I unlocked my phone and stopped for a couple of breaths, then entered Jesse’s number and wrote:
Omertà doesn’t apply to safe, non-work friends and family, right?
Yes or no? Another breath, and I sent it.
Jesse replied just as I finished setting my alarm for five thirty.
If you say they’re safe, I trust your judgment.
Thanks. Same to you.
I thought about adding something more. Good night? See you tomorrow? It felt too personal which—funny, considering where his fingers and cock had been.
I shook off the tiny spark of arousal and sent the message. He replied with a smiley face, and I told myself I hadn’t expected more. Didn’t want more either.
I had a competition to win.
SIX
JESSE
Someonehad binge-watched too many talent shows—and by someone, I meant Garcia. Because the way interns were herded out of the skills lab and made to form a corridor for us judges, so that we could march in to assess their performances like a panel of celebrities? Yeah. All we were missing was confetti and an aggressive pop soundtrack.
I filed in with the other four, clipboard under one arm. Around me, the two dozen interns were vibrating out of their skins, chattering at each other and clutching coffee cups that had been handed out like participation awards.
“I’m just gonna call you Spider-Hands,” a bright voice drifted through to me. I tracked it to a California-tanned, pink-haired resident I recognized from correcting her the day before. She stood with Finn and a slim guy with mile-long lashes and golden-brown skin. Finn laughed, head ducked a little in what seemed to be a reaction to the comment. He looked…lit up. Eyes too bright, cheeks blotched high with color as if he’d yet to decide whether to spike or crash, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet.
I hadn’t really responded to his second text—hadn’t known how, didn’t think I even should. I’d wanted to, though. Which… Well.
Anyway. I dragged my attention away right as the other guy sighed. “Wish that was me, too. My lines were decent, but I didn’t finish with the mannequin, so… Yeah.”
“Hey,” Finn said right as I passed them, his tone gentle. I slowed down just slightly to catch the rest. “Precision beats speed. Maybe not in this kind of timed exercise, but in reality? It’s all about quality, man.”
“You’ll get faster,” the girl chimed in, and then I was past them, an odd kind of warmth in my chest as snippets of other conversations washed over me. These three were meant to be competitors, but you wouldn’t know it from the way they propped each other up. Good for Finn. Not something I wanted to dwell on, but… Yeah. Good for him.
Even if it was none of my business.
I stepped through the partition curtain. Stations were frozen mid-motion—needles abandoned, central-line mannequins beaded with fake blood, a stopwatch in the middle of the space still showing 00:00 like an apocalyptic aftermath.
“All right,” Garcia said, handing out anonymized score sheets. “Let’s fan out, rate each station on a scale of one to five. Only the top scores advance, but we’ll keep everyone’s scores and comments on file.”
I moved to station 3. Decent, tidy work—good but not perfect. I noted it down accordingly, four out of five. Station 7 showed half-finished knots and a snapped suture—someone had panicked. I marked it as such.
At station 12, I paused. The knot board was flawless, lap-peg tower cleared, the central-line mannequin dressed with textbook precision. Impressive.
Speed and finesse, five out of five.
Spider-Hands.
I shook it off and moved on, refusing to let myself wonder as I settled into a rhythm—check, score, note, next. Station 14 was fit for a crime scene, the fake carotid perforated. Station 17 pulled me up short: the knot quality was gorgeous, but only two-thirds of the board was completed. Whoever it was had sacrificed the clock for doing a damn fine job on the parts that were complete.
Excellent technique, pace will come
I jotted down. Three out of five.
Neutral, deserved. Absolutely not a charity bump because I might have overheard the guy fretting outside, or because of the company he kept.
A few more stations—one solid four, one additional five, a few limp twos and threes—until my circuit led me to a desk where Garcia waited for our verdicts. “Numbers ready?” he asked.
