Alphas Like Us

by Krista Ritchie

  I can’t only exist as another name in the Keene dynasty. It means that my life isn’t mine, and that scares the fuck out of me. Life is finite; we all die, and when you’re dead, you’re dead.

  I couldn’t wish my mom back. I have a single memory of her and a handful of pictures. I know that I have only one life, and I need to live for what I love.

  Not what my father loves.

  Not what the Keenes need me to be.

  I have to live for me.

  I quit medicine.

  I quit.

  But I picture Maximoff Hale hurt, alone. In need of someone.

  And I know I’m not quitting today.

  Still, my father hasn’t convinced me that this isn’t just wolf scout earning a “preparedness” merit badge. I pass the phone to my other hand and say, “Okay, but this could still be Moffy over-preparing like he always does.”

  “If you heard his voice over the phone,” my father says, “you’d know he wasn’t calm. He was tense. And you know Maximoff. So now what do you think?”

  There’s a reason for concern.

  I rub my jaw, my pulse hiking a fraction. No more delay, I leave the kitchen for the hall closet. “Did you narrow down the problem or am I going to have to pack a bag with everything?” I gather my black canvas trauma bag and check supplies: gauze, sutures—shit, if he needs an IV…

  “It could be a fracture, maybe possible head trauma.”

  I hurry. “Did he sound disoriented?”

  “He sounded worried and distracted.”

  I remember the last time I saw Maximoff. I can still smell the salt water and feel the heat from the torches. July, just last month. His family threw a summer party on a yacht, and I talked to Moffy for a minute.

  I remember how he stared off into space. How it took me thirty seconds just to catch his attention.

  My lips upturn at the memory. “That guy is always distracted.”

  “More distracted than usual,” my father notes.

  My smile fades fast, and I stuff a blood pressure cuff in the bag. I search for my missing stethoscope, unzipping sections.

  Maximoff fought with his cousin on that yacht. Both threw punches. And he’s been caught in more than a few brawls before, mostly with hecklers. “Do you think he was in a fistfight?” I ask my father, just as I find my stethoscope in a front pocket.

  “No,” he says. “He never calls me after any fight.”

  I zip up the bag, stand and grab my keys off the counter. Then I remember… “He’s at Harvard.”

  A six-hour drive from Philly.

  If he’s badly hurt…I shake my head. Six hours feels too long. Before I think of alternatives, my father speaks again.

  “I already booked the private jet,” he says. “I’ll email you the details. You should be arriving at Cambridge in a little over two hours.”

  I nod. “Good.” And I can sleep on the plane.

  “Before you board, I need you to stop by the house and get more supplies.” He means my childhood house in Philly, where he still lives and keeps medicine for emergencies. “Moffy’s blood type is B-positive, and if he has a serious fracture, give him lidocaine intravenously and assess. He’ll refuse an opioid.”

  “I know.” His parents are recovering addicts for alcohol and sex, and he’s cautious around addictive painkillers.

  My father lists all the supplies, and I mentally file the information. When he’s finished, he says, “After you treat him, make sure to write a report and email me.”

  “Sure.”

  “And if you have any questions, I won’t have cell service. You can always call your grandfather or Rowin—”

  “I’m not calling Rowin,” I cut him off. “We broke up last week.” I sling my bag on my shoulder and check the plane schedule on my phone. Calculating how much time I have. Not much.

  The phone line is silent.

  I head down the narrow hall towards my bedroom, phone back to my ear and say, “If that’s it—”

  “You shouldn’t let work affect your relationship. If you need help balancing the two, you can talk to me.”

  “Not everything is about medicine,” I say more coldly than I meant. My jaw muscle tics. “I know you liked him, but it’s over. If there’s nothing else I need for Moffy, then I’ll let you go.”

  “That should be it,” he says, his tone still warm. “Take care.”

  I hang up and slip into my small bedroom that I share with Cory. A six-foot metal bookshelf separates his side from mine, medical texts stacked on each shelf.

  The friend that Cory hates is currently passed out in my single bed, tangled in my black sheets. And he’s not alone. A mystery blonde girl sleeps beneath his tattooed arm. Her bra and red dress litter the floorboards.

  I don’t care. At this point, the bed is more Donnelly’s than mine.

  But I’m in a fucking hurry. I chuck my motorcycle keys at him, and they land with a thud on his chest. “Donnelly.”

  He squints and pats at the keys while glancing at the nightstand clock. It’s past noon, and the potent scent of Lucky Strikes and bourbon lingers.

  “Fuck,” Donnelly groans and runs a hand through his tousled chestnut hair.

  The blonde girl underneath his bicep starts waking. Rubbing her eyes, her mascara and lipstick are smudged. I spot the Zeta Beta Zeta keychain attached to her leather purse.

  This isn’t the first sorority girl Donnelly has brought to my apartment to fuck.

  She eyes me skeptically while stretching off the bed and grabbing her dress and bra. “Who are you?”

  “I’m about to leave,” I say more to Donnelly, but he’s not looking at me.

  “He lives here,” Donnelly tells her with a yawn. He sits up against the headboard and watches her collect her shit.

  She tugs on her dress, checks her phone and stands, not paying that much attention to him. “Okay…thanks, Daniel.”

  “Donnelly.” He mouths to me, great lay.

  My brows spike and lips rise. I mouth, didn’t ask.

  He grins and unscrews a nearly empty water bottle. Downing the last drop, he swallows and motions to the girl, then me, with the bottle. “He’s a resident at Philly General.”

  She surveys me head-to-toe while tying her tangled hair in a pony. “You’re seriously a doctor?”

  I lean my shoulder on the doorframe, loosely crossing my arms. I may be constantly relaxed, but I’m keeping track of the very last second that I can waste before I need to leave. “I’m seriously a doctor, but I’m just a first-year resident.” I look to Donnelly. “Which is technically called an intern.”

  He tosses the empty water in an arch, and the bottle clatters in a trash bin. “Same thing.” His South Philly accent is thick.

  “Sort of,” I say. “I haven’t taken my Step 3 exam to become licensed yet.”

  I’m twenty-four-years-old and I’ve already graduated medical school and I have that MD. But I won’t become a licensed physician until I complete the USMLE exam.

  Donnelly shakes his head. “Unnecessarily complicated.”

  The girl frowns. “What?” She can’t understand what he just said with his Philly lilt.

  He tries to enunciate. “Unnecessarily—”

  “Forget it,” she cuts him off and checks her phone.

  I’d like this girl to make a quick exit about as much as she wants to make one. I cock my head. “Need me to call you an Uber?” I ask.

  She texts quickly. “My friend is picking me up. Can I have the address?”

  I tell her the address of the apartment complex, and then Donnelly swings his legs off the bed and reaches for his jeans. “Hey,” he says to the girl, “if you wanna come along, I’m going to Wawa for lunch—”

  “Wawa?” she cringes. “Ew.”

  I almost laugh. Fuck, she hates Wawa. My smile stretches, decently entertained because Donnelly is going to lose his shit.

  “Ew?” he repeats. “Girl, Wawa is a great wonder of Philly—”

  “
It’s just a convenience store. God, I don’t understand people’s obsession with it.”

  Donnelly cringes. “Didn’t you see my tattoo?” He rotates slightly and flashes her the inked Wawa logo on his shoulder blade.

  She tucks a flyaway piece of hair behind her ear. “Boy, it was just sex. I don’t care if a one-night stand is creepily obsessed with a gas station or not—and don’t act like this was anything more for you. You don’t know my name either.”

  “You’ve gotta be a Betty,” he says. “Betty sounds like the name of someone who’d trash Wawa.”

  She struts past the bed with her high heels in hand. “My name is Sylvia.”

  I turn a fraction of an inch to let her pass through the door. She eyes my trauma bag and then disappears to the kitchen. Three minutes left.

  I unpocket a stick of Winterfresh and peel the foil.

  “See ya never, Betty!” Donnelly calls, and the front door slams shut. He jumps into his ripped jeans. “Can’t believe I stuck my dick in a Wawa hater.”

  I pop my gum in my mouth. “You’ve stuck your dick in worse.” I straighten off the doorframe.

  Donnelly buttons his jeans. “Nothin’ worse than a girl who hates Wawa.”

  I whistle. “And your fucked-up standards persist.”

  He grins and tugs his ragged shirt from last night over his head. He notices my trauma bag, and his mouth downturns.

  I don’t unearth this thing from the closet every day.

  Two minutes.

  “Bike keys are on the bed,” I explain, chewing my gum. “I’ll be out for a while. You can use it if you need to.”

  Donnelly doesn’t own a vehicle of any kind, and if he’s not borrowing my Yamaha, then he’s stuck on foot or with public transportation.

  I veer into the kitchen, not loitering around any longer.

  Donnelly follows close behind. “You tell your old man about being a bodyguard yet?”

  I steal Cory’s apple out of a fruit bowl, and I glance back at Donnelly. “Not yet.”

  A while back, Akara Kitsuwon suggested I try security training. He owns the Studio 9 Boxing & MMA gym, which became a hub for the famous families’ security team.

  Donnelly and I were sparring on the mats, like we sometimes do, and in a break, I offhandedly mentioned being burnt-out from medicine to Akara.

  Next thing I know, I’m in security training and Donnelly joins the ride. Now we’re both in the final course of training, and I’m one foot in medicine, one foot out.

  Donnelly takes a jug of milk out of the fridge. “Been thinking about when you’ll tell him?”

  I bite into the apple and hold Donnelly’s gaze for a short beat.

  Once I tell my father that I’m quitting medicine to become a 24/7 bodyguard, I’ll lose him, and Donnelly knows this.

  My relationship with my father is built on the notion that I’d become a doctor. That’s my worth. My life’s purpose. Remove it, and nothing is left.

  Let’s put it this way: I was his student first, son last. Small talk was typical; anything deeper almost never happened, and sure, he was always busy like most fathers are. But I didn’t have a mother, and he didn’t hire a nanny or babysitter to look after me.

  Instead, he put me in dozens of extracurricular activities. Made me fend for myself more than half the time.

  And one of those activities was martial arts. I started at five-years-old and never stopped. It’s ironic that my love of MMA is what eventually led me to the Studio 9 gym, and ultimately, what opened the door to security training.

  I can’t even be upset that I’ll lose my father with this career change. Because I don’t feel like I ever had a good one to begin with.

  When will I finally tell the old man that I quit? I don’t make regimented plans like that.

  I spit out my gum into a trash bin. “It’ll happen when it happens,” I tell Donnelly and eye the oven clock. One minute left.

  He unscrews the milk cap, but his attention stays on my bag. “What’s with that?”

  “My father got a call. I’m helping out one last time.” I take a large bite of apple.

  He chugs milk from the jug. “Tell whatever Hale needs you that I say what’s up.”

  “No,” I say easily and head for the door, “and man, stop assuming the worst about the Hales.” The parents are addicts, but they’re in recovery and sober. And they’re better than most mothers and fathers that Donnelly and I grew up around.

  “Can’t help it.” He wipes his mouth on his bicep. “They’re the Bad Luck Crew.”

  I roll my eyes and clutch the doorknob. “You may be assigned to one of them.”

  “Nah, I already requested the Good Luck Crew.” He means the Cobalt family.

  I smile into another bite of apple. “Have fun with that.” I kick open the door, en route to Maximoff Hale.

  When I’m in the elevator, I pull out my phone and contemplate calling or texting Moffy for more information, to ensure he’s okay, but I don’t even have his number.

  Fucking hell.

  I pocket my phone. Not long after, I take a cab to my father’s house in Northwest Philly, pack the supplies and medicine in my bag, and I reach the airport in plenty of time to board the private jet. Moderate turbulence and decent shut-eye later, I’m on the ground.

  An unknown source has already granted me access to Moffy’s dorm hall. If I made an educated guess, I’d say Security Force Omega is on top of this clandestine emergency. But Maximoff isn’t aware that any doctor is coming, as far as I know.

  His dorm room is on the fourth floor next to the communal bathroom. I knock on the scratched wood. Waiting. No noise.

  Answer, wolf scout.

  I knock again. Complete silence, even inside the hall. Most students must be on campus, the old dorm quiet in the afternoon.

  After another knock and more silence, my jaw hardens. In the email my father sent, he left an instruction: if Moffy doesn’t answer the door, call his bodyguard to open it.

  He could be unconscious on the floor. I’m not wasting time or handing over that easy task to someone else. I turn the knob. Locked.

  No hesitation, I pound my boot in the wood. The door bangs, but it needs a couple more kicks to bust in.

  I don’t even prepare for the second kick before the sound of footsteps echoes on the other side. He’s moving.

  Good.

  I expel a heavier breath through my nose.

  The door opens to a nineteen-year-old, six-foot-two celebrity with a jawline cut like marble.

  Instantly, his forest-greens catch my brown, and I meet his questioning gaze. I run my tongue over my silver lip piercing and break eye contact.

  Quickly, I sweep his swimmer’s build for visible signs of a wound. His jeans are loose on his legs, his green tee tight on his chest. I don’t see an injury, and an earbud cord dangles over his shoulder.

  He must’ve been listening to music, unable to hear me knock.

  “What are you doing here?” Moffy asks, voice firm. He even peeks over my shoulder.

  “It’s only me, wolf scout.” I push further into the cramped dorm room before he can shut me out. I whistle at the unmade bed to the left, a Harvard crimson comforter rumpled and sheets balled. “Bad roommate?” I ask and drop my bag to the floorboards.

  Maximoff crosses his arms, his biceps bulging. “That could be my bed.” He nods to the messy area.

  “No,” I say matter-of-factly. “That’s your bed.” I point to the orange comforter tucked into the wooden frame. “And that’s your desk.” His oak desk is wedged nearby, a philosophy textbook cracked open and a highlighter uncapped like I caught him in the middle of studying.

  “Great.” He rakes a hand through his thick, dark brown hair. “Now that you’ve Sherlock Holmes’ed my dorm, you can leave happy. Mission accomplished.”

  “I’m not leaving,” I say seriously.

  Maximoff isn’t an idiot. He sees my trauma bag. He knows I’m here because of the phone call he made to my fa
ther. I don’t need to spoon-feed him this information.

  But we’re at a slight standstill because he’s not forthcoming about his injury. I examine him from about four feet away. He usually has a tan complexion, but he’s lost color in his face. And he’s sweating.

  “You look pale,” I tell him.

  He blinks slowly. “Thanks.”

  I tilt my head. “That wasn’t a compliment.”

  “I was being sarcastic.”

  My brows rise, a smile at my lips. “I know.”

  Maximoff grimaces and rests his hands on his head like communicating with me is brutal. The times we talk, I like irritating the shit out of him, but today’s different. He’s my patient.

  “Jesus Christ,” he growls under his breath.

  “Moffy—”

  “I’m fine,” he says strongly, his hands dropping to his sides. “If I thought I wasn’t, I would’ve gone to the ER. Alright, you can go do whatever the fuck you do on a Wednesday afternoon. I’m sorry you had to come up to Cambridge.” His apology sounds extremely sincere.

  “Don’t be,” I say. “I’m supposed to be here.”

  Right here.

  Right now.

  This was my choice. I could’ve told my father no, but I said yes to this call. To Maximoff, and I’m not leaving until I’m sure he’s safe.

  He cracks a knuckle and stares off, lost in thought.

  I wait and comb a hand through my dyed hair. A few pictures line his desk, most of siblings or with his best friend Jane. I recognize one group photo from St. Thomas with all the families squished together, a summer vacation. The picture leaked on the internet a few years back.

  “So you’re not leaving then?”

  I look back at him, his attention focused on me again. “Not until you tell me what’s wrong, and man, you don’t need to describe why anything happened. I can work with a bare-bones story.” Not having the full picture will irritate me a little bit—shit, normally it wouldn’t. But I’m already craving to know more about him.

  I skim Moffy in a short once-over and look away.

  He’s Maximoff Hale.

  I almost laugh to myself. Fuck, he’s too pure. Too wholesome. And I just got out of a long-term relationship—there are reasons I wouldn’t. So many more reasons that he wouldn’t.