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“Either you take it off now, or you do it in front of another nurse. No matter what, you’re going to have to lose it when we take you for X-rays, and again if you need a CT scan.”
Slowly, Graham slid the zipper of his sweater down.
His white t-shirt was worn and covered in what looked like oil stains, with a prominent bloodstain on one shoulder. He shrugged his good arm out of it. I moved forward on autopilot to help him, my eyes on his forearm.
Was that glitter?
His skin shone in the harsh fluorescent lights, like he’d been oiled up, but the sheen of bright gold was unlike anything I’d ever seen.
Defiantly, he let me pull his sweater off. I kept my expression neutral. I’d seen a lot of weird shit in my day, and I’d perfected the art of the blank look over the years.
“Is this just on your arms?” I folded his sweater on the bed next to him.
He rubbed the palm of his unhurt hand against his thigh. “It’s all over.”
I took a closer look at his hurt arm. The bruises were dark under whatever was coating his skin, and the entire area from mid-forearm to his palm was swollen and red.
“Can I ask what it is? What’s in it?”
“It’s basically baby oil and cosmetic glitter. I work at a club,” he tacked the last part on, his tone almost daring me to make fun of him.
My mind raced, splitting in two different directions. Part of me wondered why he’d be covered in oil and glitter if he worked at a club, and the other was in nurse mode and trying to remember if someone had restocked the baby wipes in the supply closet at the end of the hall.
Focusing on Graham my patient and not my glitter-covered stepbrother, I asked, “Can you get your clothes off?”
“Why?”
“So I can clean you off before the doctor comes in. Or you have to go to radiology.” I fetched him a hospital johnny from the cupboard in the back of the room. “Put this on. I’ll be back in a minute.”
He nodded, looking confused as hell.
I made my way down the hall and toward one of the many supply closets.
“I hate my life and I’m going to jump off a bridge when my shift is over.” Sloane stomped toward me, the front of her scrubs covered in something. I knew better than to ask what it was.
“There’s that can-do spirit we all love,” Lorelei called. “Work now, meltdowns later.”
“Sounds like the hospital motto,” I said.
“Remind me again why we don’t move to Fiji and live in a hut on the beach?” Sloane asked as we passed each other.
“Because huts on the beach cost as much as regular houses now thanks to travel influencers making them the new trend?”
“Right. That,” she called over her shoulder.
Chuckling, and grateful I’d avoided getting any body fluids on my scrubs tonight, I hurried into the supply closet and grabbed a packet of baby wipes.
When I got back to the treatment room, I paused at the curtain. “Graham?”
“Fuck,” was his muffled answer.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Just… I need help.”
I pushed the curtain aside.
Graham had managed to get his shirt off, but his jeans were open and around his thighs.
