No Good Doctor

by Nicole Snow

  But Jesus, every part of me wants to.

  Then I catch my mother lighting up, twisting to line up her phone just right. You can call her many things, but persistent is usually near the top of the list.

  “Mom,” I hiss, and she winces, dimpling at me with zero shame.

  “Come onnn,” she whispers. “Just a quick one. My feed would go wild for this.”

  “No,” I say firmly.

  But she isn’t wrong. I can’t peel my eyes off him.

  Hell, I almost want to take a picture myself, just to capture this moment and keep it a little longer.

  Maybe it’s because I’m staring at him like a creep that I notice the moment his gaze lands on Peters. Everett Peters has managed to work the room around close enough to our table that he’s corralled Blake, and he’s even gotten a smile or two out of Andrea.

  Warren’s there, too. I didn’t see him come in, his infant son on his hip and Haley on his arm, but then it’s hard to see everything going on when I’m having to babysit my horny mother.

  There’s something weird about the way Doc stares at Peters, though.

  His expression hardens from smooth neutrality to a sort of rigid mask, heavy lines seaming around his mouth. His brows knit like storm clouds. He’s only three steps inside the café, the door not even fully closed behind him yet, but he turns around and reaches for the handle and pulls it open.

  Uh-oh. He’s going to leave.

  Until Blake spots him and lifts his arm in a wave. “Doc! Hey, we’re over here!”

  Doc goes stiff, his shoulders hunching, head bowing. The sigh that goes through him seems mighty and resigned, and I can see the instant he realizes he has no choice.

  When he finally turns back, that pleasantly neutral yet still unrevealing expression I’m used to returns.

  It’s really kind of fascinating how he does it.

  He doesn’t want to let anyone in, so he doesn’t.

  He doesn’t want to fake niceties, so he doesn’t.

  He just says as little as possible, and yet somehow he manages to exude this sense of quiet deflection. Instead of being a cold rejection, it’s just a polite sidestep that people don’t even notice because they’re just caught up in his magnetism and willing to do anything to stay in his presence, even if that presence is silent and completely closed off to them.

  I guess this is what people call charisma.

  Or maybe he just leaves so many enticing blanks for people to fill in. And they do, filling them with everything they want to see, making him whatever they want him to be. Painting their own man on a blank slate.

  Just like he said about the jackals.

  But I wonder...maybe his friends – because there’s no doubting Warren and Blake are his friends, it’s just something different about the way they are with him – are just so used to him that it’s easy to accept him the way he is, and he blends in smoothly with their group.

  It’s not hard to tell he’s making nice, playing it cool, and maybe Peters doesn’t notice that frostiness drops a few degrees in temperature when Doc has to speak to him as part of the little social group they’ve formed, hovering around Blake’s table.

  Look at me. Watching and analyzing his every move.

  And here I am making fun of Mom for being a creep stalker.

  I’m curious, too. Doc seems to have something against Peters, but as far as I know, Peters is even newer in town than I am, so how could Doc have possibly formed a grudge already?

  Then again...that woman in black is new in town, too, and those two definitely have history.

  Is this part of that? Whatever his beef is with her?

  Is Peters somehow associated with that creepy woman and her black cat, and maybe that’s why Doc wanted to leave before he was spotted?

  My head spins with wild conspiracies when there’s an easier way to satisfy my curiosity.

  Especially when he separates from the group, heading for the little self-serve espresso machine tucked in a back corner, well away from the crowd.

  My mother’s too busy capturing shots of Peters to notice me slipping out of my seat and heading off. I feel like I’m cornering Doc. But when we’re alone, it’s the only time he’ll drop the mask around me and...and finally be a real freaking person.

  It bothers me how much I want him to be that.

  How much I’d kill to see underneath his facade, even if what’s hiding there might be terrifying and ugly.

  Do I even want to know? Yes.

  Because I can’t believe a man who’s as gentle with animals as Doc Caldwell could hide away anything so dark, so frightening, so awful.

  I let that thought make me brave as I slip next to him with a little smile, lacing my fingers together behind my back. “Hi.”

  He stiffens. “Ms. Delwen,” he says without looking up, then frowns and flicks the side of the espresso machine. “This damn thing seems to be running on empty. Everybody must’ve got their cup of Joe before I showed up.”

  I can’t help how my smile softens. He’s so stuffy sometimes, but it’s adorable in its own way. “It probably just needs the beans refilled.” I toss my head toward the back. “C’mon. I’ll show you where they are in storage.”

  He balks, finally looking at me, eyeing me strangely. “I don’t think the owner wants you rummaging around back there.”

  “Considering she’s my cousin, I really don’t think she’ll care.” I bounce on my cute little cork wedge sandals. Big mistake.

  I wobble sharply with a little squeak, and suddenly remember I’m in the running for klutz of the century. Me wearing any kind of heel is practically suicidal. Catching my balance, I take a step back, into the overhanging shadow of the Employees Only door. “This way.”

  He follows me slowly, ducking his towering height under the door. “I knew you were related, but how did I not know Felicity Randall was your cousin?”

  “I don’t know, since there’s practically a town phone tree, and you guys really suck at keeping secrets.” I flash him a smile over my shoulder as I lead him into the back storage room. It’s a long, narrow place, dimly lit, filled with the almost comforting scent of coffee beans and fresh grounds, heady and aromatic, huge sacks of them stacked up everywhere with their mouths slouching open. “Interesting. So you can remember to call my cousin by her first name, but not me, huh?”

  “Ah, I’m sorry. Ember.”

  Part of me regrets asking. The other part, no way. I shouldn’t feel such a shiver at the way he stresses my name, that chocolate voice coating it in dark, hot sweetness.

  Biting my lip, I take a step deeper into the room, tilting my head up at him. I don’t know what’s got me so playful tonight. Maybe the tiny hint of Kahlua in my coffee. “So, what do you want?”

  For just a moment the strangest expression crosses his face.

  I’ve gotten used to catching those micro-expressions, faint hints that slip through when the mask cracks, but this one’s new, one I’ve never seen.

  And if I really wanted to fool myself, to lie like a crazy lady...I might almost think it was heat.

  Pure, drilling heat staring into me with an intensity that makes my entire body quiver.

  Then it’s gone, as he blinks quizzically, lofting thick, decisive brows. “Pardon?”

  “The coffee,” I manage to say, though my mouth and throat feel too dry. I have to look away from him as I gesture to the bag. “There’s regular espresso beans, different roasts, different flavors...”

  “Ah, okay.” He clears his throat. “I’m a simple man. I’m fine with a dark roast. It’s more about the caffeine than the flavor.”

  I pry open a bag of dark roast and lean over to dig inside for the scoop. The scent pours out so strong, so rich, it’s almost dizzying. “I was wondering when you ever sleep. Do you? Or is it just coffee and adrenaline all the time?”

  He actually chuckles briefly. A quiet rumble that makes me think of the way summer storms come in slow and rolling, drawing out the sound of
thunder. “I sleep, Mi—Ember.”

  There it is again.

  That frantic shiver down my spine, my name rolling off the tip of his tongue like he can taste it.

  I scoop up a hefty amount of beans and feel around somewhere above for a large foam cup to dump them in, trying to keep my attention on my hands and nothing else. “I was starting to wonder if you were sleep-deprived and ready to head home a second after you got here. Or was it Peters that almost chased you off?”

  That thunder of laughter cuts off as if I’ve gone deaf. I can hear the stiffness in his voice, as he says, “Peters? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  It always makes me nervous, facing him down when he shuts off like that, but I turn around, looking up at him, offering a pensive smile. “You gave him a weird look back there, I think. Right before you were going to walk out.”

  His eyes narrow as he locks me in emerald green. And is that a bit of red coloring the tips of his ears?

  “I didn’t think anybody saw.”

  I grin. “I did. Sooo…why were you giving Peters the evil eye?”

  “I wouldn’t call it the evil eye,” he corrects sternly – but when I just smile at him, because I know he’s deflecting, he sighs, fixing me with an exasperated look and shifting to lean his shoulder against one of the shelves, folding his arms over his chest and pulling that shirt wonderfully tight against his swarthy skin.

  I can’t help but be pleased.

  Nearly a week ago, he’d have walked away from me rather than bother with my teasing.

  And I really don’t think he’d be so free answering. “I do know Everett Peters. We have a work history of sorts, from a very long time ago. Thing is, he shouldn’t be here. Heart’s Edge isn’t the time or place for him anymore. This town’s already seen enough tragedy for the trouble he brings.”

  Tragedy? What?

  It’s not just the weirdness of the words. His whole tone. He sounds so...tired, I realize.

  Rather than angry or dismissive or sardonic or cold like the usual Doc Caldwell, this gorgeous man in front of me just sounds drained. Like Peters represents some terrible wave that’s ground him down and he can barely stand more of it.

  I don’t understand. Maybe I can’t.

  I want to ask, but I can’t do that either.

  Curious or not, I can’t push down on that weight that’s already crushing him. I don’t have the heart or the courage.

  Honestly, that scares me a little, a weird little thrill making my heart beat faster in a way that’s wonderful and terrible.

  Because while I’m a little afraid of the strange secrets in Heart’s Edge, the ones Doc might hold a few keys to, that’s not the reason I’m holding back.

  I’m far more scared how much I want to take care of him.

  His pain rises to the surface again, and it seems to call to me as if I’m a siren and he’s the sea and if I just try, I can soothe the storm surging up from his depths.

  But he’s not the sea, even if he’s a quiet surface over a powerful and destructive tempest.

  A man like Doc is more like Everest. He’s an insurmountable mountain.

  I once heard almost three hundred people have died trying to climb Mt. Everest. Every year, around a thousand people try to scale the icy peaks, and over half of them give up, every time. It’s too cold, too hostile, too unforgiving, and they can’t breathe.

  A lot like the way I can’t breathe around Doc, and I’m afraid if I keep trying to climb higher and higher and higher, scaling to this impossible peak where I might actually be able to find him instead of the icy layers of defense, I could be undone.

  I might just end up falling hopelessly until my heart shatters like those climbers on the icy rocks.

  So I’m not expecting it when he narrows his eyes, looking at me for a long pause – long enough to make me feel like he can see right through my strappy little layered dress, like there’s something naked and exposed about me. Then he finally speaks again.

  “If you’re really so interested in my affairs, Miss Del—Ember...there’s a price.”

  I blink, confusion rippling through me. “A price?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “You have to escape this spectacle and come with me for a beer at Brody’s across the street.”

  “Brody’s? But...”

  My heart rockets, strange and wild, tying my tongue in knots.

  I know what I should say.

  I shouldn’t. I really can’t leave my mother here, plus any number of other things that would be responsible and safe when there’s something about Doc that tells me he’s totally unsafe with his secrets and those cold penetrating looks that tell me nothing but seem to see everything.

  Then he offers me his hand.

  Broad, weathered, palm up, his fingers gently curled and calling to me.

  Oh, God. I’ve watched those hands work every day. I’ve held them while I washed away blood and bandaged his wounds, felt them brush against me in idle contact that still made me shiver and made my stomach tighten and turn so hot I can’t even stand it.

  I shouldn’t take that hand.

  I shouldn’t leave with him.

  But I’m already reaching out, aren’t I?

  And when my fingers touch the center of his palm, I feel a certain electric sizzle rush through me as I feel his heat, his roughness.

  And I just know how absolutely screwed I am when his hand closes around mine, enveloping it in strength, in the sheer size of his long, thick fingers.

  I’ll go anywhere he wants to lead me, without a second thought.

  10

  Mad Dog Blues (Doc)

  I must be out of my mind, taking this firefly slip of a girl out for a drink.

  I tell myself she’s an excuse to escape.

  A reason to get away from The Nest and watching all those people fawn over Everett fucking Peters because all they see is that slick, dignified, charming surface. The public persona makes it so easy to accept him at face value. They don’t know him for what he is.

  They don’t know what the demon did, what he wanted to do, so long ago.

  Or what he’ll do again, if he’s allowed to worm his way under the skin of Heart’s Edge and make himself a part of this town like the parasite he is.

  I can’t let that happen.

  For now, I don’t know what to do about it, so I just need air.

  I have a feeling if I’d tried to sneak out, Ember would’ve noticed and followed me. Inviting her along is just easier and saves us both the drama. That’s all this is.

  That’s all it can be.

  I refuse to let myself linger on the way she’s been watching me through her lashes with her blue eyes glimmering as soft and bright as the stars overhead. Or the way her cheeks turn a soft pink, every time I catch her gaze from the corner of my eye.

  We cross the street together, heading for the local pub beneath the night sky.

  She’s quite the contradiction, Ms. September Delwen.

  All shy, soft air and nervousness, this anxious little thing who’s so unsure of herself until you put her in a lab coat and show her an animal in pain. Then suddenly she’s firm but gentle hands and soothing, confident words. All action without hesitation as she does what’s needed to help every animal our clients trust in her care.

  Or until you leave us alone.

  Then she becomes this insatiable fountain of innocent, wide-eyed curiosity, watching me like I’m some strange beast she’s never seen before in her life and she’s utterly fascinated to learn more about.

  Goddamn. What is it about me that brings that out in her?

  Or is she like this around any single older man? A fucked up thought that tastes bitter in my mind.

  So much that where her hand stays clasped in mine, my fingers tighten, until I realize what I’m doing and relax my grip on that velvet hand pressed so warm against my palm.

  I don’t like thinking of her that way.

  Doing it aligns her with those women I�
��ve overheard her and Pam calling 'the jackals.' Not a single one of my admirers has the slightest clue who I am, or what.

  Only that I’m single, eligible by their definitions, and attractive.

  The last part is true. I’m not blind. I grew up with good looks that bring women like honey brings bees.

  Ember isn’t like that, though. She’s not the generic, starry-eyed, oh-my-God-he’s-so-hot chick who just wants to scale my bones.

  She actually wants to know me, and all my secrets.

  Maybe that’s just the trouble.

  I damned well can’t let her.

  As we step into the pub, I make myself let go of her hand.

  The weathered wooden space is mostly deserted. Almost everyone is at The Nest enjoying our small-town version of a glitzy night on the town.

  Ember hovers close to my side as we order drinks at the bar – a simple draft beer on tap for myself, her a bottle of a more delicate citrus brew – before we head out to the patio.

  I prefer the space out here on the opposite side of the pub from the street. It puts the building between us and the annoying sight of The Nest and its festivities. Besides, since it’s on a bit of a rise over a slope leading down a hill, it offers a gorgeous view into the valley.

  It swallows up the rest of the world except me and Ember and the sprawling expanse of a velvet night sky that’s shadowed and full of whispers, with the moon turned dark, refusing to show its face.

  I just wish for one thing every time I look down into that valley at night.

  I wish it wasn’t there. I wish I didn’t home in instinctively on the featureless black mass, the scorched, overgrown remnants of the Paradise Hotel.

  Fuck. Even worse, I wonder if somewhere out there, hidden in the forest in the mountains and hills around the town, is he looking in?

  Looking out over the same view and remembering the night that destroyed our lives?

  “You look like you could see a thousand miles and still not find what you’re looking for,” Ember murmurs, leaning her elbows against the railing of the patio and looking out across the same view.