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“I also put in an order to repeat labs but added on a C-Reactive Protein, a sed rate, and more comprehensive liver function tests. I was right in doing that because the results clicked through once I entered them.”
“And?”
“And the kid’s labs are a mess. Her white blood cell count hasn’t gone down despite being on antibiotics for the UTI. I'm thinking the UTI is a red herring. I'm thinking that the abdominal pain and the inflammation in her bowel are the keys to all this. I just don’t know in what way.” I blow out a heavy breath, thinking this through. “She now has sores in her mouth, but none on her hands, feet, or buttocks. I don’t think it’s Coxsackievirus, but it still could be some form of an enterovirus?” It comes out as a question.
“It could be.”
“Yes, it could be, and that would explain all the symptoms, but that doesn’t feel right in my gut. The little girl has been sick for a very long time by this point and if it were just an enterovirus, she’d likely be improving. Not getting worse. She has weight loss. Poor coloring. Weird ultrasound. Mouth sores. Abdominal pain. Labs are all over the freaking place.” At this point, I’m simply musing aloud, but I’m missing something. I know I am.
His hands slide down and outward, shifting around so he’s holding my ribs. His diabolical thumbs continue their ministrations, rubbing into my back, but he’s also skimming the undersides of my breasts with his pointer fingers as his hands move. He’s closer now, too. His chest is practically right up against my back. His hard cock presses in the crevice above my ass and I lean back into it, unable to stop how my body reacts to him.
The way it craves his every point of contact, like a junkie seeking their next fix.
I know I should stop him, but I also know I won’t. His hands feel too good, his touch too magical.
“Focus, Layla,” he whispers in my ear just as his hands come up and cover my breasts. Fuck. I need to stop this. Because I do need to focus, and I said no sex—it was my fucking thing—for reasons I don’t exactly recall at present, but at the time it felt vital.
His thumbs swirl circles over my hard nipples, teasing my piercings. He’s the first person other than myself to touch those and holy bejesus, they’re sensitive as fuck to someone else’s touch. I moan, leaning all the way back into him, desperate for more.
“The patient,” he prompts, and his hands stop moving, though they don’t leave my breasts.
I scan over my computer screen, reading everything through for what feels like the thousandth time. Emergency room report, labs, imaging, Mom’s account of symptoms as well as the patient’s account. Everything is here. I’m not missing anyt—
“Family history,” snaps out and I can feel him smile against my neck as he places an open-mouthed kiss there.
I click on the family history button, and it immediately populates. I scroll through it. “Both parents are healthy as well as both the patient’s siblings. Paternal grandfather has a history of type 1 diabetes and hypertension.” I shake my head. “No. It’s not diabetes because her glucose was within normal range each time it was tested. Paternal grandmother has a history of Crohn's disease, depression, and anxiety. Maternal grandmother has a history of Graves’ disease and high cholesterol. Paternal grandfather has a history of Crohn's disease and hypertension.”
I bolt upright, forcing his hands to fall from my body.
“It’s Crohn’s disease. Oh my God.” My head flips around to him. “Right?”
He’s smiling at me, rubbing his finger along his bottom lip, but he remains silent. He can’t tell me, and I’m glad he’s not telling me because I feel like I could fucking fly right now. That’s how worked up I am.
“It is,” I declare adamantly. “Mouth sores, weight loss, abdominal pain, inflamed loops of bowel, labs all over the fucking place. It’s new-onset Crohn’s. She needs a GI consult, stool tests, more bloodwork, and a colonoscopy and endoscopy.” I enter everything into my case study and hit submit. Then I twist to him. “Did I get it right?”
“Are you asking me as a doctor or as your professor?”
“Both,” I answer easily.
He inches forward and closes the lid of my laptop. Then his hands are removing the elastic from the messy bun on top of my head. My hair falls around me and he brushes it back over my shoulders.
“Yes,” he says. “You got it right.”
I fist-pump the air. “Fuck yeah!”
He laughs, taking me by the hips and moving me until I’m straddling his thighs. His head leans back against the couch and then he’s gazing up at me, drawing circles on my lower belly.
“My attending didn’t see it. He was positive it was simply the UTI and an enterovirus as you said. The patient’s mother wasn’t having it. She bitched me out for a solid ten minutes when I gave her that as the diagnosis. The nurse that evening told me to never underestimate a mother’s intuition when it comes to her child. So, I followed that and my gut told me my attending was wrong. I dug deeper. Got a more thorough history. And yes, it was Crohn’s. I called GI that night, and they agreed with my suspected diagnosis and confirmed it with colonoscopy and endoscopy.”
“Wow. Nicely done, Doctor.”
“Same to you, Miss Fritz.” His hands cup my breasts once more. “And to reward you for getting it right, I’d like to make you come.”
25
Layla’s nipples pebble beneath my hands, and her hips rock on my thighs ever so slightly when I say that. She’s let me touch her all night. She’s let me invade her space. I have no doubt she’s warm and wet and wanting. Now if she could only get out of her own way to let this happen.
I’ve tried to be good, and I’ve tried to give her the space she says she needs, but tonight when Katy was asked to go for a sleepover and I was alone for the first time in weeks, it was Layla who popped into my head. It was Layla who I wanted to be with.
