Page 74 of One Reckless Night

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JARED

The past two months had been the worst of my life. I’d become an emotionless demon, burning bridges in every direction without a second thought. It wasn’t anything new—this was how I’d gotten this far in life. Feeling nothing, caring about nothing, had always been my MO. And I planned to keep it that way.

I walked into the scrub room and went through the usual process. My mind was already moving through the steps I would take for the surgery. Shawn walked in and started scrubbing.

“Is the family here?” I asked.

“Yeah, they’re in the waiting room. They’re nervous,” Shawn replied. “It’s a big deal for them—they’ve been waiting for this for months.”

I nodded absently, my mind already shifting to the surgery. “They’re in good hands,” I said, more out of habit than reassurance. I wasn’t great at the comforting part—that was Shawn’s specialty. He had a way with people that I could never quite manage. I could give facts and statistics and offer a lot of confidence, which was often enough. And in some cases, I could connect with people, but Shawn was a lot better at it.

Especially lately.

We finished scrubbing in silence. I led the way into the OR. The patient was already prepped, the team waiting for us to begin. I glanced at the monitor, checking the vitals one last time before I stepped up to the table.

“Scalpel,” I said, holding out my hand.

The overhead lights were bright enough to blind. It was necessary. They illuminated the delicate terrain of the patient’s brain. The patient, a young woman with a rare brain tumor, lay motionless beneath the drapes, her fate resting in my hands. The procedure was delicate, every movement calculated, every incision precise. But I could handle it.

This wasn’t just skill; it was instinct, years of training distilled into a steady hand and sharp mind. Shawn stood to my left, watching and learning and ready to jump in should things get dicey.

“Suction,” I murmured.

The nurse responded instantly, anticipating my needs before I even voiced them. Shawn watched me but gave me space to work.

“You’re deep in the glioma now,” Shawn noted.

“I am.” I adjusted my grip on the instrument and studied the exposed tissue. “Margins look clean so far. No major vascular involvement. I should be able to preserve function in the surrounding cortex.”

Minutes stretched into an hour, then two. The tension in my shoulders was constant, but I thrived. It was one of the reasons I had a gym in my house. I had to be in good physical shape to do this work. Sometimes, I was on my feet for ten hours straight. Core strength mattered. It wasn’t only vanity.

“Bleeder on the lateral margin,” Shawn warned.

I reacted immediately, shifting instruments with practiced ease. The suction caught the small rush of blood. I cauterized the vessel before it could become a problem.

“Good catch,” I said.

He chuckled softly. “I’m learning from the best, or so I’m told.”

I worked in silence. I preferred to teach by showing. None of my mentees were going to learn anything if I was running my mouth. My mind was running through every possible complication, every escape route if something went wrong. But nothing did. Slowly, carefully, I excised the remaining portion of the tumor, ensuring clean margins.

Then, finally⁠—

“Tumor is fully resected,” I announced. A collective exhale could be heard in the room. But I didn’t celebrate, not yet. I never did until the patient was closed up and stable.

Shawn’s beeper went off. He muttered something under his breath and stepped away. He glanced at the screen.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

“Clair’s back on the island,” he said. “She’s checking in.”

“I didn’t know she was gone.”

“She made a quick trip to Miami,” he said. “I thought you knew.”

I had probably been told, but I didn’t pay attention. That wasn’t unusual.