Page 13 of Chase

“No,” he whispered. “If this is the only way I can get close enough to touch you, Trouble, allow me to enjoy it.”

“What do you want from me?” I said, my voice low but pained. “This is wrong. You can’t pursue your brother’s…” I trailed off, not knowing how to describe myself.

“My brother’s what?” he prompted. “Girlfriend? Partner? Fuck buddy?”

“Friend.”

“Ah,” he said. “So Connor is in the friend zone. That's good to know. Well, if that’s the case, then the game is on.” His hand, still sitting on my hip, squeezed gently, and my stomach flipped against my wishes. Heat coated my cheeks. “You like me touching you, Trouble, don’t you?”

“My name is Samantha.”

“But to me, Miss Coleman, you are nothing but fucking trouble. What would it take for me to move into your friend zone too? I could keep my brother company in there.”

“I’ll show you the fucking friend zone,” I muttered, pissed by his ability to flit from asshole to jovial idiot by the second.

Before he could reply, our stop appeared, and I moved out of his grasp then exited the carriage as quickly as possible. His heavy footsteps appeared behind me within moments, so I ducked into the ladies bathroom. I was flustered by his honesty but more so by my body’s reaction to him. When I looked in the mirror, all I saw were flushed cheeks, and all I could feel was my heart beating heavily in my chest. That was when my sanity snapped, and I decided to make damn sure which brother knew I was seeing him tonight.

In the middle of the underground public bathroom, I shrugged out of my winter coat and wriggled out of the classy black dress I was wearing. An older lady dressed as if trekking to the North Pole hissed audibly behind me. I glared at her before resuming to stuff my dress in my handbag and put my jacket back on.

When I returned to the platform, Russell was leaning against the wall, tapping at his phone screen. I strode past him, close enough to ensure he heard the clip of my heels on the concrete. He glanced up and moved to walk beside me.

“Five feet,” I said sharply.

“What?”

“Five feet behind. If you're going to persist with this stupid stalking fetish, at least attempt to mimic the real thing.”

Mia rattling my bedroom door interrupts the memory, and before I can shout to her to come in, she bursts into my room. In one hand she’s carrying a bottle of champagne. In the other, she holds two glasses. Clamped under her chin is a small, brown, rectangular envelope.

“These,” she screeches, waving the bottle in the air, “were left outside our door just now. This is for you.” She leans forward, awkwardly offering me the letter with her chin.

“Who left them?”

“I don’t know. The doorbell rang, but by the time I got there, whoever it was was gone.”

I pluck the letter from its place and stare at the typed name and address. The postmark in the top left-hand corner tells me it’s from a private hospital I’ve never stepped foot in, one of those places only people with money go.

From what I’ve read, it was bought by an American investment company around five years ago, one with its fingers in many pies in the UK. My research told me that other companies under its ownership included advertising and drug manufacturing. I remember ruling out applying for a position here because I wanted to work and train directly within the National Health Service. I didn’t want to be a pawn in a conglomerate operation.

Wishful thinking, now that I reminisce of what I hoped would happen. A year since starting my investigation into becoming a nurse, I’m still dancing at the club after sending multiple applications to colleges, universities, and traineeships. Maybe I need to be more realistic about the opportunities within this career path too. Beggars can’t be choosers after all.

“Are you waiting on test results or something?” Mia prompts, gesturing at the name—Varley Medical.

“Even if I was, it wouldn’t be from there.”

“What is it then?” she continues, squinting at the envelope as if somehow she can read through the paper.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, bloody open it.” Mia places the two glasses down on my bedside cabinet, then pops the cork on the champagne. “We need to know whether we’re celebrating or commiserating.”

I slide my thumbnail under the flap, slowly lifting the paper from the glue. It pops open, and I pull the mysterious letter into the light. Once unfolded, I stare at the text in complete confusion.

Varley Medical,

London,

E1 8JH

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