“It was less dramatic than that. It fell right through my fingers. By the time Aaron fished it out of the pot, it was gone.”
The server set his drink down in front of him; he took a sip, then relaxed, sinking into the supple brown leather. His gaze flicked over the room, taking it all in.
“Sounds like we’ve had the same week,” he said after a long pause.
“Not quite. I’m not a surgeon. But pretty much.”
“So, how does this roll out from your side?”
I filled him in, from Dr. Rice gearing up for a fight to the careful language everyone was using, to trying to stay ahead of a situation that kept shifting under my feet. He listened, nodding like he was interested, not just waiting for his turn to talk.
“The way I see it? They’re scared,” he said when I finished.
“Terrified,” I agreed. “Which makes them dangerous. Are you?”
“No. But yes. If that makes sense.”
My head tilted at that. I understood, actually. But I wanted him to say more.
“Off the record, right?” he asked.
When I nodded, he continued.
“I’m confident in my skills. I wouldn’t have an MD, I wouldn’t make people call me doctor, I wouldn’t be cutting people open if I wasn’t. I’m also confident I did everything right. I gotta be, you know?”
My head bobbed in a deep nod. Because if anything went wrong, he would be the first person under scrutiny.
“So, if I’m Dr. Stephens, this is getting swept under the rug, I’m sure. As a Black American surgeon?” He paused, lifted and lowered his shoulders in a shrug, then picked up his bourbon and took a slow sip, curling his tongue out to lick his lip afterward.
God, that was hot.
“That’s got to be annoying. I mean, I know it’s annoying.”
“I was warned about it, on my way up.” He smiled without humor. “I always expect lots of questions phrased as concern. So yeah, I’m not scared about my actions. I’m scared about how I’ll be perceived.”
“You’ve seen this before.”
“Enough times to know how it can end.”
Bar noise filled the space between our lapses in conversation—laughter from the corner booth, sports commentary from the TVs, the clink of glasses.
“So, how long have you been at Ridgeway?” Cole asked.
“Nine years. You?”
“Three. I came from a trauma fellowship in Baltimore.”
“Baltimore. Big Fun.” I grinned, hoping he’d catch the joke. He smiled, so he did. “So what brought you to Ridgeway? We’re considerably smaller.”
“A good program trumps working at a big, busy hospital. Level one trauma center, solid teaching opportunities. I wanted to build something in a spot where I could get comfortable.”
He took another sip before asking, “What about you? Where were you before?”
“I worked in case management at a smaller hospital. I was recruited for a patient advocacy role, then promoted to risk management, then director over both since they often cross over.”
“You like it? I mean…you’re good at it.”
I thought about that. “You’re right. I’m good at it.”
