Page 59 of Asystole

I notice his jacket has come off and his shirtsleeves are rolled up his forearms, revealing his ample ink.

Which, apparently, is the topic everyone wants to discuss.

“They’re nothing, really. Just a kid’s rebellious phase drawn in permanent marker,” Logan says, brushing them off.

That’s not what he told me.

The tightness in my chest loosens a little, knowing he’s comfortable enough to tell me the truth behind the images, but not everyone is privy to that knowledge.

After dinner, Dr. Porter gives everyone a tour of his home, and just like I suspected, Logan is enthralled with the library.

Unfortunately, so are a few others.

We dutifully follow Dr. Porter around his mansion, and I have to admit that, while the tour is pretty cool, what I notice more than anything is how empty it feels. This is so much space for one person. Maybe that’s what it takes to protect your peace when you get as well-known as he is. I’ve heard people will send letters, emails, and make phone calls to the hospital, begging for him to take their cases or those of their loved ones. Some have gotten pretty aggressive in their desperate attempts. I’m insanely curious about Dr. Porter’s story, but decorum and the power discrepancy between our positions prevent me from asking.

After the tour, we settle into smaller groups. Games of poker are played, dessert and liquor are served, and one couple leaves before midnight because their babysitter is in high school and has a curfew of eleven.

As we approach midnight, Dr. Porter—Declan—is deep in conversation with Logan and two of my co-residents. The wives who are present are chatting by the fireplace in the library, where I was pretty certain we’d all end up, and I’m pretending to be interested in whatever Jackson’s droning on about.

If Dr. Porter is into dick, and Logan’s looking for a way to forget Stone ahead of the new year, I certainly don’t want to interrupt…But I don’t want to watch it happen, either. So, when there’s an acceptable opening for escape, I take it, grabbing my heavy coat and a bottle of bourbon from one of the drink carts before taking a seat on the gothic-looking front porch.

The stone structure is adorned by two huge pillars supporting the overhang, and it feels like Morticia Addams may walk through the door any minute. All he’s missing are some gargoyles and a turret, I think to myself, taking a swig straight from the bottle like I’m at a frat party.

Unsure of the time, I silently hope the new year starts without my knowledge. It’s supposed to be this fresh start for amazing things, but recently I feel like I’m moving backward.

The front door opens behind me as I’m mid-gulp, making me feel guilty. I’m being a terrible guest, and Dr. Porter’s probably not expecting to have to babysit one of his residents tonight… nor is he probably expecting said resident to also be a thief.

“I’m sorry, I just needed a bit of⁠—”

“There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you,” Logan says, taking a seat on the top step next to me.

I wholeheartedly ignore the flap of butterfly wings now present in my stomach. Before I can get any crazy ideas, I attribute the fluttering to the alcohol, even though a lot of pieces are starting to fall into place and I know the bourbon isn’t to blame for the feeling.

“You and Dr. Porter seem to be hitting it off,” I say, hating the way it comes out pouty. Trying again, I add, “I didn’t even know he was gay.”

Nope.

That was way worse. Definitely poutier.

“Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t,” Logan says. “But as someone who has spent a lot of time looking for the signs of attraction, trust me when I tell you that’s not what he wants from me.”

Logan pulls the bottle from my hands, his fingers grazing my own as he does so, setting it out of my reach on his other side.

“What do those signs look like, then?” I ask.

He studies me for a minute, trying to decide if he should share, but finally, he says, “The same as they do when coming from a woman. Considering Sarah didn’t waste any time putting her hands on you tonight, I’d think you’d be able to recognize them pretty easily.”

I must be teetering on actual drunkenness because Logan sounds downright jealous now.

“So, constantly trying to touch you?” I ask, groping his thigh to lighten the mood.

“That’s one,” he says, his breathing growing heavier.

“Hmm,” I hum, thinking about other ways I can tell someone is into me. “Trying to get you alone?” I throw out.

Logan nods, leaning back on his hands, staring up at the clear night sky.

“Getting jealous when your time and attention are on others?” I ask quietly.