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Kal Anderson, dubbed Doctor Death around town, though no one knows exactly why. He’s more of a fucking mystery than I am, with the only certainties being that he’s downright terrifying and has a medical degree, occasionally moonlighting at different hospitals around the country and doing in-house work for Stonemore, the Montaltos, and their parent family in Boston.
Other than that, his past and present are an abyss of nothingness, secrets so protected by the vile man that no one ever dares question them.
He’s Kieran’s mentor for all things fixer and hitman, but he’s never really bothered with me, so I can’t quite understand what he’s doing here now.
“Not into peep shows,” I mutter, shutting off the water and drying myself. I wrap the towel around my waist and step out of the stall, keeping a wide berth between us as I walk to my locker and take out a pair of sweats and a hoodie.
“Not interested in peeping,” Kal replies, following with a dark chuckle. “Didn’t know you frequented this club.”
“Didn’t know it was pertinent.”
He nods. “Fair enough. I was just surprised to see you, I suppose. You don’t exactly look the type.”
“Isn’t that the whole point?”
Again, he nods, holding his palms up in mock surrender. “I’m not going to out you or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about. I know how difficult it is to keep a certain... persona, in towns like this.”
Pulling my hoodie on over my head and yanking my sweats up, I toss the towel into my locker and cross my arms over my chest. “Cool. Was there something else you needed?”
Scratching at his chin, he shrugs. “I’m assuming you know who I am.”
“Hard not to know anyone in this town.”
“Right.” He shoves his hands into his pockets, and backs up, watching me. I can’t help wondering what he’s doing down here in the first place—I’ve never seen Kal around these parts, and he’s certainly not dressed for the occasion. “I’d appreciate the same sentiment extended to me, in that case. Don’t really want a lot of people knowing I’m back in town, and certainly not that I was here. Image to protect, and all that.”
“No problem.” Pocketing my keys and wallet, I give him a curt nod and fake salute. “Great chat, then.”
As I walk off, pushing open the locker room door, he doesn’t respond. Just watches me. Even as I turn the corner and head up the emergency exit, coming out at the back of the courthouse, I can feel his eyes on me, burning holes into my flesh.
I’m curious to know what he was doing there, but not interested enough to ask. The reason is probably similar to mine, and anything else isn’t worth my time.
Stopping by the Green Apple Grocery, I purchase two Dasani waters from the gray-haired owner, Gladys, and a bag of sunflower seeds, then head down the sidewalk toward my bike, swinging my leg over the seat as I stuff the bottles into the cooler strapped to the back.
Tearing open the packet of seeds, I pop a handful into my mouth and reach for the keys in my pocket, pausing when I hear a familiar laugh.
Like a magnetic force field, I’m drawn to the sound—my eyes scan the dark street, searching for the source and immediately spotting red hair a ways down. Fiona’s seated at a patio table outside the only Starbucks in town, sipping from a plastic cup, her long legs illuminated by the glow of the sign above the overhang on the building. She laughs again, the sound tapping into a direct line to my cock, and reaches across the table, squeezing the bicep of someone whose head I can’t quite make out.
Getting off my bike, I walk closer to where they’re situated, careful to stay in the shadows until I can make out her companion.
A lead weight plummets in my stomach, apprehension mixing with something inappropriate until red flares behind my vision.
Nico. Fucking. Bianchi.
