14. Chapter 14
Chapter 14
Walker
“ S hit,” Beau blurts as he attempts his running subcuticular stitch for the third time.
“If you don’t know what you’re doing, don’t fucking do it,” I grumble loud enough for everyone in the room to hear me. “The point of this stitch is to leave the patient with less scarring. You know that right?”
The big idiot just chuckles and continues to work, throwing the stitch perfectly this time. He might look ridiculous in his cat-covered scrub cap, but he really is talented. He works well under pressure, doesn’t let negative feedback get under his skin, and learns quickly. He’s going to be a great surgeon one day, and I’m not just saying that because he’s one of my only friends—I really do believe in him.
Sensing that we’re almost done, the anesthesiologist looks up from her position at the patient’s head. “What’s the EBL?”
Beau pauses his work and peers up at me from across the operating table, his eyes searching mine like I’m going to provide him with the right answer.
I don’t.
“Uh.” He glances over at the table of saturated lap pads, then back at the anesthesiologist. “Let’s say a hundred,” he replies confidently.
I close my eyes, taking a moment to collect myself before I say something really rude. “Try again.”
Estimated blood loss has to be carefully tracked during all surgical cases. Every procedure is going to have some amount of blood loss, and it’s important to accurately assess the total so that you can determine if any replacement is needed.
Surgeons, especially those of us in orthopedics, are notorious for underestimating blood loss. I was in a case during my intern year with a seasoned attending who charted a fifty milliliter deficit for a hip replacement. The patient’s hemoglobin dropped by four points in his post-surgical labs, a value associated with closer to one thousand milliliters of loss, not fifty. While the patient was stable and didn’t require a transfusion, the case was something that stuck in my head so heavily that I focused my residency research on it.
“Three hundred?” Beau guesses again, less sure this time.
“Each one of those soaked sponges holds about a hundred milliliters. Count them, then give me a number based on reality.”
He tallies the total silently, then looks up sheepishly. “Five hundred, tops.”
“Better.” I nod toward the incision, indicating he should continue. “Always overestimate, rather than underestimate. Some guys think the less blood they admit to, the better they are at their jobs. But they’re just egotistical dickheads. Being honest with your documentation doesn’t make you weak—it makes you safe.”
Once he finishes his stitches, he looks to me for approval. I lean in slightly and stare at his work, pretending that I haven’t been watching him like a hawk the entire case. During his intern year any procedure we do together is under my license, meaning I’m the one liable if shit hits the fan. I like the guy, but he’s got a long way to go before I trust him with my career.
“Looks good.”
Despite the surgical mask covering most of his face, I can see the huge, prideful grin that he’s sporting. “I may be a brute, but I’m also an artist.”
“A struggling artist,” I correct, stepping back from the table.
“Even DaVinci started somewhere, right? Just call me Leo.”
I start to peel off my gloves, ready to get the fuck out of here because for the first time in a long time, I want to be somewhere other than the hospital. “You have the highest self-confidence of anyone I’ve ever met.”
Beau laughs, following me out of the OR. “You must not have spent much time around Morgan then. The other night she was hanging out with Claire, and the shit that came out of her mouth was absolutely ludicrous. I’m honestly terrified of Vegas.”
“Someone say Vegas?”
Beau goes stiff as a board next to me because Weston Southerland looks up at us from his phone. He’s leaning against the wall outside of the adjacent OR with an eager half-smile.
“Yeah. Heading out there in a few weeks, man,” I reply casually, nudging Beau to remind him to behave. “Good to see you by the way. How’s the attending life treating you?”
Because my schedule has been so light, we haven’t run into each other since I heard he was back. I thought someone told me he was only working part time, but it’s possible things changed—we get so many fucking emails that it’s hard to keep stuff straight.
“Could be worse.” Weston laughs half-heartedly and pulls off his navy scrub cap. “Could be a hell of a lot better though.”
“We’re all living the dream,” I reply sarcastically, studying the hollow bags beneath his hazel eyes. I’m sure the workload for a junior attending isn’t great, but it’s a hell of a lot better than a resident—he shouldn’t look so tired.
He runs his fingers through his dirty blond hair and lets out an almost pained exhale. “You boys need an extra? Feels like I haven’t left the house, or hospital, in months.”
Beau shifts uncomfortably beside me, and I can tell that he’s going to say something rude if I don’t keep talking.
“It’s just a few of us flying out for Parker’s bachelor party. Next time though.”
Weston’s face falls dejectedly. “No of course. Well, y’all have fun. I’ll catch you around.”
He shoves his hands into the pockets of his scrub pants and nods at me before walking away.
Beau leans in as we start down the hallway again and whispers, “Dude, that was so fucking awkward.”
He shudders dramatically before wrapping his meaty arm around my neck. “Anyway, like I was saying, I’m kind of terrified of our trip.”
“I don’t understand why you didn’t just plan a separate bachelor party.”
I think Beau felt sorry for me about the divorce and impulsively invited me to go to Vegas a few weeks ago. Even though I like Parker, it’s not my style to crash someone else’s party, and the words to politely decline his offer were on the tip of my tongue when he mentioned that the girls were going too.
Images of Morgan dancing on a table or going home with a random guy flashed through my head. And since I knew Beau and Parker would be preoccupied with their significant others, I agreed. At the time I justified it with the fact that I felt this carnal urge to take care of her that I couldn’t explain. But after the other night, I realized that my reaction was more . . . so much more.
“With what time?” Beau scoffs. “I’ve been slammed in trauma. The only reason I got to see your pretty face is because you decided to cover for Dr. Owens. Thanks, by the way, he blows a fat one.”
I nod, knowing exactly what he means—the guy is a huge douche.
Beau continues, “Plus, Claire already had a dope-ass trip planned for the girls, so it was easier to just mooch off of them.”
“Do you even know what we’re doing when we get there?”
“She hasn’t told me shit,” he answers, tapping the button for the elevator. “We’ll be fine though. She knows that there will be consequences if she pulls anything ridiculous.”
I shake my head because from what I know about Claire, she’s going to purposely do something to provoke a reaction. “Who else is going?”
“Besides us?” Beau glances at me as the elevator dings open. We step inside, and he leans against the back wall. “Just their sister, Caroline.”
“She’s in med school, right?” I ask, vaguely recalling meeting her at the engagement party.
“Yeah, she’s literally a mini Parker.” He closes his eyes for a moment as the elevator lurches upward. “They look fucking identical. It’s creepy.”
While I was pretty drunk the night we spoke, his description isn’t wrong. You can tell she’s much younger than her brother, but I remember thinking that they could almost pass for twins. Hell, even their mannerisms were the same.
“Well, at least we’ll have someone responsible to watch Claire and Morgan.”
Beau shakes his head as a wry smile tugs at his lips. “Those two are pure chaos when they’re together. At least I can attempt to corral Claire with my charm. Morgan is immune to it. I genuinely don’t think she can be tamed.”
I’m not sure she can either, but I damn well want to try.
***
T he post-op notes for the day don’t take as long as I expect, so I’ve got plenty of time to swing by Publix before heading to Morgan’s house. She refused to give me her address and said that if I really wanted to find her, I would. Normally, a bullshit game like that would piss me the fuck off, but everything about her just draws me in like a damn magnetic force that’s impossible to break away from.
Her rental is situated behind the property owner’s main house, and as I walk up the driveway, I find myself surprised. I don’t know why I thought she was a woman who would only accept a life of luxury. Maybe it’s her confidence or outgoing nature, but a tiny guest cottage isn’t remotely what I expected.
The home is painted a pale blue color with white trim around the windows and doors. There’s a small porch with a wooden swing hanging from the beams above, and while it’s still too early in the spring for new plantings, the front flower beds are well kept.
After knocking, I notice a squirrel stealing seeds from the bird feeder in front of the bay window. As I’m shooing it away, Morgan opens the door wearing nothing but a triumphant expression on her face and a gray T-shirt that stops at her mid-thigh.
“You know the squirrels are eating your bird food?”
“Yes?” She looks at me like I’m crazy for asking the question. “I feed them because they’re cute, and they bring me happiness.”
Of course she does.
Her eyes narrow on me but glimmer with amusement, like she can’t decide whether she’s pissed or excited to see me on her front porch. “So who spilled the beans? Was it Claire? She always says that I can’t keep a secret, but she’s just as bad.”
I step inside before she has a chance to close the door on me.
“Actually, it was Beau,” I admit, holding up the bottle of wine in my hand as a peace offering. “Don’t kill him—he’s tired and easily manipulated.”
I told Beau that I needed Morgan’s address to return her credit card because she dropped it in the ER this morning. That obviously never happened, but because trauma service is busting his balls, he didn’t even question it—the man is a living, breathing zombie at the moment.
“God, he’s such a dumbass.” She takes the bottle from me and closes the door. “A big, loveable, dumbass.”
“Can’t argue with you there,” I reply, sweeping my eyes over her body as she heads for the kitchen.
She must have recently gotten out of the shower because there’s a dark spot on the back of her shirt. The hem rides up to just below her ass, exposing her toned thighs as she reaches for two wine glasses. I can’t say with certainty, but it doesn’t look like she’s wearing anything other than the thin cotton.
“Ugh,” she sighs, returning to her feet. “It’s much more fun to banter with you, though.”
I chuckle, watching her uncork the wine bottle. “Don’t worry—we have all night. There’s still plenty of time for you to work your magic.”
Morgan smirks as she pours the wine, her playful green eyes flicking up to meet mine. “All night, huh?”
She hands me a glass and we both pause, silently acknowledging the mutual jolt of sensation. She pulls away quickly and walks across the kitchen toward the open-concept living room.
“Well, come on then.” She flops down on the white leather couch which takes up the majority of the room. “Don’t just stand there like a stiff tree. You’re the one who wanted to intrude on my evening of bliss, so get your ass over here. It’s time to watch the greatest reality show in the history of television.”
I bite back a snide comment because watching a trashy show is the last reason I came over here—it was just an excuse.
Morgan grabs the remote, tucking her feet under her as she starts searching for the show. The oversized T-shirt slips slightly to reveal more of her legs, and the casual intimacy of her posture makes the space between us feel even more charged.
I sit beside her and try to distract myself from the way my blood is rushing to my groin by taking in her space for the first time. There’s art hanging on the walls, books filling the built-in shelves, and fresh hydrangeas sitting on the glass coffee table in front of us. It’s surprisingly homey and doesn’t feel like a rental at all, but a place that she curated to her own tastes.
My focus snags on several gold picture frames placed on the white-washed mantle beneath the TV. One in particular catches my eye—Morgan’s slightly tanned cheek is smashed against a guy who looks to be around her age, maybe slightly younger. She has the biggest grin on her face, and you can feel the love radiating through the photo.
“Who’s that?” I ask, nodding in the direction of the frame. I don’t want to appear jealous, but I can hear my tone change as the words come out.
“Calm down, killer. It’s my younger brother Jake. That was the day he graduated college.”
I release the breath that I didn’t know I was holding, and look back at the photo. Now that I can think straight, the resemblance between them actually is striking—they share the same dark-green eyes, olive skin, and wide smile.
“What does he do now?”
An exasperated laugh escapes her lips, and I’m sure if I were to look over at her, she would be staring at the image with pride.
“Other than date every blonde in the state of Alabama? Baseball. He works for a college team as an assistant coach. He never made it big, but he has so much passion for the game that he decided to make a career out of it. I’ve always admired the way he never let his struggles as a pitcher diminish his love for the sport. Not many people have that kind of resilience.”
I glance over at Morgan, realizing now that the logo on her massive T-shirt belongs to a college.
Her gaze follows mine and an answering grin forms on her lips. “Yeah, it’s from his team. Makes me feel close to him even if we don’t get to see each other much. We’re five years apart, so growing up we were sometimes on different wavelengths, but I’ve always been his biggest supporter.”
There’s a warmth in her voice that softens the edges of her usually tough demeanor. This woman who acts so unbothered and uninterested in love, clearly cherishes her personal relationships deeply.
“And the others?” I gesture to the frames sitting beside the one of her brother.
She smiles, though it’s tight and not as bright as it was before. “My parents. They got divorced when I was in middle school. They both live in different states, but I talk to them occasionally and we see each other once a year or so. I love them to death, but they were always hot and cold growing up, so my brother’s been the most consistent thing in my life—I’m lucky to have him.”
“He’s lucky to have you too,” I offer, wondering if her family dynamic is the reason that she’s so intent on avoiding relationships. It would make sense, but it also makes my chest feel tight for some reason.
“Oh, I make sure he knows it,” she jokes before taking a long sip of wine. “Especially around the holidays when it’s just the two of us with their new families . . . anyways, enough about that. Are you ready to have your mind blown by the absolute dumpster fire that is Summer House ? This season is honestly the best one in years, so I’m going to need you to zip it because I don’t want to miss a second.”
As much as I’d love to enjoy a carefree evening with her, we need to talk more about what happened at my house. It’s the only thing I’ve been able to think about for days, and I know that I won’t be able to relax until I get this off my chest.
“Mind if we chat first?” I ask. “You said you’ve had time to think since the other night?”
“Yep,” she answers flippantly, shifting her position on the couch.
“And? ”
She rolls her eyes, placing her wine on the coffee table in front of us. “And what? I had time, but that doesn’t mean I needed it. Nothing I said the other day has changed—this was entirely for you.”
I guess I never considered that while I might need time to process everything, she might not. But it makes sense because she’s more self-assured than anyone I’ve ever met. Even when she’s opening up and showing me her vulnerable side, there’s still no wavering in her core confidence.
“I’m sorry,” I reply, searching her face. “You’re right. It was completely about me.”
Her eyes widen like she can’t believe what just came out of my mouth. “Hold on.”
She flails her body as she searches for something on the couch. When she finds her phone, she holds it up like she’s recording. “Say that again.”
“Say what again?” I ask, playing along. “It was about me?”
Morgan doesn’t reply, arching her brow as if I should know better.
I chuckle and lean forward. “I’m sorry.”
A wide grin forms on her lips. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard those words from a dumb doctor. Oh my god, they were just as satisfying as I imagined.”
Despite the dig, I find myself matching her expression because she’s not wrong—as a physician you’re paid to be right, or at least to convince your patients that you’re right. Over time, most of us let that go to our head and we have a hard time admitting fault in anything we do, even when it comes to our personal lives. I certainly felt that way until the divorce turned my world upside down and gave me the perspective that I desperately needed .
“Well, it’s a good thing you recorded then,” I reply, watching her do something on her phone. “Because I doubt it’ll happen again for a long time.”
Morgan sets her phone down. “Don’t worry, it’s not going anywhere. I already sent it to Claire and Cass just in case you accidentally delete it. The caption said ‘ I’ve achieved the impossible. ’”
Reaching over, I wrap my hands around her ankles and tug, dragging her body across the couch. She giggles and kicks her legs wildly until I place her feet firmly in my lap, holding her steady. The movement slides the length of her T-shirt up her body, its semi-frayed hem now resting at her waist.
I can’t help myself from trailing my eyes up her toned thighs, pinpointing my focus on the thin, red material between her legs. God, it would be so easy to inch my fingers up her soft skin and rip the delicate fabric right off her.
My thumbnail digs into the arch of her left foot.“Did I say you could send a video to them?”
Morgan squeals and tries to squirm away, not expecting the sensation.
“No,” she answers once she regains her composure, thick lashes fluttering innocently up at me. “But you didn’t say that I couldn’t either.”
“Would you have listened?” I ask, amused by her playful defiance. I love the way she challenges me, but I crave more from her—I crave her submission.
A sly smirk plays across her wine-stained lips. “For the right incentive.”
“I’ll keep that in mind next time you misbehave,” I murmur, the words low and laden with promise.
There’s a quick flash of surprise in her eyes, followed by a slow simmer of arousal that matches my own.
“So you thought about it,” she states, studying me curiously.
“I did—you were all I fucking thought about for three days. And no matter how I ran through it, I kept finishing at the same place.”
“And where’s that?”
“That I can’t stay the hell away from you.”
The words sound more intense now that they’re out in the open. It’s like I couldn’t quite give into the pull between us until I spoke them out loud—until I told her the honest truth.
“So don’t,” she says matter-of-factly, flexing her feet in my hands.
I inhale sharply, trying to gather the strength for this conversation even though I’m rock-fucking-hard. But I promised myself that I wouldn’t take things any further unless I knew that she’d communicate with me. Every depraved, sadistic thing I’ve fantasized about requires open discussion and checking in. I don’t feel comfortable jumping in until I make sure that we’re on the same page.
“We need to talk about some ground rules.”
Morgan rolls her eyes playfully. “Doesn’t really feel like we’re on even ground right now.”
In one fluid motion, I snake my arm beneath her back and pull her onto my lap. She laughs, sinking her full body weight onto my crotch as she gets comfortable. Her hands tangle around my neck as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, and her eyes study mine, like she’s seeing something far deeper than anyone ever has.
“We’ve never been on even ground, little devil. You’ve always been the one in control, and you’ll always be the one in control.”