Page 18 of Healing the Heart

NOAH ENTERED THE CLUBthrough the service entrance out back. Being a Rossi man who took an occasional security or DM shift, he had special clearance. When he wasn’t on duty, he didn’t like to take advantage and circumvent standard check-in procedures, but the line out front was halfway down the block.

Only yesterday, he returned from a month-long trip to North Africa, specifically Ethiopia, South Sudan, Chad, and Libya. During the trip, he’d performed an average of two surgeries six days a week, the seventh reserved for travel. When his plane landed at noon at LAX, he went straight home and crashed, sleeping straight through until 5 p.m. today.

Ravenous upon waking, he ate an entire frozen pizza, the only food he had in his kitchen. Although he could have easily gone back to bed, he needed to adjust his body clock to LA time. Despite being jet-lagged and exhausted, he headed to the club to catch up with his friends, have a drink or two, and find a willing partner to dominate, not necessarily in that order.

Despite the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd in the lounge, he spied an empty barstool, which he claimed. Samson, their barrel-chested, brawny barkeep immediately came over.

“What’s up, Doc?”

If he had the energy, he would have rolled his eyes. Oh, to have a dollar for every time he’d heard that tired line; he could retire young and cure world hunger.

Instead of protesting the tedium, he replied, “Bud draft, please.”

“Coming right up.”

The big man moved to the kegs, grabbed a frosted mug, and poured a beer with the perfect head of foam. As he considered Samson’s black leather vest, matching pants, and motorcycle boots, Noah couldn’t help but think if he exchanged it for a kilt and brown boots, he’d look like a Highlander.

He dropped a cardboard coaster on the bar, set his beer on top, then grabbed a rag and wiped down the gleaming bar top while smoothing his dark beard with the other hand. It was at this point, Doc changed his mind. Exchange the vest for a flannel shirt, and he’d look like the lumberjack on the roll of paper towels he’d opened not more than an hour ago at home.

At the tangential nature of his thoughts, Noah rubbed his face with both hands. Maybe he should have gone back to bed after all.

Sam tossed the rag under the shelf then stacked his forearms on the bar and watched as he chugged the icy-cold brew.

“Don’t they have Budweiser in Africa?” he asked.

Noah wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. As he savored the rich flavors lingering on his tongue, he let out a contented sigh. Damn, that tasted good. “Not within 100 miles of where I was stationed.”

“That’s third-world shit, man!” he exclaimed in horror.

“Yeah, that’s the reason they needed me.”

“Oh, right,” he stated. “Stupid question. So, how many kids did your magic hands save this time?”

Noah grimaced. His skills weren’t unique, but he’d been lucky to have resources others didn’t—thank you, UncleSam—to pay for exceptional training, and his grades and recommendations had gotten him into internships with the best mentors. That was hard work, not magic, and neither were his hands.

“I’m an orthopedic surgeon, Sam. These weren’t emergency procedures. They were elective to fix birth defects.”

“Thereby improving their quality of life,” the big man concluded. “Like I asked, how many kids’ lives did you save this time?”

He quickly did the math, knowing the man wouldn’t let it rest. “Just under fifty.”

Sam whistled. “Thank you for your service. And I mean that.”

“Can we change the subject?”

“So modest, but sure. What do you want to talk about?”

“Catch me up on what’s been happening around here.”

“Let’s see,” he said, stroking his beard again. “No kidnappings or stalkers. No serial rapists or murderers needing taken out, and we haven’t had a bar brawl in over a month. We also haven’t had more than our monthly carousel since the new year started. It’s been damn dull around here.”

Noah took another long draw on his beer before he replied, “None of that kind of excitement is nice for a change.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have some naughty subbies and brats acting up to get the carousel operational once a week. Hell, I’ll take bimonthly. Ya catch my drift?”

“I hear you, Sam.” Noah drained his glass then stood. “I’m heading in.”

“Good luck. You’re gonna need it. Our single-sub-to-dom ratio is in the crapper.”

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