She takes in a deep breath and squares her shoulders. “The day I walk away from a wounded man without looking back is the day I can stop calling myself a doctor.” She’s defending her actions before I even accuse them of being wrong. I’d guess she prepared her response before I ever opened the door, had the argument perfectly scripted as she walked down the hall. I have to stifle a laugh at the vision. She stops short, narrowing her eyes in confusion. “Wait. Did you say thank you?” Her mouth falls with the realization. “Oh, God. You did.”
The smile I’d been fighting to keep hidden works its way to the surface. “Yes. I believe I did.”
Her cheeks pink as embarrassed heat rises. And I like it. More than I care to admit. “Well… Then, you’re welcome,” she says, her tone falling on the reserved side of the fence. She points at an invisible something to her right. “I’m gonna go now. If you need me, I’m two doors down.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
She swallows hard then clears her throat as if there were a double meaning in my words. At another time, there may have been. But not now. I don’t have room for distractions now. And I’m starting to worry that’s exactly what she’s going to be, a serious fucking distraction.
***
“She saw me limping by the pool. I didn’t think anyone was around,” Johan says, answering a question I didn’t ask.
“Hold still.” I choose to ignore his explanation. She’s gone now. I’m having a hard enough time trying not to think about her full lips or the way her skin flushes a beautiful pink without him talking about her. I clean his wound then bandage him up. “The consulate is useless. You’re hurt. I’ve spent the past eleven hours trapped in an empty grave. There has to be another way to help David.” I pull the contents from the envelope and show them to Johan.
David is tied to a chair, his face bloody and beaten to the point his left eye is swollen shut. And he’s holding a note that reads, “An eye for an eye. Isn’t that what the Good Book says?”
Along with the photo, there’s a note: You want to help us stop the killing? Do something other than take pictures of it all. Next time, we’ll do more than just bloody his eye. We’ll send it to you in another envelope.
Johan reads and re-reads the note, then takes another look at the picture. “Holy shit.”
“I won’t let them send another envelope.”
I mean every word. Their people are dying. Murdered. I get it. They want it to stop. So do I. It’s why I do what I do. Because I want to help. But taking one of my men and torturing and maiming him is where they fucked up. This ends now.
***
I left Johan sleeping in his room after we talked about a strategy. The white paneled door down the hall calls to me, a quiet whisper threatening to drown out the voices of doubt. Do the smart thing. Ignore the pull and feed your belly. The rumble in the pit of my stomach reminds me it’s been too long since I’ve eaten anything, and I’m starving.
To the left of the indoor dining area is a veranda overlooking the courtyard. White rattan chairs and white cloth-covered tables underneath soft gray umbrellas line up along the white painted rails of the porch. It’s almost 9:00. They’ll be closing soon. I glance at the chalkboard easel display of today’s special, then my eyes are drawn to the dark-haired beauty at the table behind it.
She mindlessly jabs her fork at the leaves of her salad while a single finger traces circles around the rim of a glass of water. It’s thoughtless, effortless, and innocently seductive. She’s too lost in thought to take a bite of the food she’s playing with. I prop a shoulder against the doorway, crossing one ankle over the other as I watch her. I don’t even try to hide the fact that I’m staring. I want her to see. I will her to look up at me. And when she does, I forget why I came here. I forget that I don’t need to walk up to her table, pull out a chair, and sit down right in front of her. I forget the feelings I’ve held sacred for so long. And I forget that I’m trying to forget them.
Chapter Nine
Grace
I haven’t thought about a man since the day Brent left me laying in a hospital bed and never looked back. Being alone doesn’t bother me one bit. I fix people. Because that’s a hell of a lot less painful than loving them. People walk away. Or they die. That’s what love does.
Some might say I keep a full schedule on purpose. Whether or not that’s true, the fact remains that I don’t have time to date. I don’t even have time to think about dating. Bringing a man into my world wouldn’t be fair to either one of us.
So, why am I letting some guy I’ve seen twice creep his way into my thoughts?
His eyes are dark and daring, like nightfall over the ocean. I want to get lost in their seas. And his voice. When he speaks, his voice breathes life into a darkness I’ve held onto for so long. And his smile. With just one smile, he stilled the silent screams of my broken heart.
I stick a fourth lettuce leaf onto my fork like I’m trying to win some sort of challenge. I feel his eyes on me, watching, coaxing me to look up. When I do, I find him staring, unashamed. As if eye contact were an invitation for him to join me, he walks up to my table and takes a seat. His long legs stretch out in front of him as he leans back in his chair. I wonder what it would be like to have my legs tangled in his. Good grief, Grace, stop. I clear my throat and attempt to have a normal conversation.
“How’s the patient?” God, I suck at small talk.
“Sleeping.”
I finally sit the fork down and stop poking at the salad I’m never going to eat. I push the plate to the side, and he snickers. “Sleep is a sign he’s pain-free. So, you must have done a good job.”
“I’ve had practice.” He doesn’t explain, and his eyes give nothing away. I’m not sure I even want to know. I realize in this moment I know nothing about the man sitting across from me. He could be dangerous. He doesn’t feel dangerous. At least not in a way that frightens me. Not like the guys I see in MacArthur Park on my way to work, with guns in their belts and tattoos representing the tears of the dead on their cheeks. He holds my gaze, his dark blue eyes answering my unspoken question. Yes, Grace, this man is dangerous. I’m not too blind to see that. But he is no danger to me. “You should eat. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“It’s okay. My appetite seems to be in hiding. It happens sometimes. Then it comes back with a vengeance, and I’ll devour a T-bone and a pan of brownies.”
Great, I’m rambling.
“Not likely.”
“Oh? You calling me a lightweight?”
A playful smile tugs at his lips. “Just saying, if you’re devouring brownies, I can’t seem to find where you’re hiding them.” His eyes flicker with mischief, and the compliment about my figure brings an instant flush to my cheeks.
“Thank you. If that was a compliment?”
Why am I second guessing his words? I’m confident. I’ve never been not confident. Why does he make me so nervous? Do I even want it to be a compliment? The sudden throbbing between my thighs says yes. I do.
“It was. And it’s not because of Johan, I hope. That your appetite has disappeared.” He changed the subject. There is a God.
A soft, breathy laugh escapes me. “No. Not because of Johan. I’ve seen worse than that on a good day.” He gazes at me, his eyes full of curiosity and fascination. He’s not the only one who can be mysterious. “I haven’t even been here a whole day, and I’ve already been chased by an angry man with a machete and tended to a man with a gunshot wound. I can’t wait to see how the next five days play out.” A glimpse of genuine interest flashes across his face.
“A machete, huh?”
“An angry man. With a machete.”
My response provokes another one of his radiant smiles. “Right. Well, that’s entirely different from a happy man with a machete.” He’s mocking me. But not in a condescending way. It’s a welcome contrast to the man I met back in that room an hour ago. I take advantage of the moment and share a piece of myself with him. These piec
es I only give out in small doses. Something tells me he’s the same.
“I guess I just thought it would be different.”
“You thought what would be different?”
“People.”
The waitress finally shows up to take his order. He orders it to-go, and my heart sinks a little. I place my napkin on my still full plate, letting her know she can take it from the table.
“People are disappointing,” he says, relishing the drink of cold water she sat in front of him.
“I just want to help. To make a difference.”
“Not everyone wants to be helped.” His eyes express a sadness I haven’t seen until now, but it’s gone just as quickly as it appeared. “So, tell me about this angry man.”
Whatever memories were flashing through his mind, he is obviously fighting to get rid of them. “I was with a group of missionaries, and there was a boy with no shoes. I just wanted him to have a pair of shoes.” I can still see him, kicking the soccer ball across the hot pavement. “His father didn’t agree.”
He doesn’t even flinch at my memory, not at all surprised by my words. Is this a daily occurrence? People getting shot and chased by madmen? “So, you’re a missionary too?”
His comment makes me chuckle. “No. I’m nowhere near that saintly.” There’s no way I could do what those men do on a daily basis. “I’m just a doctor.” He waits for me to continue. “Here to serve.” His eyes flicker at my comment. “The hospital has regulations, an orientation process, so to speak. So, since I couldn’t start today I did the next best thing.”
“The Gateway?”
“How’d you know?”
“Intuition.”
“I could’ve used some of that today.”
“It never occurred to you that any of this would be dangerous? Riding through townships with people you don’t know. In a place you don’t know. And Johan. You know nothing about him. You saw a man with a gunshot wound and you followed him to his room.”
Is he scolding me? He knows nothing about me or why I do the things I do.
“I don’t focus on the danger. I see need. I see hope.”
“That kind of vision gets people hurt.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m a doctor.” I laugh at my own joke, and for a second I think he might, too. But the mask comes up, and the moment fades. His concern is heartwarming in its own way. This man is a stranger to me, yet somehow, I feel protected by him.
“You’re not from here.”
He says the words as if they explain my lack of good judgment.
“No. Just a visitor,” I reply with a smile. “I live in Los Angeles.”
He visibly stiffens at my answer, forcing a groan from the rattan chair beneath him. His posture relaxes when the waitress shows up with his food, stored in neatly stacked Styrofoam containers inside a brown paper bag.
“It seems like we’ve both had a long day. I’m sure we’ll run into each other again.” The change in temperature is palpable as he stands to leave. Did I say something wrong? We went from him invading my space, sitting at my table, and making flirty comments about my body to him not being able to get away from me fast enough. He stalls, as if he’s about to say something else but can’t find the words.
“So, are you going to tell me your name? Or should I just call you Miss Matthews?”
“My name is Grace.”
He huffs a laugh. “Of course.”
What’s that supposed to mean? There’s nothing funny… or predictable… about my name. Grace was my mother’s favorite princess. My mom used to tell me if I’d dye my hair blonde, I’d look just like her.
“You never told me yours.”
Or should I just call you Long Legs? Maybe Daddy for short? I don’t see either of those going over well.
“Deacon.”
Deacon. It figures. Even his name is sexy.
“Goodnight, Grace.”
“Goodnight, Deacon.”
Chapter Ten
Grace
I could really use a glass of wine and a good night’s sleep. My mind is racing at the speed of light, going over the day’s events and dissecting them piece-by-piece. From the sweet smile of Ebrahim to the little boy and his soccer ball. From the man with the machete to the open wound on Johan’s thigh. From worrying about my father to missing my mother. And dark blue eyes. Mostly dark blue eyes. I can’t get them off my mind. So, I don’t even try. I let them hypnotize me to sleep, where I spend the rest of the night dreaming of all the ways he could make me forget what I came here to escape.
I’m going over the words of the orientation booklet in my head while I wait for a cup of coffee and Ebrahim the next morning.
“Milk and sugar?” a deep voice cuts in from behind me. I turn to find Deacon standing, arm extended, coffee to-go in hand, with a smile on his gorgeous face. There’s a scar, just above his top lip. And another on his cheek, hidden under the blanket of stubble. Warning signs. Caution lights. Tiny human imperfections on an otherwise flawless canvas. He’s been hurt. I want to reach out, to trace the raised flesh and ask him what happened. But I don’t. More out of respect than fear. “I saw you standing here and intercepted,” he says, nodding back at the man I ordered the coffee from.
“Good morning.”
His smile widens. “It is so far.”
My cheeks redden with heat, and the smile disappears. His mouth twitches as he narrows his eyes, trying to control his thoughts. I really need to learn to flirt. This is just embarrassing.
“Both,” I reply, taking the coffee from his hand. His skin grazes mine, and the heat from his touch shoots straight to my core. He cocks his head, and I wonder if he felt it too. “Milk and sugar. I take both.”
“I thought you might.”
“You say that as if it’s a bad thing.”
He pulls back the plastic lid from his cup and brings it to his mouth, sipping the hot liquid slowly. I can’t stop looking at his lips, the way he wets them after taking a drink, careful not to leave a single drop behind. I admire the pink fullness of them and wonder what it would be like to taste them. To feel them against my own. I haven’t even had my first cup of coffee and my senses are already completely awakened. I don’t know what it is about him, but he makes me feel things in places that have been numb for a long time. It’s not his looks, because I’ve seen plenty of handsome men. It’s not his social status, because I have no idea who he is. Maybe it’s the accent. Then why didn’t Johan affect me the same way? Or Ebrahim? No, it’s not the accent. It’s something else. Something raw. Something carnal. Something I can’t explain. I just… feel it.
The smile returns when he catches me watching. “There’s no right or wrong. Just instinct.”
“You rely a lot on instinct?”
“It’s something I’m good at.”
Why is he good at it? I want to know who he is, what he does, why he’s here. I want to know what his instinct tells him about me. Does he feel the electricity in the air when we’re close the way I do? Does the hair stand up on the back of his neck when he hears my voice the way mine does when I hear his? How does he know Johan? Why was he shot? Are they in trouble? So many questions, but I know every one of them will go unanswered. Because he isn’t an open book. And I’m going to be late for my first day at the hospital.
The black Mercedes pulls up before I can say anything else. “My ride’s here. I have to go.”
“Enjoy your day. And stay away from men with machetes.”
His comment makes me laugh. Partly because to any other person that would seem like an easy task. But for me, I’m beginning to wonder. “Stay away from stray bullets.”
“Deal,” he says, as he watches me walk toward Ebrahim, who is now holding the front door open.
***
My first day at the hospital was nothing I expected it to be. I spent four hours taking temperatures and checking blood pressure. For the other two, I was sent to the records room to file papers. Not exactly what I had in min
d when I signed up to volunteer, but I suppose every little bit counts and something is better than nothing.
I walk past Johan’s room on the way to mine, stopping and starting, and stopping and starting, as I debate on knocking. The moment my knuckles find the courage to hit the wooden door, it opens.
“Grace,” Deacon says, his large frame nearly barreling into me. He must have been leaving when I finally decided to knock.
“Hi. Sorry to interrupt. I was on my way to my room and just wanted to check on Johan.”
He stands in the doorway, towering over me, intimidating and powerful. He doesn’t make me feel weak by any means. But, he does make me feel fragile, delicate. After years of having no choice but to feel strong, I’m not sure how to process this. On one hand, I welcome the change. But on the other, I want to fight it. I don’t want to be delicate. I can’t afford to be fragile.
“I was just leaving. You didn’t interrupt.”
“May I come in? Take a look?”
I don’t even recognize my own voice. It’s meek and mild. I write it off as the climax of a day spent feeling inadequate. I’m not used to being in the shadows. In L.A. it’s my job to be right in the thick of the madness. Saving babies. Waking up at the sound of monitor alarms going off and rushing to my father’s room. Rescuing my sister from another one of her episodes. I’d forgotten what it’s like to simply be background noise. My mind is still trying to digest it all. At least that’s what I tell myself.
“Of course.” Deacon steps aside, allowing me to pass. But he doesn’t leave like he said he was going to do.
Johan smiles when I make it to the edge of his bed. “Hey, tough guy. How are you feeling?”
“Like brand new.”
I reach to pull the covers back, stopping before I expose him. “Mind if I look?”
The Drazen World: Unraveled (Kindle Worlds Novella) Page 5
