Epilogue #4
I pull out my cellphone as I step out of my house.
Locking the door behind me, I head down the path, push open the gate which leads to the road, then stop.
A prickling at the nape of my neck makes me pause.
I glance up and down the tree-lined street.
There are cars parked on both sides of the road, common in most residential areas in London.
It’s quiet, except for the chirping of the birds.
It's a sound I love, which led me to buy my apartment in this building. It’s only seven a.m. I should be in bed, but the ER at the hospital is short-staffed.
I got a call on my day off and was asked if I’d come in and cover the shift.
I jumped at the opportunity. Anything to keep working so I wouldn’t need to spend time at home.
So, I wouldn’t have to think about what a mess my personal life is.
I look around my neighbors’ homes—curtains drawn, no lights.
Most likely, they're still asleep. The milkman left a bottle on the porch opposite mine. Thanks to my job I’m not home that much, so I don’t know my neighbors.
But I bet whoever lives in the house opposite mine believes in recycling and saving the world, which is why they’re buying their milk, the old-fashioned way.
I used to be that way. I used to believe in fighting for a cause. That I could do my bit to make the world a better place. It’s why I became a doctor. My parents were so proud of me.
My father wanted to pay for my education, but I refused.
I was young and hopeful. I wanted to make it on my own.
Idealistic. Na?ve. Thinking if I worked hard enough, if I believed enough, I could manifest everything I wanted.
And for a moment, for a few months even, I thought I had. Then, everything turned upside down.
I step onto the sidewalk and begin to walk toward the hospital. I love that I live so close to my place of work that I can walk there. At least, I used to, until a few days ago, when I had this sensation of being watched. I turn and glance over my shoulder.
Nothing different. Same chirping of the birds.
Same parked cars. Same white van at the end of the street.
I’ve noticed it’s presence over the last three days.
Strange. Someone must be getting renovations done to their place.
Strange that that the workmen arrived before dawn? I shrug. It’s not unusual I suppose?
I shake off the feeling, hook my EarPods into my ears, and flick on the podcast I’m listening to on my phone.
It’s an interview with a medical researcher who’s expounding on the last paper he published.
I get immersed in his findings, until I reach the hospital.
Once I’m in, I deposit my stuff in a locker.
I’m already in my scrubs, so I can dive right into my first case in the Emergency Room.
An older gentleman who’s having breathing problems. A little girl who’s suffering from high fever which refuses to come down.
A leg fracture. A man who fell while getting off a bus and hurt his chin. The list goes on.
I manage to take a break to get a cup of tea and a chocolate bar. Then head back to where patients have been triaged and are awaiting examination. I pull aside the curtain to the first cubicle and pause. The man seated on the clinical table looks straight at me.
Blue eyes so pale, they seemed to reflect my image.
Like I’m drowning in his eyes. Like he’s drowning in mine.
Thick hair cut so short, there’s barely an inch on top of his head.
So short, I can see the brown of his scalp which, for some reason, I find appealing.
Intelligent forehead, currently bisected by a cut on his temple with blood trickling down.
Long eyelashes, thick enough for me to be envious of them.
High cheekbones, sharp enough to double up as scalpels.
Straight nose, stern upper lip. All planes and angles.
All austere. And stern. Features almost verging on being labeled mean, but for that sensuous lower lip.
One which is currently cut. And which only adds to his rakish appeal.
I should be thinking of how to fix his wounds, but I can’t seem to get past the shape of that mouth.
It’s pillow-like puffiness—accentuated by the cut— hints at forbidden pleasures.
And long steamy nights. And wicked things he could be capable of.
Things which could bring me a lot of gratification.
And there’s that chin, with a hint of a dip in the middle.
Something lush and luxurious and luscious.
Something expansive. And passionate. Those beautiful cords of his neck, which lead to the flesh that peeks above the T-shirt he’s wearing.
A leather jacket hugs the breadth of his shoulders.
Shoulders so massive, they block out the room behind him.
The sleeves outline the powerful muscles of his biceps.
So thick, he must have struggled to pull it on.
His blue jeans have seen better days. Worn at the knees, pulled apart over those powerful thighs, between which is a substantial tent.
He’s packing. Which explains the confidence radiating from him.
He looks powerful. Like someone used to being obeyed.
I’d place him as someone who’d be at home in a boardroom, except, there’s a ruggedness to him telling me he doesn’t drive a desk.
That, and the massive hands, fingers splayed.
One palm relaxed on a thigh. The other on the bed next to him.
He has scuffed leather boots—big boots. Size thirteen?
Maybe fourteen. Which means—my gaze swings back to the space between his thighs.
The zipper is tight and stretched and, surely, that tent is more substantial than before.
My breathing grows rough. My nipples under my scrub tighten into points of need.
I’m aware, I’m close to panting and can’t understand it.
Sure, he’s good-looking. More than good-looking.
And yes, there’s something about him that’s vital.
And real. And commands attention. And charismatic. But he’s only a man. A stranger.
So what, if the pheromones pouring off of him saturate the air between us? And so what, if the heat from his body seems to reach across the space to me, spirals around my shoulders, loops around my waist, tightens and holds me in thrall? I don’t know him. So why am I so drawn to him?
My legs shiver. My toes curl. My scalp tingles.
I still haven’t taken my eyes off that triangle of promise between his legs.
So, when he clears his throat, my cheeks flame.
I jerk my chin up, meet his eyes, and see the amusement in them.
His lips curl. He’s caught me in the act, as it were.
But when he speaks, he doesn’t let that on.
"Doc." He jerks his chin in my direction. Gravelly voice—like he swallowed pebbles, and his voice has to rake over the rough surface to reach me. Dark edge—like thick, hot chocolate that you have to dig out with a spoon.
My mouth waters. I have to swallow to stop the moan that whips up my throat.
"Doctor Hamilton," I manage to croak out. "Seems you got into a fight?"
"You should see the other guy." He smirks.
The uptick of his lips is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
My already sensitized nerve endings flare.
My ovaries do a little dance. Every cell in my body seems to have woken up and is locked onto him.
Where’s my professionalism? I’m a doctor.
He’s my patient. He needs urgent care. That’s why he came in here.
So why the heck am I not examining him, instead of ogling him like he invented the cure for an incurable disease?
"Bar fight?" I guess. Only because I want to get information that will help me treat him. That’s all. It has nothing to do with finding out more about him.
"A fight," he agrees, but doesn’t add anything more.
Okay, then. I stare. He stares back. Our gazes hold. Once more, that thrum of anticipation zips up my spine. Damn. This is not good. I need to get on with treating him. Need to do my job.
"Take off your clothes."
He arches an eyebrow.
My flush deepens. "I mean, please take off your jacket and T-shirt so I can examine your wounds."
He tilts his head.
"There’s blood on your T-shirt, under your jacket. It doesn't look like it dripped there."
He glances down at himself, then unfolds his body and rises to his feet.
And keeps rising. The promise of the breadth of his shoulders and of the width of his palms is borne out when I have to tilt my head back, then further back, to see his features.
He’s tall. As tall as my brother James who’s six-feet-four-inches.
The man shrugs off his jacket, dropping it on the treatment table.
I have a brief impression of the blood which blots the side of his T-shirt. Then he reaches behind him—winces—and pulls it off.
I draw in a sharp breath at the sight of acres of golden-brown skin, tanned by the sun.
His pectoral muscles are well developed enough to warrant a dip between them.
Very male nipples, and corrugated abs form an eight-pack.
Yep, an honest-to-life eight-pack, marred only by a tattoo of what seems to be the wing of a raven curling up from the left.
On the right side is an ugly bruise over his ribs.
The skin is mottled and turning purple. Blood from the cut has splashed onto his jeans and dried at the edges.