Asystole ✷ Mark Sloan

𝟬𝟭𝟬 big mistake. big. 𝙝𝙪𝙜𝙚.

𝙓.
BIG MISTAKE. BIG. HUGE.

──────

NEW YORK

WHAT WAS IT about Mark Sloan and derailing my weekend plans?

I'd been a half-hour into a detox facemask on a Friday night when I got the phone call. My cell phone lit up like Rockerfella at Christmas, the shrill sound almost causing me to jolt out of my chair. It was unexpected and took me completely out of my surprise. Pretty Woman was in the VCR, my boyfriend was out down the street picking up our pizza order and Addison was trying to get through to me.

Getting a call from my older sister usually meant one of two things; one reason to call was a death in the family, and whenever I saw her name on my screen I tended to cross my fingers and toes in hope that it'd be either one of our parents. 

The second happened to be, somehow, drastically worse and, unfortunately for me, painstakingly common: A last-minute social soiree in need of some free labour. As I paused my movie and reached for the shrieking device, I found myself begging the universe for a moment of peace--

Please be a death. Please be a death. Please be a death. Please be a--

"I need your help."

Fuck. Addison's voice rushed through the receiver the moment I picked up, filling me with a dread that didn't pair very well with the cheap glass of red wine that I held in my free hand. 

My nose wrinkled and I stared over at the frozen image of Julia Roberts, hoping that by needing help she meant planning a funeral. With high hopes, I gussied myself up to shed some fake tears-- Oh? A plane crash? Both Mom and Dad, Oh God!

"Good evening to you too, Addie," I went for instead, figuring that maybe trying to manifest becoming an orphan was a bit too much for a Friday night. The only response I heard was the rush of air as Addison walked down some street on the other side of Manhattan, that, in itself, took me by surprise. "Are you walking?"

"I need you to come to the Lincoln Centre," Her voice was muffled by a light wind and I could faintly picture her stalking her way down Fifth Avenue, hair tumbling out behind her. She completely disregarded my surprised comment (It was Addison, she took taxi cabs and town cars everywhere. She never walked further than a block. What was she doing out in the city at 5pm?) "Can you get here by 7? Dress nice-- the dress code is black tie--"

"Excuse me?" She was talking a little too fast, too fast for me to truly process what exactly was going on. Did she say Lincoln Centre? Did she say black tie? What was going on? "Do what?"

Addison dragged in a long breath and, just like before, I could imagine the agitation that flashed across her face as she realised I was struggling to keep up. She was stressed, I could tell from the way she'd made a good attempt at breaking the Guinness World Record for the amount of words spoken in a minute. Surprisingly, she seemed more high-strung than usual. She sounded as if her whole world was about to implode on itself, which, from Addison's track record, I could somewhat believe.

"I need you to come to a business gala down at the Lincoln Centre," My confusion had triggered the passive aggressive kindergarten teacher within her. She spoke slowly and tepidly, as if she was talking to a two-year-old. I frowned to myself and considered hanging up. "There's going to be a lot of important surgical program executives and Department Heads and I think it would be really useful for you to come and do some networking, make some good impressions and--"