pounding as I shuffle my way through the darkness toward the bedroom door. When I open it, the light that spills in from the hallway practically blinds me. I can’t help but squint up at the man standing on the other side in confusion.
“Callum?” He stares down at me, dressed and alert like it isn’t the middle of the night. There’s no reason for someone to look so hot at this hour, it’s almost as blinding as the hall light. “What’s going on?”
He scans me head to toe, from my long messy braid to my pajama shorts and bare feet, before his focus moves past me. A voice sounds softly behind me. “Who’s in here with you?”
My eyes follow his gaze, brain lagging. “Oh, that’s just the tv.” The response is sleep-addled and delayed, but it’s the truth.
“You’re watching tv?” Those piercing hazel eyes are pinned back on me now.
“I fell asleep watching something.” Again, technically the truth. He doesn’t need to know that I can’t sleep without something playing, like a toddler needing a nightlight. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I change the subject. “Do you need something? Why are you knocking on my door at three-thirty in the morning?”
“I need you to come with me.”
No idea what I was expecting Callum to say, but that’s not it. I blink a few more times—once, twice—processing. He waits calmly, observing and assessing while I absorb.
“What?” I need more information. It’s too damn late for this. Or is it too early?
“Someone needs medical attention and I’m borrowing those skilled hands of yours.” Again, not what I was expecting to hear. Someone needs medical attention? The questions are already forming.
“Is someone hurt?” I ask. His eyes roam from my face, looking pointedly at my silky powder blue pajama set. I follow his gaze, barely registering my attire before bringing my eyes back to his.
“Put on your scrubs, Doc. We’re leaving in five.”
My brain still fighting through the fog, I leave Callum in the doorway and shuffle into the walk-in closet. Digging through my nightmare of a suitcase, the first pair of scrubs I find are pastel pink. Whatever, scrubs are scrubs. My braid is too messy to save, so a finger-brushed ponytail will have to do. Tugging on mismatched socks and shoving my feet into my ASICS, I’m still securing my hair into an elastic when I emerge from the closet.
Callum’s large frame fills the doorway, muscled tattooed arms crossed. The sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt are rolled up to his elbows, something he seems to do often out of habit. As soon as his suit coat comes off, his sleeves are being rolled up. The intricate ink covering his muscled arms are in stark contrast to the crisp color of his shirt. I can see the shadow of where the ink continues up his skin beneath the fabric. Do his tattoos cover more than just his arms?
“Pink, huh?” There he goes with those eyes of his again, taking in every single detail.
I simply shrug, looking up at him expectantly. For someone who was in such a hurry three minutes ago, he doesn’t seem too rushed to move out of my room now. The look I flash him is full of expectation.
“Are we going, or did you make me get out of bed for nothing?”
He looks at me for a while longer, almost as if just to prove that he can. Finally, he steps back into the hallway and sweeps his arm out in a gesture for me to walk ahead of him.
“After you, Doc,” he murmurs, the nickname making me sigh in annoyance. But I relent and step out into the hallway anyway.
He walks closely behind me, almost too close. His tall frame towers over me, looming and crowding. Hyper aware of his proximity, I glance up at him in the elevator, my shoulder to his chest. There’s no way he means to stand so close to me, but something in his eyes when he looks down at me says he knows exactly what he’s doing. Nothing he does is by accident.
The private elevator opens up to the parking garage and I follow him to a car I’ve never seen before. This must be Callum’s car, a vintage number that looks like a classic muscle car from the 1970s. I fail to recognize the symbol on the back as he holds the passenger door open for me.
The engine rumbles, the only sound in the car as Callum navigates the city streets. This silence is giving my mind too much opportunity to form questions I don’t have answers to. Finally, I can’t help myself, not knowing is driving me crazy.
“Where are we going?” I look over at him, the passing city lights flashing across his strong features. The white of his shirt catches the light, emphasizing his broad solid frame filling the seat to capacity. He stares straight ahead at the road, not sparing me a glance when he responds.
“Not far.” He gives me nothing to work with.
“What kind of medical attention do they need?” I try again. The more time I have to prepare myself mentally, the better.
“You’ll see when we get there.” It’s a non-answer, really.
“Really? That’s all I get?” My tone tells him just how fed up I’m getting with all this. He seems completely unbothered by my growing annoyance.
“Your medical expertise is needed,” Callum says simply. “That’s all you need to know.”
Yeah, that’s not how it works. If he thinks this conversation is over, he’s dead wrong. I wish I knew what he was thinking, but I doubt it’ll do any good to ask him. His lack of response almost keeps me from asking more questions. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s his goal.
“If someone is sick, I’ll need specific medication. If they’re injured, I might need to stop for supplies.” I’m going to keep insisting until I get something out of the vault that is Callum Russo. But he doesn’t even flinch, simply tilting his head to look over at me lazily. Here we are, driving through the city in the dark of the very early morning because someone needs a nurse for a mysterious reason, and he’s acting like we’re running an errand.
“You’ll have what you need,” his assurance does nothing to convince me. But instead of bombarding him with the other million questions on the tip of my tongue, I simply close my mouth instead. There’s no point in wasting my energy trying to get answers he’s clearly not going to give me. The only sign that Callum notices my resignation is another half glance in my direction.
He wasn’t lying when he said we aren’t going far, the drive takes less than twenty minutes. Out of all the places my brain imagined we would end up, a nightclub wasn’t even on the list. Pulling up, the club lights are still on, but there’s no line in front of the door. Most clubs I know close around 3 am, which explains the lack of drunk partiers stumbling around the sidewalk.
“A club?” I ask, confused. “Why are we at a closed nightclub?” Parking right out front like a VIP, Callum shuts off the ignition and reaches for the door handle. Alarm bells ring in my head, anxiety clawing at me. Who could need medical attention in a nightclub that can’t go to the hospital?
“I’m not going in,” I say, my voice dripping with anxiety.
“Yes, you are.” It’s a statement, not a question. “Nothing’s going to happen to you, Doc. It’d be too much of a waste.”
The promise does little to soothe the dread pooling in my stomach like a ball of lead. Clearly, I’m not being taken seriously. Instead, he’s climbing out of the car and leaving me alone in the terrifying silence. He circles behind the car, popping open the trunk momentarily, before slamming it shut. The passenger door swings open, and Callum stands expectantly, a large case in his left hand.
I look up at him from my place in the seat, every instinct in my body telling me not to step out of the safety of the vehicle. I highly doubt Callum would drive me all the way to a club to kill me. And seeing as he holds the literal keys to my only escape, I don’t really have a choice here.
“No one is going to hurt you, you have my word.” The conviction in his words matches the promise in Callum’s eyes, his right hand extending to me. I stare at it for a minute, warring with my anxiety, my gaze sliding up to meet his. I’m here now, there’s no way around it. So I accept his hand and allow him to help me out of the car. His hand releases mine to close the door behind me with a resounding click and moves to the small of my back.
“Here you go, Doc.” The case in his left hand lands heavily on the hood of the car. I lift my eyes to his face briefly, my tongue wetting my bottom lip in apprehension as I reach for the mystery case. His brows raise in a challenge, not offering any explanation. With hesitant hands, I unclip the top of the case and pull it open slowly. My jaw drops.
Calling this a medical kit is a gross understatement. This case contains everything I could ever need to provide proper medical care—gauze, suture kits, IV bags, sterile needles, local anesthetic, antibiotics, stimulants—it’s a damn hospital in a box. All that’s missing is the MRI machine.
My wide eyes search for his.
“Where did all of this come from?” There’s stuff in here that I can’t even find at the hospital. How did this man get vials of adrenaline? I’m at a loss here.
“I told you, you’ll have everything you need.” Reaching around me, he closes the case and locks it with a snap. “The man you’re here to see is inside.” With that, I’m being led through the front entrance of the quiet club.
The hazy, dimly lit interior is exactly how I expect it to be. A few stray workers are moving to clean up the leftovers of the patron’s poor decisions. The heavy aromas of sweat, alcohol, and smoke cling to the air as a reminder of the night’s lack of inhibition. I can see the door that leads out of the main room and back towards a more private area as we get closer. A sign reading ‘Private, no public access’ warns me that I’m about to leave any witnesses behind.
I’ve always scoffed at the dumb blonde sorority girls in horror movies when they hear a noise in the basement and decide to venture into the darkness in their underwear with nothing but a dim flashlight yelling ‘who’s there?’ Yet, here I am, allowing myself to be led into the dark with nothing but my scrubs and sarcasm to protect me. As good as a lamb to the slaughter, I might as well be wearing my underwear.
Either unaware of my reservations, or completely ignoring them, Callum presses his hand to the small of my back and propels me through the doorway. Once we’re in the open and there’s enough space, he steps beside me and grabs my wrist—his strong fingers leading me firmly. Then we’re walking.
Moving down the long, dark hallway trimmed in blood-red LED lights, we pause at the very last door.
“Breathe,” Callum murmurs beside me.
I suck in a breath I’m all too aware I was holding. He reaches around me to turn the knob. I haven’t exactly been trying to picture what’s behind the ominous door, but it definitely wasn’t a storage room. Roscoe stands along the far wall, his aggressive stance stiff. It’s not the shelves of liquor and extra rags that has shock settling over me.
A chair sits in the center of the shadowy room, a man secured by one of his wrists to the chair’s arm with red tape, his ankles secured to the legs. Spatters of blood spread across the plastic covering the floor beneath him, filling the air with the heavy copper scent of violence. His left hand dangles awkwardly, his pinky missing after the first knuckle. It’s been cut off, I can spot the rest of the finger discarded on the ground next to his foot in a pool of blood.
“What is this?” My question comes out barely more than a whisper. Callum’s hand on my back pushes me into the room, the door closing behind us.
“Do your thing, Doc. Get to work and fix him up,” Callum says.
The injured man’s head lolls as his eyes try to look up at me. He looks so defeated, so broken.
“You’re a doctor?” he asks, barely able to get the words out.
“I’m a nurse,” I correct again, standing and assessing the situation. Callum walks around me, moving to watch from the other side of the room facing the door. His giant stature fills the corner of the room, making the space feel so much smaller.
Judging by the amount of blood, enough time has passed between now and the injury to allow some clotting. If the finger is still bleeding too much, I’ll have to do a wet-to-dry. But hopefully, I can just stitch the wound closed and bandage it. That all depends on the instrument used and the state of the remaining finger. My eyes lock with Callum’s as my assessment fully processes. Then I’m moving.
“How long ago did this happen?” I ask no one in particular. I don’t actually know who’s responsible, so the answer could come from either of them.
“Forty-seven minutes,” Roscoe supplies gruffly.
When I lower, I do my best to avoid the blood splatters. I’ll kneel in the gore if I have to, but not if I can avoid it.
“What did you use?” I ask, placing my kit on the floor. When I move to get a closer look at the wound, the bloodied man jerks nervously. I can see Roscoe enter my peripheral vision, his muscles tensed and ready as if he perceives the wounded man’s movement as a threat against me. But I don’t flinch. “How was it cut off?”
“Don’t ask that,” Callum says, warning me off. “You don’t want to know the answers to any of your questions.”
He thinks I’m just curious—that I’m entertained by this display of brutality. Throwing him a look of agitation, I lift the mangled hand to inspect it.
“What you used to remove the finger might affect how I have to treat it,” I say, pulling out the syringe of local anesthetic. No matter what they used, whether it was a surgical scalpel or a rusty kitchen knife, I have to touch it to patch him up.
And that’s going to hurt like hell.
“I used these,” Roscoe supplies a pair of hand-held pruning shears. Taking the tool from his hand, my eyes catch with his momentarily. I’m struck with the sinking realization that the man of few words just used these landscaping scissors to remove someone’s finger. But as quickly as the thought hits me, it’s gone and I’m moving on.
“These don’t look new,” I comment, taking in the scratches and knicks on the sharp blades. Glancing at Roscoe, I can see the hesitance before he answers.
“Not new, but they were clean,” he says.
There’s no rust, which is a good sign, but they’re not sterile. I’ll need to make sure the laceration is cleaned thoroughly so there’s no infection.
They cut the pinky off at a slight angle, so there’s enough skin to fold over and close the wound. Just barely, and there will be lots of scarred tissue, but it will work.
“He’s going to need stitches. But it’s going to be tricky,” I announce, sifting through the kit for the supplies to properly clean the wound.
“Can you do that, Doc?” The look of annoyance I throw at Callum just feeds the man’s ego.
“I’m a nurse,” I say, for what feels like the millionth time. “So I shouldn’t be able to, not for something like this. But luckily for you, my best friend is a trauma surgeon and I’ve perfected my sutures on bananas over a couple glasses of wine.”
Organizing the supplies I’ll need and laying them out on the lid of the kit, I’m ready to get to work. Pulling the cap off the sterile needle, I flick the air bubbles out and give it a tiny squirt. Eyeing me warily, the man pulls at his restraints.
“No, what is that? Get that away from me,” he rasps, yanking at his hand that’s now bleeding profusely. Roscoe takes a threatening step forward, but I raise my hand to stop him. Instead, I look the imprisoned man straight in the eye.
“I know you think you don’t want me to touch you with this needle but, trust me, you want what’s in this syringe,” I inform him calmly. Beaten captive tied to a chair or not, he’s still just another patient who needs to be treated properly. “If you refuse, I’ll have to clean you up without numbing it. It’s your choice.” I stare at him expectantly. It only takes three seconds for him to realize my syringe is his friend, and he nods his consent.
After numbing the area, I set to cleaning it thoroughly. The next step is trying to stop the bleeding enough to get a good grip for the sutures. It takes some time, and a lot of gauze, but I’m able to get the skin where I need it to stitch it together. Once the wound is finally closed, I disinfect the area again and cover it with a sterile bandage.
“There.” Finally sitting back on my heels, I realize how long I’ve been kneeling on the floor. Just like when I’m at the hospital, my focus kept me from feeling the discomfort in my knees. Not to mention the fact that I really have to pee. My legs complain when I move to stand and I struggle. Callum is at my side in an instant, lifting me off the floor. Damn, I definitely wasn’t this tired a few seconds ago.
“You’re finished?” Callum’s question is said deeply at my side. I look up at him, my mind racing as I look at the man I clearly don’t know at all. Pulling my eyes away, I simply nod.
“He’s going to need to follow up with a doctor as soon as possible, and there’s an enormous risk of infection. But he should be fine.” I glance at Roscoe briefly before looking back at the man. If he didn’t blink at me with half-lidded eyes, I would think he was unconscious or dead—remaining limp in the chair. What else did they do to him? There’s no missing the black eye forming and his swollen lip. “Are there any other injuries I need to look at?”
“No,” Callum says firmly. “I’ll take you home.”
The exhaustion and shock from the events of the night allow Callum to pack up the medical kit and tote me back to the car without complaint. He practically buckles me into the passenger seat, stowing the medical case back in the trunk before climbing behind the wheel. My eyes can’t seem to look at anything else but the terrifying man next to me.
Gazing at his profile, the distinct nose, sharp cheekbones, immaculate beard. When he’s in a suit, he looks as distinguished as any high-power businessman roaming this city. But as soon as the suit coat comes off and the shirt sleeves are rolled up, you catch a glimpse at what he really is. A man with an edge that you don’t mess with. I’d felt it, even that first time meeting him—the danger just below the surface. But I never thought it was anything like this. Who is he? Am I in danger right now?
“Are you just gonna keep staring, or are you gonna ask me the question you want to ask me?” Coming to a complete stop at a red light, Callum meets my stare straight on. I refuse to avert my gaze. After what I just witnessed, I deserve to stare a hole right through his head if I want to.
“Why did Roscoe cut off that man’s finger?” I’ve wrestled between asking and deciding I’m better off not knowing. But I’d be stupid not to ask just because I’m scared of what the answer might be.
“Because I told him to.” Said so calmly, the answer is deliberately cagey, his eyes daring me to ask the next question he’s leading me to. And I need to know more, need to know what kind of man I’m living with. So I bite.
“Why did you tell him to?”
“Kellan took something that didn’t belong to him. Now his debt is paid.” He’s watching me, taking in every blink and breath, reading me like a book. He’s a lot harder to read, making my anxiety spike despite my best efforts.
“So, you’re an enforcer?” I’ve pieced together a few things, like the fact that his ‘business’ doesn’t discriminate between crooked politicians or career criminals. But there are still some pretty huge gaps I need to fill in here. Because, after tonight, those gaps are starting to seem more like a black hole that’ll devour me before anyone can stop it—and no one will ever hear my screams.
“I fix problems.” Again, his response leaves me with nothing but more questions.
“What kinds of problems?” I ask. Callum leans back in his seat, flexing his shoulders to get more comfortable as we wait for the light to turn green. His eyes don’t leave mine; observing, analyzing, calculating.
“That depends on who’s asking.” His focus momentarily moves from my face to roam down my body; taking in my messy blonde ponytail, wrinkled pink scrubs, and supportive footwear. Any sleepiness had fled the moment I walked into that back room. For better or for worse, I’m the picture of messy practicality tied up in a crumpled pink bow.
“I’m asking.”
I’m not letting this go, not when I can get answers from him. The silence in the car stretches, making seconds feel like hours, the only sound coming from the engine. The light flashes green, but Callum takes his time pressing the accelerator. He’s in no hurry to get home.
“Let’s just say I fix problems that powerful people pay lots of money for me not to talk about.” This bit of information is a step in the right direction but it still doesn’t tell me what I need to know.
“Fix them how?” I press, my voice shaking slightly. His grip shifts on the wheel to take a more casual hold with one hand.
“By any means necessary.”
That tells me a lot and nothing at all. That could mean he skirts around the law by doing deals under the table, or he could be a psychotic serial killer. There’s so much room for interpretation, which is probably exactly how he likes it. The black hole is slowly morphing into an endless gray area.
“Am I in danger?” The question leaves my mouth before I can think better of it.
“Not from me.” It’s a plain statement. Even with his nonchalance, I believe him. Maybe that makes me an idiot, but I do.
“So I don’t need to be afraid of you?” It’s a reach for clarification and, maybe if I’m being honest with myself, a little comfort. But I don’t get it.
“I never said that.” His eyes slide over to find mine again. “Are you scared of me, Lexie?”
A knot forms in my stomach, heat spreading through me under his gaze.
“After tonight I would be stupid not to be,” I shoot back. “I’m not stupid.”
The car turns and we’re entering the parking garage that belongs to the penthouse. Pulling smoothly into one of the private spots, Callum cuts the engine.
“You’re a lot of things, but you certainly aren’t stupid,” he says. “And I know you’re smart enough to realize that telling anyone about what you witnessed tonight is a very bad idea.”
“I won’t say anything,” I assure him. I have enough self-preservation to keep my damn mouth shut. Besides, I don’t even know what happened. Not really.
“Good. Because if you are stupid enough to tell someone, that might put you in danger. And I’ll always know.”
“I’m just gonna go shower and pretend like tonight never happened.” When did my life turn into a suspense movie? I prefer my drama petty and through a tv screen.
“That’s a good idea, Doc.” Stepping into the elevator, he’s watching me again. This time feels more intentional—like he’s looking for something. I’ll bet he’s waiting for a meltdown or psychotic break with tears and trembling. Like the events of tonight might somehow break me. But he can wait all he wants, the breakdown isn’t coming.
The demons I’m currently fighting off are much more traumatizing than giving some creep a few stitches in a dark room. Tonight, as weird and confusing as it was, is just a drop in the bucket. I’m already keeping my head above water while much darker forces try to drag me under.
I don’t wait for him when the elevator doors open, instead walking straight into the penthouse. Callum’s only a step or two behind me.
“Good night, Callum,” I say over my shoulder, not hesitating before walking through the kitchen towards the hallway that leads to my shower. And my bed.
“Sweet dreams, Doc,” Callum’s deep voice sounds behind me.
I wish.
