Immaculate Deception

Chapter 2 Episode 2

“Har de har har,” I scoff irritably. “You’re very calm for a man with a bullet wound. Is this just a typical day in the life for you?”

His head is down, but I can see the square line of his jaw and his dark stubble. It’s enough to tell that he’s smiling. “You’d be surprised what’s typical for me.”

That’s ominous enough to send shivers down my spine. But just like this man’s smell, I ignore them.

Don’t let him get to you. Just do your job, go home, and forget this ever happened.

That’s good advice from myself to myself. I start to reach for his arm—and then hesitate.

It’s been a while since I’ve touched another person. Especially since I’ve touched a man.

Animals are simpler. Their emotion are easier to gauge. Either they trust you or they don’t. If they trust you, you’re safe. If they don’t, you get bitten.

People aren’t as clear-cut. They’re liars. Thieves. Manipulators.

Or, in the case of this man, probably all three.

“I won’t bite, if that’s what you’re wondering.” The man grabs my hand in his and steers my fingertips to his forearm, forcing the contact.

I jerk my hand back. “You might not, but I will. I’m the doctor, so why don’t you be quiet and let me work?”

“I thought you said you weren’t a doctor?” he chuckles.

Who is this man? Barging into my office, demanding I help him at gunpoint, and then… flirting with me?

Hell no. I turn that female part of my brain off. The part that dissects every interaction with the opposite s*x, searching for points of connection, trying to find an “in.”

I don’t want an “in” with this man; I want an out. The sooner, the better.

I put my metaphorical “Doctor Arya George” hat firmly on my head. Time to focus all of my attention on mending up this man, whoever the hell he is, and getting him the f**k out of my clinic forever.

The gunshot is just a graze, thankfully. Anything more and I would have had to go digging through the wound in search of bullet fragments or bone pieces. I’ve done it before for more than a few animals, but always under anesthesia. I have less than zero desire to operate on a conscious patient.

Although, if this particular bastard squirms a little bit under my needle, I won’t be too upset about it.

The work goes quickly. He doesn’t squirm at all. Just watches me the whole time with unblinking eyes. When I’m done, I wipe the blood away with a clean towel and grab a roll of bandages.

“Will I keep the arm, Doc?” he asks sarcastically.

I ignore him as I put my tools away. “It’s a glorified scratch. You’ll be back to work in no time, waving guns in innocent people’s faces or whatever it is you do for a living.”

I wrap the clean fabric around his forearm and try to beat back the part of me that wants to run my fingers down his arm.

God, it has been a long time, I think. Way too long. Eighteen months or so, if my math is correct.

I’ve kept myself company when the nights get lonely. But there’s nothing quite like the real thing breathing and flexing and bleeding right in front of you.

“How can I ever repay you?” the man teases, his voice a low rumble.

“For wrapping your arm in a bandage? A lifetime of servitude will do.”

He takes the last bit of bandage from my hand and tucks the tail in himself. His fingers are huge, but there’s a gracefulness in the way they move. I imagine what they would feel like on my skin…

Then I promptly begin reciting what I can remember of The Gettysburg Address.

It’s a tried-and-true anti-horny tactic. I memorized the whole speech in sixth grade and it’s never failed since then in keeping me out of trouble.

Or at least, it’s never failed before. But tonight, I can’t get past “…we are engaged in a great civil war…” before my thoughts turn dirty once again.

“Not for that,” he says as he coolly assesses the remaining tatters of his shirt and then rips it free in one casual tug. “I meant for giving me a place to hide from the men who shot me.”

I can’t help but gasp in surprise. I’m not sure why, but it never occurred to me that someone else must have shot him. I glance towards the door in fright, half-expecting to see a group of men creeping down the hallway, guns drawn.

“Are you being chased?” I demand.

“I was,” he says with an easy shrug. “Might still be, technically speaking. But looks like I lost them.”

A chill moves down my spine. “They could have followed you!” I croak. “You put me in danger!”

“Considering you asked about the Albanians, I have to assume this isn’t your first run-in with danger.”

He tilts his head to the side. His full lips are pursed in careful thought—what little I can see of them, at least. Between that hood, the awkwardly angled lamp overhead, and my fervent desire to forget this ever happened as soon as it’s over, I still haven’t really seen much of his face.

“What do you know about them, anyway?” he presses.

“The Albanians? Nothing.” I answer too quickly and then take a sharp, stabilizing breath. “Nothing more than anyone else, I mean. The news says they are trouble, and when you pointed a gun at me, I assumed the worst.”

“You’re right. Nothing would be worse than being Albanian.”

I relax, letting go of a tension I didn’t realize I’d been carrying.

Thank God. He isn’t Albanian. On a day like today, that’s a win.

“Not friends of yours?” I ask as casually as I can.

“Do friends usually try to murder you?”

I swallow and shake my head. “Not usually.”

He stands up. His chest brushes against mine. I jump back like he’s a live wire. I think I see him smile, but I look away before I can confirm it.

This has gone on long enough. He needs to go.

“I’ll bill your insurance in the morning,” I say, waving my hand towards the door. “Off you go.”

He doesn’t move. “You’re funny.”

“And I’ll be here all week. But that’s not an invitation. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask that you never come back here again.”

He whistles and resists the shove towards the door I give him. “You don’t mince words, either.”

“And you don’t take a hint.” I push him harder, ignoring how solid he feels beneath my fingers.

Again, it doesn’t do a lick of good. With one move, he slams the door to the hallway shut and leans against the door, blocking us both inside.

“I still have a gun, you know,” he says casually.

My heart beats faster but I try to keep a calm demeanor. “If you were going to shoot me, you would have done it by now. And if you decide to hold me captive in here, I might request that. Put me out of my misery, you know?”

He chuckles. “You should be more scared of me, krasavitsa.”

Is that Russian he just spoke? Whatever it is, it communicated directly with the heat between my thighs in a way that is equal parts awe-inspiring and terrifying.

Not that I’m willing to show this son of a b***h what he’s doing to me.

“You ran away and hid from a fight. Is that supposed to have me quaking in my boots, tough guy?”

There’s a growl of anger as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Boys stand their ground when they don’t have a chance. Men know that you can’t fight a war if you’re dead.”

“War?” I roll my eyes. “What are you, a drug dealer or something?”

He shrugs. “Let’s go with ‘something.’”

His shoulders are broad, chest tapering down to trim hips and strong thighs. He’s the kind of built that comes from a magic mixture of genetics and working out vigorously. I imagine him lifting weights—shirtless, muscles rippling, sweat dripping down his tattooed skin…

Then my fantasy shimmers and shapeshifts and suddenly, it’s me that he’s manhandling. His large, strangely graceful hands claiming every inch of me as his muscles clench, pressing himself into—

“Time to go!” My voice is high-pitched and strained. A heat has built in my stomach. Almost certainly a side effect of adrenaline and fear mixing with lethal levels of horniness.

Let’s be very clear: I do not want this man.

I’ve sworn off men like this. Men who show up with random wounds and bruises and broken bones. Men who put themselves—and me—in danger.

I’m done with that lifestyle.

But it doesn’t seem to be done with me.

The man hasn’t moved. “It could still be dangerous out there. For both of us. I think the best solution would be to stay here for a while,” he says, uncrossing his arms and sliding his hands into his front pockets, his hips jutting forward. “I’m sure we could think of some way to kill the time.”

The bulge at his crotch is like a homing beacon. It takes me three full seconds to pull my eyes away.