Lost in a Reverie 18+ Only (Book 1 of Lastor Series) ['23/'24 EDIT]

Chapter 37: Frederick

I shrugged my jacket on, stretching my neck in a circular motion to mend my sore muscles.

The day was hectic. A vehicular accident involving a bus and a Honda colliding at an intersection brought us over twenty three injured commuters, one dead victim –the driver of the Honda– and the two passengers of the vehicle were in critical state. One was in a coma, the other had to go into emergency surgery to amputate her leg.

This wasn't an everyday occurrence and it marked the first unnatural death I had to tend to in my career. Needless to say, I felt like shit. It didn't help that I thought calling the girl who was responsible for my sleepless nights would make me feel better. It only pissed me off and I had to spend the rest of my shift snapping at anyone who asked if I was okay. Which was why I didn't turn down the offer to grab drinks after our shifts. I didn't even argue when they said they wanted to go to Mikey's. I was craving for a good beer.

When we got there, I immediately spotted the familiar red sports car that I remembered was owned by none other than the wicked bitch of Upper East Side herself.

I hated the spark of expectation that came to me at the prospect of seeing her after what seemed like an eternity. I shut it down immediately.

She was set on being a bitch today and I was too tired to be her punching bag right now. It was like taking one step forward and two steps back with her. Just when I thought we were going somewhere, we'd fall back into the same old shouting matches.

I need a drink.

Soctt let out a low whistle as he got out his car, eyeing the red Viper with envy.

"Damn. That's one hot beauty."

"It's obnoxious," I muttered, following the others as they headed for the entrance.

The bar wasn't as packed as it was on the weekends and we put two tables together to fit all fifteen of us. I barely knew some of them but I worked with most of them in the ER and we talked about the accident from earlier in the day while we each nursed a cold bottle of beer.

"Was it your first?" Ryan Tate, a trauma surgeon, asked as he sat across from me.

I rubbed a hand over my face, sighing. "Yeah."

"I can tell. I remember the first time I had a patient die on my table." He paused, feigning a shiver. "It was a robbery. The poor guy was on his way home and some punks tried to steal his car. He fought back and got shot seven times. I couldn't sleep for two nights."

He grimaced before downing his beer.

In our field, death was inevitable. They said you'll get used to it and eventually become desensitized enough not to think about it but I doubted that at all. I felt like shit having to tell the driver's – Paul Cameron's – loved ones of his death. He had his two teenage daughters riding with him as passengers and his wife had to find out her husband was dead and her children were dying through a stranger.

If it were my mother, she probably would have passed out and gotten into a full blown breakdown, but Charice Cameron took it in stride and thanked me. As if she was grateful I told her such an awful thing. I couldn't imagine the strength it would take to get through something like this.

It had been the bus driver's fault. He had dozed off while on the wheel and when we got him in the emergency room, his blood alcohol level went off the charts that I was surprised he hadn't died from alcohol poisoning. I reluctantly saved his life along with two other doctors. The prick would probably wake up with no recollection of the incident and a shitload of lawsuits on his way.

I downed my beer in one swig to shake away the horrible image of Paul Cameron's mangled corpse.

I felt Scott nudge me with his elbow and I arched a brow.