Chapter 10 #2
Alistair is sulking because he owes Luke two thousand dollars. Harrison is explaining the history of the club sandwich.
“Actually, the triple-decker design was a structural innovation of the late Victorian era,” Harrison drones.
“Fascinating,” Luke says, taking a bite of his burger. He is eating with his hands. Catherine is watching him with horror.
“Dr. Silva,” Alistair interrupts, unable to help himself. “I have to ask. That swing on the eighth hole. You generated significant torque. What’s your secret? Pilates? Steroids?”
“Trauma bay,” Luke says, wiping his mouth. “Lifting patients. CPR. It’s all core strength.”
“CPR,” Alistair shudders. “How visceral. You know, we pay people to do that sort of thing so we don't have to touch the… fluids.”
“Someone has to do the plumbing, sir,” Luke says calmly.
“Exactly,” Catherine chimes in. “That’s what I was telling Preston. Everyone has their place. Some people run the hospital. Some people… clean it up.”
She smiles at Luke. It’s a cold, condescending smile.
“It’s good that you know your station, Dr. Silva. It saves everyone from… awkward misunderstandings.”
Silence falls over the table. Even Harrison stops talking about sandwiches.
This is it. The humiliation ritual.
I open my mouth to defend him. To scream. To flip the table.
But Luke puts a hand on my arm. He looks calm. He looks… bored.
He picks up his iced tea.
“Speaking of stations, Mr. York,” Luke says, turning to Alistair. “I noticed that driver you were using today. The ‘Titanium X’?”
Alistair blinks. “Yes? Custom made. Japanese import.”
“Beautiful club,” Luke nods. “Must have cost a fortune. Three thousand?”
“Four,” Alistair corrects proudly.
“Right,” Luke says. “That’s funny. Because I was looking at the hospital equipment manifest yesterday. My mother—Nurse Ortiz—she manages the audit logs.”
Alistair freezes. His fork stops halfway to his mouth.
“She found a line item,” Luke continues pleasantly. “Under ‘Surgical Supplies.’ For a ‘Titanium Precision Instrument.’ Cost: Four thousand dollars.”
Luke takes a sip of his tea.
“She was confused. Because we don't use titanium drivers in surgery. Unless… is that a new orthopaedic technique, Alistair?”
Harrison Vane gasps. “You expensed a golf club?”
“It… it has medical applications!” Alistair stammers, turning a shade of purple that clashes with his knickers. “Ergonomics! Balance studies!”
“Of course,” Luke smiles. “And the trip to St. Barts last month? The one listed as ‘Tropical Disease Infrastructure Research’?”
Alistair drops his fork. Clang.
He looks at Luke with wide, terrified eyes.
“St. Barts?” Catherine turns to her husband, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Alistair. You told me you were in Brussels. You said you were at a symposium on EU regulations!”
“I was!” Alistair squeaks. “The… the geography… it was a satellite campus! Very experimental!”
“My mother checked the logs, Alistair,” Luke interrupts, his voice dropping. “There were no site visits. No research. Just a lot of charges to a place called ‘Le Ti.’ And a yacht rental.”
“Alistair!” Catherine hisses.
Alistair looks at Catherine. He looks at Luke. He thinks of the spectre of the Black Binder. He opens his mouth to explain, to make up some lie about the research, but stops. He knows he's cornered.
“Okay!” Alistair shouts, holding up his hands. “Fine! You win! Two thousand dollars. Just… stop talking!”
“Alistair, what were you doing in St. Barts?” Catherine demands.
“Not now, Catherine!” Alistair snaps, wiping sweat from his forehead with a napkin. “Dr. Silva, you have made your point. Vividly. The bet is settled. Please, eat your burger.”
He looks at Luke with a mixture of fear and grudging respect. He knows Luke doesn't know exactly what happened in St. Barts, but he knows just enough to be dangerous, and he is willing to pay any price to keep that story at this table.
Harrison Vane looks between them, confused. “Was there research? I love research.”
“Eat your sandwich, Harrison,” I say.
Luke takes the cash Alistair slides across the table. He tucks it into his pocket.
“A pleasure playing with you, Dr. Silva,” Alistair says weakly. “You have… excellent form.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Luke turns to Harrison.
“And Harrison?” Luke asks.
“Y-yes?” Harrison squeaks, clutching his cape.
“The sandwich history. It’s fascinating. But if you mention the Victorians one more time, I’m going to assume you’re choking and perform the Heimlich maneuver. And as we established, I have very strong hands.”
Harrison goes pale. He shuts his mouth.
Luke stands up. He looks at me.
“Ready to go, Preston? I think I’ve had enough of nature for today.”
I stare at him. I stare at my terrified father and my furious mother.
“Yes,” I breathe. “God, yes.”
We walk to the Porsche in silence. The valet hands me the keys, looking confused as Luke tosses his clubs (my clubs) into the back.
We get in. I drive out of the gates.
As soon as we hit the main road, I pull over. I turn to Luke.
“You blackmailed him,” I say. “You blackmailed Alistair York over a golf club and a mystery trip to the Caribbean.”
Luke loosens his collar. He grins. It’s the sexiest thing I have ever seen.
“He was cheating,” Luke says. “He kicked his ball on the sixth hole. I saw it. I just levelled the playing field.”
“You are terrifying,” I whisper. “My mother is going to interrogate him for a week about St. Barts. And then she’s going to respect you. You realize that? You just won the Game of Thrones.”
“I don't want the throne,” Luke says, leaning back and closing his eyes. “I just want tacos. And maybe to never wear these shorts again.”
I laugh. “Tacos,” I agree. “But keep the shorts. I wasn't lying about the calves.”
Luke opens one eye, smirking. “Drive the car, York.”
I put the Porsche in gear.
“Yes, Doctor.”