The Billionaire's Private Nurse

Chapter Two - The File

KAMERON

As soon as her backside sashayed out the door, following the butler to her room, I picked up my phone. I had my business partner on speed dial. Before the man could even say ‘hello’, I was growling, “Phillip. I need a new nurse.”

“Jeezus Kam! Fourteen minutes! The woman has been in your house for fourteen minutes!” I could hear the exasperation in his voice.

I didn’t bother asking how Phillip knew how long the woman had been in my house. Lately he knew more about my business than I did. “I don’t care. I don’t like her. Get rid of her.”

“You sound like a bratty kid, Kam. I’m not getting rid of her.”

“Then I’ll get rid of her.”

“Well, if you do, you will be without a nurse.”

“I told you, find me a new one.”

“The woman from the agency said this is it. If this woman doesn’t work out, she has no one else to send.”

My hands rolled into fists. “You told me this agency was the best.”

There was a long drawn out sigh on the other end. “Look Kam, I know you are going through a hard time right now, okay? I get it. Everybody gets it. But you’ve gone through eight, no, it will be nine! Nine nurses in just four weeks. I’m kinda guessing the problem is not the nurse, or the agency.”

“What are you trying to say, Phil?” I grumbled into the phone.

“I’m saying, if this nurse doesn’t work out, you’ll have to find your own replacement. I give up.”

“You are an asshole.”

“I know, I know. So, why don’t you take a deep breath, put on your big boy pants, and give this woman a chance.”

“f**k you!”

“Yep, good talking to you buddy. I’ll call you later and see how you made out.” Phillip cut the call, and I was left glaring at the screen of my cell phone. I tossed it on the desk with a sigh. The thing that chafed the most was that Phil was right. It wasn’t the god-damned nurses that were the problem. I was the problem. My broken body was the problem. My miserable, stinking attitude was the problem. The depression and the anxiety that had started dogging me since the accident was the problem. I didn’t even know myself any more. I burrowed my head in my hands and stared down at the polished wood of my desk.

Somehow, having a female nurse witness my daily humiliation was even worse. And this nurse in particular... I could already tell she was going to be a b***h. I’d read her file, and knew she had excellent credentials, but the way she had talked to me was beyond irritating. Anna Elizabeth Clarke. Maybe I should just call her Nurse Ratched.

There was a sharp knock at the door. My head snapped up. “Yeah?”

The door opened, and the nurse came back in. Her expression was furious. Her eyes were snapping and there were two spots of color high on her cheeks. Her hands were propped on her hips and her lips were pressed into a flat line. She was kind of sexy when she was angry. “Your security guys went through my suitcase.”

“Of course,” I said flippantly.

“You have no right to search through my personal belongings without my permission!”

“Miss Clarke,” I said with exaggerated patience. “I’m not sure if you are aware yet, but the accident that put me in this wheelchair was no accident. My car was deliberately forced off the road in an attempted murder. I’m sorry if you feel your privacy has been violated, but I can not take any unnecessary risks.”

Her expression changed. “Attempted murder?” Her hands slipped off her hips, as though the revelation had drained off her anger. “MaryLou didn’t say anything about that! Has the person been caught? I mean, the person who ran you off the road?”

“No, Miss Clarke. The suspect is still at large.”

“Oh. Geez. I’m sorry.” She shifted awkwardly, and seemed unsure of what to say next.

“Thank you.”

“Okay, well. I guess I’ll go get changed then.” She turned to leave the room. She paused. “Oh, I forgot to ask for your medical records. Usually the Agency sends me a file, but since your staff has taken away all my devices...”

“The agency does not have my records,” I said coldly.

“Well, if you want me to provide you with the best care, I need to understand the exact nature of your injuries, as well as any other co-existing conditions.” She stared at me directly, as though she were discussing something completely inane, like the price of milk at the supermarket, instead of my life, and my body. I had to remind myself that to her, it probably was inane. This was her work. I was just another patient in a long list of clients she had taken care of. I debated with myself for a moment. I still wanted to fire her, but the process of finding another agency, performing the necessary security clearance, finding a qualified professional, vetting them... it was a task I just wasn’t up to undertaking. I sighed and opened a drawer in my desk, and pulled out a file. “You may read the file, but you may not remove it from this room.”

She took it from me without even raising an eyebrow. Given that it was quite thick, she helped herself to a seat on the leather couch, crossed her legs comfortably, and began flipping through the file. I studied her. She was a large woman. Not fat, but tall and muscular. Her long skirt hid her legs from my view, much to my disappointment. Her face was unreadable, although once or twice her eyebrows drew together, as though maybe she didn’t like or agree with what she had read. I knew that all of my personal information had been blacked out. My name, my date of birth, all the identifying factors, even the name of the hospital and the doctors who had attended me after the accident had been censored. I watched her tip her head as she studied my x-rays.

“So,” she said, scratching at that wild mop of curls that seemed to be piled haphazardly on top of her head. “You have an incomplete spinal injury. How much sensation do you have?”

I gritted my teeth. I hated talking about my injury, especially since I’d been forced to repeat the same things over and over for the last month. "Mostly what I feel is pain. Burning, tingling. I can still move my left leg slightly.”

She nodded and chewed her bottom lip. “Are you able to control your bladder and bowels?”

I felt my face growing hot. “Yes, I can control my goddamn bowels. I assure you, Miss Clarke, all of my equipment works just fine.” I winced. “Except my legs.”

She didn’t seem to notice my anger, or maybe she was just ignoring it. “Do you have a physical therapist coming out to the house?”

“No.” I gritted my teeth. “My security team felt it would be too risky to have someone coming and going constantly. But all the exercises the therapist recommended are there.” I gestured to the file.

“I see,” she paged through the printouts. “Can I get copies of these exercises?”

“That can be arranged.”

She flipped the file closed. “Thank you, Mr. Greene.” She stood and handed me back the file. She turned to walk back out of the office, her back straight, her shoulders back.

“Miss Clarke?”

She stopped and turned toward me, expectantly.

“As soon as you are ready, I would like your assistance with a shower.”

“Sure thing. Give me ten minutes.”