Chapter 19
Cain
The man holds his hand out. “I’m Fierro Lupida. I work with the arbitration group hired to mediate the issues with the new administration.”
“What do you want from me?” I ask bluntly, returning to my office. After a full day of clinic, I’m out of fucks to give.
“To hear your side of the argument, sir,” he says politely.
“My time is in high demand, Mr. Lupida,” I reply. “I’ve just finished with forty-two patients in clinic, and I’m due in the OR in ten minutes.”
“I understand, but surely a man needs to eat? My group is at your disposal. Why don’t you call me when you finish in the OR, and one of my teammates or I will treat you to dinner at the WinterTree while you lay out your grievances?”
It’s a hard offer to turn down.
“Fine,” I say, grabbing the card he’s holding out. “But it’ll be late.”
“I’m sure we can work something out.”
I’m exhausted.
A quadruple bypass that left my patient needing the paddles three times has me leaving the OR at one in the morning, sticky with dried sweat, and bleary-eyed as I navigate the parking garage through my adrenaline crash.
I think about the phone call I’m supposed to make.
I know the hour is ridiculous, but what better way to convey my point about OR time than to make everyone suffer the way my patients and I will suffer if they cut my operating time.
The patients will still be there, which means every day I walk into the OR, I won’t walk out of it until this time or later; meanwhile, it’ll sit empty for portions of daylight hours because other surgeons can’t fill the rooms the way I can.
Pulling the card out of my wallet at a red light, I dial the number and smile when a sleepy voice answers.
“Fierro,” the man says in a daze.
“I apologize for the late hour, but I’ve just wrapped up in the OR. Someone owes me dinner,” I say, knowing fully well my fridge is stocked at home.
“Give me five minutes. I’ll take care of it,” the man says, hanging up.
Four minutes later, my cell phone rings.
“Dr. Rosemont,” I answer without looking at the screen.
“Always thought a Double Baconator was an odd choice for a guy who wanted to be a heart surgeon, but to each his own. You still like fries with your Frosty?” A familiar voice asks over the line, causing my stomach to drop into my ass. “Wendy’s is about the only thing open at this hour.”
Hearing Patrick recite the order that I survived on in undergrad sends unwanted emotions rushing past my tired defenses.
“Um, yeah,” I whisper through a pang of loss, remembering our last night together. As soon as it moves on, it’s replaced by confusion. “What are you doing in Boston? And how’d you know I needed dinner?”
“Send me your address. I’ll bring it to you,” he replies without answering my questions.
“You don’t have to—”
“Actually, I do. It’s literally my job,” he says. His voice is entirely devoid of emotion, and I’m struck with a terrible thought. Did I finally break him past the point of repair?
We hang up, and I text him my address, suddenly hit with another rush of adrenaline. I don’t know where he’s coming from, but I really hope I beat him to the house so I can take a shower. I still have my last patient’s blood on me.
But no dice.
When I pull up to my gate, a car is already idling outside.
I hit the button and pull through first. Patrick pulls through behind me and follows me up the winding driveway.
When I pull into the garage, I leave it open so Patrick can just come in this way. Opening the car door, the interior light comes on, and I can’t help but notice how tired he looks even from here.
He exits the car carrying a paper bag and a cup that I’m certain holds the Frosty I’m no longer in the mood for.
He stops, his eyes meeting mine, at the threshold of my house.
“Don’t make me regret this,” he pleads.
“I make no promises,” I tell him seriously, knowing my mind has already taken a dangerous turn just from being in his proximity again.
“You look like hell,” he replies, moving past me into my house.
For maybe the first time ever, I can’t get a bead on him, and I hate it.
“Yeah, well, twelve hours in the operating room will do that to a person.”
At this, he turns, a look of shock on his face.
“Twelve?”
“Yeah,” I sigh, suddenly too tired to play games.
“Isn’t there a law against that or something?” he asks, making me huff a humorless laugh.
“No one to tag in when a patient is bleeding out on the table. Just me.”
If I’m not mistaken, Patrick’s eyes soften a little. I’ve always appreciated his light eyes. It makes him easier to read.
“Did they…” he trails off, realizing how crass his question is, but I finish the statement for him. It’s uncomfortable, but it’s the facts of my life.
“Die? Yes. Three times. But when I left the hospital, he was still alive.” Patrick nods slowly, but says nothing. “What are you doing here?” I finally ask again, leaning back against the counter, crossing my ankles, and folding my arms across my chest so I don’t reach for him.
“I work for the company hired to help make your hospital’s administration transition smoother.”
I bark out in laughter. “So, you are here to fuck me.”
He grabs the burger from the bag and shoves it at me as he moves to stand directly in front of me.
“If my memory serves me correctly, it was always you who did the fucking, Cain. Here. Eat. You’re pale, and you’ve had a long day.”
He presses the burger into my stomach, and I catch his wrist, trapping him against me.
“I’m not in the mood for a burger, but I could be persuaded to eat something else.”
Patrick’s eyes close as his jaw clenches.
“Don’t. I can’t do this with you again. I won’t do this with you again.”
“I can’t help myself,” I admit, the word please on the tip of my tongue, but it gets stuck at the last minute. I’ve never begged anyone for anything.
Instead, I set the burger on the counter at my back, and slowly wrap my hands around Patrick, pulling him into me as he rolls his face into my neck. I smile when I hear him inhale. His hands are tentative when they grip my sides.
I can feel him waging war with himself.
He doesn’t want to fall back into this pattern with me, but just like me, he can’t stop it.
We never could.
As soon as my hand breaches his shirt and hits the flesh of his back, I fully commit to this disaster.
“Come with me,” I whisper against his cheek.
“No,” he says weakly.
Instead of answering, I place my hands on his sides and gently push him away from me so I can grab his hand. He doesn’t fight me as I lead him up the stone staircase, nor as I pull him down the hallway. He’s still letting me lead him into my room and then my bathroom.
Afraid he’s going to bolt as soon as I let go, I press him into the wall, trapping him with my knee between his thighs.
“Stay,” I command.
He doesn’t nod or argue. He simply looks at me with fear, desire, and more than a little self-loathing in his brightly colored eyes.
I have a strange urge to stroke his cheek and have a soft moment with him, plead for him to stay with me, even if we do nothing more than sleep.
But it’s too late in our lives to change our dynamic, and if he willingly followed me up here, it’s because he has certain expectations, and if I know how to do one thing right, it’s meeting Patrick Miller’s expectations.
“Strip. We’re taking a shower.” He stares at me for a full ten seconds, clearly debating with himself, but as soon as I bring my lips to his and whisper, “Did I stutter?” he jumps into action.