Page 38 of SKIN

Good thing for both of us I didn’t scare easy.

I stared at the man sprawled out on the stainless-steel mortuary table. His weathered skin and the tiny pinpricks that suggested he received regular Botox treatments. His manicured nails, which told me he didn’t do much with his hands outside of signing checks and playing the occasional game of golf. The wide pores dotting his scalp that screamed hair transplant. Throw a bottle of those magic blue pills inside a shiny red sports car and Tate Prescott screamed midlife crisis.

“So what do we do with him now?” I grunted past my disgust. Only one thing pissed me off more than cheaters. Big fat fucking liars. And this fucker was both.

“We aren’t doing anything.” Adrian pivoted on his heel, his leather shoes squeaking on the cement flooring. I’d been so focused on the body on the slab I hadn’t noticed him strip off his gown and boots and toss them in the trash can by the heavy metal door. “You’re keeping 'em alive or we aren’t getting paid.”

He waited and watched the confusion flick over my face. Then the panic. Before I settled on irritation. Twisted together with a shit-ton of defiance. “And how the fuck do you expect me to do that?”

I knew the grin was coming. Expected it. And I should have known better than to react. But untethered rage was volatile, especially when mine had been simmering for months. And I rushed the door just as it clicked closed, Adrian staring at me through the little panel of bulletproof glass on the other side as the padlock dropped into place.

“You son of a?—”

Adrian tsked his tongue. The lines of his eyes, the only part of him I could still see, crinkled by that same stupid grin. “Go tend to your patient, Dr. Michaels. Open-heart surgery is no small procedure.”

The increased beeping of the O2 machine told me that Prescott’s oxygen levels were dropping, his heart rate following a similar rapid decline. It’d taken me too long to wire the fucker’s sternum back together. Plating would have been the more medically sound choice, given my patient’s age and lowered bone density. But that shit was much more complex. Time-consuming and not a fucking option.

My right hand was fatigued, the slight tremor an obvious sign of muscle weakness as I tightened my grip around the metal clamps and alternated between an intracutaneous stitch and surgical staples. While hoping it would be enough to stave off infection. At least until the exchange. I didn’t give a fuck if the guy’s chest exploded and his heart fell onto his lap, as long as it happened after I was done with him. I didn’t like having my fucking time wasted.

Time was money after all. And money was the only fucking reason I was here.

I was fighting the urge to pull up the app on my phone that would give me a direct view into Emily’s bedroom as I deposited my gloves into the red sharps bin and washed my hands in the industrial sink. I could feel my foot tapping again, my eyes seeking out the clock, my knee bouncing and my skin on fire. I needed to get out of this fucking room. I needed to see her. Touch her. Taste her. Make her bleed. Taste that too.

I glanced at my palms and envisioned them turning my favorite shade of red before the cardiac monitor started screeching in the background, and I realized my patient was crashing.

Jesus-fucking-Christ.

48

COHEN

Ispent six fucking hours watching Tate Prescott die and come back to life. Over and over again on that metal slab. The irony not fucking lost on me and the stupid nickname. Tonight I really was Dr. Frankenstein, my current monster a serial cheater who’d obviously scorned the wrong woman.

The thing was, it didn’t matter why the fucker was here. In front of me. Stitched together like some practice cadaver and being pumped with the same kind of adrenaline that ran naturally through my veins with the rush of holding his feeble life in my hands. Because my skin was buzzing, sweat clinging to my overgrown beard as I watched the steady rise and fall of Prescott’s chest. His respirations and oxygen level decent enough for me to move 'em from critical to stabilized.

I tossed my seventh pair of gloves into the red bin and approached the metal door, knowing someone was out there watching me. I had no doubt every frantic moment was caught on live video feed and streamed into Dr. Dick’s office, his feet kicked up on his desk and a permanent smirk on his face. Though that might have been a bit of an exaggeration. Adrian wasn’t the kick up his feet type. But that smirk? That shit was dead-on.

And glaring at me from the other side of the glass again as the door creaked open. The prick didn’t say a word. Just pivoted on his heel and strolled down the hallway, veering left before stepping into his office. Carefully lowering himself down on his chair and waiting until I took the seat in front of him.

Then he reached a hand inside his top drawer. Pulled out a stack of cash and plopped it down on the desk between us.

I eyed the—going by a quick perusal—ten grand. Then peered up at him again. “What the fuck is that?”

“Your cut.” He lifted a challenging brow. “Unless you prefer to work for free?”

I swiped out the stack before the fucker could pull some BS and try to snatch it back. “Thought you said we didn’t get paid until the live drop?”

“Oh, my mistake. I was using the universal we. Really leaning into that whole working as a unit thing. What I meant was you weren’t getting paid. We…” He gestured to the air around him. “…get paid upfront of course. With a signed risk-agreement listing fatality as one of the possible outcomes. I’m a businessman after all.”

“You son of—” I jumped across the desk, my knees knocking over his carefully laid-out piles of paperwork and my arm outstretched and ready to strangle the fucker with my bare hands the moment I made contact. Only to pause when he waved a disciplinary finger in my direction. I was more curious than I was intimidated. That’s what kept me from following through on my very real threat.

“I wouldn’t if I were you.”

“Yeah? And why the fuck not?” I threw myself back in my chair, my posture open and my legs wide spread. Fucker didn’t scare me. I had a good fifty pounds on him. And all he had was quick access to a needle. That would only get him so far now that I was aware of his tricks.

He shrugged a single shoulder. “Because you’re so focused on the resources that got you here you’re missing the objective.”

“Is that your bullshit way of telling me the ends justify the means?”

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