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How to Save a Surgeon
A Gambling Hearts Story
By C.M. Stone, Heather Howland, Vanessa Mitchell Entangled Publishing, LLC
Copyright © 2015 C.M. Stone
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-63375-336-5
CHAPTER 1
Darla wasn't late, though part of her wished she had been. Nerves over working with a new surgeon in the UMC Trauma Center had sent her rushing through her morning, and she'd arrived to wait for him two minutes early.
Two minutes to spend doing nothing but standing around stuck in her own head. It was better than ten minutes of waiting, at least, but she still found herself anxiously rocking on her heels.
"Wait," a man's deep voice echoed from down the hall. "Does McGaffey think I lack patience?"
Her head automatically turned toward the indignant tone. The man who'd spoken was looking at the Chief of Trauma Medicine, his face tense and guarded as if expecting an unpleasant answer.
Chief Singh just smiled, then pointed toward Darla. "There's your new intern."
The man standing beside the Chief of Trauma Medicine jerked his head in her direction. Dr. Jackson DeMatteo. Her new mentor. The man who would determine her fate in trauma medicine.
Lots of people had warned her that he was a nightmare. Demanding. Relentlessly focused on the job. That he had the highest, most stringent standards of any doctor any of them had ever had to work with. Other residents often called him Dr. Ice behind his back. There was plenty of talk about his work ethic, but her peers failed to mention that the man was gorgeous. He stood a little over six feet tall with broad shoulders and smooth, tanned skin. His rich brown hair was clipped short and neat, ideal for a physician. His light green eyes were fringed with thick black lashes — of course they were — making for a stark contrast against his dark, Mediterranean good looks. His full lips pursed in a frown, and she noticed a faint little dimple in his chin.
Great. She was gawking. As that realization struck her, she dropped her eyes and stepped forward to offer him her hand. "Dr. DeMatteo, I-I've heard amazing things about you. I'm Darla Morales, and I'm really excited to be working with you."
"And you actually requested to work with me, too," DeMatteo pointed out as he accepted her hand. The tension in his face eased, his full lips curving into a faint, puzzled smile. "Why is that?"
The friendly question sparked unexpected confidence in her, which she eagerly latched on to. The lust he was inspiring, on the other hand, wasn't as helpful. She took a deep breath, trying to recall the answer she'd rehearsed for his question, and did her best to ignore the scent of DeMatteo's aftershave. It smelled like spice and cedar.
"I'm about to finish up my first year, and then I want to begin a specialty track residency in trauma medicine. McGaffey had been my first choice for a mentor here, but since she's retiring in a few weeks she suggested that I speak to you instead."
DeMatteo rose both of his brows slightly at that, then turned to give a smug look to the chief before turning back to her. "That's fantastic. She was my mentor when I first began my specialty track. I'd be honored to continue her fine tradition."
They stepped away a bit from the chief and another doctor who had been hovering nearby. At the moment, she was still trying to find the right balance of eye contact with DeMatteo, so she didn't give much attention to anyone else. She was vaguely aware that the chief was watching them, though.
"Everyone has to spend at least some of their first year in the trauma center, so I imagine you've gotten a basic grounding in trauma already, but it really is a far more complex specialty than most people from outside the field can appreciate," DeMatteo said.
That earlier confidence bubbled forth. "I know. My mother's worked as a trauma nurse pretty much all my life."
He paused and his smile faded, making her heart sink. "Be careful. Don't say you know something you don't. I'm sure your mother is a very good nurse, but right now you're a first-year surgical intern. You don't actually know what it's like inside the field."
"But I've been living and breathing this since I was seven." The dwindling warmth in his face was sending off little warnings all through her brain, but she forged ahead. "I know I'm just an intern, but I've read so much in preparation. While my roommate was playing Call of Duty this morning, I was reading about sexual dimorphism in trauma."
Instead of being impressed with her, he was looking more exasperated by the moment. "There's no proven sexual dimorphism in trauma."
"No! There is. It's been studied for years and years, even. It affects immune and organ responsiveness. The susceptibility to and morbidity from shock, trauma, and sepsis is worse in men, because female hormones actually have a protective effect. By using estrogen treatment, it could potentially reduce morbidity for men."
He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. "We don't give estrogen to men after trauma just because there's a theorized sex difference. That's ... that sounds dangerously stupid. Where are you getting this?"
"It was in this paper I was reading this morning." Darla pulled out her phone and began searching for it, almost frantic now. He had just called her stupid. Or, well, he had called what she was saying stupid. The need to prove herself was overriding every bit of sense she had. "Here! See? It was observed in rats and the results were reproduced in humans, going back almost twenty years."
He drew his hand back from his face to take her phone. She watched as his eyes scanned the document she'd loaded. Instead of looking pleased at learning something new, he only sighed.
"Twenty years," he said.
She nodded, feeling a bit like a bobble head doll with the rapidity of the motion. "It goes back to the mid-nineties, at least. I'm surprised you graduated without ever hearing about it, actually."
"You're surprised I graduated medical school without knowing about an experimental hormone treatment that no one is using?" Irritation practically dripped off of his words, and she finally got a sense of just how far she had pushed things. The first rule of holes, she knew, was to stop digging. Figuring out how to do that was the hard part.
"No. No, of course not," she said. "I just would've expected you to know that female patients tolerate blood loss and recover from sepsis better. That's really common knowledge, isn't it?"
He dropped her phone back into her hand, then shook his head slightly before walking away from her. The full enormity of her blunder struck her like a piano dropping off a roof. Her diaphragm started to squeeze painfully with every breath as her heart pounded in her ears. One of the rising stars at the hospital, certainly someone well-connected to just about everyone above her, and she had just argued with him publicly and essentially called him ignorant. What the hell had she been thinking? Why couldn't she have gotten tongue-tied or just been speechless in terror instead of babbling like an absolute ass?
Before she could start crying or do anything worse to add to the horror of the situation, she dashed away. Part of her wanted to just keep running all the way back home.
* * *
Jackson stepped a few feet away as he attempted to gather his thoughts. Showing the chief that he was talented at teaching became a far more difficult task when his newest intern was trying to school him. Snapping at her out of embarrassment would hardly help his efforts to look like good professor material, but the urge was high. Finding a more diplomatic way to explain how medical consensus worked and that a few studies weren't enough to make sweeping declarations seemed best. Or it did until he heard feet running. He turned to watch as she fled.
"Fuck," he swore under his breath.
Another surgeon had lingered to watch the exchange and asked in a falsetto, "Oh, Dr. DeMatteo, how could you possibly not know about sexual dimorphism in trauma?"
"Shut up, Mevlyn." Jackson dragged a hand through his hair, thinking. She seemed to know her material well enough — it was true that he'd never heard anyone suggest using hormone therapy on male trauma patients — but there was more to being a trauma surgeon than collecting theories. Still, if she could keep from running away it might even be fun to debate things with her. Provided she didn't start it up in front of the chief.
"That didn't last very long," Chief Singh pointed out dryly. "I expected you to at least get through a single shift with her."
"I didn't chase her off." He pointed in the direction she'd run. "That was all her."
"Yes, I heard." The chief gave him a little smile. "And I didn't hear you reeling her in and getting her back on track."
"How the hell could I? She barely gave me a chance to get a word in edgewise before she was ranting on about some bullshit estrogen therapy somebody dreamed up in the nineties."
That little smile vanished from the chief's face. "It's not bullshit. I had provided some patient data for one of those studies."
Kill me now, Jackson silently prayed.
"I'll find her and get her back in the trauma center," he said, desperate to change the subject. "She's pretty high-strung, though. I don't know how long she'll last."
"She'd better last through her residency."
Jackson felt as if ice water had just trickled down his spine. He stared at the chief for a moment, trying to determine if the older man was joking or not, but he looked perfectly serious. "You want me to keep her in here for years?"
The chief spread his hands, shrugging. "At least until she's chosen her specialty. Morales is nearly done with her first year now, after all, so you don't have that long to hold her hand until she's on a specialty track. How well she does from that point will be up to her, but I expect her to stick with trauma."
The horror of it all crept up on him. "She couldn't last five minutes. Literally, just now? That was less than five minutes."
"I'm aware of how long it was, DeMatteo. Are you aware of how you could have handled it better?"
"I don't know. Made her shut up sooner?" As was too often the case, his sarcastic sense of humor went unappreciated.
The chief gave him a sour look, then shook his head. "You're the experienced attending surgeon here. You could have kept your ego in check, instead of getting defensive when she pointed out you were wrong."
Jackson bit his tongue to keep from arguing. He hadn't been wrong. Whatever a handful of studies said, there was no consensus on the topic. Until there was consensus, he had no reason to revise the standard medical assumptions he'd been taught.
"Make a trauma surgeon out of her, DeMatteo," Singh continued. "Show me you have what it takes to be responsible for molding future doctors."
That caught his attention. He glanced in the direction Morales had run, then turned back to the chief. "That's it? That's what you want from me for McGaffey's position? Make Morales a useful member of the trauma team?"
It was a running joke among the other adjunct faculty in the medical school that it was easier to kill a tenured professor and get their position than wait for one of the positions to open up. For an ambitious young surgeon like him, getting a shot at professorship instead of only being an instructor could be the difference between a career and just having a job. McGaffey's retirement from teaching was the opportunity he'd been waiting for.
"Do you think you can do it?"
Jackson opened his mouth to answer, then paused. The desire to answer in the affirmative was overpowering, but was it true? While McGaffey must have seen something in Morales to actually recommend he mentor her, it was difficult to gauge her strengths yet. They had only spoken for a moment. One hell of a moment.
"Of course he can't," Mevlyn cut in. "He can't even get a normal intern to stick around. How could DeMatteo possibly manage with a walking panic attack like that?"
That made the decision for him. Jackson snapped his mouth shut and shot a glare in Mevlyn's direction. "She's a nervous first-year resident. Cut her some slack."
She had been nervous. He'd recognized that, but he'd let his frustration with her babbling get the better of him. Her big brown eyes had been so wide behind her glasses, and she'd pulled her black curls into an impossibly tight ponytail with them exploding into a puff behind her head, making her heart-shaped face look younger and smaller. Not all of her had looked so delicate, though. Even with the top of her head barely reaching his shoulder, her body was full and rounded with tempting curves.
He pushed those unprofessional thoughts away and refocused on the chief. "I can do it. She's bright and clearly driven. It's just a matter of directing that well."
Singh relaxed and a smile returned to his face once more. "You think you can direct her?"
"I know I can."
Mevlyn crossed his arms. "You're really going to offer him McGaffey's tenure track position for getting one intern to be quasi-functional?"
"It's not my place to offer it. Those decisions are decided by the medical school board," the chief corrected. "I can make recommendations, though, as will McGaffey."
"And what happens when he fails? Who's your backup recommendation?" Mevlyn pressed.
Jackson held his breath, though he knew what the answer would be. Instead of actually saying it out loud, the chief only gave Mevlyn a knowing look. The other man had a few more years of experience than Jackson, and even if he was one of the laziest instructors Jackson had ever heard of, he knew how to play hospital politics.
"Morales is going to be a trauma surgeon," Jackson told the chief firmly. "There's no other way I'll let this end."
CHAPTER 2
The supply closet wasn't the most dignified place to hide, but it was the first and most private location Darla had seen. She shifted on the plastic tote she'd chosen as her seat and hugged her knees to her chest, trying to bring her breathing under control. It was out of proportion to what happened, and she knew it, yet logic had little to do with her anxiety. Her brain had settled into a feedback loop of horror as she ran through the conversation over and over again.
What had she been thinking? So he was wrong about something. So he didn't read journals as closely as she did. Telling him that he was wrong in front of everyone was no way to help matters. It certainly hadn't made him listen to her.
"I hate everything and everyone, especially me," she muttered to herself as she hugged her knees.
"That sounds pretty dire for a little argument."
She looked up at the voice and saw Jackson DeMatteo standing in the doorway of the supply closet. With her heart pounding in her ears, she hadn't noticed the door opening. A wave of horror washed over her, leaving her head feeling so light she feared she was going to pass out. That was all she needed, dropping at his feet.
"Dr. DeMatteo," she said in a rush as she scrambled to stand. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't —"
"Wait." He held a hand up to her, his other hand shutting the door behind him. "I don't care about your apology."
Her stomach clenched, and she thought she could taste bile on the back of her tongue. Vomiting at his feet might be worse than fainting. "You don't?"
"No. I don't need you to grovel. I just need you to put effort into this and make it work. Are you going to do that?"
Her heart leaped and she worried she might get a headache from the mood whiplash. "Yes, yes, absolutely," she insisted. "Thank you so much."
His full lips pressed together in frown. God, he was even sexy when he was frowning at her. Not making a complete idiot over herself moment by moment was going to be far harder than any surgery she had ever assisted on.
"Don't thank me. Just do what's required. Why are you interested in trauma medicine?"
"My mom's a trauma nurse."
DeMatteo raised one brow slightly, then gave her a prompting gesture. "And?"
Had that been the wrong answer? Whenever she had mentioned her family history in medicine, everyone else had simply accepted it happily. It seemed like the motivation for a lot of high-achievers, too. Darla struggled to elaborate. "And I want to be like her?"
"Why?"
Her scalp was prickling with sweat under all of the hairspray she'd put on that morning. Why weren't her answers good enough for him? Was he just being sadistic to get back at her for earlier? "I ... admire my mother?"
"I was looking for answers, not more questions. Don't ask me why you're doing it," he said. "Can I give you a word of advice? Our parents make for really shitty motivators in life. Yeah, they love us, but they think they know us better than they really do. You need to do this for you, not your mother."
"I ... I am doing it for me?" Shit. She was making it sound like a question again. Darla shook her head, warding off another correction from him. "I've always wanted to be a doctor and surgeons seemed like gods to me when I was a kid. My dad —"
(Continues...)
Excerpted from How to Save a Surgeon by C.M. Stone, Heather Howland, Vanessa Mitchell. Copyright © 2015 C.M. Stone. Excerpted by permission of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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