Jake the Panty-Ripper (Book 1, the Phantoms MC Series)

five: in which she hears a ghost

"All I ever do is think of you" –Majid Jordan, All I Do

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The rest of my week off flew by without any incident.

I didn't see Kira.

I didn't see Luke.

I didn't see Jake.

Before I knew it, I was back on day shift at the Haven.

"How was everybody's week off?" Sister Brady asked, like she did every Monday when we got back.

Everyone chattered excitedly, as if it wasn't six o'clock in the freaking morning and we weren't about to be faced with a bunch of adult diapers to change.

Me? I didn't have any exciting stories to tell about hooking up with a bartender who bore a strong resemblance to the late James Dean. And this story was told by Sister Brady, who was probably three decades older than me, give or take a few years. 

"You're looking good," remarked Moira, a pretty Nigerian nurse who worked in my ward. We'd gone to the same nursing school, had both done our practicals at the Haven. Now, she looked me over as we headed for the tea room, smiling appreciatively.

"Um, thanks?" I had bags under my eyes and a pimple on my chin that definitely indicated my impending period.

"Yup. You look like your boyfriend put it down on you last night. Way down, if you catch my drift."

I could feel my cheeks flame. "I spent the night at a girlfriend's place."

"Let me guess: The blonde?"

Sad that she knew my one and only close girlfriend outside work.

"Yes. Kira."

"So much for a wild night of hot sex, then."

I let out a groan of frustration as we entered the small, cozy tea room. Our colleagues were already inside, chatting animatedly over cups of coffee from the machine. Someone had picked up croissants – no doubt from The Coffee Maker, which opened at five-thirty – and the box sat on a table in one corner.

I grabbed one before they finished, then poured myself a cup of strong black coffee. My colleagues were animals.

"Ready for the week?" Iris, yet another former classmate of mine, asked me when I stood beside her by the coffee machine. She pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose, something she did frequently, alternating between that and tucking errant strands of curly brown hair behind her ears.

"I guess so. Hopefully it won't be as draining as the last week."

Burnout was almost always unavoidable in this line of work.

"I don't think Mrs. Harrison will make it through this week," Moira remarked, her voice quiet. "The Sister told me that she isn't eating much. The woman's over a hundred. She must be tired."

I bit into my croissant, stifling the moan that threatened to escape when I discovered that it was chocolate-filled. "I like Mrs. Harrison. Sometimes she thinks I'm her granddaughter," I said, which was pretty funny when you thought about it, because the woman was white as an A4 piece of paper.

"Better than her thinking you're her husband," Joel grumbled. He was a lanky, sandy-haired guy who worked in the men's ward and had a penchant for keeping M&Ms in the pockets of his scrub pants to distribute to patients. "The older women become, the hornier they get. Dr. Cartwright should do a study on that."