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After Arthur and Kate’s wedding next week, I’ll wash my hands of the whole institution.
Chapter Two
Rob
There isn’t a woman alive who gets under my skin like Marcy Maxwell.
The warm spring air intensifies the heat simmering in my veins. As I make my way across town, my mind wars with my body.
How can one woman be both the bane of my existence and the object of all my fantasies?
I grab the subway heading toward Hell’s Kitchen. It’s a lovely day, and I should take the opportunity to walk through Central Park. It would burn off this thrumming need threatening to tear me apart. But I promised I’d meet Arthur at six.
It’s already twenty after five. Shit.
After fighting the work rush, I manage to find a spot on the subway. The crush of people does nothing to quell the heat. It’s going to be a hot summer if this is any indicator. Heat inevitably leads to more work for me.
Arthur has told me countless times to give up the grind of the emergency room and start my own practice. But I can’t. There’s something about triage medicine—the rush of adrenaline in saving someone’s life—that brings my purpose on this rock into focus.
Granted, Arthur uses me as his own personal physician 90 percent of the time. Like the whole fiasco with him knocking Kate unconscious and refusing to take her to the hospital. In that specific case, I understood. Her situation was unique. I wouldn’t have wanted to explain it to the boss. Sometimes, bureaucracy gets in the way. I won’t turn down help for someone who needs it, regardless of whether they’re in my ER or on the street.
The subway reaches my stop, and I make my way out of the station, desperate for some fresh air. Sunny blue skies stretch overhead, but I’m focused on weaving through the crowded sidewalks.
Today’s the first day I’ve had off in two weeks. I took Kate to finalize a few last-minute wedding arrangements at Arthur’s request, and Marcy wanted to surprise her with a bachelorette party, whatever the hell that is. I thought women were supposed to have bridal showers? Not that it matters. Any excuse to see Marcy is worth it.
By the time I reach the Black Penny, it’s after six. There’s a decent gathering already. The dockhands often stop to grab a drink before heading home.
Claude appears when I slide onto a bench at the bar. He’s already pouring gin over ice with his one hand. “The usual, Rob?”
“Yeah.” I admire his ability to navigate the bar with one arm. Well, one hand really. We’ve been coming to the Black Penny for years. Claude took it over from his grandfather after he came back from Vietnam. Amputation of the left proximal radial and ulna can take a toll on anyone. But he’s adapted. He never talks about it or his time in Vietnam. We never ask, although it does pique my medical curiosity.
He places my gin and tonic on a napkin and slides it toward me. I place a twenty on the bar. “I’m paying tonight, got it? Don’t let Arthur tell you otherwise.”
“No problem.” Claude’s gaze flickers to a spot over my shoulder as his hand closes around the bill.
“Don’t let me do what?” Arthur materializes behind me.
I jump and press a hand to my heart. “Fuck, Arthur, why do you have to sneak up on me like that?”
“I didn’t sneak up on you. You’re distracted.” He takes the stool next to mine. “Scotch, neat.”
Claude’s already placed the drink in front of him. “Just flag me down when you need a refill.” He crosses to the opposite end of the bar.
“Kate surprised at her party?” Arthur lifts the drink and inhales deeply before indulging.
“Yeah.” I chuckle at the memory of Kate’s expression, but it’s immediately replaced by a vision of Marcy’s fury. “Your sister did good.”
“Glad to hear it.” He sets the glass down.
“Your sister hates me.” The words spill from my mouth. I’d blame the gin, but I’ve barely ingested any.
“She doesn’t hate you.” Arthur glances at me, his eyes dark. “She doesn’t like men in general. Can you blame her?”
“No. But after twenty years, you’d think she’d warm up to me.” I scoff. “It’d be nice not to have my head bitten off every time I try to talk to her. I’m not like her asshole ex.”
“I know.” He claps his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t take it personally.”
“I don’t.” Yes, I do. Every fucking time. It’s exhausting.
