AN OVERWHELMING SENSE OF DÉJÀ Vu casts over me when the nurse positions me in the OR. Once again, Dr. Prichard says something that leaves me reeling minutes before I’m going to be put under. God, what an arrogant arsehole.
And, once again, Indie is in the forefront of my mind. After everything my father said about my mum and how she was all he loved, I wanted it. I wanted a chance to care for someone that much. To put it above football. Above everything.
And, bloody hell, I hate the fact that after all he said, it was Indie’s face that crept into my mind. My heart. My soul.
But if what Dr. Prichard said is true, then I’ve been reading her all wrong since day one. When I held her in my arms that night at Old George and felt her pain, I wanted to move mountains to take it away. I would’ve given anything. Been anything. Done anything. I wanted to be whatever she needed in that moment.
I think some deep, dark part of my mind thought that when this surgery was all over, there would be hope for Indie and me. That maybe by getting me out of the hospital and away from the stress of her job, we’d have a fighting chance. Her coming to me a couple days ago to convince me to have the surgery filled me with the hope that perhaps she cared more about me than she did about all this hospital bullshit.
Now it’s all for naught.
Now it feels like all of this was truly just so she could get ahead. They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Well, maybe she’s just like her family and is incapable of truly hugging someone and accepting all that entails.
She used me like a puppet, and lying here on this table while they literally stick cords to my body means I’m still letting her pull the strings.
It has to stop.
I shove away a hand that’s sticking a pad to my chest.
“Mr. Harris, we’re just getting these in place. Then we’ll have you move to this table.”
“I’m not doing this.” My voice sounds distant and mumbly.
“What’s that?” a mask-covered face asks, moving to stand over me.
“I said I’m not doing this. I don’t want the surgery.” I swallow against the meds coursing through my veins and will myself to think clearly.
“Mr. Harris,” a new nurse states, joining the other person standing above me. Her brows knit together as she adds, “We can give you something stronger for the nerves.”
“You already gave me a bunch of shit and I hate it. I said I’m not having this surgery. I meant it. Get me out of here.” I move to sit up but my head spins.
Several hands reach out and grab my shoulders, attempting to lay me back down. But I’m stronger than all of them, even doped up on painkillers. I swing my legs off the stretcher, wincing at the rubbing sensation in my knee that I feel whenever I twist it a certain way. It’s probably the magical graft that Indie put in—the one that needs to come out. Well, fuck it. It can wait. I begin ripping off the sticky pads on my chest and sides.
“Mr. Harris, please! We can help you with whatever you need.”
“I need to leave,” I growl, but my dramatic scene comes to a screeching halt when familiar toffee eyes find mine.
Indie is standing four feet in front of me, gowned completely in blue from her head to her toes. Red, curly hair peeks out the bottom of her scrub cap as her eyes squint sympathetically through cheetah-print glasses. She’s holding her freshly washed hands up in front of herself, and her mouth is covered by a mask as she asks, “Cam, what’s the matter?”
I laugh incredulously and glance over at Dr. Prichard. He’s currently scrubbing his hands in the sink and watching the scene through the window like the creepy voyeur he is.
“Like you even care,” I answer.
Pulling her brows together, she takes a step forward. “Of course I care. What is it?”
“You could have told me about the medical journal. You could have mentioned it and I would have listened. But this was all an act, wasn’t it? All you care about is this bloody surgery and getting your name on paper.”
Her face turns pink as she looks around the OR. “Can you all please clear out?” she asks firmly.
The staff stare in wonder, unmoving.
“Clear out!” she shouts, and everyone scampers with a jolt out the door, leaving us behind with only the hum of machines and the beeping of monitors to keep us company.
Despite their departure, I can feel their eyes on us through the windows. Indie notices the same thing and sighs heavily at the ridiculous fishbowl we find ourselves in. She turns to face me again, pulling down her mask and revealing those large red lips that are now pursed into a frown. “I wanted to tell you about the feature, but not until you made up your mind about the surgery.”
“Why the hell not?” I bark.
“Because I was afraid that if you knew about it, you’d go through with the surgery just for me and not for yourself.”
This gives me pause. “Thinking pretty highly of yourself again I see.”
She rolls her eyes. “No, I think highly of you, Camden. And I think you’re the type to put the well-being of others above your own.” She swallows nervously. “What’s really wrong? It’s more than the article.”
I squint harshly at her, frustrated that she really doesn’t see it. All the possibility. “It’s everything. And it’s nothing.”
I move to stand up, but Indie moves closer to me and reaches out. Her hands are cool and damp on my arms. I pause, watching her chew her lip with worry.
“You need this surgery, Cam. That’s not me speaking as your doctor but as your friend. Regardless of whether or not you ever kick a ball again in your entire life, you’re going to want a properly operating knee.”
I shake my head angrily. “You think we’re mates? I can’t even trust you right now.”
“Of course you can,” she says urgently, looking up at me with wide, hurt eyes.
“Well, what am I supposed to think, Indie? I get here and find out about this publication right before I get wheeled into the place where you’re going to dice me up. My dad shows up and tells me all this stuff about my mum that makes me think of you, and I feel like the biggest jerk on the planet because I’m in this alone. I’m fucking lost and the only thing I know I want, I can’t have!”
“What is that?” she asks with a gasp.
“You! Bloody hell, I want you, Specs. After all this bullshit and stress and low after low, all I want is you. But you don’t want me.”
She makes a move to reply but I cut her off.
“Everybody is pulling strings and, no matter what I do, I can’t seem to get away from them.”
“I’m not pulling strings, Cam. I care about you.” Her voice trembles.
“You care about the surgery.”
I move to slide off the table, but she holds me still again as she snaps, “Stop saying that!”
“Fine, let’s just get on with the surgery,” I mutter, feeling completely mind-fucked to my limit. “Maybe when I wake up I won’t remember any of this.”
“Camden—”
“Leave it. I mean it. This injury has fucked with so much more than my knee.”
“Damnit, Cam,” she growls and grabs my face so hard I feel every one of her fingertips pressed against my skin.
But the next thing I feel is not hard and biting.
It’s soft and supple.
It’s her lips on mine.
They stroke my mouth over and over, and the sensation is so perfect that I’m certain I am dreaming.
“What are you doing?” my voice quakes as our mouths break apart. Her face is centimetres from mine, yet I squeeze her arms in my hands, fearful they might disappear beneath my touch.
But the warmth of her laboured breath feels so real.
Staring at my lips, she whispers, “I’m finally juggling.”
Once again, I swear I am dreaming. Brown eyes crawl up my face and lock on mine. I tilt my head and pull away from her for better perspective. There’s no way she just kissed me in her OR. There’s no way she just repeated that pun she wrote inside my novel so long ago. My brain has to be messing with me, and this is all an illusion from the IV drug cocktail that nurse gave me.
She moves toward me again, and my eyes swim with desperation as I cup her face in my hands. “Don’t kiss me again, Indie.” My voice is thick and heavy. “Because I’m trembling from how badly I want you. And if I kiss you, I will lose my fucking mind.”
“So lose it with me,” she says simply, with all the confidence in the world. Then she whispers three words against my lips that make me come completely undone. “I am thine.”
Just before she touches her lips to mine, my eyes begin to sting, so I hold her away from me to stare at her one last time. The warmth of her cheeks against my palms confirms that she is real and this is happening.
Swallowing hard, I whisper back, “Thou art mine.”
No more words are needed. No more questions are asked. No more strings are pulled. Simply put, we create the most soul-crushing kiss of all time. We are two hearts connecting on another worldly plane manifesting in this physical act right here. All the anger and frustration between our communication issues comes to a head with the pure, undiluted honesty of lips, tongues, hands, and bodies.
I wrap my arms around her ribs and hug her tightly, pulling her as close to me as I can so I can feel every beat of her heart. But realisation of what we’re doing and where we’re doing it dawns on me much too quickly. I regrettably pull back. “What did you just do, Specs? You’re going to lose your job.”
“I don’t care.” She smiles with hooded eyes and moves to kiss me again.
“That was a stupid thing to do, Indie Porter. This was a great opportunity for you,” I murmur, staring down at her swollen lips and aching to touch them again.
She huffs out a soft laugh. “I think it’s the smartest thing I’ve done all week.”
I groan and hug her to me. Her selflessness is utterly mind-blowing. Shocking, unexpected, and fascinating on so many levels. Then, in a flash, my arrogance drops. “If you walk out there and tell my brothers I needed a kiss before surgery, I’ll make you pay.”
“Never,” she smirks and kisses me sweetly for good measure. “I think I was the one who needed the kiss. But I will say, if I’m going to lose my job over a kiss, that one was definitely worth it.”
She pulls away when we hear giggles waft through the door that Dr. Prichard is now waltzing through.
With a heavy sigh, he says, “I thought you were smarter than this, Indie.”
She begrudgingly releases me, takes a step back, and straightens her posture. Shooting Dr. Prichard a hard look, she replies, “It’s Dr. Porter. Please refer to me as such from now on.”
With that, she walks out with her shoulders held high and I do nothing to conceal the Camden Harris proud-as-fuck-smirk on my face.
