Page 3 of Dirty Doctor
CHAPTERTWO
LUKE
I flexmy tightly bound fists, shaking them out as I stalk down the hallway. No matter how many times I’ve tried to protect her, she still finds a way to push me away. I never wanted it to be like this. We met as children, and I was ecstatic at the prospect of having a little sister. But she was still hurt, still reeling from her father’s death. She needed someone to blame, and it wasn’t going to be my dad. She’d decided who I was to her at only eight years old. Her dark blue eyes had narrowed ever so slightly, and her face—still somewhat gaunt with grief—fixated on me.
As the years wore on, she found more excuses to hate me. So, I played into it. What other choice did I have? Over time, her hatred for me became engrained into her persona—something so deeply seated within her; there was no point in trying to prove her wrong.
I moved out the second I could, because being around her physically hurt me.
I always knew I wanted to be a doctor, so while growing up, my days were filled with extra classes and extracurriculars. I graduated at seventeen, got into medical school at twenty-one—which is very, very rare—and after years of rigorous training, schooling, and residency, I ended up back where I grew up.
Eastport, Rhode Island, was idyllic in every sense of the word. A coastal town in New England, it had everything one could ever want, with larger cities a quick train or bus ride away. I was happy to be back, happy to be near my father after living in New York for fourteen years. In the four years since I’ve been back, I’ve managed to buy and renovate a house, adopt a cat, and become one of the most requested E.R. physicians at the hospital.
I file Langley’s chart at the nurses’ station, giving Greta a quick smile before grabbing the chart of my next patient.
“She’s a feisty one,” Greta says slowly. Anna chuckles in agreement as she types on the computer.
“Imagine growing up with her.”
“I can only imagine.”
My next few patients are your standard, run-of-the-mill emergency room problems. There’s a kidney infection, a dislocated shoulder, and my least favorite, a knife wound—domestic violence. I finish up with heavy lids and an even heavier heart, knowing the wife will carry that injury for the rest of her life, despite her husband being arrested. As I walk back to the station, Greta perks up and meets me halfway.
“You might want to go check on your sister—”
“Stepsister,” I growl, scowling.
Her lips twist to the side in disapproval. “Whatever. She’s not eating. I was just about to page you because she’s spiked a fever.”
Fuck.
CHAPTERTHREE
LANGLEY
I’m countingthe spots on the ceiling when I hear the door open. Sitting up, I groan and close my eyes as my head throbs.
“Lie down, Langley.”
That fucking voice.
While it’s comforting to know I have one of my family members looking out for me and won’t let me die because he knows our parents would skin him alive, he’s also the last person I want to be taking care of me right now when I feel like total crap. He’s never going to let me forget this.
Coming to stand over me, I open my eyes and find him watching me with that same worried expression from earlier.What the hell gives?I don’t need his pity. My eyes take in his crumpled jacket and messy hair. It’s been almost eight hours since I’ve seen him, and he looks utterly exhausted. I almost feel bad for him, but then I remember he wanted this. He wanted to be a doctor so badly that he left our house right after high-school graduation to volunteer at a hospital in the Bronx.
He did this to himself.
“You have a fever, Langley,” he starts, looking at my chart. “You came in with the flu, which may have contributed to your fainting spell.” He sets the chart down on the table beside my bed and steeples his hands together in front of him. “Have you ever fainted before?”
I scoff. “No. If I had, I’m sure you would know about it.”
His lips thin, and his eyebrows knit together. “You didn’t have a fever when you came in. Which tells me your body is fighting the virus.” I frown, and I swear his lips twitch ever so slightly. “That’s a good thing. But we need to keep you until your fever breaks.”
A defeated sigh is all I can manage right now. “Can I at least have my phone? I should let Mom know I’m here.”
He stands a little straighter. “She knows. Since you have the flu, I asked her not to visit.” He walks toward the chair and fishes my phone out of one of the inner pockets of my purse, handing it to me. “I’m sorry about your interview.”
I take my phone, and he turns to walk out. I almost say thank you, but he’s gone before I can open my mouth.
