by Emma Chase
My words come out soft—regretful.
“I can’t.”
He nods slowly, disappointed but not surprised—as if he already knew what I was going to say.
“Another time, perhaps.”
And then he leans in, running his nose against my cheek, inhaling . . . before pressing a gentle kiss right beside my mouth.
“Goodbye, lass.”
And I watch him walk away. Descending the front steps, out onto the pavement, retreating down the street.
And it’s as if there’s an invisible rope, hooked around my rib cage, that’s tugging me toward him, dragging me after him.
“Mr. Sullivan!”
He stops beneath the streetlamp, hands in his pockets, his handsome features lit with surprise. I rush down the steps, standing a few feet away.
“You . . . you were the best bodyguard I ever had.”
His lips slide into a grateful, wicked grin. And then he winks.
“I could’ve been the best you ever had, full stop.”
I laugh—because he’s funny. And because with him, laughing is easy.
He curls his shoulders and cups his hands, and there’s a flash of flame and then the glow of an orange ember between his fingertips as he lights a cigarette.
“If you change your mind, Abby, look me up. Don’t be shy—I’m certainly not.”
And then Tommy Sullivan turns around and strolls down the street, fading into the shadows . . . and walking out of my life.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Abby
AUTUMN ARRIVES EARLY AND COMES quickly. Almost overnight the sweet scent of summer fades away, and I wake up to the crisp bite of cool air and blustery wind that swirls the leaves into funnels in the street. Puffy coats and boots and fuzzy hats come out, and the decorations in the children’s ward morph into the browns and yellows of the Autumn Pass holiday and even some occasional Christmas reds and greens.
It’s been three weeks since Tommy Sullivan stopped guarding me. It’s strange that I think of it that way—that I mentally mark time based on his presence or lack thereof—but I can’t make myself stop.
Tommy Sullivan was a distraction when he was here—but, strangely, he’s an even bigger distraction to me now that he’s not.
Sometimes I find myself picturing him in my mind. The curl of his smile, the rich rumble of his laugh, the shape of his large hands. Sometimes I lie in bed and picture him then too. I wonder if he’s settled into his flat—if he’s sleeping in that very big bed he mentioned—or perhaps he’s in that bed but not sleeping at all.
And sometimes, late at night, I indulge in the deliciously dirty thoughts of what it would have been like, the scintillating sensations of what it would’ve felt like . . . if I’d taken him up on his offer.
“Did you hear me, Abby?”
Right. So, those thoughts don’t come just at night.
“Yes, Dr. Whitewater. You were saying . . . about my performance review.”
Dr. Caledonia Whitewater is the Chief Surgical Administrator at Highgrove. She’s the head honcho, the big kahuna—all the bucks stop with her. If Dr. Dickmaster is a living, breathing god in these halls, she’s whatever entity is above that. She has the final word on which surgical residents are accepted into their specialty programs, who qualifies for fellowships, or other specialized training opportunities. She’s also the one who conducts the biannual performance reviews with every surgeon in the building.
Dr. Whitewater smiles at me from across her desk, glancing at the paperwork in front of her.
“As I was saying—your breadth of knowledge and grasp of procedures is outstanding.”
I smile in return—because this was exactly the evaluation I was expecting.
“Your surgical techniques are impeccable.”
I mentally pat my own back—because they are. Thank you, chicken’s feet.
“Your attendance, diligence, focus and manner are beyond reproach.”
There’s an American phrase Kevin is fond of: I love it when a plan comes together. But when years of discipline and hard work come together . . . that’s pretty grand too.
“However, there is one consistent thread of feedback that gives me a slight cause for concern.”
My head tilts. Like a dog who’s watching its master give a command—but can’t decipher what the bloody hell they’re going on about.
“Concern? Really?”
“Yes. While your ambition and assiduousness are to be commended, your supervising physicians worry you may be a bit too single-minded.”
“Single-minded?” I squint.
“Overly tenacious.”
“Overly tenacious?” My voice goes a pitch higher against my will.
“High-strung,” Dr. Whitewater declares firmly.
I digest the words, lifting my chin—trying to take the criticism in stride. Even though it feels like I’m dying inside.
“I see.”
Dr. Whitewater nods.
“Good.”
And then I opt for honesty. “No—that isn’t true—I don’t see. Isn’t single-minded tenacity a beneficial quality in a surgeon?”
Her expression softens.
“Abigail, you are very young and I’m aware you have a very illustrious name to live up to. I have every reason to believe that you have a long, bright career ahead of you. But the surgery suite is an extremely high-stress environment. Without a consistent way to relieve that stress, you could falter under the pressure. Break—burn out—we’ve all seen it happen before. In my experience the most successful surgeons find outside activities to relieve stress and incorporate them into their daily lives. Some take up yoga, or hiking, or photography—Dr. Dickmaster writes poetry.”
I choke on my own saliva. Because—dear God.
“Don’t look at this as a censure. But as someone who has been in this field a long time, I know finding a physical outlet to channel tension will make you a better surgeon.”
I stand up on stiff legs, the wheels in my mind already turning.
“Thank you for your advisement, Dr. Whitewater. I’ll certainly take it under consideration.”
* * *
“A physical outlet to channel my tension . . .”
I crunch down on a baby carrot as I relay my conversation with Dr. Whitewater.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
“. . . What do you think she meant by that?”
“She means you need to get laid,” Henrietta says not so helpfully.
We’re in the hospital cafeteria, on an unusually coordinated lunch break, because the surgical department is uncommonly slow. Henrietta sits across from me, between Kevin and my brother Luke, who’s come down from the Bumblebridge estate where he’s been staying to join us.
I roll my eyes. “I’m certain that’s not what she meant.”
“I’m certain it is,” Etta replies, resting her head on my brother’s biceps, curled against his side, sliding her hand up and down his arm like she’s petting a mink stole.
Henrietta idolizes my brother.
Though “idolizes” is probably too platonic a word. She worships him. The only person she worships more is that NSYNC chap who had that freakishly curly hair when he was in his prime.
Luke doesn’t return the worship, but he adores her enough to let her accost him as much as she likes whenever he’s in town.
“I love you, Abby, but you’re as uptight as all get-out. Especially recently—you’ve been all clenchy and sour-faced. It makes me tense just looking at you.”
Luke nods. “I have to agree with Henrietta. About your sourpuss . . . and that Dr. Whitewater was saying she thinks you need to get your rocks off.”
I frown at him. “Traveling has made you vulgar.”
“It’s made me honest,” he says, chuckling.
Like a hive mind, Henrietta elaborates.
“Dr. Whitewater wants you to have some regularly scheduled freaky-freaky between the sheets. You need to get boffed, a little rumpy-pumpy, ride the sto
ne pony, spend a little time impaled on a hot rod of steel.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “Vroom, vroom.”
“You’re both impossible.” I scoff. “And, for the record, I engage in self-administered rumpy-pumpy every Tuesday and Saturday. That’s all the stress relief I need.”
I can’t believe I actually just told them that. I can’t believe we’re even discussing this.
Etta slaps her forehead. “You have scheduled days for masturbation? That’s just sad. And a self-administered orgasm is like performing the Heimlich on yourself—really not as effective as having someone else do it for you.”
I roll my eyes. “An orgasm is an orgasm.”
“Spoken like a woman who hasn’t popped off with the participation of another actual human being in far too long,” she counters, her expression infuriatingly sure. “It’s not the same.”
“It’s really not,” my brother agrees, shaking his head like a traitorous traitor.
Even dependable Kevin piles on, shaking his head as well. “It’s not the same.”
Then he leans forward, his brown eyes bold and brave. “But I’d be willing to help you out.”
And I am . . . confused.
“Help me how?”
“I’m free on Tuesdays and Saturdays. I’ll be your hot rod of steel. You can use me—I volunteer as tribute.”
My stomach roils at the suggestion. Kevin is handsome and sweet, but I’ve never once thought of him as more than a friend. Certainly never a “hot rod” of anything.
Henrietta breaks the news to him gently.
“Settle down there, Katniss. Your role in this scenario is best mate, not bedmate. Firmly in the friend zone, dearie.”
His face falls with disappointment. It seems Tommy Sullivan was correct about Kevin wanting to “fuck” me.
And maybe he was right about me being clueless as well.
“I do appreciate the offer, Kevin, but Henrietta’s right. Sleeping with you would be like sleeping with . . .” I point at my brother “. . . him.”
My tongue reflexively juts out and I gag an honest-to-God gag.
“Bleck!”
“Besides,” Henrietta goes on, swirling the spoon in her bowl of chowder contemplatively, “Abby is used to being large and in charge—if she’s going to loosen up, she needs a man who can boss it out of her. A man who’s bossier than she is—and that’s not your way, Kevin.”
Kevin nods, conceding the point. And Henrietta turns to me, her eyes glowing with sneaky, suggestive satisfaction. “Do you know who is man enough for the job? A bloke who’s the opposite of bleck in every way?”
My eyes roll closed and I feel a headache coming on.
“Don’t say it.”
She says it.
“The bodyguard.”
After a moment, my brother rubs his chin thoughtfully.
“He did seem fond of you, Abby.”
“Like I said,” Henrietta prods, “a feature, not a bug.”
I sigh, because I don’t want to talk about this. I don’t want to be thinking about it. Or him. Not when he already takes up so much time in my thoughts.
“I can’t just take up with a bodyguard.”
“Whoa,” Kevin says, holding up his hands. “Snob alert.”
“I’m not being a snob, I’m being realistic. My grandmother would have a conniption. Have you ever seen a dowager countess pitch a fit? It’s not pretty.”
“Why do you give a rat’s arse what Grandmother would say?” Luke asks.
“You were raised in the same household I was—how can you not?”
“Because I’ve gotten out. Broken free of the Haddock bubble of influence. If you weren’t still firmly entrenched inside, you’d be able to see our family for what they are: The Umbrella Academy, but more dysfunctional. Our parents, Sterling, Athena and especially dear Grandmother have no business judging anyone. Ever.”
“Do you want to know what I think?” Henrietta asks.
I rub my temples. “I really don’t.”
“I think you liked him. I think, deep down, you know you could like him a whole lot more.” Henrietta’s voice gentles, and she’s not teasing me now—she’s speaking as a friend. My best friend. “And all those feelings you work so hard to pretend you don’t have might make things messy—and I think messy scares you, Abby.”
I shake my head—deny, deny, deny.
“Messy doesn’t scare me, I just don’t have time for it. I’m trying to accomplish something here—become something, not just for the family, but for myself as well. What’s wrong with that?”
“There’s nothing wrong with it,” Luke says softly. “I just hate to see you close yourself off . . . from life. From joy. You have to give yourself a break once in a while, Abby, or you won’t be able to become all you want to be. That’s what Dr. Whitewater was really saying.”
“It doesn’t have to be messy,” Kevin adds. “I mean, you don’t want him to be your boyfriend—you want him to be your . . . professional banging buddy. There could be rules to keep it simple. If he wants you bad enough—and he’d be an idiot not to—he’ll agree.”
I take a moment to consider it—because Kevin’s plan sounds promising . . . and familiar.
“He said something to that effect,” I admit quietly.
“You didn’t tell me that!” Henrietta gasps. “What did he say?”
The image of Tommy Sullivan comes unbidden again. His heated, teasing gaze—his wicked, whispered words.
“That it could be simple with us. Uncomplicated.”
And good. Don’t forget so very, very good.
My skin starts to tingle—across my neck, up my thighs. The thought of Tommy Sullivan—of this—makes me tingle everywhere.
“It’s Saturday night,” Henrietta says. “I bet he’ll be at Paddy’s or Katy’s Pub. That’s where all the rowdy boys go.”
Henrietta knows her pubs, and beer . . . and boys.
“We could go there and you could lay it all out for him. See what he says. Come to a mutually beneficial agreement.”
This does put a different light on things.
I wouldn’t be sleeping with Tommy Sullivan because he’s handsome as sin and probably has moves that could make my head explode. I’d be doing it to further my career. In pursuit of my goals. To become a better surgeon.
It sounds plausible. Permissible. Sensible.
And in that moment, I give myself permission to give it a go. To try. To step into the seductive whirlwind that is Tommy Sullivan . . . come what may.
The tingles are at full charge now and a thrilling, intense excitement pulses in my veins.
But then . . . a different, unfamiliar sensation swamps me. My palms go clammy and my heart rate picks up, and my face is suffused with uncomfortable heat.
“What’s the matter?” Luke asks.
I swallow past the constriction in my throat. “I’m nervous. I’ve never propositioned anyone before.”
Henrietta looks at me like I’ve said the silliest statement that’s ever been said.
“You have tits, Abby. They’ll do all the propositioning for you.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tommy
I DON’T BELIEVE IN REGRET. It always seemed pointless to me—a waste of time and energy. There’ve been mornings when I’ve woken up half-dead and sick as a dog, and wished I’d thought twice about the drinking I did the night before. When I was nine, I let it slip to my mum that I’d seen Arthur and Annie Donaldson humping out behind the shed—and afterward, while Arthur was giving me the beating of my life, I wanted to go back in time and keep my trap shut.
But when it comes to women, I find it easy to let go, move on, part amicably and not look back. No regrets. Like the great Dr. Seuss once said: Don’t cry because you’re not in balls-deep anymore—smile because you were. Or something to that effect.
It’s different with Abby Haddock.
The thought of her . . . sticks.
Hangs on.
Accompanied by a cold si
de serving of, not regret exactly, but disappointment at a missed opportunity. That feeling that one—a really fucking good one—got away.
And it’s not that I read her wrong or that she wasn’t interested—I’m still sure she was. What niggles at me is that she wasn’t ready to be interested. At least not that night. And that keeps me hoping. It keeps me thinking of her. Imagining in filthy, illicit, high-definition detail how damn hot it would’ve been between us.
Could still be.
When she’s ready.
“Turn your shoulders,” I instruct Owen from behind the bag, in the gym of the shop where I’m giving him pointers. “Don’t just hit with your fist. Put all your weight behind it.”
Owen jabs at the bag again.
“Better.”
He does a dozen more repetitions before we call it a night, lock up and head out.
Lo and I alternate driving days to save on gas and today was my day to drive. We pull up to the front of his house—a two-story, brick home that he built himself. As we get out of the car Ellie comes skipping out the door in a fuzzy sweater and leggings, her blond hair bouncing as she meets us halfway up the front walk.
Well—she meets Logan there—jumping up into his arms and wrapping her legs around his waist, gazing at him with baby-blue eyes like he’s the only man in the whole world.
“You’re home! I love it when you come home—I missed you today.”
Logan holds her tight, searching her face.
“You’re feeling better?”
Ellie’s pregnant again. It’s early still so they’re not sharing the news wide, but Logan mentioned the sickness has been especially tough on her this time around.
Ellie nods. “Much better. I put Finn down late for his nap, so he should sleep for about another hour. I think we should enjoy every minute of me feeling better while we can.”
That’s all Lo needs to hear. He kisses Ellie sweet and desperate and starts walking toward the house with her still clasped around him. He moves his mouth to her earlobe, making her giggle—and that’s when she notices me.
“Oh, hey, Tommy.”
“Hey, Ellie.”
Logan doesn’t stop walking towards the steps—or sucking on his wife’s neck like a starving vampire.
