Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Xavier
I wake to the buzzing of my phone on the nightstand, its harsh vibration cutting through the peaceful silence. Disoriented, I blink against the dim light filtering through unfamiliar blinds before remembering where I am—Zach’s room at the clubhouse, still under lockdown.
Zach stirs beside me, his arm tightening around my waist. “Ignore it,” he mumbles into my hair, voice thick with sleep.
I reach for the phone anyway, squinting at the screen. It’s the hospital administrator.
“I can’t,” I sigh, sitting up and accepting the call. “Dr. Blane speaking.”
As I listen to the administrator explain the situation—multiple trauma cases coming in and staff shortages due to yesterday’s events—I feel Zach shift beside me.
When I glance over, the look on his face is almost comical, a mixture of disbelief and irritation that makes it hard to keep my expression professional.
“Yes, I understand,” I say into the phone, biting my lip to suppress a smile as Zach’s scowl deepens. “I’ll be there in forty minutes.”
When I end the call, Zach is sitting up, hair tousled from sleep, eyes narrowed. “You’re not seriously going in?”
“Three-car pileup on the highway,” I explain, already scanning the floor for my clothes. “They’re short-staffed and expecting at least five critical patients.”
“There’s still an active threat,” he points out, voice tight with frustration. “The Reapers—”
“Won’t attack the hospital again,” I finish for him, pulling on my jeans. “Not with the police presence that’s been established. And people need help, Zach.”
He runs a hand through his hair, jaw clenched. “Fuck,” he mutters, throwing back the covers and standing. “Give me five minutes to get dressed.”
I can’t hide my amusement as he stalks around the room, yanking open drawers with more force than necessary, muttering under his breath about “stubborn doctors” and “death wishes.” His protective instincts are clearly at war with his understanding of my responsibilities.
“You know, you’re kind of cute when you’re annoyed,” I tease, pulling my shirt over my head.
He shoots me a glare that would probably intimidate anyone else. “This isn’t funny, X. You were literally targeted yesterday.”
“And today I have patients who need me,” I counter, softening my tone. I cross the room to stand in front of him, placing my hands on his chest. “This is my job, Zach. Just like how sometimes you have to do things I don’t like because it’s your responsibility to the club.”
His expression shifts, frustration giving way to something more complex, concern mixed with grudging understanding. He sighs, resting his forehead against mine.
“At least let me arrange an escort,” he says, thumb brushing my cheekbone. “And you wear a vest.”
I blink in surprise. “A bulletproof vest? To work?”
“Under your scrubs,” he clarifies, already reaching for his phone. “Nonnegotiable.”
Part of me wants to argue, to insist I’ll be fine, but the memory of yesterday’s violence is still too fresh. “Okay,” I concede. “The vest. But a subtle escort, nothing that’s going to scare my patients.”
Relief flickers across his face, followed by determination as he fires off a text. “Deal.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m wearing one of the club’s spare bulletproof vests beneath my scrub top. It’s bulkier than I expected, restricting my movement slightly, but not enough to interfere with my ability to work.
Zach checks the fit one last time, his hands moving over me. “It’s not the most comfortable,” he acknowledges, “but it could save your life.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” I say, trying for lightness but not quite succeeding.
His eyes meet mine, serious and intent. “I’ll have two brothers watching the hospital at all times.
They’ll be discreet, but they’ll be there.
” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, the gentle gesture at odds with the gravity of his words.
“If anything feels wrong, anything at all, you call me immediately.”
“I will,” I promise, leaning up to kiss him.
What starts as a quick goodbye deepens almost instantly, his hands framing my face, and mine gripping his shirt.
When we break apart, both breathing harder, I see the conflict in his eyes, the desire to keep me close warring with his respect for my duties.
“Go save lives, Doc,” he says finally, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just make sure you come back to me in one piece.”
“Always,” I reply, the word feeling like a promise more significant than its single syllable suggests.
As I leave the clubhouse with my escorts, two club members who look more like ordinary motorcyclists than bodyguards, I glance back to see Zach standing in the doorway, watching me go. His posture is tense, arms crossed over his chest, expression unreadable at this distance.
But I know what he’s thinking, because I’m thinking it too: how quickly everything has changed between us, how deeply entwined our lives have become in just a few days. And how, despite the danger and complications, neither of us would choose differently.
I raise my hand in a small wave, and he returns it, a simple gesture that somehow feels like another promise exchanged between us. Then I turn away, focusing on the day ahead and the patients who need me.
* * *
I enter the emergency department, the vest heavy and uncomfortable beneath my scrubs.
The usual chaos greets me: nurses rushing between beds, the sharp smell of antiseptic, monitors beeping in urgent rhythms. Despite yesterday’s violence, the hospital functions as it always has, a testament to the resilience of medical professionals.
“Dr. Blane!” one of the nurse’s voice cuts through the noise, her tone carrying a familiarity that makes my skin crawl. Alex approaches with a clipboard, her scrubs fitting just a little too snugly, her smile too wide. “You’re back already? After everything that happened?”
“Multiple trauma cases incoming,” I reply, keeping my tone professional as I reach for the clipboard. “Dr. Patel called me in.”
Her fingers brush mine as she hands over the paperwork, the contact lingering longer than necessary. “So brave,” she says, stepping closer than appropriate. “Everyone’s talking about how you stayed with that GSW victim during the shooting.”
I step back, creating distance between us. “Just doing my job. Where do we stand on available trauma bays?”
“One through four are prepped,” she answers, following as I walk toward the nurses’ station. “We need more chest tube kits from supply. I was just heading there.”
I nod absently, reviewing the incoming ambulance information. “I’ll grab them. ETA on the first ambulance?”
“Twelve minutes,” she says. “I’ll come help you carry everything.”
Before I can object, she’s following me down the corridor toward the supply closet. I consider telling her to stay at the desk, but there’s no real reason to deny the help. The bulletproof vest feels suddenly heavier, a reminder of the danger that might still be lurking.
I push open the supply closet door, flipping on the light. The small room is packed with shelves of medical supplies. I locate the chest tube kits on the top shelf and reach up to grab several.
The door clicks shut behind me. I turn, startled, to find Alex standing with her back against the closed door, her expression shifting to something that makes my stomach tighten with discomfort.
“You know,” she says, her voice dropping to what she clearly thinks is seductive, “we never get a moment alone, you and I.”
“We’re about to have multiple trauma patients,” I remind her, my tone deliberately professional. “This isn’t the time for conversation.”
She steps forward, ignoring my words. “I’ve seen the way you look at me, Xavier. I know you’re fighting it.”
“Fighting what?” I ask, confusion giving way to dawning realization as she moves closer.
“This attraction between us,” she says in a gross seductive voice, closing the distance before I can react. “All that talk about you being gay… I don’t believe it.”
Before I can step back, she’s pressed against me, one hand sliding down to cup me through my scrubs, her grip firm and invasive.
“I can fix you,” she whispers, her face inches from mine, her fingers squeezing inappropriately. “I can take all that gayness away. You just need the right woman.”
I freeze momentarily, shock paralyzing me before outrage takes its place. I grab her wrist, firmly removing her hand from my body and stepping back until I hit the shelving behind me.
“That’s enough,” I say, my voice hard in a way it rarely is with colleagues. “This is completely inappropriate and unwelcome. I’m not confused about my sexuality, and even if I were, this would still be sexual harassment.”
Her expression shifts, embarrassment and anger replacing the predatory look. “I was just trying to help you,” she says, her tone defensive. “Everyone knows conversion only happens because men haven’t found the right women.”
“That’s not how sexuality works,” I tell her, moving toward the door, chest tube kits clutched in my other hand. “And if you ever touch me like that again, I’ll file a formal complaint. This isn’t the first time you’ve crossed boundaries, Alex.”
She blocks my path, her face flushing. “You can’t blame me for trying. The way you look at me—”
“Is professional courtesy,” I cut her off. “Nothing more. Now move aside. We have patients incoming.”
For a moment, I think she might refuse, but then her expression hardens. “Fine. Have it your way. But don’t come crying to me when you realize what you’re missing.”
She yanks the door open and storms out, leaving me standing there, adrenaline coursing through my system. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. The violation of her touch lingers, making me feel unclean in a way that has nothing to do with hospital germs.