Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Quinton
The door clicked shut.
Not slammed. Not banged. Clicked. With the kind of precision that suggested Julien had calculated the exact amount of force required to close a door without appearing aggressive while still communicating imminent death.
I was alone. In a conference room. With Julien Darcy.
Who was… smiling?
Oh God.
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
This was it. This was how I died. Not in a dramatic surgery gone wrong, not in a heroic rescue attempt, but murdered by my best friend in a beige conference room that smelled faintly of stale coffee and broken dreams.
The smile wasn’t normal. It wasn’t the “hey, good to see you,” smile or the “that’s a funny joke,” smile or even the “I’m being polite to a patient’s family,” smile.
It was the smile of a man who had finally snapped.
The smile of someone who had reached the end of their rope, tied a noose, and was now deciding whether to use it on themselves or someone else.
Spoiler alert: he was going to use it on me!
“Julien,” I said carefully, my voice coming out higher than intended. “You’re back early. How were the triplets? Did you—”
“Sit down, Quinton.”
It wasn’t a request.
I sat as Julien walked slowly, too slowly, around the conference table, his hands clasped behind his back like a professor about to deliver a lecture on the philosophical implications of my imminent demise.
“You know,” he said conversationally, “of all the doctors who work at this clinic, I’ve always considered you to be the most responsible. ”
Oh no.
“The most dependable,” he continued, still walking. Still smiling. “The one I could count on when things got chaotic. The one who understood the importance of professionalism, discretion, and maintaining the reputation of this practice.”
Oh no, oh no, oh no.
“Gabriel’s brilliant, but he’s distracted by fatherhood. Nathan’s competent, but impulsive. Hayden’s experienced, but he’s set in his ways. And Fitz—” Julien paused, his smile tightening. “Well. Fitz is Fitz.”
I was sweating. Actually sweating.
“But you, Quinton.” He stopped directly across from me, his hands still clasped behind his back. “You were the one I trusted. The one I respected. The one I believed would hold down the fort while I took one—one—week of vacation.”
His voice was still calm.
Still measured. Still absolutely terrifying.
“One week,” he repeated, his tone sharpening just slightly.
“Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours. I wasn’t asking for a month in the Maldives.
I wasn’t requesting a sabbatical to find myself in the Himalayas.
I wanted one glorious, quiet, peaceful week with my wife and our newborn triplets.
No interruptions. No drama. No phone calls informing me that my clinic had imploded in my absence. ”
He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the table.
“Is that really so much to ask?”
“No,” I blurted. “No, that’s totally reasonable. Very reasonable. Extremely.”
“And yet.” He straightened, pulling his phone from his pocket. “Imagine my surprise when I’m sitting in my living room this morning, enjoying my coffee, reading the newspaper, savoring what I believed to be the last peaceful moment before returning to work, and I see this.”
He held up his phone.
On the screen was a photo of the New Haven Journal’s front page.
Our front page.
The bar brawl front page.
“Five doctors,” Julien said, his voice getting firmer now, each word precisely enunciated. “Five respected medical professionals from my clinic. Arrested. For brawling in a sports bar like a pack of drunken fraternity brothers on spring break.”
“Julien—”
“I’m not finished.” He set his phone down with deliberate care.
“Do you have any idea what it’s like to explain to my wife, who is already convinced that modern medicine is a capitalist conspiracy designed to suppress natural healing, that the doctors you work with were arrested for fighting in a bar? ”
“I can imagine.”
“She laughed, Quinton. She laughed. And then she pulled out her tarot cards and said the universe was teaching me a lesson about control and letting go.” He closed his eyes briefly, as if summoning patience from some deep, untapped reserve.
“I don’t want to let go. I want competent colleagues who don’t end up on the front page of the newspaper. ”
“In our defense—”
“There is no defense,” Julien interrupted, his eyes snapping open.
“There is no possible justification for this level of chaos. I left you in charge for one week. Seven days. And somehow—somehow—you managed to get arrested, make front-page news, and”—he gestured at my face—“acquire what appears to be a black eye and a split lip.”
I touched my jaw instinctively. “It’s not that bad.”
“It’s on the front page of the newspaper.”
“The photographer got Fitz’s good side,” I offered weakly.
Julien glared at me, and I immediately regretted speaking.
“Do you think this is funny?” he asked, his voice dropping to that dangerous quiet again.
“No. No, absolutely not. This is very serious. Extremely serious. I’m taking this very—”
“I trusted you.” He started walking again, circling the table like a shark.
“I left you in charge because I believed, foolishly, apparently, that you would maintain order. That you would keep Fitz from doing something catastrophically stupid. That you would ensure the clinic continued to operate with professionalism and dignity.”
He stopped directly behind my chair.
I could feel him looming.
“And instead,” he continued, “I return to find that not only did you fail to prevent a bar brawl, you participated in one. You. The man I trusted most threw a punch that started a chain reaction of chaos, resulting in property damage, five arrests, and a front-page newspaper story that will haunt this clinic’s reputation for years. ”
“Technically,” I said, “Fitz escalated—”
“I don’t care about technicalities.” Julien walked around to face me again, and I realized with growing horror that he was getting closer. “I care about the fact that I can’t take one week—one week—without everything falling apart.”
He took another step forward, and I leaned back in my chair.
“I care about the fact that my colleagues—my friends—thought it was appropriate to engage in a physical altercation in a public establishment.”
Another step.
I was running out of chair to lean back in.
“I care about the fact that when I specifically asked you to hold down the fort, you interpreted that as ‘start a riot.’”
He was right in front of me now, hands on the table, leaning down so we were eye level.
“So I’m going to ask you one question, Quinton. And I want you to think very carefully before you answer.”
Oh God. This is it.
This is where he kills me.
“What,” Julien said slowly, “could you possibly say to justify this level of catastrophic incompetence?”
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
My brain was screaming at me to say something intelligent. Something diplomatic. Something that would prevent my immediate termination and/or murder.
Instead, what came out was:
“I’m in love with your sister and we’ve been sleeping together for weeks and I punched her boyfriend because he called her boring and I couldn’t let that stand because she’s the most incredible person I’ve ever met and I know you’re going to kill me but I don’t care because she’s worth it and also Fitz started the bar fight not me I just threw one punch but then everything escalated and Hayden tried to leave but Nathan grabbed him and Gabriel was trying to be the voice of reason but then someone insulted his wife and he lost it too and Fitz was singing ‘God Save the Queen’ while being arrested and I know this is bad I know we’re on the front page and I know you trusted me but I swear I was trying to do the right thing and I love Vivian I really love her and I’m sorry about the newspaper and the arrests and the property damage but I’m not sorry about punching Colton because he’s a terrible person and he didn’t deserve her and I know you’re going to fire me or kill me or both but I just needed you to know that I love your sister and I’m not going to apologize for that even though I’m apologizing for literally everything else and—”
I ran out of breath.
Julien was staring at me. Just... staring. Like I had grown a second head. Or possibly a third.
The silence stretched and stretched and stretched.
I was pretty sure I had stopped breathing.
“You...” Julien said slowly. “You’re sleeping with Vivian?”
“Yes.”
“My sister.”
“Yes.”
“And you punched her boyfriend.”
“Ex-boyfriend,” I corrected. “She broke up with him. After I punched him. Because he called her boring—which she’s not. She’s incredible. And funny. And smart. And—”
“You’re in love with her.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Yes,” I said anyway.
Julien blinked. Then he blinked again.
Then—he started laughing.
Not a chuckle. Not a polite laugh. Full-body, doubled-over, gasping for-air, hysterical laughing.
What the hell?
“You—” Julien tried to speak, failed, and laughed harder. “You punched—” More laughing. “Oh my God.”
“Julien?”
He was leaning against the table now, one hand pressed to his chest, tears streaming down his face. “Are you okay?” I asked cautiously.
“You punched Colton Whitcomb,” he gasped between laughs. “You actually—Oh my God, you punched him in the face.”
“Yes?”
“Because he called Vivian boring.”
“Yes.”
“And then you got arrested.”
“Yes.”
“And made the front page of the newspaper.”
“Yes.”
He laughed harder, and I was genuinely concerned he was having some kind of breakdown. “Julien, do you need me to—”
“I hated that guy,” Julien said, still laughing. “I hated him so much. He was... Oh my God, he was the worst. And you punched him.”
“You’re not mad?”
“Mad?” Julien straightened up, wiping his eyes. “Quinton, I’ve wanted to punch that pretentious asshole for months. He showed up at a family dinner once and spent two hours talking about his car and his gym routine. My mother wanted to stab him with a fork.”
I blinked. “So... you’re not going to kill me?”
“For punching Colton? No.” He grinned, an actual, genuine grin. “For getting arrested and making front-page news? We’ll discuss that later. But for punching Colton Whitcomb in defense of my sister’s honor?” He clapped me on the shoulder. “That’s the most respectable thing you’ve ever done.”
“I—what?”
The conference room door cracked open as four heads peeked in.
Fitz, Gabriel, Nathan, and Hayden—all staring at Julien, who was still grinning like a maniac.
“Is he...” Nathan whispered. “Is he laughing?”
“I think he’s having a stroke,” Hayden said.
“Should we call someone?” Gabriel asked.
“I’m fine,” Julien said, waving them off. “Come in. All of you.”
They filed in slowly, looking like condemned prisoners approaching the gallows.
“Quinton just told me,” Julien announced, “that he’s in love with Vivian.”
Four jaws dropped.
“And that he punched Colton Whitcomb.”
“We know,” Fitz said. “We were there.”
“And that you all got arrested for brawling in a sports bar.”
“Also aware,” Nathan muttered.
“And,” Julien continued, his grin widening, “that it made the front page of the New Haven Journal.”
“We’re very sorry,” Gabriel said quickly. “It won’t happen again.”
“Oh, I know it won’t,” Julien said. “Because if it does, I’m firing all of you and moving to a remote island where the only medical emergency is sunburn.” He looked at me. “But for the record? Colton Whitcomb is a jackass, and I’m glad someone finally punched him.”
“So...” I drawled. “You’re not mad?”
“Oh, I’m furious,” Julien said cheerfully. “You’re all covering weekend shifts for the next three months. And you’re paying for the property damage. And if I see one more newspaper article about this clinic, I’m instituting a mandatory media training seminar.”
“That’s fair,” Hayden said.
“But,” Julien added, looking at me, “if you hurt my sister, I will end you. Professionally, personally, and possibly literally. Are we clear?”
“Crystal,” I said.
“Good.” He headed for the door, then paused. “Oh, and Quinton?”
“Yeah?”
“Welcome to the family.”
He left, the door clicking shut behind him as we all stood there in stunned silence.
Then Fitz started laughing.
“He’s insane,” Nathan said.
“He’s been brainwashed by his wife,” Hayden muttered.
“He’s happy,” Gabriel said, grinning. “That’s what that was. Actual happiness.”
“I thought he was going to kill me,” I said weakly.
“We all did,” Fitz said, clapping me on the back. “But instead, you got his blessing. Congratulations, mate. You’re dating the boss’ sister and you didn’t die.”
“I’m still processing,” I admitted.
“Process later,” Nathan said. “Right now, we need to figure out how to pay for the property damage at The Rusty Nail.”
“And cover weekend shifts for the next three months,” Hayden added grimly.
“And avoid any more front-page news stories,” Gabriel said.
“So basically,” Fitz said cheerfully, “we’re screwed.”
“Yep,” I said.
“But at least you got the girl,” Fitz pointed out.
I thought about Vivian. About her laugh, her smile, the way she looked at me like I was the only person in the room. “Yeah,” I said, grinning. “I got the girl.”
“And you didn’t die,” Nathan added.
“Also a plus.”
“And Julien’s apparently fine with it,” Gabriel said.
“Miracles do happen,” Hayden muttered.
Fitz raised an imaginary glass. “To Quinton. Who punched a jackass, got arrested, made front-page news, and somehow still came out on top.”
“Hear, hear,” Gabriel said.
“I hate all of you,” I said.
“No, you don’t,” Fitz said cheerfully.
He was right. I really didn’t because despite the arrests, the newspaper, the property damage, and the month of weekend shifts, I had Vivian.
And that made everything—everything—worth it.
Even if Julien had temporarily lost his mind.
Probably.