by Aubrey Irons
The man is slumped against the wall of the elevator, bloodied and out cold. He’s shirtless, his muscled, tattooed body covered in bruises and cuts and blood, and for a horrified minute, I wonder if I’m looking at a corpse. But then the doctor in me kicks into gear instantly, and I’m dropping down next to him to feel for a pulse.
My heart jumps into my throat as he suddenly gasps awake, his hand jerking to grab my wrist and his eyes are wide and wild as he stares into mine. I stutter out a gasp as I find myself staring into the most piercing brown-green eyes I've ever seen. Eyes the color of the forest, flecked with gold.
His eyes dart around the elevator in wild, jerking movements, and I can see the veins in his neck pulsing as he jerks forward.
“Hey, hey!” I say, putting my hands on his bare chest and gently pushing him back against the wall. The muscles beneath his skin feel like rippling iron under my hands, and I feel myself blushing at how absurdly unprofessional it is to think of this bleeding stranger with those kind of descriptors.
Especially bleeding strangers as staggeringly good looking as this one.
His dark hair is buzzed short, and even with a thick beard covering his chin, I can see how handsome he is from the prominent cut of his cheekbones and the dark, smokey look in his eyes.
“I need you to relax, okay?” I’m pressing him back down as gently as I can. “You've been in some kind of accident, and I'm going to help you.”
He lunges forward again, a crazy look in those handsome eyes. “You-”
“I'm a doctor.”
Ok, clinical virologist, but close enough, I mutter to myself. I didn’t sit through four semesters of triage and two years of late-shift E.R. work not to be able to do something in a situation like this.
“Listen, I’m going to help you while we wait for the ambulance-”
“No.” His voice is like sandpaper on wood. Rich and rough, with a touch of something warm there. He momentarily looks much more awake and alert as his face darkens. “No ambulance, no hospitals.”
I'm suddenly very afraid of what that implies, as well as suddenly very aware that I'm alone with a beaten and bloodied stranger who for all I know could have just come from murdering his whole family or something.
He must see the fear shoot through my face, because his look softens for a moment. “Look, just- no ambulance. Please.”
I bite my lip, my hand still hovering near my purse and my cellphone, but there’s something utterly bewildering and unexplainable about the sincerity in his eyes that has me wanting to trust him. He winces, his hand pressing against his ribs, and it's then that I realize how much he's bleeding from some wound there.
“Oh my God, you need to let me call an-”
“You're a doctor you said?” He coughs violently, tilting his head back against the wall and gritting his teeth for a second.
“Yes?”
“Good, you're hired.”
I frown. “Wha-”
“Reach in my left pants pocket.”
“Um, excuse me?”
“Just do it.” He coughs, wincing.
Warily, I lean closer to him, wondering when he's going to tie me up, or ax me to death, and reach into his pocket.
I blink at the fat wad of $100 dollar bills I pull out, that are dyed rust colored around the edges from his blood.
“Ok, what's-”
“That's your fee,” he whispers out with a grimace. “For patching me up.” He's looking paler and paler by the second as he leans his head back against the wall, and I notice his breathing is coming slower and slower by the rising and falling of his muscled, tattooed chest.
“I'm not taking this money.”
Oh HELL no am I taking a bloody wad of hundred dollar bills from a complete stranger. I want no part of that, actually.
His brow furrows, and I can see him trying to open his lips, but I'm already whirling around and hitting the button in the elevator, the doors closing behind us.
“I'm not taking this money,” I say again, this time yanking my t-shirt off over my head and pushing his hand away as I press the cotton to his open wound. “But I am going to help you. Just don't die on me, alright?”
He momentarily opens his eyes once more, and when he grins, I can't tell if it’s because he’s glad I’m going to help him, or the fact that I've taken my shirt off. Maybe both.
“Top floor,” he whispers hoarsely.
“Wait, what?” As dumb of an idea I know it was, I was just going to drag him into my own apartment on the second to top floor. As far as I knew, the apartment above me was empty.
“I live-” he coughs blood and then he's going slack in my arms. “I just moved-”
Oh, wonderful. The hot, muscled bleeding guy dying in my arms is my new upstairs neighbor.
“Thank you, really.” He says with that deep, baritone of a voice. He's sitting up now in his bed, which is weirdly the only piece of furniture in the whole apartment. His color is coming back, and there's a clean bandaged wrapped around the stitches I've just put on the wound on his ribcage and another bandage taping down the other heavy cut on his brow.
I nod at him quietly, as I start to pack away the medical supplies I grabbed from my own apartment.
“Look, take the money, seriously.” He says, nodding at the bloody stack of bills sitting on his empty kitchen counter.
I choke out a small laugh. “Yeah, uh, no. Thanks though.”
“Why not?”
I look up at him, and he's got this cocky, devilish smirk on his face, his teeth shining white through the dark beard covering his chin. And for maybe the fifth time since finding him, there’s something so familiar about him that strikes me in a funny way but that I just can't place.
“Because I don't want to know what happened to you tonight, but I also know a stab wound when I see one.”
The grin fades from his lips, and he nods at me. “Fair enough.” He clears his throat. “It was a fight; a boxing match.”
“I said I didn't want to know.”
He laughs. “Yeah but you seem like the curious type.”
“Oh, and you figured that out from the full two hours you've known me, half of which you were passed out?”
“I'm good at reading people.”
I cross my arms over my chest, over the fresh tank-top I've changed into. ”A boxing match doesn't usually involve knives.”
He grins and shrugs, “Some people are bad at losing.”
“So you won?”
He nods at the kitchen counter. “That wad of cash I keep trying to get you to take is twenty five thousand dollars.”
Holy shit.
I shake my head. “You know you could have died tonight if I hadn't found you, right? I mean why do this?”
“Eh, it’s just what I do I guess.” He says, leaning back against his headboard. He winces for a second and I can see a red bloom at the bandage on his side.
“Shit, you're bleeding. Hang on, let me change that bandage again.” I move towards the bed and sit on the edge as I bend down to examine him.
“So is that why you fight then? That money?” I nod my head at the kitchen counter.
He laughs dryly. “Not at all, actually.”
“So why then?”
“Let me ask you this, Doc. Why did you fix me up tonight?”
I give him a look. “Because it’s what I do, I'm a doct-”
“See?” He grins at me.
“Cute,” I say dryly, a grin teasing the corners of my lips.
I look around the empty loft. “Look do you have anything to eat here? You lost a lot of blood tonight, you should eat something.”
“I have no idea.” He says with a nonchalant shrug.
I raise an eyebrow at him. “You don't know if you've got any food here?”
“I dunno, I might?”
“You do live here, right?”
“Uh, sort of.” He says awkwardly.
“What's that mean?”
“I mean, yeah, I sort of live
here. It’s sort of like my hideaway from life.”
I frown at him. “What are you, married or something?”
He barks out a laugh. “Uh, no, darlin. I'm not.”
I find myself smiling at his drawled “darlin’ as I look away, and then I’m wondering why I feel such an immediate spark of excitement hearing that he isn’t married.
I turn back, and he’s slowly closing his eyes. “Hey, hey!” I snap in his face and pat his bristled cheek as he opens his eyes and grins at me. “You can’t fall asleep like this.”
“Aww, what’s the matter, Doc, enjoying the conversation too much?” His grin is just charming enough to let the cockiness of the comment that would usually dig right under my skin just sort of roll off of me instead.
“No, I mean you probably have a concussion and I really can’t let you sleep.”
He nods, and his eyebrow arches suggestively. “Guess we should find a way to keep me up then.”
I’m still sitting right on the edge of his bed, right next to him, and I swallow heavily, my pulse hammering in my chest as I find myself biting my lip and locking eyes with him. There’s a spark there, something familiar, and yet something wildly strange, and for whatever reason, it’s drawing me in like a moth to flame.
There’s a final moment, right before my lips touch his - right before I let myself go and right before we both crash together - where I suddenly realize I don’t even know his name.
But of course by then, it’s almost better not knowing.
Chapter Four
Quinn
“Are you fucking kidding me!?”
No, no FUCKING way. Taking the job with Archer Holdings was one thing, but there isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that I’m going to work under Logan fucking Dempsey for the next three months. No fucking way at all.
Instantly, my mind goes to an entirely new place with the thought of being under Logan, and I blush at the dirty thoughts that quickly escalate in my head before I shake them away and scowl at him, as if this smug prick set this whole damn thing up from the start.
“Yeah,” Logan runs a hand through that perfect head of dark hair. “We should probably talk about this.”
He reaches out to put a hand on my arm but I yank it away from him. “Don't touch me,” I hiss, mentally cursing my sister and the entire concept of a wedding with no booze.
“Will you fucking relax?” He says, brow furrowing.
“And don't tell me to re-”
“Well calm the fuck down then, instead.” He growls, suddenly grabbing me by the arms and pushing me back against the wall. A tiny gasp drops from my lips and I blush bright pink as I realize that I'm instantly and horribly turned on by his rough touch. I can smell his aftershave, and the vague familiarity of it from that night invades my head in ways it really shouldn’t. His pressed dress shirt is open at the collar, his bow-tie undone, and I can see the inked lines peeking out through the opening there from the tattoos that I know cover his chest and shoulders.
His perfect, chiseled, muscled chest and shoulders.
I shake my head again. I mean how the hell would I have ever guessed that the stranger from that night with a body made for sin would actually in fact be one of the wealthiest men in New York? Aren’t billionaires supposed to be eccentric old guys who live in board rooms? Since when do they have stab wounds, bruises, and heavy tattoos covering perfectly sculpted muscled bodies and a huge, thick - I blush, my thought trailing off as I think of the tool I know Logan’s packing between his legs.
“I am not working for you, you prick.” I spit out, willing myself to look as defiant as possible and hoping that it covers the flush of arousal blooming on my chest and face.
Logan arches a dark brow at me. “You’ve already signed the papers-”
“Then sue me.”
He rolls his eyes. “And we’re funding the research team you’re leaving behind at Mt. Sinai for five more years since they’re losing you for a few months Fully funding, Quinn.”
“So?” I spit out. Great, yeah, fund the research team comprised of my dickhead ex and the skanky under-qualified blowjob queen who’s taking my place. Perfect. I’m being petulant and childish, and I know it, but I’m just too furious at the situation to get past that. I have one Goddamn one-night-stand and fate serves me up Logan fucking Dempsey. My father’s military pal, basically my new brother-in-law, and oh, apparently also my new boss. I mean seriously, what fucking horrible karma am I paying off right now?
His strong hands on my arms are warm, and I snap out of my little pity-party as I suddenly think that they may just feel too good on my skin. I’m remembering the feel of those hands on other parts of me, but then I’m quickly shaking my head and pushing him away from me, like pushing away the last bite of dessert even though you so desperately want a taste.
“Fine.” I say, still fuming and acting like a child.
Logan has an arrogant looking smirk on his face. “So that sounds like a big fat ‘maybe’.”
“Don’t get cute.” I mutter.
“Oh I thought I already was cute, which is why you just couldn’t resist me the other night.”
Is this fucking guy for real?
“It’s a yes,” I hiss out through clenched teeth. “But watch it.”
He chuckles like we’re having some sort of witty banter. Like we’re just two old friends chumming around. “Well, we do need to talk about what happened.” He says, his eyes flashing at me.
“No, we don't, actually.” I hiss back, bringing my hands up to rub my temples.
“So you’re fine working together with no problem?”
After I came on his tongue and after he fucked me better than I’ve ever been fucked in my entire life?
I swallow heavily, trying to calm my racing pulse and trying desperately to quell the heat throbbing between my legs at the feeling of this man so close to me, as arrogant and cocky and totally forbidden as he is. Fuck, there’s no way I can take this job.
“Yes, Logan. I can very happily forget everything about that night and live a very productive and content life.”
His eyes flash at me. “Everything that happened?” He smirks at me, and that glint in his eye brings a warm flush to my cheeks as I suddenly begin to remember things I shouldn't about that night. I'm remembering how his lips tasted, and how they felt as he kissed and nipped up the inside of my thigh-
Fuck.
This is going to be a problem. I shake my head quickly. “Yes everything, thank you very much.”
He cocks an eyebrow at me, and when he smirks and leans closer to my face, I can feel my pulse skip a beat as the heat of him draws nearer. “Well, there are some aspects of that night I'm quite happy to remember,” he winks salaciously at me, just in case I missed the innuendo. “But there are also some other things I'd rather- well, that I'd rather you kept to yourself.”
I roll my eyes. “Logan, I will not be telling anyone ever about us sleeping-”
“I mean the fighting, Quinn.” He says sharply.
“What about it?”
“I mean no one can know about that.”
I laugh. “Are you serious? Logan, have you seen your face today?” He’s still sporting a black eye and the hint of a bruise on his lip, which has this terrible side-effect of also making that mouth even more attractive to me right now.
He sighs heavily and turns to look away as he shakes his head.
“No, honestly. Do you think everyone here is totally blind?” I nod at the boxing glove tattoo peeking out of his rolled-up sleeve. “Seriously, it's not like you make it a secret you know.”
This time he rolls his eyes, and the gesture is both infuriating and disturbingly sexy on him. “Obviously they know I box, Quinn. It's just that they don't know about the kind of boxing I do.”
I put my hands on my hips and cock my head at him. “What, the kind of boxing that has you stabbed and beaten to a bloody pulp lying in my elevator at three o’clock in the morning?”
H
e grins and looks away, shaking his head.
“What?”
“Well, my elevator, technically speaking.”
I freeze. “What.”
“Yeah, I bought that building a few years ago and just use a management company to rent it out. I’m redoing my Penthouse uptown right now, so I just decided to crash there during construction.” He chuckles, and as he looks up I think we both suddenly get it at the same time. “Hey, shit, I guess that mean’s I’m technically your landlord!”
I pinch the bridge of my nose with my fingers and try and count backwards from ten. I get to about seven before I decide a very tall drink would work a whole lot better right now.
“So anyways, no gabbing about the fighting, okay?”
I finally lift my head up and stare at him, “So wait, Bryce and Hudson don't even know?”
Logan raises an eyebrow and makes a face. “What do you think. I’m the responsible one, remember?”
“Yeah, a regular pillar of reason and society, Logan.” I’m tapping my foot on the ground, anxious about how, well, anxious he makes me. “So, I’m guessing you want me to keep this a secret or something?”
“No ‘or something’, just the first part.”
“What’s in it for me?” Instantly I have no idea why I said it.
Logan smirks. “Well well, there’s that famous Archer hustle and negotiating I’ve heard so much about. But I don't think you want my counter offer, Quinn.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh please, what could possibly be your-”
“That a bit more went on that night than just me getting the shit kicked out of me in a fight?”
Oh you’ve got to be shitting me. Is he seriously about to use that as leverage?
“You’re kidding, right?” I glare fire at him. “You're seriously going to hold that over my head?”
He smirks that irritating, cocky smile of his. “Well you sure seem like you want it to be this big dirty secret.”
“So do you.”
“Do I?” He winks at me, looking cocky and arrogant and - goddamnit - unnervingly good looking.