Chapter One
Colter
Ieasemynecksideto side under the hot spray, letting the heat massage away the tension that grips my muscles before turning around to tilt my face toward the shower head. The water hammers against my closed eyelids and white noise muffles past my ears as water streams down my body in thick rivulets. I soak in the warmth, allowing it to soothe me for a moment before I reach a hand out and clasp my palm around the stainless steel knob. On the count of three, I inhale sharply and hold my breath for a beat before I slam the handle firmly to the left.
Ice cold water sharper than a thousand needles rains down on me. I grit my teeth and grind my molars together. Every previously relaxed muscle now tenses on command as my heart rate picks up. I lean forward and press my palms against the marble shower wall as the countdown starts, forcing myself to endure the masochistic torture of an ice shower.
By the time my internal clock marks the halfway point, the cold shock begins to wear off, my knees stop twitching, and I can finally stand the sting of the frigid water. Ten years of starting my mornings the same way, with the same numbing routine, and the shock never seems to come easier. I spin back around and reach my hands up to rake my fingers through my hair, wishing I had slept more than a handful of hours last night.
But when the hot redhead wouldn’t stop eye-fucking me from across the bar, I figured I’d do her a favor and take her back to my place. She was fun, but a solid seven out of ten at best. She did her due diligence; rode me all night long and didn’t even try to cuddle afterwards which means she met all three of my criteria. With any luck, I can sneak out before she wakes and avoid the awkward morning-after chatter. My housekeeper will be here as soon as the sun rises and ensure she doesn’t steal anything on her way out the door.
With another spin of the dial, I shut the water off and reach for my towel, draping the soft cotton over my head and rubbing vigorously at the sides of my hair as I step out. The warmth from the heated floors meets my numbed feet, and I cringe at the change in temperature, nearly hopping in place until the stinging subsides. I use the ends of my towel to rub the goosebumps off my chest and arms before wiping the steam off my mirror.
The reflection looking back should scare me. The dark circles under my eyes from the pitiful night’s sleep would have the average person wondering if they would survive. Some poor accountant might spend the next eight hours sitting at his desk, head in his hands, kicking himself for not being man enough to play as hard as he works—but not me.
I reach for the orange bottle atop my sink, spinning the lid open and shaking out my daily dose of happy. Tossing it back, I smirk back at my reflection knowing I’ll scrub in, walk through the double doors of the OR, and still be one of the best goddamn surgeons Grace General has ever seen. Whether I’m hungover, fucked in the head from lack of sleep, or haunted by some demons from my past, my work has never been affected.
And my work is the only thing I can boast about.
After quickly dressing in black joggers and a tee, I shove a sweatshirt and clean scrub cap into my duffel before slipping out of the bathroom. With soft steps I sneak out of my room, taking another glance at the bimbo still sleeping in my bed before I leave.
Her long hair and cheap extensions drape over her pillow and mine; I wait to see if my cock twitches at the sight of the silk sheets pooled around her naked waist.
Nothing.
Which doesn’t surprise me anymore. Now that the liquor haze has left my system, the foggy allure she held over me last night falls flat. The feeling suits me just fine; I have no desire to go near the morning breath of some random bar slut anyways.
A better man might kneel on the mattress next to her and gently rub her shoulder until she’s partially awake to at least say goodbye. Unfortunately, I have nothing to say to her, and the bedside clock reads twenty to five which means I’m running late.
And for the life of me, I can’t even remember her name.
***
The double doors of the surgical wing greet me with a welcomed silence. The clean floor squeaks under my feet and faintly shines in the hall’s dimmed lights. Pre-op is a ghost town. Empty computer chairs sit cold; the TV screens are on but blank. A few of the pre-op nurses shuffle around and murmur amongst themselves over their mugs of coffee as they gossip about the day's schedule. I avert my gaze as soon as one of them starts to turn her head at the sound of my steps. The last thing I want is some forced small talk before I finish my morning coffee.
Moving past them to the hall of offices, I find most doors still shut with the exception of the one furthest down the hall, which belongs to Chief Dr. Richard Keeton.
Richard has his own private office upstairs with the rest of management, something a lot fancier than the piddly eight by eight room they give us down here, but he’s always preferred to do his work among the rest of us. Something I’ve admired about him from the start.
I unlock my door, not bothering to turn on the light as I toss my duffel on the empty chair near my desk. With my thermos of coffee in hand, I head to Richard's office. Leaning my tall frame against his door, I take a moment to study the aging face of my mentor as he flips through a stack of paperwork.
After a leisurely swig of my coffee, I break the silence surrounding us. “I thought we agreed you shouldn’t work so hard.”
Richard’s head tilts up at the sound of my voice and a broad smile appears. He pulls his glasses from his face and gestures for me to come in. Taking a seat in one of his two accompanying chairs, I toss a foot over my opposite knee as I lean back and bring my thermos to my lips for another drink while I wait for his direction.
My biological father, if you could give him that title, was nothing short of a piece of dog shit. He liked his booze, and his fists liked my face. If I was anywhere near his presence once he finished off his fifth, I became his own personal punching bag. Later that night, when I’d be in bed nursing my wounds, I imagined what life would have been like with a real dad. One that took pride in himself, his career, and shared his knowledge with others. That dream kept me going until I was twenty-six years old, a fresh-faced med school grad ready to make my name in the surgical world. I landed in the residency program here at Grace General, and on my very first day, the attending who oversaw my work was the infamous Dr. Richard Keeton.
Most of my peers were terrified of him, and rightfully so. He would bark orders and make demands that they couldn’t follow through with, then when he’d inform them of their failures, they’d run and hide with their tail between their legs.
But not me.
I’m no stranger to an angry person spitting harsh words in my face. I took his criticisms and forced myself to work harder, to be better, and Richard saw something in me. He took me under his wing, became my personal mentor, and sixteen years later he’s become the closest thing I’ve ever had to a father figure.
And this morning, he looks exhausted. The creases in his aging skin are more prominent under the dim lighting, likely made worse from a stressful few days at the hospital. He leans back in his chair, causing the leather to creak under his weight, and tosses his glasses on what looks like today’s report of administrative bullshit. He brings both hands to his face, pushing the base of his palms into his eyes, and begins rubbing in slow, counterclockwise movements. “It’s my daughter.”
Annaliese.
While Richard has been a hell of a father figure to me, I can’t say he’s been the same for Annaliese.
