The Infamous Ellen James(29)

How long can I keep this up until I get hurt?

That is the million dollar question right now, and I really wish I had some damn answers. I feel my phone vibrate in my scrub pocket, and I glance at the screen to see a text message notification.



Trent: Ellie girl, I hope you're enjoying your day. I went to sleep last night with thoughts of beautiful green eyes, cleavage, and tequila shots.





Sigh. Just one text from him and I'm grinning like a teen mom who's baby daddy just put a ring on her finger.

I quickly text him back.



Me: Dr. Beautiful, my day just got better.



Another text notification causes my phone to vibrate.



Trent: Dr. Beautiful? I guess this means you're going to let me take you out dinner tomorrow night. The only response I will accept is YES.





I'm still grinning like an idiot and quickly text him back.



Me: YES, Dr. Beautiful.



He speedily responds.



Trent: I'll pick you up at 7 pm.



So much for trying to take things slow. I'm practically salivating at the idea of a night alone with Trent. I send another text his way.



Me: I'll be the girl in the black fuck-me heels.



Within a minute, I get his response.



Trent: You're killing me, Ellie girl.



I'm still smiling from ear to ear like a fucking moron, but I can't seem to help myself. Trent is a breath of fresh air; he makes me feel alive. I'm terrified of getting hurt again, but I don't think I can avoid these feelings I have for this devastatingly sexy man. I barely know him, yet he's on my mind constantly.

My heart wants Trent.

My brain wants Trent.

My vagina really wants Trent.

Moments like these make me thankful I'm not a guy, because otherwise I'd be sporting some serious wood right now. Not even a half-chub or semi; it'd be full-on boner-time all up in these scrub pants.

Let's face the facts—Trent Hamilton gives me raging ladyboners.

After I manage to pull myself together and focus on work instead of being thrusted by Trent, I head back into bed eight to discharge a patient. I nicely give the elderly lady her discharge instructions so that she can be on her merry way. She has been diagnosed with a very serious condition called constipation. Insert copious amounts of sarcasm into that statement.

God damn constipation.

Who comes to the ER for that? I'm pretty sure that shitting is a daily bodily function. If you go seven days without dropping a deuce and you're not alerted by this, then we've got bigger problems on our hands. Don't worry, I've got Mrs. Forgets To Poop covered. I've given her enough laxatives and stool softeners to ensure that she is crapping herself silly by the time she gets home.

After my emergency constipation case ambles out the door, I see a young girl around nineteen or twenty being wheeled in, and it is extremely apparent she is currently in labor. She's screaming, "The baby is coming now!" panting heavily through her contractions, and barely keeping her ass on the wheelchair.

That's a surefire sign of someone who is fully dilated and ready to deliver.

I instruct the transporter to wheel her into bed nine and hurriedly put on gloves because I sure as hell don't want vaginal fluids all over my hands. The last time I saw a patient come into the ER like this, I ended up delivering her baby with my bare hands. Lesson learned.

We quickly get her into the ER bed as I continue to do my best to get prepared for a delivery. Since there is visibly no time to get her upstairs to the actual labor and delivery unit, I call their charge nurse and tell her to send supplies and staff down as soon as possible. I ask the patient several questions pertaining to her pregnancy, past medical history, age, and other pertinent information that will allow more insight into what I'm currently facing. Luckily, she has had an uncomplicated pregnancy and her due date is only a few days away. This is a huge relief. It is one thing to do a delivery in the ER, but it is a whole other ball game when you're being faced with a severely premature baby being born without the appropriate staff and equipment.

“Oh my god, get this baby out!!!" She's screaming at the top of her lungs and now beginning to grunt with each contraction. I pull down her already wet pants and underwear, indicating that her water already broke, and encourage her to slowly breathe through her contractions. She's sweaty, panting, and extremely red-faced. I really would like her to hold off on pushing until an obstetrician arrives, but I'm sure this probably isn't going to happen. Regency has an obstetrician in-house at all times. Unfortunately for me, their call room is located upstairs on the eighth floor.

"Screw you! I'm pushing this baby out now!!!!" Did I forget to mention that pregnant women make me so happy?

Dr. Simon is our ER physician on staff today, and he wanders into the patient's room as she's screaming, "Ahhhhhh! My vagina feels like it's being ripped apart!" He is visibly taken aback by this, and I'm just holding my breath for his god damn Tourette's to kick into gear. The last thing I need right now is for him to yell, “Pull on my pubes!” to an angry pregnant woman.