Page 1 of One Reckless Night

1

JARED

They wanted to kill me.

An involuntary twitch tugged at the corner of my mouth, daring me to grin out at the perturbed crowd. Nobody sipped their fancy champagne from their crystal flutes. Nobody offered a gracious nod to agree with the words coming out of my mouth. They did, however, lean toward each other at their respective tables to whisper. I wondered what they might be saying.

Off with his head? Who let him get hold of the microphone?

Security lined the entrances and several men in black suits spoke into discreet communication devices hidden in their suit-jacket sleeves. Their eyes scanned the crowd for threats to my person. Part of me kind of hoped they might find one. It might make the evening a tad entertaining.

At the end of my speech I stepped back from the podium and gave a half-bow that sent a ripple of irritated murmurs through the crowd. Grinning, I stepped off the stage and let the fuse burn that I’d just lit.

I could feel the weight of their stares—surgeons, researchers, and donors—burning into my back like I’d just kicked their collective shins and called them uneducated trash. Which, in contrast to yours truly, they basically were. If they didn’t like the truth? Then they could do better.

Not my problem they felt inadequate. Let them glare. Let them squirm. I’d spent years climbing to the top of this mountain, and if they didn’t like me looking down at them from my view up high?

Fuck ‘em.

Shawn waited for me at the edge of the crowd, holding out a glass of whiskey like a peace offering, wearing an expression as bland as his gray suit.

“What the hell was that, Jared?” he said in a hushed tone, but I knew him well enough to catch the hint of amusement coloring his voice. “You were supposed to stick to the script. You know, thank the donors, kiss a little ass, maybe throw in a joke about how much you love golf? Even a dorky brain joke would have been better than the bomb you just dropped. Look around; no one is laughing. You sucked the oxygen out of the room.”

I took the glass and downed half of it in one go. “There’s no fun in sticking to the script.” I held up the glass and frowned at it. Could a big event like this not do better than bottom-shelf whiskey? What the fuck? “They don’t want to hear some canned speech. They want a show. And I gave them one. That’s why they give me these meaningless awards.”

Shawn shook his head, but I could see the corners of his mouth twitching. “You’re insane. You know that, right? Half those people out there probably want to strangle you.”

I shrugged, truly not giving a shit what any of them thought about me. If the doctors gathered tonight didn’t want to be called out for their inadequacies, then they were in the wrong field. Nobody deserved immunity from critique. We all had plenty more to learn—everyone else in attendance more so than me, admittedly. “Someone needed to do it. Now at least they have something worth talking about in their operating rooms for the next month.”

Shawn grimaced as he looked at the dark glares being shot in our direction. “They’re probably conspiring to take you down right now. What if I’m collateral damage? You know some of us have reputations we’re trying to protect, right?”

“Reputations,” I mused, scanning the room. A fancy word for fear. The crowd was a sea of tuxedos and evening gowns, the kind of people who thought they owned the world just because they could write a big check or wield a scalpel. I caught the eye of a couple of women near the bar—both stunning, both clearly interested—and flashed them a smile. They giggled and turned away, but not before I saw the blush creeping up their necks.

Shawn grabbed my arm and steered me toward the bar. “Come on, let’s get another drink before someone decides to take a swing at you. You’re less combative when you’re buzzed.”

As we made our way through the crowd, I could feel the weight of their disapproval like a physical force. A group of older men—donors, by the looks of their tailored suits and Rolexes—glared at me as we passed. Those were the assholes that didn’t know shit about the medical field. They’d never been in an OR. They had never told a family their loved one didn’t make it off the table. The only thing they were good for was opening their checkbook, and that made them feel more important than the people on the front lines doing the real work.

One of them muttered something under his breath about me being an egotistical narcissist, to which I smiled and raised my glass. “Gentlemen,” I said, my voice dripping with mock sincerity. “Always a pleasure.”

Shawn groaned and dragged me the rest of the way to the bar. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told,” I said, leaning against the polished wood. The bartender nodded at me, already reaching for a bottle of horse piss. I barked at him to pour me something from the top shelf, and he hurried to oblige. He offered a hasty apology when he placed my drink on the bar and I rewarded him with a generous tip to ensure I didn’t have to correct him again.

Shawn and I found a high-top table near the edge of the room, far enough from the crowd to give us some breathing room but close enough to keep an eye on the action. I kept my back to the wall. I wasn’t military trained, but it didn’t take a neurosurgeon to know there was more than one arrow aimed at my back.

I’m not going to lie, I loved the negative attention. It filled my cup to the brim. I was trained to be this way from the moment I graduated from medical school and started my residency. Never back down, stand on your intuition, even if it means taking risks.

One of the biggest risks I took early on was shadowing what many believed to be the world’s best—and most controversial—neurosurgeon, Clark Askov. I trained under him for several years in Geneva before moving back to the states to start my own practice ten years ago. Since then, I’d earned my title as the undisputed champion of neuroscience and neurosurgery.

Shawn sipped his drink and sighed. “I can’t believe we’re stuck state-side for the next few weeks. I was supposed to be in Paris right now, you know.”

“Poor you,” I said, rolling my eyes. “You’ll survive. Besides, you’re coming to Miami with me. I’ve got a couple of surgeries lined up that you’re not going to want to miss. It’s far more exciting here.”

Shawn groaned again, but I knew he was just playing. He loved the OR almost as much as I did. “Fine,” he said. “But you owe me.”

“I don’t owe anyone shit.”

He shot me an exasperated look. “You’re hard to like.”