by May Archer
Fenn moved to block me, the bulk of him obscuring my view of the daylight through the door. “Have I touched a nerve, Loafers?”
My heart beat triple time. “Excuse me, I’d like to leave.”
“I think that’s the smartest thing you’ve said.” He stepped toward me. “Leave the bunker. Leave the island. Make better choices.”
I stepped left, then shuffled right. He moved with me.
“Why do you care whether I stay or not?” I demanded. “It has nothing to do with you.”
“I don’t like you being here,” he said bluntly. “Coming here in your fancy clothes with your fancy degrees, reminding everyone of how run-down this island is, and how sad and hopeless we are.”
My jaw dropped. “I haven’t uttered a single negative syllable about Whispering Key! You are the one who keeps saying negative things. And if you’re so miserable in this place, why don’t you take your shitty flip-flops and your… your… disgusting T-shirt and just move away?”
Fenn’s eyes darkened like storm-tossed waves. “You have a real fixation with this shirt, Loafers. You keep eyeing it.” He took another step toward me, and I darted around him, trying to make for the door, but he backed me against the wall and loomed over me.
“No, I have a fixation with cleanliness,” I shot back, pushing up onto my toes and shoving uselessly at his chest. “With hygiene.”
“Yeah? Then let me solve that problem for you.” He reached down and grabbed the hem of his T-shirt, and in one smooth motion he dragged it off his body. “Done.”
He tossed the cloth to the carpeted floor, where it landed with a whisper that echoed around the suddenly silent bunker like cannon fire.
Look, I’d seen many men’s chests before.
Like, hundreds.
Hundreds of hundreds.
In locker rooms. On the beach. On my television. On Instagram. In my own damn bathroom mirror. And that wasn’t even considering the plethora I saw in exam rooms every single day. I could catalog the muscles, and the bones beneath them. I could pinpoint each organ they protected. There was nothing remarkable about a chest. Nothing noteworthy about a guy taking off his shirt.
So it was absolutely not possible that Fenn Reardon taking his shirt off would cause my entire nervous system to short-circuit somehow… or make me view him with anything but clinical detachment… or stir up anything but increased disgust and annoyance.
I never had those kinds of uncontrolled, inappropriate feelings. Ever.
Except suddenly I did.
My brain stuttered, coughing up words like smooth and tan and ohmyfuckinggod before it flatlined completely. I swear there was a white noise buzzing in Rafe Goodman’s bunker, like one of those giant seashells that sound like the ocean when you push it to your ear, except the bunker was the shell and the sound was coming from inside me.
His chest was broad and defined without being bulky. He had abs for days—literally one for each day of the week and a spare for holidays, I thought hysterically. He had a trail of hair leading down from his navel to the line of whiter skin peeking out of his low-slung cargo shorts. And on his right hip, he had a freckle just above the line of his muscle, like the North Star pointing toward a constellation I couldn’t see.
My mouth went dry.
“You… you…” I nodded. Then shook my head. Then swallowed.
Transversus abdominus, Mason. What the hell is your problem? It’s a muscle. Everybody has them.
But holy shit, not everyone had them like that.
“This better, Doctor? More hygienic?” Fenn’s words danced on my skin like an ocean breeze, making me shiver.
“You’re ridiculous,” I said, but it came out more breathless than I’d hoped. I pushed at his shoulder. “Get dressed.”
“What for?” he scoffed, leaning closer. “We’re on Whispering Key. You’re the one who’s out of line.” He tweaked at the waistband of my slim-fit chinos. “And that’s my entire point. I live here. You don’t. And your fancy clothes won’t last a week in this heat.”
My arms fluttered at my sides, wanting to push him away again but also somehow afraid to touch his skin, which was very, very not normal for me. I felt arousal arc through me like an electric current, like a literal and figurative shock.
What the fuck was that?
“Get. Dressed,” I insisted.
“Make. Me.”
“I’m not kidding. You need to back up.” My hands clenched into fists, then relaxed again. Clench, release. Clench, release. I wanted to choke the life out of him.
Or something like that.
“You didn’t seem to mind being this close when we were in the car earlier and you were all up in my business, inserting yourself where you didn’t belong. Not fun, is it?”
“What exactly are you doing here, Fenn? Are you going to hit me? Or are you trying to intimidate me because you know I hate enclosed spaces? Or are you trying to fuck with me because I’m straight and you’re gay? If it’s the third, let me just say, that’s probably one of the most insulting things anyone’s ever done to me, so congratulations on that. What is wrong with you?”
Fenn blinked. He frowned. He swallowed. He looked vaguely stunned. Then he immediately stepped back.
“Fenn Fisher Reardon.” Rafe Goodman’s voice boomed from the doorway. “What in the holy hell are you doing without your shirt, boy?”
“I… I was, ah…” Fenn drew a deep breath and looked at his feet. His cheeks were pink, and his bad eye was still livid and swollen. He seemed absolutely miserable.
And he ought to, I reminded myself. There was no excuse for trying to intimidate someone the way he had been. And for what? What did he dislike about me so much?
But nearly as incomprehensible was my overwhelming urge to protect the idiot.
“Medical question,” I lied. “Mr. Reardon was asking for my professional opinion on something.”
Fenn looked up at me in surprise, his eyes searching mine.
“Fenn did?” Rafe frowned, looking between us. “Why? What’s wrong with him?”
“Doctor-patient confidentiality,” I lied again. “But not to worry. I was just assuring him that he seems to be in good health. Isn’t that right, Fenn?”
“Yeah,” Fenn confirmed gruffly. “That’s what you said.”
I nodded briskly and turned my attention to his uncle, trying not to notice that Fenn was still half-naked and radiating heat like my own personal sun. “Now, Mr. Goodman. You and I have several things to discuss.”
Rafe crossed from the door to the rolling chair on the far side of the mahogany table and dropped into it heavily. “I suppose we do. Have you seen your room yet?” He looked from me to Fenn and back again. “I had Gloria go out and buy you a whole new bedding set—new pillows, sheets, bedcover thingy. The works!”
“I haven’t seen it. I’m sure it’s lovely. But the larger issue, Mr. Goodman—”
“Oh!” Rafe snapped his fingers. “Towels, too. Fenn, here, was always bitching about the towels when he first came to Whispering Key. Weren’t you, Fenn?”
Fenn reached down, snatched his shirt up off the floor, and pulled it over his head. He didn’t answer.
Rafe sighed. “That’s my nephew for you. Never happy, that one. Living here on God’s own island, at one with nature, blessed with the most beautiful views on this entire planet, and he complains about scratchy towels.”
A muscle in Fenn’s jaw ticked.
“You led me to believe that conditions on this island were far different than they actually are,” I said, getting the conversation back on track before Fenn could reply. “For example, you said the majority of my patients would be guests, and there are none. You provided a list of amenities that don’t exist. You…”
“Those things don’t exist yet.” Rafe leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers over his stomach, supremely unconcerned. “They will.”
You were played, Loafers.
I clenched my hands into fists. “You lied,
Mr. Goodman.”
“I anticipated, Dr. Bloom. Your contract is for three years. By the end of those three years, this island will be turning people away.” He nodded once, firmly. “And you can take that to the bank.”
“And the grant I was offered to pay off my student loans? Was that something you anticipated, too?”
The man looked vaguely insulted. “Of course not! I have an investor who fronted the money for that. And your three years’ salary, too. I’d never lie about that.”
“No, just about everything else.” Fenn shook his head and glared at the ceiling. “You never stop, do you?”
It was a rhetorical question, but Rafe leaned forward, making the chair’s springs squeak in protest. “No, Fenn. I never do, and I never will. Not when it comes to improving the lives of the people on this island. To making things better for my family.” He sat back in his chair and turned his attention to me. “You understand how the world works, Dr. Bloom. This island is a bit of a fixer-upper. A diamond in the rough. But for a man who can look past all the surface flaws, the rewards will be unlimited. I need to know… are you that man?”
Rafe’s eyes were alight with the zeal of a true believer, and for a second, I was caught. Hypnotized. “I…”
“Stop! You’re selling Loafers a pile of horseshit, Rafe, and I won’t have it,” Fenn insisted.
Rafe pointed at Fenn accusingly. “I’m offering him a future.”
“You’re offering him a dream.”
“Yes.” Rafe smiled smugly. “Yes, I am. And there is nothing wrong with having a dream, Fenn Reardon. You might try it sometime.”
“Enough,” I interrupted. “Enough. Look, Mr. Goodman—”
“The people of this island have gone for a long time without decent medical care,” Rafe said sadly. “Do you know, Gloria hasn’t had a checkup in years?”
I frowned.
“Don’t let him guilt you, Loafers,” Fenn warned. “He’s a master manipulator.”
I wasn’t sure when Serial Killer Guy and I had ended up on the same team. I also wasn’t sure why I liked it.
“Of course, I’ll be happy to provide you with an excellent reference for your next employer,” Rafe continued smoothly. “Or are you planning to go back to your old position?”
I cocked my head. He had to know my old position would have been filled already. “You really are a master.”
Rafe spread his hands innocently.
“Fortunately for you, I’ve decided to stay—”
Fenn made a gurgling noise like he was being strangled, and I shot him a glare.
“—for exactly as long as it takes for me to find another job. And I’ll stay because the people of this island deserve good medical care. But I already have dreams, Mr. Goodman.” I gave him a half-smile. “And I will not sacrifice them for anyone else’s.”
He nodded slowly. “I can respect that.”
“That means you’ll need to start contacting the other candidates for this position today and find someone else to take over. And I’ll get back on MedLister and hope someone else is as eager to help rush through my certifications as you were.”
“I’m sure you will,” Rafe said with a dismissive wave. “And in the meantime, you’ll set up the clinic?” Rafe asked. “Get things in shape for the next person?”
“Of course. Yes.”
Rafe nodded and came around the desk to shake my hand. “Good man. Just so you know, we’ve got a resident named Taffy Simmons who once did billing for a medical office on the mainland. Fenn’ll drive you over to meet her tomorrow morning, and she can show you around the office we plan to set up as a clinic. She’ll be handling your administrative work, and if you give her a list of supplies and equipment, I’ll make sure you get them.”
Fenn huffed out a breath, and Rafe’s sharp-eyed brown gaze narrowed on him.
“And now Fenn, here, will show you to your room and bring up your luggage.”
“Oh, will I?”
Rafe clapped his nephew on the shoulder and squeezed tight. “Of course you will. In fact, I expect you to be point man for Dr. Bloom here. Help him with whatever he needs over the next few weeks.”
It was clear from the grim smile he shot me that Rafe intended this to be a reward for my attitude and a punishment for Fenn.
But looking at Fenn’s face, I was pretty sure it was the other way around.
Chapter Five
Fenn
I finished unloading the last of Mason’s suitcases from the Charger, slammed the trunk shut, and stared up at the motel where I was no longer the only resident. The heat of the day was radiating off the pavement and melting through my sandals, though the sun had dropped below the horizon line twenty minutes before.
Still, I was still reluctant to move. Dragging my feet, literally.
I’d gone to the Concha for dinner, which wasn’t unusual, but for the first time in a while, the little restaurant with its sunshiny walls and tiny tables wasn’t its quiet, homey self. The entire population of Whispering Key was buzzing with the news of Mason Bloom’s arrival, and I was supposed to be the source of all information.
Lety’s sister-in-law Juju, who’d heard about Loafers from Omar Abadi, who’d heard from Dale, had demanded to know if the new doctor was handsome.
Madeline McKetcham had twirled a lock of her blonde hair and asked if he was nice, while her grandfather, George, had scathingly inquired if he was young.
Bubba, Lety’s husband, had wanted to know where in the hell the new clinic was gonna be, and how he could get an appointment.
Mr. Wynott wondered if he should send over some books. Lety’s sister Isobel had offered some decorations for his “apartment.” Curt Ballinger wondered if he liked to fish. Gerry Twomey, predictably, had wanted to know if he liked men, and if so, was he attached?
I’d barely been able to eat two bites of my pepian without being harassed, and I’d grown increasingly pissed off as I ignored their questions.
Mason Bloom wasn’t handsome or nice. Those were lame-ass words that in no way described the man. He was hot. He was a judgmental ass. I had no idea what he enjoyed doing, since I’d spent the entire ride from the airport wanting to fight him or fuck him or drive him away. I wanted him in my bed. I wanted him to go home.
And worst of all? I owed the man one hell of an apology.
I’d asked Lety for a second container of the chicken stew, figuring food was always a good peace offering, and Lety, who was more psychic than Beale and his mother put together, had looked me up and down and pursed her lips as she’d handed me the container.
“El sabio cambia de opinion, el necio no,” she’d said, and even though my Spanish was for shit, I’d understood that she’d read my guilt and issued me a stern warning. I imagined it meant something like, “Stop being a dumbass to the new doctor, Fenn Reardon, just because he’s prissy and hates your ratty shirt and reminds you that you’re sexually frustrated.”
I took a deep breath and forced it out as I stared up at the building.
There wasn’t really any excuse for my behavior earlier. I disliked Loafers—and, okay, no, that wasn’t true. I didn’t like that I did like him, in spite of his ridiculous shoes and his genuinely deplorable, snotty attitude—but that didn’t matter. I knew better than to physically intimidate anyone or get in their personal space without a direct invitation. One minute we’d been talking about treasure, calm as you please, then suddenly we were arguing about life choices, and Mason’s green eyes were looking at me like he knew my every secret weakness and I…
I’d Hulked out on him and ripped off my T-shirt in impotent rage.
Never a good idea. Especially not when you were a gay man, invading a straight man’s space.
Yeah. So… not my finest hour. By a long shot.
And then having him come up with that story in front of Rafe? Saving my ass from a very awkward, fumbling explanation?
I recognized when I owed a debt, and I didn’t enjoy the sensation, so I was going
to attempt to repay it. Especially since the idiot was planning to stick around Whispering Key for a few weeks—likely longer, if I knew Rafe Goodman and his wheedling ways.
I hefted the bag of food higher on my hip and grabbed the handle of the suitcase, rolling it across the parking lot, up the stairs, and around the back side of the building.
The room Rafe had asked Gloria to prepare for Loafers was on the second floor facing the water, on the side of the property closest to the Goodmans’ house, just down the walkway from my own place. Beale and I had hauled his other two suitcases up earlier, but I’d been too annoyed to apologize and Loafers hadn’t seemed to expect me to, which was kind of lowering, when I thought about it.
I knocked loudly. “Loafers! Special delivery.”
A seagull cried out, and I turned to watch it soar across the pink-and-scarlet horizon, its graceful arc reflected on the water below. There were seconds—or maybe fractions of seconds—when I could almost understand what Big Rafe saw in this place. It was beautiful and unspoiled, as familiar and constantly evolving as the waves themselves. I’d felt connected to the island the moment I’d set foot here, and I still did, in a way. But even all these years later, it didn’t feel like home the way it did for Beale and Rafe. I wasn’t sure it ever would.
I turned and pounded my fist against the door. “Loafers! You in there? I hauled your suitcase up here like a fucking bellhop, dude. Least you could do is open the door.”
I waited ten seconds. Twenty.
“Come on.” I pounded again. “I brought you food! As a peace offering. And I… I’m sorry. Is that what you want to hear? I was way out of line earlier.”
There was no response, and I sighed, resting my forehead against the door. For all I knew, Loafers had gone for a walk on the beach after Rafe had given him his key and pointed out his room. Or maybe he was chatting with Beale and Big Rafe, eating Hamburger Helper at the little Formica table in their mismatched kitchen.
I snorted. No, I couldn’t quite picture Loafers doing that.
“Fine, whatever. I’m leaving the food here.” I turned the suitcase on its side and set the food bag on top. And just in case he was inside, I added, “If you need anything—if you need me—I’m seven doors down on this—”
