Sweet Escape

By Leslie Johnson and Elle Dawson

Love hurts. In the best possible way.

Zoe is a hard-working physician assistant running from the demons of her past. Her first visit to the exclusive Club Pandora offers her more than she expects. More than she ever thought possible. She meets Sir, a man so compelling she trusts him to introduce her to the ecstasy of sexual submission.

Sexy billionaire Zander is new to Manhattan, although not to the BDSM world. He finds more than he anticipates on his first night at Pandora. Zoe. A lovely and courageous woman who surrenders to his desires. In return, she gives him pleasure he's never known, breaking all of his rules in the process.

Fate can be cruel or kind, but destiny chooses to intervene, and the two cross paths again but soon learn they aren't alone on the journey. Zoe is being hunted — by her past, or her present … or both.

Some nights are meant as a sweet escape from the pressures of life. Some nights become much, much more… if the lovers can escape the evil intent on seeking its revenge.

Sweet Escape is the new standalone novella from best-selling authors Elle Dawson and Leslie Johnson. If you love fast-paced action, steamy romance, and thrilling suspense, you'll love the story of Zoe and Zander.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Atrevida Publishing
• Release date: Aug 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386524632

Book preview

Zoe

M rs. Reynolds dreamed about cats.

My head snaps up, and I meet the wide eyes of Casey, the charge nurse from last night.

Seriously? I ask her, my heart squeezing painfully in my chest. No, no, no. Not another one.

Casey nods and hands me the seventy-three-year-old patient’s chart as I continue through morning rounds. But she looks good, I murmur, going through the most recent labs and vitals, then going through them again. Isn’t she scheduled to be transferred to a regular room today?

Casey lifts both hands in an I’m just the messenger gesture. Just wanted to warn—

Surely you don’t believe in that shit, Dr. Montgomery says from behind me, standing just close enough that his tepid breath caresses my hair. When he leans closer to look over my shoulder at the chart I’m holding, I slide to the right, skillfully turning to put the chart between the two of us.

I’m finished with this one, doctor, I say and pick up the next, glancing up to meet Casey’s narrowed eyes. She lifts one side of her upper lip in a silent snarl as she slides her gaze to the asshole beside me.

My boss turns to face me, his lips stretched into a resemblance of a smile. The man is handsome, yes, but not nearly as handsome as his ego warrants. I stand perfectly still while he assesses me from hair to toes and back again. Thought you were smarter than that, Zoe. Don’t remember them teaching old wives’ tales in medical school. Then he slaps his forehead. Oh, right. I forget sometimes that they let physician assistants play doctor on this ward.

I ignore the barb, knowing that many MDs still resent the hospital hiring physician assistants as hospitalists, reducing the cost of acute care nearly a year ago. The doctors like it even less that I can do most anything they can do. I can’t perform surgery, but other than that, I can write orders and prescriptions, examine patients and diagnose illness. Sure, I do it all under a physician’s supervision, but they only sign off after the fact. In the end, I get to practice medicine, which has been my goal since I was a little girl.

The last three patients I know of who dreamed about cats died within twenty-four hours, Casey tells Montgomery, coming to my defense. I cringe. Why does it have to be cats? The sweet furry creatures I love. I grew up with cats, both indoor ones and mousers who lived happily in the barn. Death dreams should be about devils or snakes. A tarantula or two. But it seems that cats do sometimes foretell unhappy events.

The doctor scoffs and looks down his nose at me. Do you really believe that?

I believe in the possibility of everything, I tell him, keeping my voice calm and polite. Are there ghosts? I don’t know, but there could be. Are there aliens? I don’t know, but there could be.

Are there little girls who torment and kill a family?

I shiver.

Can dreams of cats foresee death? I continue, swallowing back the emotion that wants to roll over me. All I know is that I’ve seen it happen before. So in the case of Mrs. Reynolds, I think we need to all be on our toes.

Women, he mutters and hands me the chart, stepping past me, his arm brushing my breast as he goes. I grit my teeth and close my fingers tighter around the metal folder.

Pig, Casey hisses as soon as he turns a corner and leaves the unit through the swish of the automatic doors.

I can’t disagree, but I’m also smart enough to keep my opinion to myself.

Besides dreams about cats, anything else you need to warn me about? I ask her, trying to bring lightness back into the room.

She sighs and pushes her hair back, re-adjusting her ponytail. We have two nursing home patients in ER, heading up to us as soon as they get them both stable.

Two? Was there a fire or problem at the home?

Casey grins and leans toward me. No. Apparently, they were having sex, and the guy had a heart attack and scared the woman so much she had one too. The staff didn’t find them until a few hours ago.

I stare at her. Are you kidding?

Her grin grows larger. Nope. Can’t make that shit up.

Well, I guess there are worse ways to go.

Casey rolls her eyes. No kidding. Kind of pisses me off that old folks are getting it on, and I haven’t been laid in over two months. She clamps a hand over her mouth, her eyes huge. I’m sorry. TMI. Not professional. She visibly relaxes when I laugh.

What she doesn’t know is that I’m jealous of her two months. Try two years, I want to say, but don’t. She’s right, it’s not professional, and I don’t know her well enough yet to make jokes like that. I’ve only been at the Chicago Med Center for a little over three months, and I’m not naive enough to trust anyone this soon. Especially someone I only see for a few minutes each morning.

Soon, Casey is heading out the door after handing over the reins to Florence, the day shift charge nurse, a bleach blonde grandmother of a woman with a no-nonsense attitude and a heart of pure gold. Heading to our tiny break room, I wave hello to James, one of the custodians assigned to our unit, and step over to the coffee pot, only to be intercepted by Florence, who pulls one of her homemade green smoothies out of the fridge.

But, but… I whine, looking mournfully at the brown elixir of the gods behind her. I need coffee. Bad.

You didn’t sleep last night, I can tell, Flo says, stepping firmly into my path. Drink that, and if it doesn’t wake you up within the hour, I’ll pour you a cup of devil’s brew myself.

I scowl at the smoothie, wondering what concoction she’s come up with this time.

Don’t think, just drink, she tells me.

Sniffing it, my eyes begin to immediately burn. Good heavens, how much ginger did you put in this one?

She slaps her thigh. Enough to change the color of your hair. Now quit being a baby and drink.

I dutifully take a sip and her eyes crinkle at the corners when I cough. But once the initial burn goes down, it’s surprisingly good.

I like it, I confess, and she beams at me. Flo’s husband had a heart attack last month and ended up in our unit. Since then, she’s been on an ultra-healthy, clean eating health kick and has taken it as a mission in life to drag everyone she cares about along with her.

And she apparently cares about me.

Which warms my heart more than she’ll ever know.

Heads up, Carolyn calls out from behind the desk. Two coming up from ER.

I close my eyes and gulp down my drink, handing the glass back to Flo. Thank you. I feel better already, I tell her and smile as her sweet face crinkles even more.

A few minutes later, the doors swish open, and two beds are wheeled in.

We love you, George!

We’re praying for you, Alice!

I step out from behind the desk and look in the direction of the voices. Four little old ladies are standing in the hallway just beyond the unit, our ICU waiting room receptionist trying to herd them away. Two have canes while one hobbles along with her walker. One seems pretty robust for her age and appears to have the loudest voice, even though she’s got an oxygen canister hanging from her shoulder.

Take good care of them, the oxygen-toting one yells at me just before the doors swish shut.

Who are they? I ask one of the ER nurses pushing the male patient into his new room.

The nurse rolls his eyes. Buddies from the nursing home. They refuse to leave, and Dr. Hacker promised someone from up here would brief them once we got the patients settled.

Pass-the-buck Hacker. Great. He’s done this to us before, leaving it up to us to break bad news to loved ones. But I can’t brief them, I argue. HIPAA will be up our—

The nurse points to the chart. All four of them are on the approved list.

My mouth drops open. You’re kidding.

Nope.

Well then, I guess I’ll be briefing them shortly unless Dr. Montgomery comes back sometime soon.

I look down at my patient as respiratory therapy connects him to the ventilator and the multitude of tubes and wires are hooked up to our machines.

Walking next door, I check on the female, not liking her numbers at all. Of the two of them, she’s the sickest. Flipping open her chart, I see why. This is her third attack and her heart has received significant damage, not pumping hard enough to push her blood through her system as quickly as she needs. And she isn’t a candidate for surgery. She’s also a do not resuscitate so she’s only on supportive oxygen and fluid. It’s amazing she’s still alive.

She’ll clot at this rate, I say to Florence, who is taking lead with this patient. I keep my voice low in case some part of this frail woman can hear me. Stroke out within twenty-four, I’m guessing. Probably twelve. I check her meds; she’s on the maximum blood thinner her frail body can tolerate. Sadly, there’s not much else we can do besides monitor her and keep her as comfortable as possible.

Family? I ask the ER nurse, who is ready to head back downstairs.

She shakes her head. Next of kin has been notified, but the daughter doesn’t seem interested in making the trip. Said to call if she dies, but otherwise let the nursing home take care of transferring her back if she recovers.

I grit my teeth and pick up the old lady’s cool hand. Alice, I remind myself. She has a name. She’s a person, living and breathing, at least for a little while.

How can people just throw their parents away like this? Granted, sometimes the nursing home is the last and best option. But to not even come see her mother before she takes her last breath? How could someone not break every speed law to do that?

Anger spirals through me, nipping and biting at my heart. Do people not realize how important family is? How once they’re gone, you don’t get them back?

"You okay,