by Hamel, B. B.
He laughed. “Should we run away?”
“We can live in Bali. What do you think of that?”
“Bali sounds nice to me. I’ll quit being a doctor.”
“They need doctors in Bali, I bet.”
“Good point.”
I looked at him and smiled, shaking my head. “No, we can’t do that.”
“No, we can’t,” he said softly, almost wistful.
“She’d win then.”
“And I don’t want her to win.”
“I don’t either.” I leaned my head back. “Come have a drink with me.”
“Where? I know a bar—”
“My place.”
He was quiet for a moment then nodded. “Okay.”
I smiled a little and looked away. I knew what it meant, asking him in for a drink, but I didn’t care. The thought of going into that apartment alone scared the hell out of me, and I wanted to run away screaming, but I thought it might be easier to get used to the idea of staying there again if he came in with me for my first time back in there since those two bastards intruded into my life.
He parked and I led the way. The house seemed quiet and empty and foreboding, the shadows cast by the beat-up trim somehow deeper and darker, and when I pushed open my door, I half expected a man in a nondescript windbreaker to leap out of the dark with a knife, but of course that didn’t happen. The place was quiet and empty.
Dean shut the door and locked it. “If you want, I can cook you dinner.”
“I don’t have much in the house.”
“That’s okay.” He walked into the kitchen and took a bottle of white wine from the refrigerator. “How’s this?”
“That’s good.” I drifted toward my room. “Mind if I get changed?”
“Not at all.” I heard him uncork the wine as I shut my door behind me. I leaned up against it, staring at the far wall, trying to decide what I was doing. We were having a drink after work, alone in my apartment. The implications were so obvious, but I didn’t want them to be— I wanted safety, and for some reason, Dean made me feel safe.
I changed into yoga pants and a sweatshirt. I figured that would send the right message. I pulled my hair up into an absurd bun on the top of my head and let the stray strands roll down the back of my neck.
When I stepped back out into the kitchen, the smell of frying garlic made my mouth water. He looked up from the stove and paused, a smile on his lips, and I saw that look then, the look Mary mentioned—his eyes drifting down from my lips to my knees, and back up again, and the pleasure in his expression like he was staring at a work of art. I felt a shiver on my spine, and wanted him to keep looking, wanted his gaze to hold me there pinned in his imagination, because I was sure that whatever image of me he had was better than the real thing.
I touched my abdomen, where the scar jutted over my skin, ugly and thick, like a braided rope. I made a face and hoped he didn’t notice as my fingers traced its length.
“I’m doing pasta,” he said, “since that’s just about the only thing you have.”
“Told you.” I poured myself some wine and took a long sip. “I’m surprised you can cook.”
“Every man needs to know how to cook.”
I snorted. “There are a lot of people that don’t agree with you.”
He brandished his wooden spoon at me. “And there are a lot of wrong people in this world. Cooking is one of the most important things in this life, so what’s the point of living if you can’t make good food?”
I laughed and shook my head. “I guess you’re right.”
“Damn right I am.”
“Can I ask you something?”
He glanced back at me. “At this point, I think you can ask me pretty much whatever you want.”
“How come you never date nurses?” I sipped my wine and watched his reaction.
He tensed, which wasn’t what I expected. He didn’t look back at me as he dropped some chopped onion on top of the garlic and stirred. “I don’t like to get involved at work,” he said.
“That’s everyone’s excuse, but nobody actually follows that rule.”
“I don’t trust myself.”
I hesitated. “What do you mean?”
He took a deep breath and looked back at me. I saw the wariness in his eyes. “My father was a difficult man. Military man. Moved us around a lot. I didn’t learn much about having a stable, normal relationship from my parents, and I guess I sort of just accepted that I never would.”
“You mentioned your father before. Are you close?”
“No,” he said. “We weren’t, and he passed away.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.” He looked away again. “He was a bastard.”
“You said he was disappointed that you didn’t join the military.”
“Can you imagine? Disappointed that I wanted to become a doctor?” He shook his head. “Truth is, I grew up listening to my father verbally abuse my mother, and I’m afraid that I don’t know how to have a normal relationship because of it.”
I went very still and felt my heart race. “Your father was abusive?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe.” He stopped stirring and let out a breath. “I know it’s probably not what you expected, but it’s the truth. I don’t have many relationships, because I grew up with an abusive asshole for a father, and now there’s some part of me that thinks I’ll end up just like him.”
“You wouldn’t though,” I said without thinking.
“You don’t know that.”
“But I do.” I stepped toward him and put my glass down on the counter. “You’re thinking about it, which means you’re way more aware than your father ever was. You obviously care—I mean, you’re a doctor.”
He smiled. “Being a doctor doesn’t make you immune from being abusive.”
“No, but it means you want to help people.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sure this isn’t what you had in mind when you invited me up.” He turned away, and I felt him shutting down.
Without thinking, I reached out and touched his shoulder. He looked back at me and the wooden spoon slipped from his fingers, falling to the floor. I didn’t move, and he didn’t either, as he stared down at me and took my hand in his, staring into my eyes. I felt a rush of something, dizzying and light, as he moved closer to me.
“Maybe we should leave this,” he whispered, voice soft and gentle. “Maybe it would be better if we walked away. There’s always Bali.”
“Do you really think that?”
“No,” he said, and kissed me.
I kissed him back, unable to help myself. I twined my fingers through his hair, his thick, dark hair, and he pulled me tight then turned me, pushing me back against the counter. I felt a hot delicious need run through my core as his hands moved down my body, his palms on my ass, then up onto my chest, on my breasts. He went to pull up my sweatshirt and a part of me started to panic—he’d see my scar, or he’d feel it, and then he’d hate me, he’d find me disgusting—but he didn’t stop as his fingertips brushed against it. I sucked in a breath as he cupped my breasts then kissed my neck and lifted me up onto the countertop.
He spread my legs and I let him come close. I bit his lower lip and looked into his eyes as he gripped my hair and pulled it back. A low moan escaped my lips, and I was unable to help it, unable to stop myself as he released a growl. He pulled my sweatshirt up, kissed my chest, my nipples, kissed down along my stomach and I stared, heart racing, mind blank and wild with desire, as his lips found my scar.
He didn’t even hesitate. It didn’t throw him out of the moment, didn’t make him disgusted. He kissed it once, twice, then moved down, tugging my yoga pants off, and I was so surprised that I let them slide off and drop to the floor.
He spread my legs and kissed my inner thigh, and I moaned, whispered his name, as his tongue found me, licked me top to bottom, worked me and made me wild. He pushed aside my underwear and took me, fingers teasing, tongue driving
me mad with pleasure and lust. He licked me top to bottom, spread me wide, fingers sinking inside, tongue rolling along my clit, and it felt like heaven.
I moaned his name, panting and gasping, rolling my hips as he licked faster and faster, a growl in his throat, a purr like a lion. It was heaven, it was too much and much too far, but I wasn’t going to stop, didn’t want to stop. I needed more—and he kept pushing me, pushing me, teasing me, driving me up to that edge, that incredible edge, and I moaned his name, whispering it, gasping it, until I felt the pleasure build and build into a spiraling crescendo as I came on his tongue.
He lapped me up, not stopping, before he kissed me again. I tasted myself on his tongue and loved it, pressed myself hard against him and he held me there as I breathed hard, sweat rolling down my back. I had to blink a few times to clear my blurry vision, and he smirked at me, head tilted to the side.
“That was— unexpected.”
“You invited me up for drinks.”
“I know, but—”
“We both know what drinks means.”
“Drinks means drinks.”
“Drinks means I take your clothes off and makes you feel good.” He kissed me again and laughed. “And cook you dinner, of course.”
I chewed my lip. “What are we doing?”
“We’re just being people.” He kissed me again. “Forget about doctor and nurse for a second, okay?”
“Okay,” I said, and let him dress me again, let him lead me to the table, let him refill my wine glass, and let him finish cooking dinner.
Then we ate, laughing, smiling, talking, and when he left for the night after offering to sleep on my couch, I felt strangely empty, strangely hollow—like I needed him back to feel complete.
16
Dean
Dreams of Fiona fluttered through my head.
I hadn’t expected that when she asked me into her apartment, even though drinks as almost always code for sex—at least with the girls I typically brought home. I was used to one-night stands, only sex, only two strange bodies coming together for a few hours of fucking, of release, and then nothing more.
It was different with Fiona. I couldn’t bring myself to take her like that—not yet, at least. I knew she needed more time to get used to the idea of taking our relationship to another level, of getting more physical. Something held her back the same way something held me back, and I knew it was more than the workplace drama of it all.
I thought of the scar of her abdomen, jagged and nasty, and the taste of her lips, the taste of her coming, her moans ringing in my ear. I licked the sweat from her inner thigh and loved it, wanted more of it, wanted every inch of her like lightning in my body. She drove me to something I didn’t understand yet.
She made me want to break my rules.
The next day, I had a morning shift, but she was off. I figured I’d check in on her during my lunch break and maybe at night, if she wanted me to come over again. My goal was to convince her to stay with me for a while, and not just because I wanted her all to myself all the time, but because it would be safer if we stuck together.
On my way outside, two shadows detached themselves from my building, and I barely had time to react.
They came fast. The shorter one grunted like a bulldog and swung at me wildly. He hit me in the gut and I staggered back, coughing with surprise. The taller one went to smash his fists down into my face, but I pulled back, instincts kicking in, fight or flight taking over.
“Should’ve gone away,” the shorter one said with a growl and came at me.
I fought back. I hit him hard in the teeth, made his lips bleed, but the tall one got me from the side and smashed me up against the wall. I elbowed him in the nose and felt bone crunch, and a wild, sick glee came over me. All those years of training in martial arts while my father watched me, shouting at me to work harder, to fight through the pain, to take more hits and to dish out more punishment, it was all coming to fruition in this moment, all those years of fighting and blood and sweat. I did it to make my father happy—and I did it to make him shut the hell up.
And now, as I smashed a fist into the tall guy’s throat, I did it because it felt damn good.
“Fuck you,” I growled. “You piece of shit.” I bashed my fist into the guy’s face again, and again, then threw him onto the stoop. He spit blood onto the concrete. “I’ll kill you for going after Fiona, you motherfucker.”
I stepped toward him, intent on smashing my shoe into his ribs, but the shorter one barreled into me. I staggered, off-balance, and my head hit the brick wall of my apartment building. I gasped in shock and saw stars, and was too slow to block a flurry of blows. I was knocked to the ground as the shorter man pummeled me, over and over again, cursing and cursing, before he stopped and stepped back. I was bleeding from my head, from my mouth, and I growled as I hauled myself to my feet.
The shorter man helped the tall one stand. “Watch yourself, doc,” the short guy said as they limped away, walking as fast as they could.
I stood there, gasping for breath, adrenaline rocketing through my system.
I’d come so close to killing that man—and come so close to getting killed. If they’d wanted to end me, I’d be finished, without a doubt. All they had to do was shoot me, and I’d be gone.
“Fuck,” I grunted as pain began to hit me. A young girl stood across the street, maybe in her mid-twenties, staring at me with wide eyes. I realized I was wearing scrubs, and she must’ve been pretty freaked out.
I hurried up my stoop and back inside. I got Fiona on the phone a second later.
“I need you,” I said.
“What’s wrong?” She sounded like she had been asleep.
“Those two guys— they jumped me. The ones from your apartment.”
She cursed. “Are you okay?”
“I’m alive.” I grabbed a dish towel and used it to staunch the bleeding from my head wound. “I might need stitches.”
“Go to Mercy. I’ll be there soon.”
“No,” I said. “Please, come here. I have everything we need.”
“Dean,” she said, groaning.
“Please. I don’t want to have to explain this, and I really don’t want to give Maria the pleasure of seeing me hurt.”
She let out a sigh, but she agreed, and hung up the phone.
I sat there, waiting for her, head tipped back.
I’d seen a lot of death and pain and suffering in my time as a doctor. I’d seen a lot of miraculous things, a lot of unlikely near-misses. But this was the first time that I’d been on the other side, coming within inches of my own demise, and only surviving because my bastard of a father had forced me to learn how to fight as a child.
I should’ve been dead, but I wasn’t, and I felt a strange, eager giddiness.
Fiona showed up ten minutes later, looking haggard, wearing sweats again. She stormed into my place and grabbed the towel from me, prodding at the wound and shaking her head.
“This has to stop now,” she said. “This has to end.”
“Time to move to an island?”
She gave me a hard look. “Time to go to the police.”
“Not yet.” I shook my head and instantly regretted it. “We don’t have enough.”
“What more do you want? A bullet wound?”
I grimaced. “Not particularly.”
“Then this has to be done.” She pressed the towel back down hard against my scalp. “Where’s your medical bag?”
“Bathroom, under the sink.” I took the towel from her as she stomped off. I could tell she was angry and couldn’t really blame her. I wondered when the last time was she stitched someone when she sat down next to me, dropped the medical bag on the kitchen table, and glared hot death.
“What were you thinking?”
I blinked once. “Thinking? I guess I wasn’t.”
“You should have run, why the hell would you fight them?”
I laughed, unable to help myself. She had no clue what
my father had done to me growing up. “It wasn’t so bad, honestly.”
“You look like shit and your forehead’s ripped in half.” She took the towel away and prodded at the wound. “What the hell, Dean?”
“At least it’s not in my hair and you won’t have to shave me.”
“Like I would.”
I smiled at her as she prodded at the wound again then took out antiseptic from the bag. She dabbed it on a clear bandage and pressed it against the wound. I sucked in a breath but forced a smile on my face.
She shook her head, annoyed, and got out the needle and thread I kept tucked in a pouch.
“There’s a syringe for the pain,” I said, nodding.
She frowned and fished it out. “You shouldn’t have this.”
“Like Mercy would notice one missing.”
She shook her head and took the prefilled syringe from its packaging. She held it up and glared at me. “I’m serious. Because I get to work, tell me what you were thinking.”
I sighed and knew I couldn’t get out of this. “I told you my father wanted me to be a marine, right?”
“You mentioned something like that. He was disappointed you became a doctor.”
“The guy put me through training.” I paused for a second, trying to figure out how I could word it so that it didn’t sound absolutely insane. I remembered my father standing over me in the back yard as I did pushups, barking orders, hitting me with a piece of wood to toughen me up, but really it was torture, pure and simple, hours long torture. “He had me doing martial arts from a young age.”
“You’re joking. Like, karate?”
I shook my head then grimaced. “No, not karate. Muay Thai, boxing, jujitsu, real fighting. He took me to a gym once a week from when I was eleven to when I refused to go anymore at fifteen and made me fight someone there. Not like, a street fight, but mixed martial arts stuff, you know, the octagon and all that.”
“That’s insane.” She leaned back, eyes wide. “They let kids that young do that stuff?”
“Not really. I mean, not officially, but we lived on military bases, so.” I shrugged a little, like that explained anything. “Not all guys in the military are assholes obviously, but some are, some really, really are, and you put them in a culture that sort of encourages macho behavior, well, it makes them worse.”
