Fuck.
Nightmarish images of tight, tanned thighs spreading for another man slammed into me, and I gripped the front desk with enough force to crack the stone.
“Oh, right! His nurse was just up here.” The woman turned. “There she is!”
I was going to shoot something—preferably the faceless fecker who tortured my throbbing brain.
Wincing against the too bright fluorescent lights, I began to walk around the desk toward the medical area. The nurse jogged over, smooth dark skin very pretty against her hot pink scrubs.
“No, you don’t, Mr. Liam,” she chucked her tongue. “You have to wait for me.”
“He’s expecting me,” I countered, reaching for the door. The security panel on the wall stayed red.
Cara planted her hands on her hips. “Mhmm, and just how are you going to get back to him, pray tell?”
I ground my teeth. “Don’t make me beg.”
Cara snorted. “Look at you.” She reached up, but I jerked away.
“Fuck off.”
Looking around, the nurse lowered her voice. “If my husband hears you talking to me like that, he’ll slip something undetectable in your next vaccine—which, surprise! You’re overdue for.”
With a sigh, I relented. But only a fraction. “I don’t plan to live long enough to die of the chicken pox.”
“My job, since your dear mama held my hand and pushed your screaming ass into the world has been to keep you healthy. To look at you—” She tried to reach for me again, but I was too tall. “You’re drunk.”
I wasn’t going to tell her that it was either the whiskey or stay up all night after having a full blown panic attack. PTSD was a bitch, and it reared its ugly head at the worst times. The medical community might have tips and tricks to deal with the mental wound, but so did I.
“Was. Was drunk.”
“Liam.”
“Cara.” I arched my good brow. The left one. “Your husband’s waitin’ for me.”
She pursed her lips. “Let’s go, boy. But don’t think this is over.”
With a vicious swipe, Cara unlocked the door with her keycard. It was bright and beige back here. There were no shadows to hide me. I was visible. In the open.Vulnerable.I scowled at a little man with a shiny bald spot in teal scrubs. He scampered into a room.
Cara nudged my spine and strode past me. She shot me a warning look, opened an exam room, and ushered me inside. Unlike the yawning tunnel of stale lights outside, this room was more natural. The window looked over the courtyard, the drapes tied back because the patient was sitting in his gown on the table.
I drew back with a start. “Da?”
My ma shot from the double seat near the window, clasped her hands in front of her, and looked between us. She had a sixth sense for trouble—which was what came from raising a pack of neighborhood kids like they were her own.
“You didn’t tell him, Padraig?” she accused her husband.
Da sighed. “I meant to.”
Of the three of us, his accent was thickest. He was born deep in the Irish country, immigrated to Boston at age sixteen, and met my ma a week later. He took her last name and made history. They had me the next year. Meanwhile, Da claimed his title as the boss of the McDonagh Clan, which Ma’s uncle and grandfather once ruled. The McDonaghs had been in Boston since the days the city was first settled. Da might not have been born into the legacy, but he carried it with pride.
“What’s this?” I demanded, planting my feet wide and crossing my arms over my chest.
When Doc Ryan had called me, I thought it had to do with my crispy situation. A McDonagh from his mother’s side, he was our go-to for patching up the lads whenever the shite turned ugly.
Which was frequent.
Cara fussed about, tapping on the computer and monitors. “Shouldn’t be long now, and—Oh! Hi, mo stór.”
