“Yeah, that's what she does. They're called pediatricians,” Roan answered half-heartedly. He understood too well the way Tank felt. Equally deep as his need for Clarissa was his desire to protect her. Shield her from the pain of the cruel world and the endless ways it caused misery.
He’d watched her February rotation viciously pound her into the ground. She’d bent over backward to lie, cheat, steal, and scheme every shred of extra help she could get for a dying pregnant woman. In the end, they’d saved the baby and lost the mom. It had been devastating to Clarissa, and there had been nothing he wanted more than to spare her the suffering—but he couldn’t.
He’d be damned if he didn’t try to give her everything.
Tank echoed his thoughts, though in a bit more graphic manner. “She deserves better than any fucking guy on the planet. I swear to fucking God I will eviscerate, decapitate, and disembowel the next damn asshole who even looks at her with an impure thought. Burn their bodies, sow them with salt, and whatever the hell it takes!”
Which basically meant Tank wasn’t going to be interested in venturing down any avenue where Roan opened a conversation about his attachment to Clarissa. Especially since Roan had done much more than look at her with impure thoughts.
“Shit, maybe I should give her this bounty. Forty K would probably let her find her own place and stop struggling along with roommates. This Oregon one will cover most of my expenses.” It was telling that Tank didn’t even suggest going to their parents to support Clarissa. Tank had been cut off from the family finances and barely spoke to his father. His sister was on better terms with them, yet receiving no actual financial support for her medical school or residency.
Though Tank was vastly underestimating the price of medical school.
“Forty K won’t touch what she owes. Besides, it’s not a struggle. Three lady residents against the hospital.” Roan shrugged and tried to find a way to compare it to Tank’s own training. “It’s not boot camp, but you didn’t wrestle with the Angel of Death over babies on twenty-four-hour calls.”
It was probably best he didn’t give more details because otherwise Tank might storm MetroGen if he discovered exactly how miserable residency could be for his sister. Truthfully, it was more like SEAL’s Hell Week for years on end. When the hammer came down, you’d either be pounded into a blade or become scrap.
The Jeep turned again, and Roan idly noticed they were in his neighborhood.
Except there was too long of a pause...
“How do you know how she feels? You never even had roommates.” Tank latched onto his comment.
Shit. He’d shown way, way too much insight into Clarissa’s situation. “She’s a resident. I have residents. They talk a lot.”
A poor choice since Roan had never ever not a single time mentioned to Tank in their entire friendship any attachment to his own underlings. As a department chief, residents existed to be trained, sans emotion from him.
“You don’t give a crap about residents,” Tank rightly called him out. He parked the car in front of Roan’s house and hit the locks. “Got more to say?”
Fully cognizant that a confession would lead to him ending up as blood splatter on the passenger seat, Roan opted to talk his way out of this jam.
“Yes. I do.” Roan sat up straight, showing no fear, because no one could sense fear better than his best friend.
“Love to hear it. How do you know so much about my sister and her roommates’ ‘feelings’?” Tank asked, his face once again blank, thus untrustworthy.
The road to hell was paved with good intentions, and if Tank killed him, he could expect to find his soul trapped in the icy confines with betrayers in the ninth circle of hell.
Fortunately, Roan was far better at this than Drew had been. You had to be willing to go toe-to-toe without flinching. “First, you unlock the car, Saint-Claire, and second, you misbehaved at the North Star, so that’s gonna be the only question I’m answering.”
“No fair.” Tank startled at the sudden reversal of fortune, his own emotions coloring his ability to follow through on his own plan.
“Tough tits. Unlock the doors, Master Chief. That’s an order.” Roan folded his arms, glad the alcohol in his system kept him from thinking too hard about what he was going to say next.
“Fine, you rank-pulling bastard.” Tank popped the locks, and Roan immediately opened the door, lest Tank try to trap him again.
“Good.” Roan stepped out onto the sidewalk without closing the door. “The answer is ‘Clarissa’s roommate Willow has pink mittens.’ Adios, hermanito. Have a good time in Oregon.”
Roan gave Tank the finger and walked to his front door.
CHAPTER 4
The sound of the front door opening broke the relatively dim quiet of Roan's study, where Clarissa had been working on her upcoming cystic fibrosis resident educational presentation from her laptop.
Resisting any desire to peek out of the closed blinds, she quietly closed her laptop and dove under the desk.
When attempting to hide your relationship with your older half-brother’s best friend from said brother, it was vital not to make rookie mistakes. Being naked would have definitely been a big problem, so she had waited fifteen minutes to be sure that Roan and Tristan had left before going to find her clothing.
There were only a limited number of places he could have hidden her stuff between his bedroom and the bathroom, which was how she came to be dressed in her camisole and tap pants.
