ONE
FINN
The lock flashed green.
White walls, white sheets, a bed that looked like it had been retired by a far better hotel a couple of decades ago. Windows framed the back end of an aggressively average post-war building while a coughing AC unit lost its face-off with the summer evening’s lingering heat.
All right, then. I dragged my suitcase into the room, closed the door, and exhaled. So. This was home, at least for the next two days—until the sublet on 156th released its previous occupant and I could pretend I belonged here.
Welcome to New York, Finn. You are one in eight million.
This was big, though. I’ddoneit—landed a general surgery residency at Devon Memorial, training ground for demigods with a side of impossibly high standards. People would kill for this chance. They probably had.
So why did my chest feel just a shade too tight?
“Might as well marry your ambitions, Finn—shack up with a sexy textbook and call it your honeymoon.”
Fucking Travis. His words clung to the ends of my thoughts like a burr I couldn’t shake. He’d been way out of line. Sure, maybe I hadn’t given him daily updates about the applicationprocess, but I’d told him I was casting a wide net, that New York was on the list, what the timelines were. Not my fault he hadn’t been listening.
“Reality check, babe: You’re hot, yeah. But I’m not gonna drive four hours for medical rambling and some sloppy grinding.”
Asshole.
I toed off my sneakers—scuffed and grass-stained as if they’d yet to realize we’d left the Berkshires, traded forested hills for a city where everyone walked twice as fast and talked like they were trying to win an argument. Ever since the bus had spat me out into the evening masses, I’d felt like I was three steps behind, like an accidental extra in a foreign movie.
Traffic noise and life filtered through the windows. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror by the door—full-length if I ignored a crack running along one corner. I looked as rumpled as I felt, my travel tee damp and creased, brown curls messy in a way that was miles from intentional. Hot in the literal sense, only just passable if we were talking dating material. If Travis could see me, he’d feel next-level smug about dumping my ass.
Third guy in four years. Apparently, looks fade fast when you prefer deep dives into pancreatic anatomy over whichever superhero was breaking box-office records that week.
Okay, time to end this pity party for one. New plan: shower, a shirt that hugged my chest, maybe a subtle hint of eyeliner to make the baby blues pop. Let’s see how sloppy it would feel when it was against a wall, with someone whose name I wouldn’t remember.
Fresh start.
Electric drinks sloshed in sweating glasses. A dozen bodies pressed against the bar, the bass so deep it thrummed in thepit of my stomach, lights streaking behind my lids. Travis would have choked on his stupid craft beer. Me? Well. I was wearing midnight-blue silk and an I-could-be-yours smile.
Bring it on.
Vodka? Rum? Eh. Mezcal, please—neat. I planted a foot on the rail and glanced around like I couldn’t really be bothered, trying maybe just a little too hard. But then, so was everyone else.
And hey, it worked: heads turned, attention lingered. Didn’t take long for a muscled guy in a tank top to slot in next to me, skin gleaming with sweat. He looked like he bench-pressed trucks for fun, all confidence as he shouted that I had killer bone structure, and did I want to get out of here?
Uh. Wow, okay.Direct. Which, yeah, was what I’d come here for. But back home, I was used to diner coffee and a hiking date before anyone suggested that clothes came off. I recovered enough to toss him a crooked smile. “Thanks, man—just getting started, though.”
He gave a little smirk and shrugged—no offense, no pause—and peeled away. Cool, cool, cool.
Next was a baby-faced twink who licked condensation off his straw with the subtlety of homemade porn. Then a duo who looked like they’d shrunk their shirts in a coordinated laundry accident. It was all quite flattering—in theory. But somehow, half an hour in, my ego felt…overstretched, like a balloon filled with too much hot air. Everyone wason. There were no quick smiles across the room, no blink-and-you’ll-miss-it side glances that kept me wondering. Here, desire barged in with a megaphone.
I sipped my mezcal, its smoky burn settling somewhere behind my sternum. This was what I’d wanted, wasn’t it? Validation. But, well. It felt more like a sugar high—too much, too fast, already dipping with the taste of disappointment. Thesticky, humid air, the way bodies kept bumping into mine without apology. Some guy slid a hand along my spine, sticky with sweat. Too forward. I ducked a question about kinks, pretended I couldn’t hear over the heavy bass, while two stools down, a guy in a simple white Henley sat nursing a glass of bourbon. Early thirties maybe, hard to make out details beyond how he’d swept his dark hair back and was watching the crowd like he had nothing to prove.
I turned away before curiosity bled into staring and paid for another drink. The bartender slid it over with an easy grin.
One sip. The second got stopped by the clamp of a hand around my wrist—which, okay, not so awesome. I angled slightly away even as I turned to face the guy. He oozed confidence, all slicked hair, open shirt, and glinting gold chain. His gaze scraped from my mouth to my belt.
“How much for the hour?” His voice carried—and whoa, what, hangona fucking sec. It took a beat for my brain to grind back into gear.
Right. So. Lesson learned—next time, go a little lighter on the eyeliner and come-hither outfit.
I fished for a smile and hoped it turned out easy and a touch dismissive. “Starts at three hundred, sweetheart.” I pitched my voice just loud enough for nearby ears. “Got to first submit a reference through my agent, though, so he’ll put you on the waitlist.Crazybacklog.”
