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CHAPTER ONE
Gaines
“Help! He passed out!”
Dammit.
I glance at the bag in my hand. Its takeout. A perfectly seared ahi tuna steak paired with a double serving of the best mushroom risotto in Manhattan. I ordered a side of steamed broccoli because I preach eating more greens to my patients daily, and occasionally, guilt spurs me to follow my own advice.
I look toward the door of Atlas 22. I’m less than ten steps away from exiting this restaurant in the West Village. If I do that, I’ll be home and indulging in my first good meal in a month. I plan on following that up with a solid eight hours of sleep. That’s another thing that has been sorely lacking in my life lately.
“Someone call 911!” Panic edges the same male voice that first alerted everyone in this packed restaurant to the fact that someone is in distress. “Tell them to hurry!”
Resigned to helping, I turn and drop my takeout bag on the checkout counter.
Naturally, it’s unmanned since virtually everyone in this establishment has rushed to the aid of the person who needs medical attention.
“I’m a doctor!” I shout as a warning for the crowd to part.
They do.
I sprint through the masses with a few pats on my back and a couple of people whispering that I’m a hero.
I’m far from that, but my training and experience will hopefully pay off tonight.
“Over here!” The manager waves me over with a flash of his hand. I recognize him from the countless times I’ve been here over the last few years. “He collapsed over here.”
I spot a man sprawled out on the floor between two tables, so I up my pace. This obviously isn’t as simple as a case of indigestion.
I’ve come to the rescue of a few of those at various restaurants over the years. Tonight is different. I can tell by the way the man on the floor is motionless.
“Move,” I demand to two wait staff clumsily trying to perform CPR.
“Are you sure you’re a doctor?” one asks. “You don’t look like any doctor I’ve ever been to.”
I don’t know what the hell she’s getting at, but I sense it’s a combination of my attire and the tattoo on my right bicep peeking out from under the sleeve of my gray T-shirt.
“Move!” I repeat louder so she’ll get her ass out of the way.
She scurries backward in an awkward crab walk, her cheeks blushing at my admonishment.
Her counterpart springs to his feet only to bump into the table we’re next to. A drink of something pink and sweet-smelling lands squarely on the chest of the guy on the floor.
“Jesus,” I whisper. “This is ridiculous.”
I drop to my knees, the fabric of my jeans landing in a puddle of the spilled drink.
My quiet night at home has been shot to hell, but I can’t focus on that right now, so I drop two fingers to the neck of the guy sprawled out wearing a now pink-stained white button-down shirt.
From the looks of him, he’s younger than I am.
I’d guess he’s around twenty-two or twenty-three, possibly edging closer to twenty-five.
“Who is he with?” I ask as I search for a pulse.
“Me,” a woman says from my left, her voice barely audible over the panicked hum of the people around me. “We’re on a blind date.”
“What’s his name?” I drop my ear to his lips, hoping like hell I hear a breath come out of him.
