by Faye Byrd
“Careful, doctor,” he murmurs, his voice so low it’s practically a whisper. “You’re playing with fire.”
I freeze, my eyes jumping to his. “Meaning?”
He grins, and it’s salacious. “My body naturally reacts when a beautiful woman is close.”
I stare at him blankly for a second before I straighten, withdrawing my hands and trailing my eyes down his body. They freeze before they make it to their destination, though, as a long swath of dried blood sweeps across the lower abdomen area of his T-shirt.
“Do you have another stab?” I ask, frantically reaching for the hem. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I shove it up to reveal a long but much shallower cut. A good eight inches, at least. Relieved it isn’t a major threat, I allow my eyes to trail over the colorful images that cover his ribcage and disappear under his T-shirt. Even stained with blood, I’m awed by the beauty even as I wonder what the abstract pattern represents.
“You’re not helping,” he growls, gripping the edges of the table.
I freeze, gasping as I realize my fingers are gently tracing the colorful lines. I snatch them away and allow my eyes to finish their downward journey, using the ink as a road map. The shapes grow progressively smaller as they blend into another image I’m unable to see beneath his loosened waistband, but one thing is openly apparent.
He’s hard.
Very hard.
CHAPTER FIVE
Sparring
RUSH
Lying here, in pain yet still hard as fuck, the buzz hums through my veins. My nerve endings are lit, sending each pulse skyrocketing through me and intensifying every touch. It’s never been quite so strong, and I’ve never been more inclined to hold on to this feeling.
My body recognizes the situation for what it is.
The ultimate game.
I’m a good-for-nothing asshole, hell-bent on self-destruction, who burns through women as fast as I smoke a cigarette. She’s everything I make a point to avoid—out of my league, nothing like the usual catch, and far too good for my darkness to touch. Yet the challenge is there, burning through me like a raging wild fire, urging me to embrace it, to keep the surge alive.
“Staring only makes it worse,” I say, flexing my cock.
She jumps, her eyes snapping to mine and then narrowing. “I see we’re back to square one.” She sits on her stool with a huff and grabs a fresh piece of gauze, dousing it with that disinfectant shit and working on the slice to my abdomen. When she speaks again, her voice is calm, soothing even. “This one doesn’t need stitches, but I’ll seal it with tissue adhesive anyway. Are there any other wounds besides your brow?”
I lift my right arm, showing her a smaller cut on the underside of my bicep. “There’s one more, but it’s nothing.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” she replies, standing and moving to the cabinet on the wall behind my head. She takes a moment before returning with a small bottle and retaking her seat. “This shouldn’t hurt, but you’ll feel some pressure. Be very still, please.”
Her smooth, even voice is calming, and my eyes fall closed as I try to focus on the injury and not the feel of her fingers touching my skin. It’s impossible. Every graze, no matter how slight, travels along my nerve endings to center in one area, and I clench my jaw, frustrated with my own cock.
This isn’t how it’s supposed to fucking be. I’m the predator here. I say who, and I say when. There’s a type, a time, and a place; this falls in line with none of those things, yet the buzz is demanding I engage. It’s zinging through me, filling me with sensation as it pushes away the emptiness.
“There we are,” Dr. Cole says, snapping me from my thoughts as she moves around to get a look at my arm. I lay it back, stretching it over my head to give her better access. This position only makes matters worse, with her hot breath blowing against my skin as she muses aloud. “This one’s only a graze compared to the others, but I think I’ll go ahead and use the adhesive here, too.” She pauses and pins me with an accusatory stare. “We can’t be too careful since you refuse to see a real doctor.”
Her fire turns me on even more, so I give up trying to ignore it and embrace the buzz, donning a wicked smirk. “Don’t sell yourself short, doc. I’m obviously overly pleased with your work.”
Her blue-gray eyes narrow slightly before she shakes her head and soaks another piece of gauze. “You know, I’m beginning to think that’s a defense mechanism. There’s no time for any real discussion because the innuendo is always there. It’s a distraction you use to keep people at arm’s length.”
She’s not looking at me, but her face is close enough that the splatter of freckles across her cheeks leaps out against her creamy skin. Her full pink lips are pursed as she works to clean the wound, and her raven hair is pulled away from her face and into a long sleek pony tail. She’s beautiful really, in an understated way, and she’s probably right—on some level.
But on another, there’s a battle waging inside me.
I want to push her away, to force her to steer clear of my devilish entrapment, to keep her from being marred by my touch. She has a life, a real one with goals and ambition, while I have nothing worth living for. Yet on a selfish level, I need to take advantage of the feeling she stirs in me and ride this wave of life until it crashes and sends me back into the deep, dark abyss.
“You should want to stay at arm’s length, doctor,” I finally utter. “I’m not the kind of man who could ever be anything to you.”
“What a waste,” she sneers, standing and tossing the gauze into the trash before grabbing the bottle of glue. “Not that I expect anything from you, but to hear you speak that way is pretty damn pathetic.” She moves back to my arm and runs a line of the adhesive through the wound. “There are a million guys out there who’d kill for your assets, and here you are wasting them on meaningless encounters.”
“Where the fuck do you get off talking to me that way?” My eyes narrow, and I shrug her off, groaning as I pull myself into a sitting position. “You’re assuming shit you don’t have a goddamn clue about.”
“Am I?” she challenges, crossing her arms. “I think it’s pretty clear how you choose to spend your life.”
I stare incredulously, but the longer my eyes stay on her, the antsier she gets, until she’s downright fidgeting. “What the fuck’s going on here?” I ask, flicking a finger between the two of us. “Have we met before or something?”
She shrugs me off, grabbing her supplies and returning to the counter behind me. “We haven’t,” she answers quietly. “I don’t know anything about you.”
“Fucking right, you don’t,” I mutter, irritated with the whole conversation. “But even if you did, you have no right questioning me or my fucking life choices.”
A cabinet door slams and she rounds on me, full of fire and fury. “When your life choices bring you here”—she jabs her finger toward the floor—“then I have every right to question it. This is my clinic, and you not only broke in like a thief, but you conned me into helping you, so excuse fucking me for being a little too nosy or too fed up with your constant innuendo. Just be happy I helped you at all!”
And goddamnit, we’re right back to square one.
My cock is at full fucking mast.
“Jesus, tone it down, would ya?” I respond, motioning in the general area of my lap. “I can’t control this motherfucker, and right now, he wants to pay you for your kind services.”
“Are you serious right now?” She snorts, shaking her head. “Even if I was to agree to that ridiculousness, I assure you, the rest of you isn’t up to the task.”
I smirk, so fucking full of myself. “Would you like to test that theory, doc?”
She returns my smirk and flicks her fingers. “Bring it.”
My eyes widen slightly, but I’m not one who needs to be told twice. I slip off the table and onto my feet, which causes a sharp stabbing sensation to rocket through my thigh, buckling my legs beneath me. I grab t
he table just in time to keep myself from hitting the floor.
“Fuck!” I growl, the pain taking my breath.
“I’m here,” she says, her voice soft and encouraging as she rushes over and allows me to use her for leverage to pull myself back onto the table. “Not to say I told you so, but …” She trails off with an apologetic smile.
“You could’ve warned me a little better,” I joke, rolling my eyes to hide the grimace.
“Some people have to learn the hard way.” She shrugs and crinkles her nose, turning back to store her supplies. “So where am I taking you?”
“Taking me?”
“Sure.” She moves into my line of vision. “You can’t stay here, and you’re obviously in no position to drive, so yeah. Where am I taking you?”
“Your place?” I lift a brow, smirking as my eyes roam her body. Her figure is mostly hidden behind a pair of loose blue scrubs, but my imagination kicks into high gear and begins to remove them slowly.
A harsh clearing of her throat snaps me back to reality. “Again?” she asks, frustrated. “How many times do we need to go through this?”
“Okay, okay.” I hold up my palms. “I was just kidding … mostly.”
“Whatever.” She gives up and turns, squatting to dig through one of the lower cabinets. “I know this isn’t ideal,” she says, standing with her arm held out, “but it’s the best I can do.”
My eyes trail to her hand, which holds a folded piece of clothing—some bullshit white pants with little cartoon dogs all over them “What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?” I ask, physically withdrawing from the childish-looking material.
“Put them on,” she says like it’s no big deal. When I still don’t take them, she sighs. “Look, I realize it’s not your style, but as it is, you’re wearing blood-soaked jeans that are slit open to the knee.” She takes a step closer and shakes them, getting impatient. “Grab these and lie back so I can finish cutting off your jeans, and while I go check on a sick pup, which is the reason I’m here at all, you can slip on these.”
While the idea of wearing the scrub pants is ridiculous, she does have a point, but I won’t give in without being my usual charming self. Grabbing them, I say, “I told you before, all you have to do is ask if you wanna see me naked.”
She lets out a light laugh as she grabs her scissors. “How did I know you’d say something like that?”
I lie back as she approaches, grimacing at the tenderness in my abdomen. “You must have me figured out.”
She slips the scissors into the slit and starts snipping away. “No, actually, I don’t think I do,” she muses, keeping her eyes intent on her work. “I think this is all a front to hide the real you.” She makes the last cut on that leg and straightens, spearing me with inquisitive eyes. “I’m just not sure why.”
I look away from her piercing gaze. “I’m not a puzzle that needs to be solved, doc. What you see is what you get.”
She moves to my other side, and the cool metal settles inside my waistband as she begins to slice through the material. “How sad,” she says, almost too low for me to hear.
I pretend I don’t, keeping my focus on the other side of the room. For the first time since she appeared, I’m unable to enjoy her touch. Instead of exhilaration or need, I feel nothing. Dark and empty. The ultimate challenge sees too much. She digs too deep as she seeks to unearth my unsavory past. The buzz has all but disappeared, and my wayward cock lies limp beneath the loosened denim.
“Okay.” She stands and slips the scissors into her scrub pocket, moving to help me sit up. “Do the best you can with the pants, and if you need me, I’ll be back shortly.” She’s gone before I can form a reply.
Taking off my jeans is easy, as they’re only connected at the crotch, but lifting my injured leg to slide the pants on is another story. By the time I have the scrub to my knee, I’m breathing heavy from the intense pain and effort it took to guide my foot through the hole. The second leg isn’t as bad, and before long, I’m on my back and shimmying them up my thighs. I look fucking ridiculous when it’s all said and done, but they’re comfortable. I still can’t wait to get home and toss them into the trash.
Home.
I sigh, already imagining her reaction when we pull up the driveway. It’s a deeper look into my life than I’d willingly share, but I’ve backed myself into a corner and have no choice but to accept her help. She’ll receive another scintillating piece to the puzzle she seems so determined to solve. All it’ll lead to is invasive questions that I won’t answer, and my silence will leave her to draw her own assumptions.
The doc breezes back into the room with her purse on her shoulder and tosses the scissors onto the counter closest to her. “Ready?” She gives me an encouraging smile as she moves to my side and settles my arm across her shoulder. “You’re going to have to rely heavily on me, but don’t worry. I’ll let you know if it becomes too much.”
I just stare for a moment, caught in a web of wonder. She’s eager and happy and so full of life—everything I used to be. Even with how I’ve treated her, she somehow still has the ability to convince me she’s being genuine. It’s not a hard sell, either. She’s kind and caring and all the things I’ll never be again.
The trip to her car is painful as fuck, but she had the wherewithal to move it to the alley before returning to help me. I’m more appreciative than she can imagine, as I’m not sure I could’ve made it much farther. The seat’s already partially reclined and pushed back to accommodate me, so as soon as the door’s shut, I press my forehead against the cool glass and breathe through the pain.
“Which way?” Doc settles in on a gust of fresh air, her tone upbeat and infectious, accomplished even.
It brings a smile to my lips, even though I dread what’s to come. “You familiar with Kaplan Park?”
“Of course,” she replies, like I’m some kind of fucking idiot. “And Kaplan Library and Kaplan Community College and Kaplan Cancer Cen—”
“I get it,” I snap a little too harshly, cutting her off. “Shit. I’m an asshole who’s in pain. Forgive me, please, and just head that way.”
“No problem,” she says, but her voice is somber now, and I feel guilty as fuck because it’s all my fault.
But maybe it’s for the best.
CHAPTER SIX
Spark
ALYSSA
The hum of the engine is soothing as our ride passes in silence. The only interruption is the occasional grunt from my passenger when I hit a particularly nasty pothole. His cheek is pressed against the window, and his eyes are closed, leaving him open and vulnerable to my intense scrutiny.
Rush is a gorgeous man, even dressed in a blood-stained tee and puppy-printed scrub bottoms that don’t reach his ankles. His hazel-blue eyes can shift from a deep, solid blue to a lighter shade with a sunburst of gold in the center. His long, dark lashes fan around them like a lush frame to the most magnificent painting. Well-defined cheekbones, heavy brows, and a sharp jaw highlight his masculine face and create the perfect backdrop for his full pink lips. His frame is taut and sturdy and covered in a kaleidoscope of colors which tell a tale I’m unable to decipher, but no matter the beauty, he’s wrapped in a frustratingly complicated package that screams only one thing.
Run.
And I intend to, as far and as fast as I can, but I need to make sure he’s well on the path to healing before I make my escape. I’m complicit in his injury, a conspiring party who caved under his insistence, and it’s up to me to pull up my big girl panties and see this through.
“We’re about to pass the park,” I say softly, breaking the peaceful silence. “I need to know which way to go.”
He lifts his head and immediately grabs it with his hand, closing his eyes for a few seconds. “Shit, sorry,” he says, digging his fingers into his sockets before looking around and pointing ahead of us. “Take a right into the next community.”
My wide eyes pan from the road to him, and he’s already focu
sed his gaze back out the passenger window. “You mean Kaplan Estates?”
“Yeah,” he answers, not even sparing me a glance.
The Kaplan name is synonymous with money. Their family has a long-standing history in our community, and Kaplan Investments is one of the reasons other corporations have chosen to settle in the area. Their philanthropy is minted all over town as building after building carries their name, and many locals consider themselves lucky to be on the receiving end of a Kaplan grant or scholarship.
The idea that Rush lives in the same exclusive neighborhood as the Kaplans sends me into a tailspin of confusion and curiosity. I’m flabbergasted and intrigued at the same time. Unable to form a reasonable response, I remain lost in my thoughts as I pull to the gate of the exceptionally posh community and turn to look at him expectantly.
“7253988,” Rush says quickly, motioning for me to hurry and enter the numbers instead of staring at him like a mute. “Before the guard comes out, please,” he adds through tightly clenched teeth.
I snap from my daze and turn, hurriedly pressing the buttons as he repeats them. The guard pauses in the open doorway of his palatial tower as the gates begin to slide open, and Rush relaxes, resting his head against the seat.
“Will you point out their home?” My voice is high-pitched and more excited than the situation calls for, but it’s not often regular people like me get a peek into the lifestyle of the local rich and famous.
His eyes pop open, and they’re steely-blue, perfectly reflecting the chill in his voice. “We won’t be passing in front of their home.”
My hackles rise, but I push down the smart-ass retort that’s burning the tip of my tongue and remain quiet, instead choosing to get him home as swiftly as possible. The houses are grand, more so than I imagined, but I keep the wonder to myself and silently ponder how the enigma beside me fits into this lifestyle.
If this was the first time I’d seen him, then maybe I could consider it a gaff, a mistaken visit to the wrong side of town that ended in trouble. That’s not the case. He’s been there before, and judging by his comfort level in the alley, it’s a regular occurrence. This neighborhood doesn’t fit.