“That’s a good girl.” Rouge nods to Chet. “Escort Dr. O’Rourke to the exit.”
“Yes, my Queen.” Chet takes Harrison’s arm.
I reach into my clutch and grab a business card. The bulk of it is taken up by a color headshot, but it has my phone number and email address on it. I slip it into Harrison’s jacket pocket as Chet leads him out.
He looks back, and I extend my thumb and pinky out into a telephone sign. “Call me when you can,” I mouth silently.
He nods, his eyes fiery even as Chet drags him up the mirrored staircase and out of view.
13
HARRISON
Fuck.
That was some night.
I can’t believe it.
Chet just slammed the black door leading to the back alley off Randolph and State in my face. He didn’t say a word. Probably for the best. Every time that fucker opens his mouth, he spews out some asinine bullshit that leaves me with more questions than answers.
I’m still standing in the alley, half expecting Bianca to burst through the door.
But that’s not going to happen.
She’s on the clock, and she’s probably already in some deep shit with her sister.
I feel bad for her.
I like Bianca.
I like her a lot.
When I came to Aces this evening, the last thing on my mind was getting some action. My main objective was to find out as much as I could about Alissa and Maddox’s time here.
I failed in that regard. I learned next to nothing about their sudden desire to cart off to the other side of the globe.
But I don’t regret coming.
Bianca. Sweet Bianca.
Her name rolls off the tongue like a song. It might be the most beautiful name I’ve ever heard.
But her name, as lovely as it is, doesn’t do her justice.
She’s the most gorgeous woman I’ve laid eyes on. And I’ve dated a host of attractive women—I’m not exactly hideous, and being a doctor has its perks—but none of them hold a candle to Bianca Montrose.
Fuck. I’m hard.
It’s only been a half hour since Bianca and I had sex in the grand suite. I usually need some time before I’m ready to go again. Not the case here.
I discreetly adjust myself beneath my pants as I walk around the corner to the hospital, take the elevator up to the parking garage, and begin the drive home.
I live in Oak Park, a suburban village west of downtown. I bought myself a nice little ranch house there a couple years ago. I could have gotten a bigger one with what the hospital pays me, but it seemed silly to have a whole two-story house for just me. If I ever get married and have kids, I’ll look into sizing up. But for now, it’s a great lot in a quiet neighborhood.
I turn onto I-290—it’s a straight shot home—and I flick on the radio.
Normally I listen to the classic rock station, but today I scan for something different. I want to listen to music like Bianca was singing. I finally stop when my radio lands on 90.9, a jazz station.
