Just Fooling Around(3)

Cam leaned forward and pressed his nose to the glass. “Try me, you little pencil-pushing gnome.”

Uh-oh. Name-calling. Not good.

Briskly Jenna moved through the crowd of four sniffling sneezers, two achy backs, eight cases of dental malaise and one tiny tot, currently running a temp of 99.3. All in all, it was a relatively quiet Thursday night for Manhattan—except for World War III at the Admissions window.

“Bertie? Is there a problem?”

“Is an asshole considered a problem, Dr. Ferrar? I think not. I consider it an official hazard of duty, and if this patient thinks he can pull a fast one on Bertie, he can think again.”

The patient in question—Cameron Franklin, age thirty two, one hundred and eighty-three pounds, unmarried, employed by King, Franklin and Cross Development, O positive blood type and no communicable diseases—turned toward her and, as usual, Jenna had to stifle her sudden case of labored breathing. Those tiger-bright eyes always made her squirm.

“Can you make her practice reason and logic? Do we have to take the word of some mindless, faceless, corporate bureaucrat over what? Five years of actual hospital history? My social-security number has not changed. It’s the same one I was born with, the same one I had last year. The same one you wrote in your paperwork the year before, and the year before that. If you love the records so much, look at your own paperwork.”

That last bit was directed at Bertrice, who for the first time in twenty years on the job, actually looked uncertain. She stared down at the manila folder in front of her, thumbed through a few pages and frowned. Then, she picked up the next folder, thumbed through a few more pages and scowled. Finally she looked up at Cam, sulky and unhappy, like a two-year-old missing her favorite toy. “I think the records are wrong,” she mumbled.

Jenna knew that Cam would pick up on the halfhearted tone. He did.

“All of them? Even the ones that you wrote? Last year? And the year before? No way. There is no freaking way that you could make a mistake,” he told Bertie, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“I don’t make mistakes,” Bertie defended. It was true. Although lacking in her customer-service skills, Bertie was meticulous. However, sometimes, the unthinkable could happen.

Jenna coughed discreetly. “Bertrice. Normally I wouldn’t dare correct you, but I think that’s his correct social-security number.”

“See? If Doc Ferrar believes me, don’t you think you should?”

Cam beamed, those kissably full lips curving upwards. Jenna, who was more driven by token gold-star signs of approval than she cared to admit, beamed back.

Bertrice picked up the pile of folders and raised her brows. “I don’t think I should. But I will. This is gonna take a while to fix, and if you think I’m going to hurry, well, mister, I’m going to make me a new definition for slow. In fact, I’m going to be so slow, they’re going to put me in the dictionary right next to the turtles. And don’t go anywhere, neither. ’Cause we know where you live and I’ll hunt you down.”

After Bertrice left, Cam turned to Jenna and dragged his hand through his thick hair, tousling it. Not surprisingly, it made him look even more bedable.

“I thought a hospital was a place for mercy and charity, a patient-centered haven nurturing the physical well-being of the wounded and infirm.”

“Nah. You’ve got us confused with those hospitals on TV. In real life, it’s all about preventative care. If the customer service is hell, maybe people will stay away. We keep hoping, but no such luck. Speaking of ineffective diagnosis, what are you in for this year?”

“Parkour.”

“What is parkour? It sounds exotic and slightly poisonous.”

“It’s running. Well, running on an industrialized path, and you jump and climb over stuff. Very stylized.”

“You do this in the city?” she asked, thinking it was a miracle no taxi had smashed him flat.

“Oh, yeah. Construction sites are actually the best.”

“And that’s how you got hurt?”

“Sort of. I was doing this monkey vault on some scaffolding for one of our buildings, jumping from one cross-brace to another, followed by a flawless underbar through the top-level beam and then ending with a cat leap to the top of this old warehouse next door. It was great, everybody should try this, the wind rushing through your ears, like you’re flying, but right when I was reaching for the brick on the warehouse, this goose decided to dive-bomb me and I lost my focus, and the rest can be found in my X rays. Dislocated shoulder.”

It was apparent he loved what he did, but sometimes his eyes gleamed a little too bright, were a little too focused. It was then when Jenna worried.