by Chase, Emma
I know anatomy well—and from what I can tell, Tommy Sullivan’s is first-rate.
“That’s true,” I agree softly.
Movement on the windowsill catches my eye—it’s a small gray spider, scurrying frantically across the wood. He sees it too and lifts his hand to swat it.
“Wait, don’t kill him.”
I scoop the spider up with one hand and open the window with the other. Then I reach out towards the tree branch beside the building, pursing my lips and blowing at him to get him moving.
I feel the warmth of Tommy Sullivan’s body beside me, his head dipped toward me, his eyes caressing my face. Once the arachnid has safely creeped out onto the branch, we straighten up and I close the window.
“You don’t make any sense,” he tells me.
“I make it a point to make perfect sense all the time,” I reply.
“You can slice someone’s jugular open and jam a tube down their neck—”
“Artery,” I correct.
“I’ve seen you do it. But you can’t bring yourself to kill a spider?”
I shrug and explain, “I don’t slice into people to harm them. It may hurt for a time—but the pain will be worth it because they’ll be better off in the end. And as for the spider—he was just doing what spiders do; it wasn’t his fault he ended up in here. I don’t like it when things die—not when I can prevent it—especially small, helpless things.”
“Did you always want to be a surgeon?” His eyes glint now—teasing again. “Did little Abby dream of scalpels and scrubs, sutures and chicken’s feet?”
I laugh, pushing my hair back behind my ear, thinking it over.
“It’s funny, but I can’t recall now ever wanting to be anything else. But—I don’t just want to be a surgeon, it’s important that I become an extraordinary surgeon. The best in the world.”
“Why is that important?”
“My family,” I explain. “They’re very, very talented. They have high expectations.”
He nods in the dim light. And it’s so easy talking with him like this. Effortless and right somehow. Natural.
“Their sort usually does.”
“And you? Does your family have expectations of you, Mr. Sullivan?”
He rubs his bottom lip in a way that makes my knees go floppy—because it’s impossible to forget the hot, hard press of that lip.
“I suppose they did with Bridget and Arthur, but by the time they got down to me it was simpler. Stay out of jail, go to school if you’re good at it, get a job if you’re not.”
“By the time they got down to you? How many of you are there?”
“Eight at last count.”
“Eight! My goodness, your parents must really like each other.”
He laughs again. “They do. They’re good together. Partners, you know? They . . . even each other out. Fill in each other’s gaps.”
I like that . . . partners. The word rings through me with a familiar yearning reverberation. Lots of little girls dream of growing up to be princesses—especially in this country. Of becoming polished wives and pretty mothers.
And it’s not that I don’t want a family for myself, I do. But in my dreams, that part—a handsome husband and drooly tots—always comes after.
After my name has been engraved on a diploma and doctor’s license, and perhaps a plaque or a hospital wing. After I’ve done the work, proven I can stand on my own two feet. After I’ve built something all by myself.
I never before considered doing the building bit with someone, but I do now. A partner. That having someone to lean on and support in return would make the striving for success not just easier and smoother, but better in every way.
And I don’t know why I ask him—it doesn’t matter—in another week, Tommy Sullivan will be nothing to me but a memory. But I want to know and here in this quiet, shadowed space I can ask.
“Do you love it?”
That wicked grin slides across his mouth. “I love lots of things. Drinking, fucking, joking, dancing . . . conversing with stunning redheads. You’ll have to be more specific.”
I realize how true those words ring—the things he loves—how well they fit him. Tommy Sullivan is all about fluid, shifting sensation. About satisfaction and spontaneity. Not breaking the rules—but making his own.
I find that as fascinating as medicine. It’s almost mysterious—so different than anything I’ve ever known. So . . . lively.
I mean, Henrietta’s always up for a good time, but she’s still a doctor—still like me when she needs to be. Ruled by facts and knowledge and structure—dosages and practiced techniques and treatments.
Tommy Sullivan is nothing like that. If he were a doctor, he’d probably shock himself with a defibrillator just to see what it feels like.
“Being a bodyguard—do you enjoy it?”
His grin broadens. “Yeah, sure I do.”
“Why?”
“It’s a challenge for myself—like a contest. It’s keeps me sharp, quick . . .” he wiggles his eyebrows “. . . hard. The work is interesting—sometimes dangerous, always an adrenaline rush—the money’s good. But in a way, it’s not so different from you. God gave me a very special set of skills—I like using them to keep small, helpless things alive too. To protect them, when they can’t protect themselves.”
The thud of the door closing and the steps of the Realtor echo off the bare walls and break the solitude of the moment.
He lifts his gaze from mine and scans it around the room.
“I’m gonna take it.”
“Just like that? You don’t want to take time to consider it? Speak with your accountant, weigh the pros and cons?”
“No. I like the view, I like the feel of the place—my gut says take it.”
I tilt my head, still mystified by him.
“Do you always do that? Just . . . go with your gut?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Hasn’t steered me wrong yet.
“What about you?” He lifts his chin in my direction. “Are you always so logical? Always waiting to sort everything out in your head before you make a move?”
I smile wistfully. “Hasn’t steered me wrong yet.”
* * *
I remember the day I graduated medical school—the mixture of accomplishment that I’d done it and disappointment that I hadn’t placed higher in my class. I remember it as clear as if it were yesterday—even though it was over three years ago.
Time speeds up when you’re busy. Focused. Hours go by like minutes, days like hours, months like just a few days. And so I’m shocked when Tommy Sullivan’s last day of guarding me arrives so quickly.
As we had anticipated, the threats against my family never materialized. I’ve gone about my life as I would have if they hadn’t happened. Nothing of significance has changed.
And yet . . . it feels like something has.
“Can I ask you a question?”
Tommy Sullivan and I are in my kitchen. Did he follow me here when I came in for a glass of water or when I was washing up from dinner? I can’t remember and it doesn’t matter.
It’s late, dark outside the window, but I’m not sleeping—not even tired. I’m in my bedclothes—a satin, long-sleeved violet top with matching trousers.
“Of course.”
“If I try to kiss you at midnight, when I’m off shift and you’re officially not a client anymore . . . would you let me?”
My breath whooshes from my lungs. Because I remember his kiss—it was like a roller coaster—the swooping upside-down invigorating sensation that you want to feel again, and again, and again.
“Is this why you gave Bea the night off?”
He moves closer.
“It is.”
“This was your plan all along?”
And closer.
“It really was.”
My eyes dart to the clock above the stove—11:59. So soon.
“It wouldn’t be proper—”
“That’s not what I aske
d.”
His face is so near to mine, my eyes slide closed on instinct.
And it’s even better—because my other senses come alive—and there’s the scent of him, the teasing brush of his nose against mine, the sensation that his stubbled jaw is right there and if I move a millimeter, I’ll be able to revel in its tantalizing scrape.
“I want to kiss you, Abby. More than I can remember wanting anything, in a long time. I want this. You. And I think, deep down you want it too.”
I can almost taste him. It. The kiss. I know how good it will be. Perfect.
And a very bad decision. The kind that opens up all the boxes—of Pandora and all those other Greek gods, whose names I can’t remember right now.
By most measures, parachuting out of a plane is also a very bad decision. But people do it all the time. Because they love the fall. The flight. The feeling of soaring air and whipping winds.
I’ve never been the jumping sort.
But with him—a reaching, yearning, desperate part of me wants to give it try.
“Open your eyes, Abby.”
When I do, I’m met with warm honey-brown eyes—like they’re lit from within.
“Three . . . two . . . one . . .”
I’m going to say yes.
The word is there on my lips, the tingling, thrilling taste of it on the very tip of my tongue. Because I want this—the brush of his lips, the feel of his hot skin and firm muscle beneath my palm. The feel of him everywhere.
It’s been so long since I wanted anything just for me.
But before I can say the words, his head turns away, snaps around in the direction of the front room. His shoulders are tense and the tendons of his neck are pulled taut.
“Are you expecting someone?” he asks very quietly.
Instinctively, the volume of my voice matches his.
“No.”
That’s when I hear it. The jostle of the front doorknob. The sharp whine of the hinge as it opens. And then . . . footsteps, slow but distinct.
Someone is here. Someone is inside my flat.
Oh my.
Oh my, oh my, oh my, oh my . . .
Without a sound, Tommy Sullivan pulls a gun from the inside of his suit jacket—and my panicked thoughts come to a record-scratching halt.
It’s the first time I’ve ever seen a handgun up close. It’s black and weighted and looks right at home in his grip.
“You didn’t tell me you were armed!” I whisper-yell.
“Shh.”
“Do you have a permit for that? Do you know the statistics on—”
His large hand covers my entire mouth.
“Shush.” He looks down at me with an expression I’ve never seen on his face before—hard, harsh and deadly serious. The kind of look that says he could kill a man with his bare hands, and walk away whistling a merry tune afterwards.
Goosebumps prickle on my skin . . . but they’re not the bad kind. Because maybe it’s wrong, but deadly Tommy Sullivan is sexy as all get-out.
“Stay.”
And without a sound, he slips out the kitchen door.
But I don’t stay. Because I’m not a dog.
But mostly because . . . what if something happens? What if there’s more than one of them? What if they manage to get the upper hand?
What if he needs me?
I pull the drawer open, careful not to make any noise, and grab the thick, hefty wooden rolling pin that I’ve never actually used to roll anything. It’s just one of those things you get when you move into your own place.
I give it one practice swing, then tiptoe out the kitchen door.
There are sounds of a tussle from down the hall, grunting and struggling. There’s a scrape of wood, a thud that vibrates the wall and the crash of my corner lamp when it smashes to the floor, and the light that had been spilling out from the living room goes out.
I flick on the hall light, to give the room some illumination, and then I lift the rolling pin over my head—and charge to the rescue.
But when I get there, it’s apparent the only person who needs rescuing . . . is my brother. Who’s pinned to the floor on his stomach, with his arm wrenched behind his back and Mr. Sullivan’s boot pressed to the back of his neck.
“Luke?”
He angles his pain-filled, floor-squished face my way, as much as he can.
“Hello, Abby. Sorry to drop in without ringing first. Thought I’d surprise you.” He chokes out a laugh and lifts his eyebrows. “Surprise.”
* * *
Mr. Sullivan replaces the bulb in the lamp and cleans up the glass while I make Luke a cup of tea and get him settled on the sofa, hovering about him the way I always do when he comes home.
His color is good, his cheeks ruddy. His thick blond hair longer than the last time I saw him. And he’s put on a bit of weight—always a good sign, especially with the active, adventurer lifestyle he’s adopted for himself.
I introduce him to Tommy Sullivan and in spite of their unfortunate first interaction, there don’t seem to be any hard feelings.
“Sorry about putting you down like that,” Mr. Sullivan says.
“Not a problem.” My brother nods. “Completely understandable.”
I fluff the pillows behind his back, making him spill his tea.
“Abby—you’re fussing.”
“Sorry.” I force-fold my hands in my lap. “It’s just so good to see you. Are you staying home for long?”
“A few weeks.”
“And you’re going to schedule your physicals? I can help with that if you’d like.”
He grins, indulging me as he always does. “No need for help, Dr. Sister. And yes, I’ll be a good little patient and see to all my checkups.”
I exhale a sigh of relief. Because even though he’s a grown man and four years older than me, I worry about him. It’s a constant thrum in the back of my mind—like tinnitus—that I’ve learned to live with. I worry that something will happen to him and we won’t even know, or if we do, he’ll be too far away for us to help him—for me to get to him in time. But seeing him here in the flesh, solid and strong and healthy, is a sweet salve for my anxiety.
“And you’ve been well?” I ask. “Any recent infections? Shortness of breath or fatigue? Have you been tolerating your medications?”
Luke pats my head and doesn’t answer any of my questions.
“Do you have sisters, Mr. Sullivan?” he asks.
“A few—yeah,” Tommy says, snorting.
“Any of them physicians?”
“No, but two are mothers, so . . . I can sympathize.”
A look passes between them, like they’re sharing a joke.
“Sympathize with what?” I ask.
My brother chuckles, shaking his head. “Nothing, Abby. Never mind.”
Before I can push the issue, Tommy Sullivan smacks his hands together, rubbing his palms. “Well, everything looks good here, and I’m officially off the clock—so I’ll leave you to your reunion and head out.”
The first thought that pops into my head is already? Because while it’s been two full weeks, it seems so soon for him to be leaving.
So . . . unfinished.
I look up at him from the couch, meeting his eyes. “I’ll walk you out.”
* * *
Tommy Sullivan and I walk side by side down the stairs to the main floor of my building.
“You two seem close,” he comments.
“We are. He travels mostly now, only visits a few times a year. But Luke and I have always understood each other in a way that no one else in my family ever did.”
Based on the way he’s spoken of his sisters, I know he gets just what I mean.
“Is he sick?” he asks. “You were asking him about medications?”
“No, he’s not sick—not anymore. He was ill when he was a boy—I was eight when he collapsed in the middle of a chess tournament.”
There are moments in life that change us. That change what we want, how we see
the world.
When Luke fell out of his chair that day—limp as a ragdoll, his lips and the thin skin beneath his eyes tinted a bruisy blue—that was one of those moments for me. I remember how the chessboard was knocked over and emergency services rushed to him, and how the white king rolled across the marble floor. And I remember the wrenching fear burrowing in my stomach—but worse—the helplessness. Because I had no idea what was happening, what was wrong with him, and no ability to fix it.
I never, ever wanted to feel like that again. I still don’t.
“Chess, huh? Aristocrats must play a rougher version than I’m aware of.”
I let out a little laugh. “He didn’t collapse because the match was too strenuous—he had a heart condition. Completely undetected until then. We almost lost him.” I take a deep breath. “But, he was put on the transplant list and there was a match and a brilliant surgeon gave him a chance to grow up—to still be my brother.”
Tommy Sullivan nods, meeting my eyes.
“And that’s why you want to be a cardiac surgeon.”
I nod back.
“And that’s why I want to be a cardiac surgeon.”
We stand on the stoop for a few quiet moments, and he shakes his head, murmuring, “This isn’t how I thought tonight would go.” He turns toward me. “But I’m glad you get to visit with your brother.”
Then he pushes a hand through his hair, and his words rush out—a little tense, a little desperate. “I can come back, Abby. Tomorrow or the next day or the next after that. You’re busy, I’m busy—we can make it simple. It doesn’t have to be complicated—but it’ll be hot, and so bloody good. You know it will be. I know you know. I see it when your pretty eyes look at me—I feel it every time I touch you.”
He touches me now. His hand slides up my arm and my heart pounds in the back of my throat.
And he’s right. It is good. Amazing, exciting . . . reckless.
But no matter how good a fling with him would be, how thrilling it would feel . . . I can’t be distracted. Not now—not when I’ve worked so hard to become all my family expects me to be. To become all I expect of myself.
I need to stay focused. To stay on my path.
Tommy Sullivan is a beautiful whirlwind that I can’t let myself get caught up in.
