by I. T. Lucas
Syssi, Kian's mate, was rumored to have visions of the future. Perhaps she’d seen Robert's and told Amanda that he needed to be at Eva's place tonight?
Who knew, maybe his destiny was waiting for him inside?
Right. He was not that lucky.
Stepping in, Robert was hit by the fumes coming off the incense burning in several containers scattered around the living room. The smell was barely tolerable, but it did a good job of masking everyone's emotions.
Bhathian greeted Anandur with a handshake and then some loud brotherly back-pounding. He repeated the ritual with Robert, which was nice. It wasn't often that Robert felt welcomed.
Eva smiled at her mate. "Bhathian, could you please make the introductions while I bring out the snacks?"
"Of course," Bhathian said. "Sharon, Nick, this is Robert, a buddy of mine from work."
The girl smiled at Robert. "Nice to meet you. Did you bring a sack of pennies?"
"Pennies?" He cast a questioning glance at Amanda. What the hell was the girl talking about?
Sharon lifted a brow. "We play for pennies. Didn't Amanda tell you?"
"No, she didn't."
Amanda patted his shoulder. "Don't worry about it. I brought plenty for everyone." She hefted her purse and gave it a shake. It rattled with what sounded like hundreds of pennies.
Robert let out a relieved breath. He hated being unprepared. It made him feel physically ill, which was probably as close as an immortal got to experiencing disease.
"Come, sit next to me," Sharon beckoned.
"Thank you." He sat down gingerly.
The girl was pretty, and her smile was one of those that made a guy think of things he shouldn't. Not with someone like her who seemed to have an outgoing personality. Girls like Sharon found Robert dull.
Two minutes of a strained, boring conversation and she would lose interest like all the others. He was already bracing for the rejection.
Amanda and Anandur didn't need any introductions. Anandur and Nick slapped hands, and Amanda gave Sharon a hug before taking a seat next to Nick.
Two more chairs remained unoccupied. One was Eva's, but who was the other one for?
"Are we waiting for one more player?" Robert asked.
"Yes. Monica from accounting," Bhathian said.
Robert scratched his short-cropped hair. Did they have a Monica in the accounting department at the keep? He thought he knew everyone there. Maybe she was new. Or maybe she wasn't from accounting and Bhathian was making it up because his poker guests were supposed to be coworkers.
Monica might not even reside in the keep. Like it or not, Robert was familiar with most of the keep's females.
"So, tell me, Robert, what do you do?" Sharon asked.
"You mean at work?"
She smiled indulgently at his stupid question. "In general. Work, hobbies, anything and everything. I just want to get to know you." She winked and leaned closer. "The more I know, the better I will read you, which is everything in poker."
Up close, he got a whiff of her scent despite the overbearing incense. She was wearing some delicate, flowery perfume. A very pleasant, unassuming scent.
"I work at acquisitions. I take bids, compare them, and make recommendations to management."
"That sounds like a lot of responsibility. What if you recommend the wrong thing?"
"Didn't happen yet. I'm very thorough. I don't recommend anything until I'm sure it's the best option."
Sharon nodded. "That's good. Too many people in the workforce just go through the motions and do the minimum required of them. I'm very thorough at what I do too. Eva depends on me. If I screw up, I put her in danger."
Robert was starting to relax. Sharon was easy to talk to, and she seemed to be really interested in what he did, even though his current job was very boring compared to hers. If he could have talked about his days as a Doomer, he could have dazzled her with war stories.
Or maybe not.
Storytelling required talent. When Robert did it, it sounded like reciting facts.
"Are you a detective like Eva?" he asked.
She shook her head. "Maybe one day I will be. For now I'm on reconnaissance."
"That is probably just as interesting."
"More," Eva said as she put down a tray loaded with snacks on the table. "People think that detective work is exciting, but it's not. The preparations are the fun part. Once everything is in place, it's a wait-and-see game. Sometimes I hang around for hours, and nothing happens. Patience is a detective's most valuable attribute."
Sharon snickered. "I disagree. You should see Eva put on her disguises and then act the part. She is awesome."
"I can attest to that," Bhathian said. "If not for the stink of latex betraying her disguise, we would have never recognized her." Bhathian winced as Eva kicked him under the table.
Robert lifted a brow. "I have not heard that story."
Eva waved a hand. "It was a game I played with Bhathian. He wanted to see me in action, so I told him to wait for me in a café. I put on one of my better disguises and walked by him. He didn't recognize me, but I made the mistake of getting too close, and he smelled the latex."
Clearly, there was more to the story, but it was not for Nick and Sharon's human ears.
Nick accepted Eva's version without batting an eyelid, but Sharon grimaced and shook her head. The girl suspected something.
Uncomfortable, Robert reached for the bowl of peanuts. "Would you like some?" He offered it to Sharon.
"Sure."
Careful not to spill any of the peanuts, Robert put his hand underneath Sharon's, then shook out a small handful into her open palm.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
A knock on the door saved him from having to come up with more to say.
"That must be Monica." Bhathian pushed to his feet.
Chapter 6; Sharon
Sharon cast a sidelong glance at Robert, admiring his classic profile without him noticing.
It was rare to meet a guy so handsome who at the same time was so unassuming. He seemed surprised every time she spoke to him, as if he wasn't used to female attention, which was highly unlikely.
But then Sharon suspected that Robert had served in the armed forces for most of his adult life and had been discharged only recently. Which might have been responsible for his lack of flirting experience. His military past was evident in his posture, his short haircut, and his rigidity. Even in the polite way he talked, like he was used to deferring to others.
On a more subtle level, or her sixth sense as Sharon liked to think of it, she sensed darkness in him.
Except, there was more. She also sensed honor, compassion, and loyalty.
Was Robert a good man with a dark past?
Or was he a bad man who was trying to live a better life?
It was hard to tell. The guy who appeared so simple on the surface had layers upon layers of inner workings. A mystery worthy of Sharon's inquisitive nature.
"I fold." Robert threw his cards on the table.
No wonder. His pile of pennies was almost depleted.
"Me too." Sharon added her cards to the discards pile even though they weren't all that bad. They weren't great either, but definitely not good enough to miss an opportunity to have a few moments alone with Robert while the others were still busy playing.
Robert eyed Sharon's pile of pennies and lifted a brow. "You were doing well. Why did you fold?"
"You got to know when to hold 'em, and know when to fold 'em." Sharon pushed her chair back and got up. "Come on, let's go out to the backyard for some fresh air. The smell of incense is making me nauseous."
Looking uncomfortable, Robert followed her out to Eva's backyard, or rather a patio. It was too small to be called a backyard, but it was nicely outfitted with a loveseat swing, a built-in barbecue, and a round table for eating outside.
Sharon sat on the swing, and after a moment's hesitation, Robert joined her.
; She gave a gentle push to start the swing's motion, but Robert's feet were firmly planted on the grass, and the thing didn't move even an inch.
The guy looked like he'd never sat on a swing before.
"Give it a little push," she told him.
He looked at her legs and copied her moves. "Like this?"
"Yes. Exactly."
For a couple of minutes, they just swung back and forth, each waiting for the other to start a conversation. Sharon because she often talked too much and wanted to give Robert a chance to say a few words before monopolizing it, and Robert because he was apparently too anxious or too awkward to do so.
"You don't talk much, do you?" she asked.
He let out a breath. "I've been accused of that."
"Accused? Are you telling me that a girl had a problem with you not wanting to talk about yourself incessantly?"
He nodded. "Women find me boring."
Poor guy. He had met the wrong kind of girls.
"Well, I prefer a good listener to a blabbermouth. I can't stand guys who only want to talk about themselves and are not interested in anything I have to say."
Tilting his head, he looked at her with his big brown eyes. "What makes someone a good listener?"
"Paying attention to what the other person is telling them, being genuinely interested in what the person has to say, and remembering details from the story at least for a few days."
"Then I am a very good listener. I never forget what someone tells me, especially if it's personal. I thought it meant that I have a good memory."
"It does, but if you weren't paying attention in the first place, you could not have memorized what you haven't heard, right?"
"That is a good observation." Robert leaned back against the loveseat's cushions, his shoulder muscles visibly loosening.
"When were you discharged?"
Robert's muscles immediately tensed back up. "Discharged? From where?"
"The military, of course."
"Why do you think I was in the military?"
She rolled her eyes. "If you don't want to tell me, that's fine, but it is written all over you that you were a soldier for many years. Did you serve in some secret unit you are not allowed to talk about?"
He rubbed a hand over his clean-shaven jaw. "Something like that."
Chapter 7: Bridget
As Bridget walked over to the security guard's station and asked him to buzz her out into the lobby, she looked through the thick bulletproof glass, searching for Turner.
Kian hadn't given her a description, but it was unnecessary. Chances were there would be no one else in the lobby.
The residents of the high-rise, mortals and immortals alike, parked in their designated underground garages and used the elevators to get to their apartments. The non-clan residences were rented out to corporations in need of temporary lodging for their traveling executives, which meant that most of them were unoccupied and that guests were rare.
Clan members didn't invite outsiders as a rule.
She spotted him standing with his back to the guard station and looking out onto the street, his feet shoulder-width apart, and his hands behind his back with the thumbs interlocking.
The first thing she noticed was the bald head, the second was the perfect posture—straight but not rigid, confident but not arrogant.
The third was his attire, which reminded her of Andrew. Did all agents, active and retired, wear slacks with suit jackets to work? Not that she had anything against it, but it was uncommon in a world dominated by jeans and T-shirts. A guy who worked mostly undercover should not dress in a way that made him stand out.
Perhaps he had dressed up for his meeting with her. Some people still regarded doctors with respect. Especially those belonging to older generations.
The door didn't make a sound as it swung open, defying the term getting buzzed in and out, but nevertheless, her visitor immediately turned around, pinning her with the most intense set of eyes she'd seen on anyone other than Kian.
Gray, focused, and super intelligent.
A man to be reckoned with.
As he strode toward her, Bridget took a few steps and met him halfway. "You must be Turner." She offered her hand. "I'm Doctor Bridget."
He affected a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Doctor Bridget."
Most people reacted with surprise when first seeing her, either because she looked too young to be a doctor, or because of her red hair. But if Turner found her appearance surprising, he didn't let on. His facial features remained impassive, as did his scent.
Evidently he didn't find her attractive at all.
Disappointing, since she found him very much so, even though he wasn't as tall as the men she tended to gravitate toward.
With his beautiful, intelligent gray eyes, tight, muscular body, and confidence to rival Kian's, Turner was a splendid male specimen despite his somewhat less than impressive height and his human limitations.
Besides, with her five foot one, he still had about half a foot on her.
She could make an exception for him.
"Follow me."
On the way to the clinic, Turner didn't talk, but his eyes were busy taking everything in. She had no doubt that if asked he could draw a map of the place from memory.
"Here we are," Bridget said as she unlocked the door to her domain, ushering him into her office.
He took the seat she'd offered. "Aren't you going to examine me?"
Bridget treated him to one of her indulgent doctor's smiles, which was condescending when directed at an intelligent adult, expecting to get a rise out of him, but she was again disappointed. Apparently, Turner didn't react to implied put-downs either.
Was there anything he reacted to?
"I need to ask you a few questions first. I'm sure you've seen a number of doctors by now and are familiar with the process."
"I saw only one, and now you."
She lifted a brow. "Ever?"
"No. Just about this. I had to see a number of them during my military career. The physicals required of all military personnel are mandatory."
Bridget opened her tablet to her favorite note-taking application. "What about when you were a kid? Did you get sick a lot?"
"No."
"How often did you get a cold or a flu?"
"Rarely."
"Define rarely." She waved a hand. "Once a year, twice a year…"
"I didn't keep a record, but no more than once every three years, probably less."
"What about your parents? Any health issues?"
"I wouldn't know. My mother ran off with some guy when I was four, and my father remarried and left me with his parents. We didn't keep in touch."
Bridget wasn't a psychologist, but getting abandoned at a young age by both parents might have explained Turner's emotional detachment. "Is your father still alive?"
"No."
"Do you know what he died of?"
"Not cancer."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. It was liver failure."
"How about your mother?"
"I don't know."
Bridget put her tablet down. "Given what you do for a living, I would assume you could have found her."
"What for?"
"Curiosity?"
Turner shrugged. "She wasn't worth my time."
"What if she had a good reason to leave? You were only four at the time. Maybe your father was violent with her? Maybe he threatened her life? It happens."
"Not in her case. Even if it were true, she could have found a way to contact me. I was living with my paternal grandparents. I wasn't hard to find."
"That is unfortunately true. How about your grandparents? Did they suffer from any major diseases?"
"Not really. They both lived to an old age, so there was Alzheimer's and frailty."
"Both paternal and maternal?"
"I didn't know my maternal grandparents."
Bridget had strained her mediocr
e sense of smell in an effort to detect any emotional change in Turner, but he was either very good at keeping his feelings buried deep inside, or she was very bad at sniffing.
But she wasn't.
Bridget had an average sense of smell for an immortal female, which should have been enough to detect a human's emotional state. Maybe not every subtlety, but things like anger, anxiety, or disappointment produced scents strong enough for her to recognize.
Turner was like a vault. Which, surprisingly, just whetted her appetite to dig deeper and see what made him tick.
"Why do you refuse conventional treatment?"
He lifted one blond brow. "How do you know I'm not getting treated?"
"That's what you told Kian."
"Not in so many words, but you are correct. I don't want to go through chemotherapy." He smoothed his hand over his bald scalp. "I don't want to lose all this great hair." He smiled, taking her breath away.
Turner's lips were beautiful, they were his best feature after his eyes. When his expression was grave, which was most of the time, they had a cruel bent to them. When he smiled, though, his expression softened and those lips looked good enough to nibble on.
Get a hold of yourself, Bridget. He is a patient, and you're his doctor.
"We wouldn't want that. But seriously. Cancer treatments have advanced significantly over the last decade. It's no longer the death sentence it used to be."
His expression impassive again, he pinned her with those gray eyes of his. "I refuse to live in the shadow of death. To do what I do, I need complete emotional stability and calm. It's not that I fear death, I don't mind a swift departure, but I don't want to live a life that revolves around treatments and words like remission instead of cure."
"I understand."
"Do you?"
"Yes, I do. But I still think you are wrong. Your solution is far more extreme than the treatments you dread. I feel horrible for telling you that, but you're too old for the transition. Besides, it's highly unlikely that you are a Dormant."
"Ouch. Hearing a beautiful young woman telling me I'm too old hurts my feelings."
Obviously, it was untrue. His feelings weren't hurt. Turner was just trying to lighten the mood, for her sake, not his. Bridget appreciated the effort but didn't need it. Still, in case he actually felt something, and was just very good at hiding it, she returned the favor.