3. Keeley
KEELEY
T he sun is blinding, streaming in through the balcony doors like long steel knives.
Except my room didn’t have a balcony. I definitely would have noticed a balcony, right?
I roll over to see a pair of broad shoulders, the back of a head shaved to near military perfection. Not a single tattoo, therefore…
Not Six Bailey.
What the fuck happened last night?
More pressingly, what’s up with this guy? Because he is extremely still.
“God,” I groan, reaching over to feel his carotid artery, “not again.”
“Did you just check my pulse?” asks a gravelly voice. And that’s when I feel my first spike of terror.
No. No, no, no, no.
He rolls over, sleepy eyed, swollen-lipped, and in need of a shave. Someone else might think he looks pretty fucking good in the morning, but that would need to be someone who’s never held a conversation with Graham Tate.
He runs a hand over his face while I try to piece the night together. Margaritas, more margaritas. Arguing with Graham, the arrival of guests. And Six. I remember talking to him. I remember him smiling at me in the way of someone who very much wanted to fuck me. And then I remember Graham.
His lips on mine in a dark corner.
Him looming over me, pushing my dress above my hips. Mostly I remember how badly I wanted him to do it. Telling him to hurry, the pleased half smile that tugged at his lips in response.
God, how embarrassing.
“This didn’t happen,” I proclaim, jumping to my feet, ignoring that my whole body feels bruised, especially the area between my legs. My vagina took a beating last night. It deserves a beating for choosing to avail itself to the enemy when I was in a vulnerable state.
I step over a condom wrapper to reach my dress, which is on the floor along with my bra, and yet another condom wrapper. No sign of my panties, so I guess I’m writing them off. “We speak of it to no one and put it out of our heads.”
He watches me from the bed, arms folded across his broad chest, sheets bunched low at his waist. “Because you’re still on your mission to fuck the rock star.”
I drag my eyes away from him because the sheet is riding low enough for me to see his happy trail, and I’m tempted to keep looking.
“If mankind let every simple mistake get in the way of its goals, we’d still be communicating via cave drawings,” I reply, stepping over another condom wrapper.
Jesus Christ, how many times, exactly, did we do it?
He reaches for his phone while one hand goes behind his head, his bicep flexing impressively with the movement. “Fair enough, slugger. Knock ’em dead tonight. Though not literally, which is apparently something that happens to you.”
“I’m sure it happens to everyone at some point,” I mutter, and he laughs.
It’s a nice laugh, and there’s a part of me that wishes I could hear it again. I take one last look at him, with that unshaved jaw, those biceps, and that mouth before I head for the door.
As terrible as Graham Tate is, he comes in deceptively nice packaging.
I shower and collapse in my own bed for two hours, hoping I’ll forget what occurred. Unfortunately, I wake feeling deliciously overused , which means I either ran a marathon last night or had repeated sex with someone twice my size.
If my life was a movie, this would be the wake-up call, the moment when I realize I need to pull my shit together: stop drinking, quit medicine, and do something meaningful with my life—like open a restaurant and join The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills .
Except I can’t afford to have a wake-up call right now, because the only way I can play hostess next to the loathsome, oversized Graham is through a little more drinking.
I order eggs, bacon, and a mimosa, and am informed that they are no longer serving breakfast, which leaves me feeling judged. I settle for the mimosa and put on my bikini, picking right back up where I left off last night: with no food in my stomach and a strange unhappiness I’m eager to dull.
I walk outside. We got lucky with the weather—January in LA is not reliably warm enough to be considered pool weather, but it’s in the seventies today and sunny.
Apparently, I wasn’t the only one with this idea, either.
Gemma is lounging under the shade of a cabana, surrounded by her new friends, and it’s hard not to think about how different things are, how different she is.
I’m so happy for her, but I can’t deny there’s this little pinch in my chest.
We used to be a mess together. I was bad with all things adult, and she was so emotionally detached I sometimes wondered if she might be a sociopath.
But it turned out she was simply damaged, and now she’s fixed—madly in love and always doing grown-up shit with her well-adjusted husband and friends.
She’s tried to include me, and I always make an excuse to get out of it.
Being around all of them makes me feel like the only flower in the garden that’s failed to bloom.
I have to force myself to walk over. Gemma makes room for me to squeeze in, and once I’m seated, Tali, the very-pregnant wife of Ben’s best friend, taps my foot.
“So…mission accomplished last night?”
“Mission?” I repeat, looking from her to Gemma.
“We had a whole conversation about your plan to sleep with Josh’s brother. You don’t remember?”
Her daughter walks over, dripping wet, and Tali wraps a towel around her before tugging her to her side for a cuddle. My mom was like that with me, even when I was nearly grown. If I was anywhere nearby, I was getting a hug.
I swallow and look away. “It didn’t go as planned.”
Gemma laughs quietly. “That’s ironic. Your plans failed while Graham apparently had a very busy night.”
My gaze darts to hers. “Oh?”
“Ben said his room looked like he’d held a rave there last night. I think—” her voice drops to a whisper, “he might have been with Elise. I don’t know if you’ve met her yet.”
Obviously, this whole Graham situation would be far less awkward if that were the case. I wonder if Elise is the reason he stayed out so late, and if so, how he wound up with me instead.
Tali’s husband, Hayes, appears at the foot of the chair, smiling at his wife and kid with so much affection in his gaze that I have to look away.
All these fucking couples with their shared looks and their quiet complete-ness are pushing my mood lower by the second, and it was already on the edge anyway.
I was ready to finish up my residency, but I’m sad about it too.
I’m going to miss my friends at the hospital.
I’m going to miss the chaos, though I’ve spent four years saying I couldn’t wait to put it behind me.
And I’ve got three months of training at NIH with no job lined up afterward, so what was supposed to be a celebration feels a bit less so, and I really don’t need all this endless proof that everyone else is moving forward right now, getting jobs or getting married, or exchanging long affectionate glances over their children’s heads.
My bitterness makes no sense, given I don’t even want most of those things, but I feel it anyway.
Hayes lifts his daughter into his arms and her head rests against his chest as she pops her thumb in her mouth. She’s an adorable little thing. I’d have liked a daughter like that if things had gone differently.
“I need a drink,” I say, jumping to my feet.
I need a lot of drinks.
I walk to the bar. This is my last weekend at home before I leave for DC and I’m finally free of Dr. Patel, the world’s worst attending. I’ll be damned if all these happy fucking people are going to ruin it for me.
I smile at one of the guys behind the bar, and he hustles right over. “I’ll have—”
A hand lands on my ass.
“Two gin and tonics,” says Six to the bartender before he looks down and grins at me like the sure thing I am. “What happened last night? You went to the dance floor and never came back.”
I press a finger to one temple. Goddammit . My plan was one hundred percent on track and then Graham Tate somehow came in and ruined everything.
“I really don’t remember. I must have gone to bed.”
With someone else. By accident. So classy.
“We’ve still got today,” Six says. He signs the tab and slides me one of the gin and tonics. “Slam it. I just challenged people to a chicken fight, which should be right up your alley, little wild thing.”
He makes it sound like a compliment, while Graham could undoubtedly produce a long list of why being a little wild thing is not a desirable quality.
“According to my predictions , ” he’d say, “you, Keeley, are ninety percent more likely than an average woman your age to be in a car accident, forget to pay a bill, or get reprimanded for dancing suggestively on a cafeteria table.”
Six leads me down the pool stairs, into water as warm as a child’s bath. He sinks as low as he can. “Climb on.”
“Who are we fighting?” I ask as I sling one thigh over his shoulder.
“Me,” says the deep voice behind me, and goose bumps rise on my arms. I turn as Graham wades in, looking a thousand times better than anyone as boring as him should.
He does not have a single tattoo, but when you’re that sculpted, you don’t need any—his body is a work of art all on its own.
If only he didn’t have to ruin it by running his mouth.
“Keeley, this is Elise,” he says, indicating the girl beside him, who I’d somehow failed to notice. She’s my exact opposite, by which I mean she appears too elegant and refined to be participating in a chicken fight in the first place. I’m going to destroy her. “She’s at Ben and Gemma’s firm.”
Ugh. A lawyer. How perfect for him. They can bore each other for hours on end .
My bruised pubic bone presses to the back of Six’s head—the universe reminding me Graham is, perhaps, not always boring.
Six and I wade farther into the pool while Elise climbs on Graham’s shoulders. “She’s tiny,” I tell Six. “This will be over fast.”
“You’re tiny too, wild thing.”