The Bind

1. Chapter One

Chapter One

Colter

I ease my neck side to side under the hot spray, letting the heat massage away the tension that grips my muscles before turning around to tilt my face toward the shower head. The water hammers against my closed eyelids and white noise muffles past my ears as water streams down my body in thick rivulets. I soak in the warmth, allowing it to soothe me for a moment before I reach a hand out and clasp my palm around the stainless steel knob. On the count of three, I inhale sharply and hold my breath for a beat before I slam the handle firmly to the left.

Ice cold water sharper than a thousand needles rains down on me. I grit my teeth and grind my molars together. Every previously relaxed muscle now tenses on command as my heart rate picks up. I lean forward and press my palms against the marble shower wall as the countdown starts, forcing myself to endure the masochistic torture of an ice shower.

By the time my internal clock marks the halfway point, the cold shock begins to wear off, my knees stop twitching, and I can finally stand the sting of the frigid water. Ten years of starting my mornings the same way, with the same numbing routine, and the shock never seems to come easier. I spin back around and reach my hands up to rake my fingers through my hair, wishing I had slept more than a handful of hours last night.

But when the hot redhead wouldn’t stop eye-fucking me from across the bar, I figured I’d do her a favor and take her back to my place. She was fun, but a solid seven out of ten at best. She did her due diligence; rode me all night long and didn’t even try to cuddle afterwards which means she met all three of my criteria. With any luck, I can sneak out before she wakes and avoid the awkward morning-after chatter. My housekeeper will be here as soon as the sun rises and ensure she doesn’t steal anything on her way out the door.

With another spin of the dial, I shut the water off and reach for my towel, draping the soft cotton over my head and rubbing vigorously at the sides of my hair as I step out. The warmth from the heated floors meets my numbed feet, and I cringe at the change in temperature, nearly hopping in place until the stinging subsides. I use the ends of my towel to rub the goosebumps off my chest and arms before wiping the steam off my mirror.

The reflection looking back should scare me. The dark circles under my eyes from the pitiful night’s sleep would have the average person wondering if they would survive. Some poor accountant might spend the next eight hours sitting at his desk, head in his hands, kicking himself for not being man enough to play as hard as he works—but not me.

I reach for the orange bottle atop my sink, spinning the lid open and shaking out my daily dose of happy. Tossing it back, I smirk back at my reflection knowing I’ll scrub in, walk through the double doors of the OR, and still be one of the best goddamn surgeons Grace General has ever seen. Whether I’m hungover, fucked in the head from lack of sleep, or haunted by some demons from my past, my work has never been affected.

And my work is the only thing I can boast about.

After quickly dressing in black joggers and a tee, I shove a sweatshirt and clean scrub cap into my duffel before slipping out of the bathroom. With soft steps I sneak out of my room, taking another glance at the bimbo still sleeping in my bed before I leave.

Her long hair and cheap extensions drape over her pillow and mine; I wait to see if my cock twitches at the sight of the silk sheets pooled around her naked waist.

Nothing.

Which doesn’t surprise me anymore. Now that the liquor haze has left my system, the foggy allure she held over me last night falls flat. The feeling suits me just fine; I have no desire to go near the morning breath of some random bar slut anyways.

A better man might kneel on the mattress next to her and gently rub her shoulder until she’s partially awake to at least say goodbye. Unfortunately, I have nothing to say to her, and the bedside clock reads twenty to five which means I’m running late.

And for the life of me, I can’t even remember her name.

***

The double doors of the surgical wing greet me with a welcomed silence. The clean floor squeaks under my feet and faintly shines in the hall’s dimmed lights. Pre-op is a ghost town. Empty computer chairs sit cold; the TV screens are on but blank. A few of the pre-op nurses shuffle around and murmur amongst themselves over their mugs of coffee as they gossip about the day's schedule. I avert my gaze as soon as one of them starts to turn her head at the sound of my steps. The last thing I want is some forced small talk before I finish my morning coffee.

Moving past them to the hall of offices, I find most doors still shut with the exception of the one furthest down the hall, which belongs to Chief Dr. Richard Keeton.

Richard has his own private office upstairs with the rest of management, something a lot fancier than the piddly eight by eight room they give us down here, but he’s always preferred to do his work among the rest of us. Something I’ve admired about him from the start.

I unlock my door, not bothering to turn on the light as I toss my duffel on the empty chair near my desk. With my thermos of coffee in hand, I head to Richard's office. Leaning my tall frame against his door, I take a moment to study the aging face of my mentor as he flips through a stack of paperwork.

After a leisurely swig of my coffee, I break the silence surrounding us. “I thought we agreed you shouldn’t work so hard.”

Richard’s head tilts up at the sound of my voice and a broad smile appears. He pulls his glasses from his face and gestures for me to come in. Taking a seat in one of his two accompanying chairs, I toss a foot over my opposite knee as I lean back and bring my thermos to my lips for another drink while I wait for his direction.

My biological father, if you could give him that title, was nothing short of a piece of dog shit. He liked his booze, and his fists liked my face. If I was anywhere near his presence once he finished off his fifth, I became his own personal punching bag. Later that night, when I’d be in bed nursing my wounds, I imagined what life would have been like with a real dad. One that took pride in himself, his career, and shared his knowledge with others. That dream kept me going until I was twenty-six years old, a fresh-faced med school grad ready to make my name in the surgical world. I landed in the residency program here at Grace General, and on my very first day, the attending who oversaw my work was the infamous Dr. Richard Keeton.

Most of my peers were terrified of him, and rightfully so. He would bark orders and make demands that they couldn’t follow through with, then when he’d inform them of their failures, they’d run and hide with their tail between their legs.

But not me.

I’m no stranger to an angry person spitting harsh words in my face. I took his criticisms and forced myself to work harder, to be better, and Richard saw something in me. He took me under his wing, became my personal mentor, and sixteen years later he’s become the closest thing I’ve ever had to a father figure.

And this morning, he looks exhausted. The creases in his aging skin are more prominent under the dim lighting, likely made worse from a stressful few days at the hospital. He leans back in his chair, causing the leather to creak under his weight, and tosses his glasses on what looks like today’s report of administrative bullshit. He brings both hands to his face, pushing the base of his palms into his eyes, and begins rubbing in slow, counterclockwise movements. “It’s my daughter.”

Annaliese.

While Richard has been a hell of a father figure to me, I can’t say he’s been the same for Annaliese.

Early on in my residency, Richard’s wife found out about one of his many mistresses. She filed for divorce, demanded a hell of an alimony, and took their then teenager daughter to live with her in upstate New York. Richard has grumbled over the years about their strained relationship, but to both of our surprise, Annaliese decided to follow in her father’s footsteps and applied to med school. Like father, like daughter, she has a knack for the field and graduated top of her class.

However, to her father’s blatant disappointment, she chose to complete her surgical residency working as a volunteer for Compassion Cruises. Instead of moving back to the city to work alongside and learn from her father, she now spends her days penniless, living in a cargo ship sailing around Africa.

“What’s going on with Annaliese?”

He sighs heavily. “The original plan was for her to finish this year with Compassion Cruises, and then we would make some changes. The drama queen made her point.” He waves a hand in the air as if swatting away an imaginary fly. “She helped the less fortunate.” He snickers as he uses air quotes around the word ‘help’. “It’s time she moved back to the city and learned something in her residency besides how to place a bandaid.”

“But?” I prompt, sensing that’s no longer the plan.

“Her mother contacted me, and apparently Annaliese likes working overseas. My daughter would prefer to sleep next to an oil drum and risk contracting the Zika virus as opposed to the mainstream hospital life, which she now refers to as ‘ too political .’”

“Jesus, Richard.” I scrub a hand over my face. For the last year, Richard has been a little more than vocal about his disdain regarding Annaliese’s residency choice. He’s offered to have her come work here with him, tried to bribe her with cash, and who knows what else. Knowing that she hasn’t agreed to any of that before, it’s no surprise she isn’t willing to move back. “So she wants to finish her residency overseas?”

He nods once before leaning forward and bringing his elbows to rest on his desk. “She does, but since she’s only a resident and the program she found isn’t one that pays a salary to someone at her level, she can’t afford to.”

I furrow my brow; I’m not sure where this is going. Personally, I don’t know what her program entails. While I’m not opposed to the idea of volunteer work itself, I prefer to go home each night to my penthouse condo with central air and sleep in my California King bed—with or without a female to occupy the spot next to me. “I thought these programs paid the living expenses for someone who qualified.”

“They do, somewhat. They will give you a cot on the ship and bring you to the destination, but as a resident, she isn’t making a salary. She has some basic living expenses she can’t go without, which she was using a humanitarian grant to cover. Due to some funding mishaps, which I may or may not have had a hand in, it looks like she has been suddenly stripped of that grant...” He leans back in his chair, steepling his hands together underneath his chin, and I chuckle.

Richard has a way of getting exactly what he wants. He’s not only the Chief of Surgery, but he’s also a ruthless businessman. I wouldn’t be surprised if he wrapped a metaphorical fist around the throat of whoever was in charge of supplying his daughter her grant and forced them to strip it from her as a way to get her back to the States.

“She needs to come up with more money than she’s ever made in her life to be able to continue the program. Which is why I’ve made her a deal. And Colt, I need your help.”

I run a hand through the mop of hair on my head, taking a mental note that I’m overdue for a cut. “You know I’ll help you in any way I can, Richard. I just don’t know how much help I’ll be to a twenty-something who wants to live in a mud hut in Burma. We have nothing in common.”

He snorts, letting his hands fall. “Exactly. I’ve made a deal with her. She agreed to move back to the city for six months to finish out her second-year residency here, under the condition that I then pay for her to go back to Timbuktu for the next two years.”

Damn. A good reminder for me to never have kids. My money is spent on me, not wasted on unnecessary expenses like this volunteer program when she could move back home, make a liveable salary as a resident, and spend time with her father. “So where do I come into this?”

Richard’s eyes flick to the door, and I tilt my ear to notice the laughter from the surgical crew floating down the hall. With a gesture of his head, I’m on my feet and shutting the door; I assume what’s going to be said next most likely shouldn’t leave the confines of this room.

“Annaliese wants to become a surgeon, which is problem number one.”

I’m a little taken aback by his statement. “You don’t want her following in your footsteps?” Richard was elated when she was accepted into medical school. He bragged about her MCAT scores to anyone who would listen for weeks on end. He tried to persuade her to apply at his alma mater, so hearing him say her surgery program is a problem has me pulling my brows together.

He hits me with a stern look. “No.” He lowers his voice. “You know how I feel about women as surgeons in general.” His eyes flick to the door again to ensure it’s closed. “I’m proud of Annaliese, don’t get me wrong. She’s smart; she’s kind. She’ll be a great doctor, I have no doubt about that. But I’d like to see her in a better suited specialty like dermatology, or maybe family practice or OB. She could work as a pathologist or medical examiner if she wishes. Bottom line is, she doesn’t have what it takes to be a surgeon, and if she completed her residency here, in a real setting, she’d realize that sooner rather than later.”

Richard has made his disdain for female surgeons obvious to me before. It’s no secret he prefers to have male residents shadow him and will only recommend men for positions in power. Personally, I don’t think misogyny belongs anywhere inside a hospital. All I ask is that whoever I work with does their job the way they’re supposed to, and stays out of my way.

Richard, on the other hand, has made more than one female resident change career paths or leave the program altogether, but I didn’t think he felt the same way about his daughter.

“I’m still not sure I’m following. What does this have to do with me?”

“I want to assign you as her mentor.”

I groan and lean forward to set my thermos on his desk with a thunk, letting my forearms fall to my knees. “You know how I feel about students shadowing me.” And technically, a second-year wouldn’t have a designated mentor. They have more freedom and flexibility to assess cases than an intern does. That freedom comes with the ability to follow up with whatever attending is working that day. I’ve never done well with students shadowing me long-term. I like my OR organized and efficient. I don’t like wasting time explaining why I do what I do. I don’t need some nervous kid with fumbling hands crossing the sterile field or brushing up against the instrument table. And I don’t need to spend the next six months babysitting his daughter.

“Exactly,” he drawls. “I need you to show her how grueling it can be. If she wants to see what a real surgical routine is like, then she gets to see what an eighty to a hundred hour workweek with a no-nonsense surgeon breathing down her neck does to a person. She might work long days, but she hasn’t had to pair that with overnight call shifts yet.”

“This almost sounds evil, Richard, not gonna lie. You’re sure this is the route you want to take?”

He shrugs, shuffling the stack of papers on his desk and slipping them back into the manilla file folder. “She’s young; she’s restless. A few months working with you during the day and suffering through on-call at night will show her she isn’t made for this life. I doubt she’s had a real taste of the field wherever she’s been galavanting the last few years. I give her a month, solid. Mark my words, she’ll become so exhausted she’ll be crawling into my office, begging me to find a different specialty for her, one that likely won’t be needed overseas.”

I run my fingers over my lips as I contemplate his request. On one hand, I’d do nearly anything Richard asked of me. He’s done so much for me and my career. He’s the most important person in my life, and there are things he’s given me to which I could never repay him for, but something about this request doesn’t sit right with me.

“If you can do this for me, son,” Richard says, standing from his desk and reaching for his white coat hanging in the corner. “I’d have no doubt that you’re who this hospital needs to step in as Chief of Surgery once I retire.”

My heart thunders in my chest at his words. Richard has always alluded to my talents, both in the OR and with my ability to make decisions void of any emotion. Surgery is science, not romance, he always says. He’s nearing retirement age, and about two years ago, he sat me down and suggested I work to become his replacement as Chief.

Ever since that day, gaining that title and having that authority has been my number one goal to finally prove myself as a person. But spending the summer with his twenty-something-year-old daughter, pushing her past her limits, bearing the brunt of female hormones and tearful breakdowns isn’t how I want to spend my time.

Richard continues, “I think about retirement more and more each morning when my alarm goes off. If I knew my daughter was safe living in the city, secure in a stable residency with a more … appropriate career path, I think I’d be ready to call it quits. Hand the torch off to someone younger and more energetic, someone who can take charge of this place without letting it run into the ground.”

My heart thumps at his suggestion and at the knowledge that Chief status could be mine within a year or two. Hell, within the next six months if all goes well. I can boast about my academic accomplishments, and my surgical success rate is impeccable. I tag along with Richard to most bureaucratic functions and force my smile to the Board until my cheeks hurt. All in the name of becoming Chief once Richard retires. My dream is so close I can fucking taste the success, and a young girl with a bleeding heart won’t get in my way.

I stand and set my hands on my hips as I think for a moment before reaching out to shake his hand. “Let me know when she arrives; you’ve got a deal.”