure why I feel so invested in the answer. Either way, I wasn’t going to agree to go out with him.
“Not sure, exactly,” Dr. Yao says. “It isn’t my place to ask those questions, but from what I gather, he had a run-in with the cartel thug who was brought in right after. He and his brother each took a bullet from the same gun.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pill bottle that rattles with its contents. When he holds it up, I take it and peer in to see a mangled metal slug—the same one he removed from J.J.’s spine today.
I gape. “Shouldn’t you give that to the cops?”
“They have the shooter and the gun. There’s no question.”
His phone buzzes and he’s simultaneously summoned from a speaker overhead. He and the nurse both rush off before I can hand the bottle back to him.
I open the container and stare inside. The bullet is clean and shiny, its exploded tip an asymmetrical star. I decide to hold onto it until I can talk to J.J. again. I’ll give it to him tomorrow before I have to start my shift in the pit.
I barely leave the hospital except to go home and sleep, and tonight is no different. I walk the ten blocks to the apartment on Wilshire that I share with a fellow resident named Felix Leonard. It’s mid-December and chilly, but a gorgeous Los Angeles night a few days after a winter rainstorm, so the air is clear and crisp. Holiday decorations grace the lampposts, and I get a giddy rush anticipating my trip back to Denver in a week. I plan to spend Christmas with my mom at her house in Englewood followed by her annual New Year’s Eve soiree at the Brown Palace in downtown Denver. The party is the one thing I refuse to miss, and one of the rare occasions I get to spend time with my best friend, Nina.
When I get inside my apartment, Felix’s bedroom door is shut, which means he’s home, and the silence suggests he’s asleep. No surprise there. We barely see each other. He’s a pediatric surgery resident and works different hours with different days off in an entirely separate wing of the UCLA Medical Center, so we’re typically just two ships passing. I see the occasional sign that he still exists when he leaves a check on the counter for his half of the rent, and on his infrequent days off when his surfboard and wet suit appear on our rear balcony. When I agreed to the roommate arrangement with him, Barnaby didn’t speak to me for about a week until I shared a photo of Felix in what appeared to be
