Read Online PsyCop 2: Criss Cross by Jordan Castillo Price - Free Book Online
Authors: Jordan Castillo Price
Tags: mm
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paper-covered table. Chance came in with her clipboard. “We’ve called the radiologist in and so far your stomach looks normal.”
At least some part of me is.
“Your blood work is another story.”
I sat very still to keep myself from bashing my head into her desk.
“We’re going to have to reconfigure your meds,” she said. “Your liver enzymes are high and your liver itself is slightly inflamed.”
“Okay.” I had no idea what that meant, but I seriously doubted it was anything to mess around with.
“No acetaminophen. If you need a pain reliever, take plain aspirin, and no more than the recommended dose. I see here that you don’t drink alcohol. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Don’t start.”
I nodded.
“And no Auracel.”
I blinked. “Were you listening when I told you I was seeing heads in the bushes yesterday?” I asked her. I’d also gotten to my feet, somewhere in my panic of having my precious pills taken away. I towered over Chance, who simply looked up at me from the rolling stool at the small Formica desk.
“Regardless of that, Auracel is not an option for you until your liver enzymes come down.”
“And how am I supposed to get my liver enzymes down?” I asked her. Actually, I yelled it.
“We’ll take some more blood today and try to determine if you’ve been exposed to hepatitis, or if this is your liver’s reaction to Auracel at such high doses.”
“This is bullshit,” I said. I’d begun pacing in the narrow aisle between the exam table and a small metal sink on one side, Doctor Chance and my empty chair on the other. “I am a level five medium. You can’t just tell me to go cold turkey on the Auracel.”
“Detective? Sit down.”
I couldn’t. I was too pissed off. But I did stop pacing and instead planted my hands on my hips and glared at her.
“I can prescribe a mild sedative in the short term, and remove you from active duty until we determine a course of treatment.”
I glared at her some more.
“But right now, all of the FDA-approved anti-psyactives are metabolized by the liver, and we can’t risk you taking them until we find out what’s going on.”
“Even at lower doses?” I asked. And what I meant by that was, the actual dose I was supposed to have been taking all along -- one pill twice daily, not three and four at a time.
“Detective,” she said, gesturing again toward the chair beside the small desk. I was exhausted, so I gave in and sat.
“You need to be careful specifically because you are a level five medium. As such, you are not a candidate for an organ transplant.”
I tried to imagine marching around with a dead guy’s liver inside of me and my brain nearly leaked out my ears. Dollars to donuts the sonofabitch who’d lost it would be dogging my steps trying to get it back until I was pushing up daisies.
“I want to see Doctor Morganstern,” I said.
“He’s arranging his return flight, but in the meantime, we’re both agreed on this course of action.”
I glared at the paper-covered table. Chance kept talking. “And another thing.” She slipped a pamphlet into my hands. On the cover was a triangle with a rainbow inside and I nearly spewed the bagel the nurse had given me. Jesus Christ, how’d she know I was gay? It was the blowjob. They’d found traces of semen in my mouth. Oh God, I was so fired. And then I’d lose my health coverage, and then my liver would explode.
“In addition to changing the meds, you’ll have to start watching your diet,” she said.
I stared at her.
“The USDA modified the food pyramid to reflect their most recent guidelines,” she said, as I scrambled to figure out what my diet had to do with being queer. Chance pointed at the pamphlet. “You’ll note there’s no donut group. And no coffee group either. Limit coffee to one cup a day. Two, at the
At least some part of me is.
“Your blood work is another story.”
I sat very still to keep myself from bashing my head into her desk.
“We’re going to have to reconfigure your meds,” she said. “Your liver enzymes are high and your liver itself is slightly inflamed.”
“Okay.” I had no idea what that meant, but I seriously doubted it was anything to mess around with.
“No acetaminophen. If you need a pain reliever, take plain aspirin, and no more than the recommended dose. I see here that you don’t drink alcohol. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Don’t start.”
I nodded.
“And no Auracel.”
I blinked. “Were you listening when I told you I was seeing heads in the bushes yesterday?” I asked her. I’d also gotten to my feet, somewhere in my panic of having my precious pills taken away. I towered over Chance, who simply looked up at me from the rolling stool at the small Formica desk.
“Regardless of that, Auracel is not an option for you until your liver enzymes come down.”
“And how am I supposed to get my liver enzymes down?” I asked her. Actually, I yelled it.
“We’ll take some more blood today and try to determine if you’ve been exposed to hepatitis, or if this is your liver’s reaction to Auracel at such high doses.”
“This is bullshit,” I said. I’d begun pacing in the narrow aisle between the exam table and a small metal sink on one side, Doctor Chance and my empty chair on the other. “I am a level five medium. You can’t just tell me to go cold turkey on the Auracel.”
“Detective? Sit down.”
I couldn’t. I was too pissed off. But I did stop pacing and instead planted my hands on my hips and glared at her.
“I can prescribe a mild sedative in the short term, and remove you from active duty until we determine a course of treatment.”
I glared at her some more.
“But right now, all of the FDA-approved anti-psyactives are metabolized by the liver, and we can’t risk you taking them until we find out what’s going on.”
“Even at lower doses?” I asked. And what I meant by that was, the actual dose I was supposed to have been taking all along -- one pill twice daily, not three and four at a time.
“Detective,” she said, gesturing again toward the chair beside the small desk. I was exhausted, so I gave in and sat.
“You need to be careful specifically because you are a level five medium. As such, you are not a candidate for an organ transplant.”
I tried to imagine marching around with a dead guy’s liver inside of me and my brain nearly leaked out my ears. Dollars to donuts the sonofabitch who’d lost it would be dogging my steps trying to get it back until I was pushing up daisies.
“I want to see Doctor Morganstern,” I said.
“He’s arranging his return flight, but in the meantime, we’re both agreed on this course of action.”
I glared at the paper-covered table. Chance kept talking. “And another thing.” She slipped a pamphlet into my hands. On the cover was a triangle with a rainbow inside and I nearly spewed the bagel the nurse had given me. Jesus Christ, how’d she know I was gay? It was the blowjob. They’d found traces of semen in my mouth. Oh God, I was so fired. And then I’d lose my health coverage, and then my liver would explode.
“In addition to changing the meds, you’ll have to start watching your diet,” she said.
I stared at her.
“The USDA modified the food pyramid to reflect their most recent guidelines,” she said, as I scrambled to figure out what my diet had to do with being queer. Chance pointed at the pamphlet. “You’ll note there’s no donut group. And no coffee group either. Limit coffee to one cup a day. Two, at the
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