Chapter 31
CHAPTER 31
WYATT
“You don’t have to be nervous,” Owen says as we approach the grand brick two-story house with hulking white columns, one of the biggest, most impressive homes on an already-grand stretch of North Meridian in Indianapolis.
I want to tell him that it’s not the house that’s making me nervous or the fact that we’re about to walk into the engagement party of his ex-girlfriend. It’s the fact that not six hours ago, I watched this man have what looked an awful lot like a panic attack. It’s the fact that rather than talking about it, we spent the drive up here listening to one and half Debbie tapes (both from when the relationship was going well, if all the Boyz II Men is to be believed). It’s the fact that he’s practically pulling muscles trying to smile, to laugh, to pretend that everything is absolutely fine.
As if I wouldn’t notice the way he keeps flexing his fingers in his lap, like he can’t hold them still. Or the rhythmic tic in his jaw. Or the way he keeps staring off into the middle distance, lost inside a deluge of thoughts he’s expending every ounce of energy to hold back.
“I’m fine,” I say, and then jump a little when a young guy in black pants and a red vest suddenly appears at my window, his hand out.
“Valet,” Owen says.
“Right.” I dig through my purse and hand over my keychain, wishing I had time to pull the car key off the ring of keys that open various locks at the Half Pint. But maybe the grandeur of the house is getting to me, because I just hand the whole jangly mess over. I get out of the truck, and as the teenage valet hops in, I smooth the ruffled hem of the floral sundress I borrowed from Hazel. “This party seriously has valet ?”
“Josh’s mom is a top executive at a pharmaceutical company, and his dad is a plastic surgeon,” Owen says, and hooks my arm into the crook of his elbow. “They were both a little disappointed that Josh decided to be an ER doctor.”
“Okay, so give me one more rundown,” I say, pausing at the foot of the steps leading up to the door. I can hear the tinkling of a piano that’s definitely being played live. The polite hum of chatter floats through the windows. There’s a floral arch over the door, spilling blooms and greenery onto the wide porch. For some reason when Owen said “engagement party,” I pictured a backyard barbecue situation: someone’s dad standing over a grill, a buffet table with a red-and-white checkered tablecloth.
I did not picture Bridgerton meets Succession .
“Francie and Josh and I all met in med school. We did our residencies together. Francie and I dated for a couple of years during residency, but we broke up in our third year,” he says.
I want to ask why, but that doesn’t feel like a casual question when we’re seconds from walking into her engagement party. And when Owen is already vibrating at such a high frequency.
“Josh is so obviously the one for her.” As he says it, he seems to relax for the first time since this morning. There’s a genuine smile pulling at his lips. “And thank god they realized it, because now here we are.”
I’ve never seen a man so sincerely delighted by his ex-girlfriend’s happiness.
Someone—a cater waiter? A party planner?—wordlessly opens the door just as we approach, welcoming us into a grand marble-floored foyer filled with even more flowers.
“Most of the people here are probably doctors, I’m sorry to say.” Owen guides me through the entrance. “A lot of med school and residency people. Francie and Josh both got full-time jobs at Riley Children’s when they finished, so our friend group stayed pretty solid.”
But you left? The question is right there on the tip of my tongue, but I bite it back. This party coupled with the scene at the soccer game this morning suddenly has me realizing how little I know about Owen. I thought he was such an open book, but all this time he’s kept the attention on me, conveniently avoiding sharing details about his past.
“Owen!” A beautiful, petite Black woman, her hair pulled back in a tight bun, comes rushing through the crowd, arms out, a stunning goldenrod chiffon dress practically floating around her. She engulfs him in a hug so full of warmth and happiness that I feel a frizzle of joy just watching it. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
Owen sinks into the hug, finally seeming to let out a breath. Then Francie steps back and pivots to me with a wide smile.
“And you must be Wyatt,” she says. “I’m a hugger. Can I a hug you?”
“Sure,” I tell her, and I’ve barely gotten the word out before she pulls me in. She hugs me with the same warmth she lavished on Owen, and her embrace actually calms the undercurrent of anxiety I’ve been feeling all day.
I like her instantly.
“I wish I didn’t have to charm a bunch of old white CEOs at this thing, because I’d much rather be in a corner with a margarita learning why this man is so obsessed with you,” she says with a wicked grin.
“Francie,” Owen warns, but he’s smiling too, the tension of this morning melting off of him.
“What? I’m your best friend, that’s my job,” Francie says.
“Well, I’m happy to give you the bullet points real fast,” I tell her. “I’m cool as shit, funny as hell, and I do this thing with my tongue?—”
“Oh my god, the two of you together are lethal,” Owen groans.
Francie cackles. “We have got to arrange a double date,” she says to Owen.
A tall, thin white man strides over, and from his confidence and the comfort he seems to have with both Francie and this house, I assume this must be Josh. The man looks like a J.Crew model, all blond and blue-eyed and plaid-shirted. He definitely owns more than a few fleece vests and actually looks good in them.
“Excuse me, folks, but my great-grandmother just arrived,” he says, trying for a comical grimace, but he’s completely unable to tamp down the wide smile that overtakes his face as he makes eye contact with his future bride. God, Owen was right—it’s obvious these two are made for each other. “Unfortunately we have to go genuflect.”
“Lemme at her,” Francie says with a feisty grin. “Grandparents love me.”
She pulls Owen into another quick hug and whispers something in his ear that makes him smile. Then she gives me a quick wave and makes me promise we’ll hang out soon before disappearing into the crowd with Josh.
The party is lovely—the drinks are free-flowing, and the food is next-level—but two hours later, I have to admit I’m tapped out. I’ve had to delicately remove myself from a man in the over-seventy set who kept trying to touch my tattoos, but mostly it’s been doctors. So. Many. Doctors.
And do you know what doctors like to do when they’re drinking together?
Tell truly disgusting stories.
I learned about a guy who was brought in by ambulance because he was found bleeding in a grocery store, only for the doctors to cut off his pants and discover they were stuffed with raw steaks. There was a woman who was brought in from the airport because TSA spotted a bomb in her vagina on the X-ray machine. They brought a bomb squad into the operating room, but it turned out it was just a lighter. She was a very dedicated smoker, apparently, and I remain filled with questions.
And people put so many things up their asses. I’m not usually one to yuck someone’s yum, but oh my god. A whole apple? A light bulb? A fucking hamster? Humanity is so much more fucked up than I thought.
And throughout the conversation about ass accoutrements and other emergency room disasters, Owen remains loose. He laughs and smiles, sipping on a series of beers, but he doesn’t say much. He tells no horror stories, and honestly, that makes me respect him more. His patients don’t deserve to be cocktail party fodder.
A lanky white guy yawns—he works at Cook County Hospital in Chicago and has the most horrific stories of the lot. “You know, Owen,” he says, “you were smart to go into private practice. Better hours, much less stress. Way to get out while you could.”
Owen nods and gives a little laugh, and I think I’m the only one who notices it’s a bit brittle. “Always thinking ahead,” he says, then tosses back the rest of his beer. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to hit the restroom.”
He gives my elbow a squeeze, then disappears into the crowd.
“I’m so glad he settled down,” the woman next to me says. I think her name is Mira? Maura? When she introduced herself, I was too busy trying not to stare at the bloodred lipstick on her obvious veneers. She’s been eyeing me all night, noting every time Owen touches me, her pointed gaze on my tattoos. She leans into me now, talking like she’s got a secret, and it’s all I can do not to step away from her cloud of sickly sweet perfume. “That thing third year was so wild. We were all so worried he’d, like, quit medicine and go work on an oil rig or something.”
Her overdrawn lips curl into a Cheshire Cat grin, her highlighter catching the glow of the antique chandelier overhead. And I realize this is some kind of power move. Mira can barely control her face as she watches me to see how I’m going to respond. If I’m going to ask, What thing third year? And even though I want to, I will not give this bitch the satisfaction.
“He loves his patients,” I tell her, which has the benefit of being true. “He’s doing great.”
But in the back of my mind, a tiny voice says, But is he really? His reaction at the soccer field revealed the wear at his seams.
“Well, that’s good,” Mira says, like she doesn’t believe it. Like she wants to coax me into giving her some dirt.
Before she can say anything else, I take a step back. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to freshen my drink,” I say, then place my empty champagne glass on the tray of a passing waiter and melt into the crowd.
I circulate a few times, thinking maybe Owen got drawn into a conversation with one of the silver-haired executives or some other doctors, but I don’t find him.
“Excuse me, where’s the bathroom?” I ask a waiter, who points me down a hallway.
I turn the corner and run into Francie.
“I’m peopled out,” she explains, leaning against a wall beside a painting that looks like it came from a garage sale but is probably worth more than my house.
“I don’t blame you. This party is something else,” I say.
“The one my parents are throwing up in Gary is going to be much more relaxed,” she says. “Their work colleagues are all middle school teachers and bus drivers, and the food will be served in disposable trays. I can’t wait.”
“Sounds much more my speed,” I confess.
“Mine too,” she says. “Don’t get me wrong, I love Josh’s parents, but they become different people entirely when it comes to stuff like this. I just accept it and move on.”
I nod.
“Hey, so I saw you talking to Mina. I should probably do some damage control,” Francie says. I realize she means Mira/Maura, she of the gaudy makeup and the fake sympathy. “That witch was always trying to get Owen in an on-call room. I only invited her because she’s dating Josh’s best friend from undergrad.”
I shrug, because Mina/Mira/Maura didn’t really get to me. Not in the way she intended, anyway. Mostly she just made me more concerned about Owen.
“Hey, Francie, can I ask you something? What happened during third year?”
Francie sighs. “That’s not my story to tell, but Owen lost a patient, and it really fucked with him. Like, beyond what one would expect. There was a minute where I wasn’t sure he’d come back from it.”
“But he did?”
She nods. “Eventually. He worked through it.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“That’s not to say he’s over it. I’m not sure if you ever get over something like that. You just learn to compartmentalize it.”
That doesn’t sound like a great strategy. And maybe Owen’s compartment isn’t big enough to hold the enormity of what happened to him. Maybe something about what happened to Betsy this morning made the door to that compartment spring open, and now some not-great stuff is leaking out.
“Keep an eye on him,” Francie says. “He puts on this whole persona of the smiling, happy, calming Superman, steady and strong. He wants to do the saving. He doesn’t want anyone to have to save him.” After a minute, she adds, “I’m not even sure if he would know if he needed saving.”
“Thanks, Francie.”
“You’re welcome. I like you, Wyatt. You seem like a tough, no-nonsense bitch, but because he’s my best friend, I’m obligated to say that if you hurt him, I have plenty of ways to take you down and make it look like an accident, okay?”
She winks as she says it, which takes the edge off the menace, and we both laugh. But I know that Francie is also a tough, no-nonsense bitch and that the warning has teeth.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go schmooze the boomer executives my future in-laws insisted on inviting to this shindig. And just a little pro tip from me to you? When Owen needs a break from peopling, you can usually find him hiding in a bathroom somewhere. Bad news for you is that this place has, like, forty-five of them. But I’d start back there.” She points down a small hallway that’s mostly full of cater waiters passing in and out of the swinging door to the kitchen.
I wander the first floor, peeking into bathrooms, all the while working up my courage to ask Owen some questions. About third year. About the panic attack. About why he feels the need to hide this stuff behind that brittle smile. He doesn’t need to hide from me. This wasn’t supposed to be a relationship, what we have, but it’s obvious that it’s become one when we weren’t looking. And if we’re going to have a relationship, I’d like him to trust me enough to tell me the truth. To show me the whole unvarnished mess of him.
I look in three bathrooms before I find him in a little powder room tucked back by the sunroom. The door is shut, but I take a swing and knock.
“Occupied,” he calls through the door.
“Zip up, because I’m coming in,” I reply.
The door swings open immediately, because Owen isn’t actually using the bathroom, just sitting on the toilet lid doing a New York Times crossword puzzle.
“You know, we can just leave. You don’t need to haunt these people’s very ugly bathroom,” I say, eyeing the sad-looking French peasants herding sheep on the toile wallpaper.
He laughs, arranging his perfect Owen smile on his face, and it’s all I can do not to tell him to cut the shit. I don’t need the perfect happy Owen. I just need Owen , cracks and all. But the man looks like he’s trying so fucking hard to hold on to his sanity, and to take that away from him would probably only wound him further.
“Or we can talk,” I say. I glance over my shoulder and see that we’re alone in this tiny, tucked-away hall.
I brace for him to blow me off, to say we need to get back to the party, to pretend.
But he surprises me by standing up and wrapping his hand around my wrist, giving me a tug. I tumble into the tiny bathroom with him, landing flush against his chest. He reaches past me, his hand brushing my hip, and pulls the door shut, flipping the lock.
“I have a better idea,” he says, and that fake smile suddenly becomes something a whole hell of a lot sexier.
“A bathroom quickie? With all these eighteenth-century peasants watching us?” I nod at the wallpaper.
“Then I better do some of my best work,” he says. He ducks his chin and starts peppering the underside of my jaw with soft kisses and swipes of his tongue. Then he spins me around, placing my hands on the marble countertop. I catch sight of him in the mirror, his eyes dark and full of hunger.
“I’ve been wanting to flip this frilly little dress up since the moment I saw it,” he growls into my ear, dragging the gauzy fabric through his fingers.
I wanted to talk, but it’s clear Owen doesn’t want that. He wants this, and isn’t this what I promised him? Wasn’t this our agreement? No strings? No relationship?
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” I reply, my voice husky with need. Because even amidst my hesitations, I still want him more than should be legal. Does the DEA know about the potent affects of Owen McBride? Do they know what it feels like to want him? Because feeling his hands coast over my hips, gliding down between my thighs and fisting my lace panties so tightly I’m half worried he’ll rip them, half desperate for him to…it feels dangerous.
“I want to destroy these,” he says, giving the lace a tug. “I want you to walk out of this fancy-ass party wet and bare and defiled.”
“What’s stopping you?” I ask, eyebrow arched.
His only response is to jerk his hand and the tear the lace. He raises the fabric to his face and inhales, then shoves it in his pocket, never taking his eyes off mine in the mirror. And I’m riveted to his gaze like I’m under a spell, like he’s pulling my strings. When he kicks at my heels, I widen my stance. When he presses down between my shoulder blades, I lower myself onto my elbows, tossing my hair back so I don’t lose sight of him.
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet, dropping it onto the marble countertop.
“Open it,” he says, and like I’m in a trance, I flip it open. It’s clear to me now that this is what Owen needs: a sense of control. It may not be honesty and conversation, confession and absolution, but it’s something only I can give him.
“Find the condom,” he says.
“You brought a condom to this party?”
Owen leans down, licking the shell of my ear, before he growls, “Wyatt, do you not understand that I always want you? Everywhere? That you’re mine ?”
The words send a wave of heat through my body, and I pull the condom from between some twenty-dollar bills and hold it up to him. I’m breathing hard, my eyelids heavy as the desire for this man overtakes me.
It takes him seconds to sheath himself, and with his eyes still on me, he fists his cock and enters me in one hard, fast thrust.
I drop my head into my hands to stifle my moan.
“Eyes on me, Wyatt.” His voice is a low scrape that raises goose bumps along my arms. I lift my head and meet his eyes in the mirror, his gaze pinning me there.
His hands clasp my hips and he goes to work, the rough, hard slide of him drawing me closer and closer to madness. But every time my eyes begin to drift closed, he stills, his hand fisting my hair until I look up, meet his dark gaze.
“Do you want to come?” he asks me, his fingers flexing, the most delicious tug at my roots nearly driving me to orgasm.
“Yes,” I moan, beg, plead.
He folds himself over me until he’s in my ear again. “Fingers on your clit, Wyatt.”
The command is nearly too much, but I do what he asks, reaching down, my fingers slipping over the wetness. I press in soft circles, my lips parted as I careen closer and closer to oblivion.
“That’s it, pretty girl,” he growls. “Let me watch you. Eyes on me.”
There’s a split second where I don’t think I can do it. I’m not sure I can come while I watch him. Standing there on the edge of an explosive orgasm, my eyes nearly squeeze shut against the explosion of pleasure, but I force myself to maintain eye contact in the mirror. To let him see me.
I want him to see me.
And the instant I feel the release, the flood of pleasure coursing through my body, Owen bites my earlobe before he rumbles, “Good girl.”
And then he follows me over the edge.