“And wherever?”
“Fuck, no. You treat my people at a neutral location. Rent an office. Buy an RV and set up a mobile clinic. I don’t care. Whatever you need—equipment, money, permits—you’ll have it.”
For a few months, anyone he sent my way had to go to an office park in the Central District. It was damn lucky the place had a back door down an alley no one wanted to hang out in. My very illegal medical practice was sandwiched between a yarn store and a crystal shop. Someone would have noticed all the blood.
Then one of McCabe’s team was targeted by a stalker. The asshole kidnapped and tortured her lover. The guy was so bad off when they rescued him, he could barely stand—let alone handle the drive from his Capitol Hill condo.
One house call earned me the trust for another. And another. I haven’t needed that office since.
A cop waves me through a stoplight. Traffic is so heavy, I get a good look at the warehouse—and the single, black SUV parked out front. The same SUV McCabe was driving the last time I saw him. The night everything changed.
Seventeen years as Air Force Pararescue, saving the strongest and deadliest of the United States Armed Forces all over Iraq and Afghanistan. Eight years as an ER doc in Los Angeles. Two years at Harborview in Seattle before it all went to shit. Then all the work McCabe sent my way.
I thought I’d seen it all. Bruises so deep they were almost black. Gunshot wounds. Stabbings. Concussions. Broken bones. The most outrageous things I could ever imagine shoved up orifices they had no business being in. But nothing—not even amputating a man’s leg with a glorified pair of scissors on thedeck of a helo flying over the Al-Faw Peninsula—prepared me for what I saw the first, last, and only time McCabe called me to the warehouse.
Raelynn—the newest member of the team—was still recovering from a partially dislocated shoulder. But a couple of assholes broke into her home and, in less than an hour, put her in such a bad state, if McCabe hadn’t been a universal blood donor, she’d probably be dead.
I’ve seen her and her guy—Nash—a couple of times since that night, checking on bruises, dislocated joints, and severe smoke inhalation. They’re all healed up now, thank God. She’s the one who told me McCabe and his wife had a baby girl. The kid is almost twelve weeks old now. I’ll never meet her. Never know her name.
Why does that bother me?
I wasn’t supposed to get close enough to any of his team to care. No details. No questions. Stay on the outside. Always.
But Raelynn reminds me a little of Tessa. The same smart mouth. The same attitude. The same stubborn refusal to take it easy. So when I realized how badly she was injured, I laid into McCabe. He told me to patch her up and get the fuck out.
It’d be easy enough to flip a U-turn. See if he really is there. But what the hell would I say to the man?
“Anyone need a doctor?”
“Still saving the world or are you on permanent diaper duty?”
“If you don’t need me anymore, you can stop with the ridiculously large paychecks.”
He’d probably kick my ass.
A horn blares. I slam on the brakes, coming to a stop only inches from the car in front of me.
Fuck. Pay attention. You got too close and you got burned.
With a quick shake of my head, I clear the cobwebs and focus on my destination. It’s only been ten days since I last flew up to Blakely. But after a year of spending almost all my free time up there, the island is in my blood now.
Or maybe it’s Nat who keeps drawing me back. The memory of the one night where we almost lost ourselves in one another haunts me. It was over a year ago now. The 4th of July has come and gone again, but I can’t forget how she felt in my arms. How she tasted. How she wanted me as much as I wanted her.
Until she didn’t.
She stopped meeting me at the boathouse after that night. But sometimes, I catch her watching me from her deck. I’ve waved, hoping to entice her to come down and chat. But she never has.
Gladys, on the other hand, is always waiting for me. Usually with a bag of cookies or brownies or a slice of pie for the “Dr. Sexy Pants” who came to her rescue. If it weren’t for how terrified her niece was that night, I’d be convinced she faked that whole episode of confusion just to get me and Nat in the same room together.
I get the sense Gladys doesn’t have many people who’ll sit and listen to her—besides Nat. I try to show up half an hour before check-in every week to let her talk my ear off. Or interrogate me. Most of the time, she steers the conversation toward Nat before long. I don’t have the heart to tell her Nat and I will never be more than strangers.
Once or twice, I’ve helped Gladys with odd jobs she can’t do on her own. Like changing her lightbulbs or the batteries in her smoke detectors. I cleaned her gutters one week. Replaced a rotten board on her deck. A month ago, after several trips without a project, I offered to scrape the moss from the shady side of her house. Just to have a reason to chat with her.
I wonder if she’ll have anything for me to do this time.
My phone rings, the car’s in-dash display flashing:Medical Clinic.
“Reynolds,” I say when the call connects.
