Immaculate Deception - A Mafia Romance

I retreat to a cabinet in the hallway to grab a few supplies. When I return to the room, the hulk is sitting on the edge of the exam table. It's a metal structure designed to hold a chunky golden retriever at most, so I'm surprised the table legs aren't snapping under this behemoth's size.

I point to the chair in a corner. "Move over there before you break my table."

He shrugs, slides off casually, and moves to the chair. I lay out my supplies on the table where he just was. The metal top is still warm from his body heat.

"You're brave," he remarks as he settles into the seat. "Or stupid. Most people don't talk to me that way."

I scowl. "Gee, I wonder why that might be. Maybe I'm just PMSing. Or maybe some asshole just barged into my workplace with a gun and some very unreasonable demands. Who's to say?"

"PMSing it is, then."

"Har de har har," I scoff irritably. "You're very calm for a man with a bullet wound. Is this just a typical day in the life for you?"

His head is down, but I can see the square line of his jaw and his dark stubble. It's enough to tell that he's smiling. "You'd be surprised what's typical for me."

That's ominous enough to send shivers down my spine. But just like this man's smell, I ignore them.

Don't let him get to you. Just do your job, go home, and forget this ever happened.

That's good advice from myself to myself. I start to reach for his arm-and then hesitate.

It's been a while since I've touched another person. Especially since I've touched a man.

Animals are simpler. Their emotion are easier to gauge. Either they trust you or they don't. If they trust you, you're safe. If they don't, you get bitten.

People aren't as clear-cut. They're liars. Thieves. Manipulators.

Or, in the case of this man, probably all three.

"I won't bite, if that's what you're wondering." The man grabs my hand in his and steers my fingertips to his forearm, forcing the contact.

I jerk my hand back. "You might not, but I will. I'm the doctor, so why don't you be quiet and let me work?"

"I thought you said you weren't a doctor?" he chuckles.

Who is this man? Barging into my office, demanding I help him at gunpoint, and then... flirting with me?

Hell no. I turn that female part of my brain off. The part that dissects every interaction with the opposite sex, searching for points of connection, trying to find an "in."

I don't want an "in" with this man; I want an out. The sooner, the better.

I put my metaphorical "Doctor Arya George" hat firmly on my head. Time to focus all of my attention on mending up this man, whoever the hell he is, and getting him the fuck out of my clinic forever.

The gunshot is just a graze, thankfully. Anything more and I would have had to go digging through the wound in search of bullet fragments or bone pieces. I've done it before for more than a few animals, but always under anesthesia. I have less than zero desire to operate on a conscious patient.

Although, if this particular bastard squirms a little bit under my needle, I won't be too upset about it.

The work goes quickly. He doesn't squirm at all. Just watches me the whole time with unblinking eyes. When I'm done, I wipe the blood away with a clean towel and grab a roll of bandages.

"Will I keep the arm, Doc?" he asks sarcastically.

I ignore him as I put my tools away. "It's a glorified scratch. You'll be back to work in no time, waving guns in innocent people's faces or whatever it is you do for a living."

I wrap the clean fabric around his forearm and try to beat back the part of me that wants to run my fingers down his arm.

God, it has been a long time, I think. Way too long. Eighteen months or so, if my math is correct.

I've kept myself company when the nights get lonely. But there's nothing quite like the real thing breathing and flexing and bleeding right in front of you.

"How can I ever repay you?" the man teases, his voice a low rumble.

"For wrapping your arm in a bandage? A lifetime of servitude will do."

He takes the last bit of bandage from my hand and tucks the tail in himself. His fingers are huge, but there's a gracefulness in the way they move. I imagine what they would feel like on my skin...

Then I promptly begin reciting what I can remember of The Gettysburg Address.

It's a tried-and-true anti-horny tactic. I memorized the whole speech in sixth grade and it's never failed since then in keeping me out of trouble.

Or at least, it's never failed before. But tonight, I can't get past "...we are engaged in a great civil war..." before my thoughts turn dirty once again.

"Not for that," he says as he coolly assesses the remaining tatters of his shirt and then rips it free in one casual tug. "I meant for giving me a place to hide from the men who shot me."

I can't help but gasp in surprise. I'm not sure why, but it never occurred to me that someone else must have shot him. I glance towards the door in fright, half-expecting to see a group of men creeping down the hallway, guns drawn.

"Are you being chased?" I demand.

"I was," he says with an easy shrug. "Might still be, technically speaking. But looks like I lost them."

A chill moves down my spine. "They could have followed you!" I croak. "You put me in danger!"

"Considering you asked about the Albanians, I have to assume this isn't your first run-in with danger."

He tilts his head to the side. His full lips are pursed in careful thought-what little I can see of them, at least. Between that hood, the awkwardly angled lamp overhead, and my fervent desire to forget this ever happened as soon as it's over, I still haven't really seen much of his face.

"What do you know about them, anyway?" he presses.

"The Albanians? Nothing." I answer too quickly and then take a sharp, stabilizing breath. "Nothing more than anyone else, I mean. The news says they are trouble, and when you pointed a gun at me, I assumed the worst."

"You're right. Nothing would be worse than being Albanian."

I relax, letting go of a tension I didn't realize I'd been carrying.

Thank God. He isn't Albanian. On a day like today, that's a win.

"Not friends of yours?" I ask as casually as I can.

"Do friends usually try to murder you?"

I swallow and shake my head. "Not usually."

"Then I guess not."

He stands up. His chest brushes against mine. I jump back like he's a live wire. I think I see him smile, but I look away before I can confirm it.

This has gone on long enough. He needs to go.

"I'll bill your insurance in the morning," I say, waving my hand towards the door. "Off you go."

He doesn't move. "You're funny."

"And I'll be here all week. But that's not an invitation. If you don't mind, I'd like to ask that you never come back here again."

He whistles and resists the shove towards the door I give him. "You don't mince words, either."