Mrs. O'Brian is sixty-four. She is a librarian who bakes cookies for the nurses. She has been on the heart transplant list for eight months. She has Type O-negative blood. The odds of a match were less than five percent.
"It’s O'Brian," I say, the adrenaline flooding my system, washing away the anxiety. "They have a heart. Transport is en route. I have to go."
"Go," Preston says, already moving toward the parking lot. "I’ll drive. We have three hours to get back to the city. I can do it in two."
“How do you plan on doing that?” I ask, running toward the yurt to grab my shoes.
"Maxwell," Preston calls after me, his silk kimono billowing. "I’m gay, I’m rich, and I drive a Porsche. I practically invented speeding."
Jax
I am sitting on the couch in the dark, watching a documentary about fungi. I miss Max. It has been four hours since Preston arrived and abducted him to some form of wellness retreat for the absurdly wealthy.
The doorbell rings.
I open it to find Luke standing there. He is wearing a leather jacket, tight jeans, and a grin that looks like trouble.
"Come on, loser," Luke says. "We’re going drinking."
"I don't want to go drinking," I groan. "I want to pine. I want to smell Max’s pillow."
"Nope," Luke says, stepping inside and dragging me off the couch. "You and I share a specific burden, Jax. We are the partners of the York brothers. Do you know what that means?"
"It means we need therapy?"
"It means we date human supercomputers," Luke corrects me. "Max is a surgical robot. Preston is a forensic sniper in a silk suit. They are high maintenance, high stress, and high intensity. And tonight? Tonight is for the golden retrievers to get off the leash."
"TO THE YORKS!"
Luke is standing on a table. He is holding a shot of tequila.
"May they never analyze our liver enzymes!" Luke screams.
"TO THE YORKS!" I scream back.
I have discovered something important: Luke is not just a nice doctor. He is a party animal. He deals with trauma cases and neurotic attendings all day, and apparently, he releases that stress by drinking tequila like it’s apple juice.
We are five bars deep. We have done karaoke (Luke sangToxicby Britney Spears with terrifying accuracy). We have eaten street meat. We have bonded.
"You really love him, huh?" Luke slurs, leaning on my shoulder as we stumble toward the next bar.
"Max?" I sigh. "Yeah. He’s... he’s a lot. He counts his peas, Luke. He arranges the books by colour. But he’s the only person who makes the noise stop for me."
"I get it," Luke nods sage-like. "Preston is... sharp. He cuts people. But he lets me hold the knife sometimes. It’s nice."
"You’re weirdly poetic when you’re drunk, Luke," I laugh.
"It’s the adrenaline," Luke says darkly. "I drink it for breakfast."
We are walking toward a place calledThe Rusty Nail. It’s 03:00. The city is alive.
"One more round," Luke insists. "Then we get pizza. I need cheese, Jax. I need structural cheese."
"Deal," I say.
Then, the world breaks.
It happens in a split second. A car screeches around the corner. A window rolls down.
