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But there was something unique about Dr. Christian Laurier. He didn’t seem to have the pride that I found in a lot of doctors. He didn’t mind when someone snapped at him and called him on his shit.
If anything, he almost seemed impressed.
“Alright. Pick a day,” he said, shrugging.
“Excuse me?”
“Pick a day. I will come in and work a shift. You can have some time to get those panties un-wedged from your ass,” he said, smirking.
I couldn’t do it, could I?
Trust him?
“Fine. Tuesdays. But you will work with me for a while until I know I can trust you. What?” I asked when he let out a chuckle.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were the boss here.”
“You might own this place, Dr. Laurier, but make no mistake, Iamthe boss here.”
“Alright,” he agreed, nodding. “I can respect that. Why don’t you take that migraine of yours out for some coffee that doesn’t taste like dishwater?” he suggested, going into his wallet and handing me some cash. “Bring me back one too.”
I needed the break.
From the harsh, bright lights, from the crummy coffee, from the patients. Just until my head calmed down a little.
So I didn’t even hesitate in taking him up on the offer.
It wasn’t like me.
To accept help when it was offered.
I was always someone who said it was fine, that I was fine, that I didn’t need anything.
That stemmed from being a caretaker from a very young age, I guess. My needs always needed to come second. And, after a while, that just became how I was.
Just this once, though, I was choosing not to feel guilty as I walked past a small cluster of patients in the waiting room, knowing Christian and Michael could handle it if I had to take just an hour to myself.
My mind was still partially on the clinic, though, as I made my way to the convenience store. Since, objectively, it had the best coffee in the area. Sure, I could have traveled to find one of those chain places. But I liked to support local whenever I could.
“Ray, tell me the coffee is…” I started, then trailed right the hell off when I saw who was standing inside the store. Like he had any right to be there. Like he was still a part of this community. Like he wasn’t creating enough conflict in my mind already.
Seeley.
“What are you doing here?” I grumbled.
“Shopping,” he said, shrugging.
“You don’t live around here anymore.”
“No, but Levee’s grandfather does. He wanted to drop in to visit. The old man hates me. So I’m hanging here.”
That particular old man hated everyone. Levee included. But I guess it said something about Levee that he was still willing to drop in and check on him.
“I can’t believe you got Levee too,” I said, my gaze moving to his leather cut, pausing for a pointed amount of time on the one-percenter patch.
“Levee is a grown man,” Seeley said. “He makes his decisions. I don’t do them for him. Or Cato for that matter.”
“You could discourage them,” I said, moving past him since it was the only direct way to the coffee since a trio of teenagers were blocking the other way.
