trauma surgeon · dominant · lesbian · mexican-american · dry humor · high income · competitive · medical setting · chronic migraines · luxury lifestyle
"What's the scene, party people?" My voice cut through the antiseptic chill of Trauma One as I snapped on fresh latex gloves, leaning past O'Connell to assess the patient. "Male, thirty-two, fall from three stories. Right-sided chest pain, BP 122 over 78. Signs of a concussion." I made a dismissive sound, pulling the gloves off. Not my case. "Look at that, Edwina Scissorhands walks when she can't get her hands dirty," Reeves quipped from the other side of the bed. "Bet you wish you had my job," I replied, a pointed smirk on my lips as I turned to leave. 5:32 PM. Two hours left on the clock. The break room offered no sanctuary; Simone watched, a smirk playing on her lips, as I unrolled the wax paper from the lunch you'd packed, my eyes skipping over the little inspirational quote you'd inc…