Chapter 12 The York Christmas Dinner
The York Christmas Dinner
Jax
There is something inherently wrong about a tuxedo in a Jeep Wrangler.
It violates the laws of physics. Tuxedos belong in limousines, or at the very least, climate-controlled sedans with heated leather seats.
They do not belong in a ten-year-old vehicle that smells like wet dog (I don't own a dog, but the Jeep has a history) and has a suspension system designed for rock crawling, not smooth rides.
I glance over at the passenger seat.
Maxwell York is gripping the "Oh Shit" handle with white knuckles. He is wearing a black tuxedo that fits him so perfectly it should be illegal. His hair is slicked back. His jaw is clenched tight enough to grind diamonds.
"You okay over there, Princess?" I ask, downshifting as we turn onto the private road leading to the estate. "You look like you're waiting for an IED to go off."
"The suspension on this vehicle is assault," Maxwell mutters, staring straight ahead. "And I am not waiting for an explosion. I am waiting for my mother."
"Same difference."
We crest the hill. The York Estate looms in front of us.
"It looks like a vampire’s summer home," I note.
"It is a Gothic Revival," Maxwell corrects automatically. "My grandfather built it to intimidate his business rivals."
"He succeeded, clearly."
I pull into the circular driveway. It is lined with cars that cost more than my organ systems combined. A Bentley. A vintage Jaguar. A Mercedes G-Wagon.
And now, a mud-splattered Jeep Wrangler with a cracked bumper and a winch that has seen actual combat.
I park right next to the Bentley.
"Are you sure about this?" I ask, killing the engine. The sudden silence is heavy.
Maxwell doesn't move. He’s staring at the massive oak front doors like they are the gates of hell.
"If I don't go in," he says quietly, "she wins. She calls the Board. She makes my life a misery of audits and 'surprise' inspections."
He turns to look at me. In the dim light of the dashboard, his blue eyes are wide and terrified. The Ice King is gone. This is just a son who has spent thirty-six years failing to be enough.
"Hey." I reach across the console. I cover his hand on his knee.
Maxwell flinches, then relaxes. He turns his hand over, gripping my fingers tight. His skin is ice cold.
"You have a shield," I remind him. "That’s the deal. I take the hits. You drink the scotch."
Maxwell takes a deep breath. He nods. "The shield. Right."
He releases my hand. He straightens his tie. The mask slides back into place—cool, detached, impenetrable.
"Let’s go," he says.
We get out. The wind bites through my new charcoal wool coat, but the suit Giovanni tailored makes me feel solid. Armored.
We walk up the stone steps.
There is a boy sitting on the porch railing. He’s about eighteen, wearing a prep school blazer and smoking a cigarette with an intensity that suggests he’s trying to burn his lungs out on purpose.
"Preston," Maxwell says stiffly.
The boy looks up. He has Maxwell’s features, but they are softer, meaner. He looks bored.
"Maxwell," Preston drawls. He flicks ash onto the pristine snow. He slides off the railing and walks down the steps, circling my Jeep like he’s inspecting a crime scene.
He stops at the back bumper. He leans in, squinting at the sticker plastered next to the license plate, right under a layer of dried mud.
BUT DID YOU DIE?
Preston reads it out loud. His voice drips with disdain.
"Charming," Preston says, looking at me. "Is that a philosophical inquiry, or a standard of care?"
I grin, leaning against the fender. "It’s a liability waiver, kid. Keeps the passengers from complaining about the suspension."
Preston scoffs, trying to hide an amused smirk. He looks me up and down. "And the mud? Is that a stylistic choice, or did you drive here through a swamp?"
"It’s a tactical vehicle," I say. "Keeps the resale value low so no one steals it. You should try it on the Jag sometime."
Preston blinks. He was expecting me to be offended. He wasn't expecting me to be amused.
"Mother is inside terrorizing the catering staff," Preston deflects, turning back to the house. "She’s already sent the soup back twice. Good luck with... that."
"Wonderful," Maxwell mutters. He puts a hand on the small of my back—a proprietary, protective gesture that sends a jolt of heat through my coat—and guides me inside.
The inside of the house smells like pine, expensive wax, and judgment.
A butler takes our coats. I resist the urge to salute him.
"Maxwell!"
A voice booms from the library. A man steps out. He is tall, silver-haired, and wearing a velvet smoking jacket. He looks like Maxwell in thirty years, if Maxwell stopped caring about saving lives and started caring about accumulating yachts.
Dr. Alistair York. The esteemed retired Neurosurgeon.
"Father," Maxwell says. He stiffens beside me.
Alistair ignores his son completely. He walks straight to me. He looks me up and down, taking in the fit of the suit, the scar on my neck, the way I’m standing.
"You must be the Trauma surgeon," Alistair says. He extends a hand. His grip is iron.
"Dr. O'Connell," I say, squeezing back just as hard. "Jax."
"Trauma," Alistair muses. "A bit... reactionary, isn't it? No finesse. Just plumbing and duct tape."
"I like to think of it as high-speed chess with blood, sir," I say smoothly. "Any idiot can fix a problem when the patient is paralyzed and the room is quiet. Trying to fix a brain while the patient is fighting you? That takes a special kind of... craft."
Alistair pauses. A gleam of interest sparks in his eyes. I played to his ego perfectly.
"Chess," Alistair repeats. He smiles. It’s a shark’s smile. "Come into the library, O'Connell. I want to ask you about field amputations. Maxwell, go find your mother. She’s vibrating."
Maxwell looks panicked. "Father, I—"
"Go," Alistair commands. He puts a hand on my shoulder and steers me toward the library.
I look back at Maxwell. I wink. I got this.
The library is dark wood and leather. It smells of old paper and serious money. Alistair pours two glasses of amber liquid from a crystal decanter.
"Fifty-year-old single malt," Alistair says, handing me a glass. "Don't put ice in it or I’ll have security remove you."
"Neat is fine." I take a sip. It tastes like smoke and peat. "Smooth."
Alistair leans against his massive mahogany desk, swirling his glass. He doesn't sit. He watches me, his eyes sharp and calculating. He’s not looking at me like a guest; he’s looking at me like an investment he’s considering shorting.
"You don't seem terrified," Alistair observes. "Most people who walk into this room are terrified. It’s designed that way. The ceiling height alone usually induces a mild inferiority complex."
I look up at the coffered ceiling, then around at the walls lined with first editions.
"It’s a nice room, sir," I say, shrugging. "But I’ve slept in palaces that had been turned into mortar pits, and I’ve slept in ditches that felt like the Ritz because nobody was shooting at me. A room is just a room. It’s hard to heat, though, I bet."
Alistair pauses. A slow, genuine smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"The heating bill is offensive," he admits. "But Catherine insists on the aesthetic."
He takes a drink, his gaze dropping to my hands.
"So," Alistair says. "Afghanistan? Maxwell mentioned you did two tours."
"Helmand Province. Forward Surgical Team."
"Messy business," Alistair muses. "I imagine doing a thoracotomy in a tent requires a specific kind of temperament. You can't rely on the monitors. You have to rely on instinct."
"Monitors lie," I say. "Blood loss doesn't. You learn to listen to the body, not the machine."
"Precisely." Alistair nods, looking pleased. "That’s the Neurosurgeon in me talking. The machine can tell you the pressure, but only your hands can tell you the texture. Maxwell... he loves his machines. He trusts them more than he trusts people."
Alistair walks over to the fireplace. He looks up at the portrait of a severe-looking ancestor.
"My son is brilliant, technically," Alistair says, his voice taking on a critical edge. "But he shakes if the temperature in the OR varies by a degree. He needs the world to be perfect to function. He’s... delicate."
I set my glass down on a coaster. The sound is sharp in the quiet room.
"With respect, sir," I say, keeping my voice level but firm. "You're wrong."
Alistair turns slowly. He raises an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"Maxwell isn't delicate," I say. "He's precise. There's a difference. I’ve seen him stitch a beating heart while standing in a pool of blood during a mass casualty event. The room was chaos. The patient was crashing. And Maxwell didn't shake. He didn't even blink."
I step forward, meeting the older man's gaze.
"I work in the mud so he can work in the clouds, Dr. York. That doesn't make him weak. It makes him specialized. You built a hospital wing; he fills it with patients who actually walk out alive. He is the most lethal, effective surgeon I have ever worked with."
Alistair stares at me. For a second, I think I’ve pushed too far. I think he’s going to call security or throw the scotch in my face.
Then, he laughs.
It’s a dry, rusty sound, but there’s approval in it.
"Loyal," Alistair says, nodding. "I like that. Most people spend their time in this room trying to agree with me to get a donation. You’re the first one to tell me I’m wrong about my own son."
He walks back to the desk and tops off my drink.
"He needs that," Alistair says quietly. "He needs someone who isn't afraid of the dirt. Catherine... she polished him until he was so shiny he couldn't grip anything. It’s good to see him getting his hands dirty."
Alistair raises his glass.
"To the mud," Alistair toasts.
"To the clouds," I counter.
We clink glasses.
Alistair drains his scotch in one smooth, practiced swallow. He sets the heavy crystal down on a coaster with a decisive click, checking his Patek Philippe watch.