He stared at her for what seemed a full minute. Then dragged his hand down his face. “Oh, hell. You don’t want to do that.”
The idea hadn’t occurred to her as she’d taken the elevator up to this floor. Neither had it crossed her mind as she’d made the long trek across the ocean of pink marble and sat down in the fake antique chair. But as soon as she’d heard the words leaving her mouth, Brianna knew it was exactly what she wanted to do. And fortunately, thanks to a recent surprise inheritance from another favorite guest whose family she’d become personal friends with, she could afford to walk away.
“Yes,” she said, “I do. I assume you’ll want me to leave immediately, so you can assure Dr. Michaelson that I no longer work here. Hell, tell him you fired me. That should gain you points over the MGM Grand and Wynn.”
“Does it matter that I don’t want you to leave?”
“Yes.” He did not, she noted, insist that he wouldn’t play the fired card. She watched the tension in his shoulders, clad in a suit that she guessed cost as much as either of his parents’ annual salaries, loosen slightly. “It matters a great deal and I appreciate it. But it doesn’t make any difference, Hyatt. It’s not the first time I’ve felt that I’m not the best fit here at Midas. So I think it’s for the best.”
He blew out a breath. Then finally stood up, went around the desk and, instead of shaking her hand, surprised her with a hug. Not a creepy boss-copping-a-feel hug, but the kind two close friends would share. “I’ll miss you,” he said.
“Back at you,” she said, meaning it. He’d been not just a mentor, but a friend. Perhaps, she’d often considered, because they’d both come from similar middle-class backgrounds.
Her second thought, coming right on top of the first, was that although she was friendly with many people, she no longer had anyone she could consider a true friend. At least not the kind she could share secrets with, or who’d play designated driver while you got drunk because you’d been dumped by some guy your always loyal friend would assure you was a tool who’d never been, and would never be, good enough for you.
Zoe had been that type of friend. But now, although she’d have been the first person Brianna would have called, she was gone. Forever. And although Brianna had exchanged emails back and forth with Seth for the first few months after the funeral, their correspondence had drifted off when he’d stopped responding, suggesting he’d moved on with his life.
“You’ll be impossible to replace,” Hyatt said, breaking into her thoughts.
She laughed at that and felt the tension inside her melt away, like one of the glaciers on Mount Olympus back home at spring thaw. “You know that’s not true. No one’s irreplaceable.” Except possibly George Clooney. “You might take a look at Brad,” she suggested.
“Are you sure he’s ready?”
“He’s young,” Brianna allowed. “But he’s been in the business since he was eighteen and has worked hard to learn the job along the way. He’s also eager to please and is a natural at this business.” She knew he had three younger sisters and had often thought that when they’d played tea party, he’d have been the one setting up the table and pouring the pretend tea. “If you move Greg to days, Brad should be able to handle nights. Especially with Greg to act as a mentor.”
“I’ll give it a thought. Thanks for the recommendation.”
He’d already mentally moved on. As he should.
“You’re welcome.” She patted his arm. “Take care. I’m off to write a polite, gracious response to the not-the-least-bit-truthful Yelp rant, pack up my desk and be on my way.”
“I’ll write a glowing referral. Just let me know where to send it.”
“It’s not necessary.”
Again an arch of the brow. “You already have a new place in mind?”
“I do.” The answer was so obvious she was surprised it wasn’t flashing in neon bright lights over her head. “I’m going home.”
IT WAS MORNING in Kabul, Afghanistan. Traffic was streaming through the Bagram Airfield gates: suppliers, contractors, civilian workers, local residents who were members of the ANA, the Afghan National Army. The sun was rising, the base buzzing as the day medical staff at the state-of-the-art Craig Joint Theater Hospital caught up with patients who’d transferred in or out during the night. Widely recognized as one of the most advanced hospitals in the US Central Command, as well as the premier medical facility in Afghanistan, CJTH had the admirable record of a 95 percent survival rate. Thanks to dedicated medical personnel like Army Captain Zoe Harper, who was currently assigned to the intensive care department.
She was busy mentoring a local nurse, teaching her to tend to one of the unit’s favorite patients, a nine-year-old boy who’d been burned when the family’s propane tank blew up, when shouts started ringing out through the wing. Then automatic gunfire.
Instructing the nurse to bar the heavy metal door, she threw herself over her patient just as the world blew up.
When his phone alarm crashed into the all-too-familiar nightmare, Seth, drenched in sweat, dragged himself out of the inferno and threw the damn phone across the room. He resisted, just barely, taking a hammer to it.
The events that invaded his sleep weren’t real. Or maybe they were. He had no way of knowing because the only facts the Army would share with him were that his wife had been working in the IC ward when security had been breached, allowing suicide terrorists dressed in medical uniforms to attack the hospital.
She’d told him about her patients. Both military and civilian, but he could tell that the little boy, whom she’d been treating for six months, had been a favorite. She’d even asked Seth to send a box of birthday party paraphernalia and Star Trek and Star Wars figures. Which he’d done. She’d emailed pictures of the birthday party two days before her death. The boy had been grinning up at Zoe, who was wearing a silly, definitely not standard issue Princess Leia wig with her military scrubs. It was obvious the kid had fallen in love with her. As everyone always did.
Her stories had created endless possible scenarios of her death. All were violent and horrific, and too often, followed Seth throughout the day. Which, in its own way, was even worse than the nights.
And not just because morning meant going out into the world where he might be forced to interact with people, but mostly because the one person he would not be able to avoid was his dad. Who, if Seth arrived at the job site a nanosecond past the seven o’clock start time, would spend all damn day complaining about the supposed lack of the younger generation’s work ethics.
Stumbling out of his side of the bed (he couldn’t make himself breach his wife’s cold, empty side), he let Bandit out to do his business, then opened a can of dog beef stew that had more vegetables than Seth ate in an average day. He figured he’d banked about a month’s worth at last night’s dinner.
Drawn by the sound of the electric can opener, the mutt came racing back in, skidded across the wood floor, dove his head into the bowl and dispensed with breakfast in three huge gulps.
He followed Seth into the bathroom and would have continued right into the shower if not barred by the ceiling-high glass door. The vet had explained that along with eating issues, separation anxiety wasn’t uncommon in rescues. Especially one who’d been all mangy skin and bones when he’d started showing up at the job site.
Having learned to ignore the unwavering eyes watching his every move, Seth braced his hands against the tile walls of the shower, lowered his head and let the cold water pouring out of the rain