17. Chapter 17
Chapter 17
Weston
“ N ice job,” I tell the intern across from me as I watch him close the basic abdominal incision.
He glances up at me like I just told him that he won a million dollars. Which I can understand because most of my colleagues don’t hand out positive feedback very often . . . or ever. The constant criticism from attendings was one of the things I hated the most about residency, and I always told myself that when I got to be in their shoes, I would do things differently.
“Thanks for bringing me in. That was awesome.”
“You earned it,” I reply as I step back from the table, feeling surprisingly satisfied.
I tug my gown and gloves off, tossing them in the bin by the door. This was my last case of the day, and it’s only two in the afternoon. Unless something urgent comes up, I should be free to head out of here once I finish up my notes.
I pull my phone out of my pocket as I walk toward my office, taking the long way across the skybridge because the September sun is shining through the glass.
There’s a text from my mom asking what we’re doing for Carter’s first birthday at the end of the month, and another from Parker about a golf reservation he made for us this weekend. I ignore them and scroll through my messages to the thread from a week ago that I can’t help but look at each day.
Did you make it to bed?
Yes, Dad. I made it up the stairs and to my room just fine.
I think I earned the title Daddy after tonight.
Nice try but it’s going to take more than a little tongue action to get me to call you that.
What would it take? Please be as explicit as possible ;)
It rhymes with shut up.
Oh, so you want to butt fuck? Hell yeah, I’ll be right there.
No you won’t because my door is locked.
Goodnight Weston.
Goodnight princess.
Caroline and I sent those messages shortly after we hooked up in the hot tub, and I remember staring at the ceiling for a while afterward as my mind raced.
In the past, most of my moments of post-nut clarity have been filled with regret. But this was different. She was different. And all I could focus on was how I needed to find a way to make it happen again . . . until I overheard what she really thought about me the next day.
“Southerland.” A familiar voice calls from down the hallway, distracting me from the memory.
I slide my phone into the back pocket of my scrubs and glance up. Walker is standing by the elevators in a suit and tie that doesn’t look like it fits him quite right.
“Long time no see, man,” I joke as I greet him with a clap on the back. “Shouldn’t you be at a game or some shit?”
Walker started his sports medicine fellowship a couple of months ago at University Hospital, and I still think it’s hilarious because he’s the least stereotypical orthopedic surgeon I’ve ever met. He’s reserved, meticulous, and disciplined—the complete opposite of the hammering heathens he works with like Beau.
“Tomorrow.” He laughs and steps back, assessing me with a curious expression. “You good?”
I dismiss his concern with a lazy grin, running my fingers through my hair. “Is this your way of saying that I look like trash?”
“Nah.” He narrows his dark brown eyes suspiciously. “You just look like something’s bugging you.”
I glance at the elevator instinctively, debating making my escape. Never show anyone your weakness—that’s the one thing that was ingrained in me by my parents and why I usually blow off tough conversations with humor. But Walker has never given a shit about expectations or vulnerabilities. He’s just a decent guy who cares about the people in his life, which is why I find myself asking if he’ll meet me in my office after his meeting.
I finish up charting and send off a few emails while I wait for him, trying to figure out why I’m so bothered by what a woman thinks about me when everything else in my life is finally going right. My son and I have a routine down. I’m satisfied with my job, eating well, sleeping well, and doing everything well if I’m being honest. Everything except for one thing . . . according to Caroline Winters.
Her conversation with Morgan has been playing on repeat in my mind for the past week, tormenting me whenever I have a moment alone to myself. I know it shouldn’t hold so much weight, but it does—I just wish I knew why.
“That was quick,” I offer as I watch Walker close my office door and take a few long strides across the room.
On the elevator ride up, he briefly mentioned that he was meeting with his mentor and a few other ortho guys for a “ casual conversation. ” Considering there’s no such thing as a casual conversation for a surgeon in a suit, I assumed that it was an interview. And judging by the massive smile on his face as he sinks into the chair across from me, it must have gone well.
“Weaver wants me to come back once I finish fellowship.”
My mood instantly lifts because having him back at Midtown Memorial would be amazing. He’s incredibly talented and would be an asset to any group that took him on. Plus, I selfishly like working with him.
“That’s great, man. Congratulations. You gonna take the offer?”
Walker crosses his ankle over his knee, trying to get comfortable in the tiny office chair he’s dwarfing. “Maybe.”
I close out of the patient chart that I had open and turn to face him. “What do you mean maybe? Why wouldn’t you?”
When I decided to come back, I considered a position at another hospital in the city because I wasn’t interested in the drama that would inevitably follow my return. But nobody could beat the cushy benefits and call requirements that Midtown Memorial has, which is saying a lot because general surgery is known to have a crummy work-life balance across the board.
Orthopedics is only more specialized, so his benefits would be even better than mine. The only reason I can think of for him to stay at UH would be for the clout or research—two things I know that he isn’t interested in.
Walker reaches up to undo his gray silk necktie. “It’s not a decision I can make without talking to my wife.”
“And HR,” I tease.
Our hospital clearly doesn’t care about workplace relationships, considering our entire group of friends is one massive HR violation waiting to happen.
He chuckles as he pulls his tie through his collar, letting out a long exhale once it’s undone, like he can already breathe easier. “I’m just glad it’s over. I figured he would still be pissed that I gave up the rotationplasty he offered me over the summer.”
“Clearly not. And neither is Beau because I think he mentioned it about ten times last weekend.”
I get it because I used to get excited by stuff like that too, especially when it came to trauma cases. I would do just about anything to get in on interesting procedures, including sucking up to whoever I needed to. Getting ahead was the most important thing in my life . . . until Carter.
When I left Chicago, I was worried that becoming a general surgery attending would be mind-numbingly boring because it couldn’t give me the chaotic pace that I craved. That performing the same predictable cases over and over again would destroy the thrill that I used to feel in the OR.
But over the past few months, I’ve realized that was kind of the point—predictability. It was the thing I desperately needed in order to raise my son by myself, and even though general surgery was never my dream specialty, I’m not the most important person in my life anymore—my son is.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he has something written about that case on his headstone when he dies,” Walker says, shaking his head. “But that actually reminds me. If you’re free next Wednesday, you should stop by the campus.”
I arch my brow. “What? A fancy drill model came out, and you want to have a play date to show off your shiny new toy, or something?”
Our hospitals are only twenty minutes apart, so it shouldn’t be a problem to shift around my scheduled cases. I’m just giving him a hard time because ortho bro jokes are too easy to toss around.
“Never heard that one before,” he deadpans. “No. Dr. Tomkins is giving a talk on the use of foreskin with trauma wound healing, and I thought you might be interested.
“Thanks but I’m already circumcised.”
I have to roll my lips to stifle my amusement, but Walker just blinks at me like I’m the biggest moron that he’s ever met.
“I’ll be there, relax.” I lean back in my desk chair and laugh. “And come on . . . you have to admit that was a pretty good one.”
He cracks a smile. “For a dad.”
“Don’t say that like it’s an insult. Considering how much your wife talks about y’all fucking, I’m sure you’ll be spewing dad jokes soon enough too.”
We both know that isn’t true. Walker is one of the most literal people I’ve ever met, so even if he became a father tomorrow, he wouldn’t ever make a joke—it’s just not in his DNA.
“Actually, speaking of that . . .” I trail off because I’m reminded of why I asked him to stick around after his interview, and I want to phrase this correctly so that I don’t embarrass the fuck out of myself.
He watches me silently, waiting for me to continue.
“So when you guys started hooking up,” I start again, trying to spit it out. “Was it more, uh, vanilla? Or did you guys always . . . you know?”
I have no idea what’s wrong with me. I’ve never had issues finding the right words before so talking about BDSM shouldn’t make me hesitate.
But it does.
I don’t know if it’s because this isn’t a topic I’m familiar with at all, so I don’t know what I don’t know. Or if it’s because I was raised in the South, so the thought of disrespecting a woman throws me off. But I suddenly feel like I want to crawl into a hole and never come out.
Jesus Christ. This was a stupid idea.
Walker cocks his head like my question was the last thing he was expecting.
“Our dynamic?” he asks, letting out a soft chuckle. “No, it was the opposite. We became more vanilla as time went on, actually. Now we kind of go in and out of it depending on the situation.”
“Got it.” I reach for my Red Bull and take a swig, trying to sound casual. “So that was something you were into with your first wife?”
Walker was married before he met Morgan and from what I remember, his ex-wife was his high school sweetheart. It seems unlikely that he became an expert in BDSM—if that’s what he even is—from a single partner. But I truly have no idea how people end up exploring this side of themselves. It’s not something I thought much about . . . until Caroline.
“Hell no.” He huffs and scratches his beard like he’s thinking back on a memory. “And thank-fucking-god because you shouldn’t do that shit with someone you don’t trust. Honestly, it wasn’t anything that I knew I was interested in until I read this stupid romance book Morgan recommended. It opened my eyes to stuff I had probably always been curious about but never had the time—or the right partner—to experiment with. I don’t know how to explain it other than the fact that it just felt right with her.”
“Gotcha,” I say, fiddling with the tab on the top of the can. “So you just . . . went for it?”
Walker grins and shakes his head. “I’m sure she would have preferred that in the beginning because she’s impulsive as fuck. But no. I needed some time to do my own research before we went down that path. And I’m glad that I did because most of her books didn’t really give an accurate representation of the lifestyle. If I had followed their lead, things probably wouldn’t have been safe. Or healthy.”
I nod, feeling myself relax because I wasn’t expecting him to be so candid. Walker is pretty guarded about his personal life, and the only reason I knew that he was into kink was because his wife has no filter and loves to talk about her collar.
“Yeah. Some of the stuff out there is wild, dude. I could live without seeing someone’s asshole get fisted again.”
Walker laughs. “I definitely wouldn’t recommend watching porn if you’re actually interested. I mean, some people are into that stuff, but most of us aren’t. It’s all about communication and limits. I refused to do anything with Morgan until I knew that she was comfortable telling me what she needed.”
I scrub my hand over my face, trying to make sense of everything.
After I overheard Caroline refer to me as vanilla, I started stewing over my previous partners. In the past, I never felt like there was anything missing in my past sex life, but I’m definitely more mainstream compared to our friends. Maybe it’s because I just never explored that side of myself . . . or maybe I’m not cut out for it because my stomach gets this uneasy feeling every time I think about intentionally hurting her.
“So the research you did . . . it helped you figure out that you were into whips and chains and shit?”
Walker studies me for a beat, and I wonder if he knows who I’m thinking about.
“I’ll send you some stuff . . . but no, that’s not really what it’s about for me. Not all dynamics have to look the same.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, for example, Morgan’s bratty as fuck and makes me work for her submission. Obviously, I’m into it. But some dominants wouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot pole because they’re more traditional with their style. It doesn’t really matter what your dynamic looks like, though, as long as it works for both you and your partner.”
I frown because I wasn’t expecting that. I assumed everyone into BDSM liked to wear leather, understood obscure rope ties, and enjoyed giving or receiving pain. I didn’t realize that there was so much variation.
Walker reaches into his pocket to pull out his phone. “Let me send you my buddy Worth’s number. He’s pretty active in the community and way more of an expert than I am on this stuff. Pretty sure he even has a podcast on kink education now.”
“Yeah, thanks. That would be great,” I reply, glancing at the clock in the bottom right screen of the computer. “Probably should head out to grab the little man from daycare.”
Walker nods and stands from his chair. I’m sure he recognizes that I’m using my son as an excuse to cut our conversation short, but he isn’t the kind of guy who prods for more information—he minds his business, and I appreciate the hell out of that.
“No problem. Tell my buddy happy early birthday for me. Sure you don’t want to do anything to celebrate?”
“Nah,” I reply, stretching as I get to my feet. “We’re just going to have lunch at the club with my parents because it’s not like he will remember it anyway.”
“Sounds good.”
Walker pauses before he opens my office door, his jaw twitching like he’s uncomfortable.
“If your questions were related to what happened between you and Caroline at the lake . . . speaking from personal experience, I’d suggest that you guys don’t keep it a secret from Parker if it’s going to happen again.”
I blow out a long, hard breath, mentally replaying the words that I heard Caroline say clear as day— it’s never happening again.