Page 10 of Under Fire

“But, why? What’s in it for you?”

“Well”—his grin widened, and he nodded back to his house—“come back and finish the job. I think you left a few spots.”

He trailed his gaze up and down her body again, and she stiffened.That’swhat he wanted.

“You in?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t wear this again.”

“Thank fucking God.”

Alisa narrowed her eyes on him, issuing a warning.

He grinned back, like he couldn’t give a fuck less.

Dogged, his gaze tracked her as she strode to the driver’s door, opening it. Everything in her body screamed ‘get the fuck out as quickly as possible’. She’d learned her lesson against inexplicable generosity. She’d learned what happened when you got sucked down a rabbit hole, indebted.

“Thanks for your help,” she concluded, a little pinched. “If I don’t see you, best of luck.”

“No problem. You, too.”

Her heart racing, she plopped into her driver’s seat. Thankfully, the engine turned, and it actually sounded better than it had before. He crossed his arms, watching her reverse out of his driveway, and offered her a curt nod as she drove off.

Her heart thumping out of her chest, she couldn’t keep her eyes off the rear-view mirror, watching the striking man standing there, his gaze never drawing away. It was only once she got out of view that she felt the tension in her body release. When she yanked her hair elastic out and let her locks cascade over her shoulders, there was something curious that endured in her heart.

Again, she found herself asking, but meaning something different from before—who is this guy?

Chapter Five

Alisa

Alisa draped her pink stethoscope around her neck as she took the patient summary being handed to her. It was time for morning rounds in the wards of the hospital, and among the circle of final-year med students, she was trying to wrap her head around what the hell was wrong with their young patient.

“Callum presented to the ER with severe abdominal pain,” the lead student explained at his mobile laptop stand, reading the electronic chart. “He’s been admitted for three days and so far, we’ve done scopes, scans and biopsies to determine the cause of his pain.”

“Tumor?” one of the students asked.

“Doesn’t look like it, but we are waiting on biopsy results,” the lead answered before continuing, updating the group on the details of the procedure that had taken place the day prior.

Alisa observed Dr. Zucker, a pediatrician, in the background scribbling notes into his journal, ostensibly grading student participation. This was what the end of med school had been like—real-life experience on the cusp of final exams next month. They’d all write their exams, hopefully get licensed as medical doctors and proceed to residency, where they’d finally be earning salaries. Meager salaries, but at least that meant Alisa wouldn’t be begging for help and eating ramen noodles twice a day.

Before the group moved on to the next patient, Dr. Zucker pulled her aside. The other students shot her the side-eye, and she knew what they were thinking. Everyone was getting nervous about residency and getting a good spot. In fact, things had grown quite competitive between the students as the doctors graded their aptitudes.

“Alisa, I want you to check in on Callum with me this morning,” Dr. Zucker said, closing his journal.

She took in a deep breath, knowing that it was going to be another critical moment in her assessment. More and more, the doctors were requesting that med students get more hands-on with patients. By that point, it was like an on-the-job interview for residency. That only made her all the more nervous.

“Okay.” She nodded, following the lean, mature man into the patient room.

Don’t fuck it up. Don’t fuck it up—caution and self-doubt bounced through her mind. She chewed her lip, trying to dig deep into those books she’d read on how to become a people-person, how to improve her bedside manner—that little thing that she’d never thought mattered…until it had started proving to be the difference between a job offer and bust.

Dr. Zucker pulled out his journal again, ushering Alisa forward to the sick boy’s bedside. She greeted him stiffly, trying not to show her nerves. Reviewing his vitals, she began robotically asking him how he was feeling.

“It hurts…a lot,” Callum groaned, grabbing at his gut, his thirteen-year-old eyes blinking in agony.

“He’s in a lot of pain,” the teen’s mother restated, clutching at his blanket. “Isn’t there anything you can do?”

Alisa checked his pain medication record, shaking her head. He’d been receiving lots of narcotics—too many. She shot Dr. Zucker a look. Who signed off on that? The hospital typically sought to administer narcotics sparingly on teens, given the addiction rates.

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