Page 89 of Burn Bright
HARRIET FISHER
The Cobalt brothers—they are so fucking intimidating when they’re all together. It took me half a second to psych myself up to air this out myself and decide to “rip off the Band-Aid” as Ben put it. Now that they’ve all piled out of their Range Rover and I’m facing them in this echoey, empty parking deck with Ben thankfully at my side—I feel their confidence stampeding mine like a pride of lions versus a panicky hare.
God,I’m calling myself panicky.
I’m standing completely still. I’m not on the verge of running. My eyeballs feel swollen, and if I never shed a tear again, I think I’d kiss the piss-stained concrete. Which saysa lot.
And look, there’s not much to lose. Ben has made it so clear he still wants to be friends, and that matters more than anything that happens next.
So before they can utter a word, I bite out, “I offered Charlie a deal. I’d blow him so he’d back off Ben. He didn’t take it, and the deal is completely off. Rescinded.” I’m pretty sure my entire face is one massive glare.
Tom’s brows have sprung off his forehead.
Eliot is grinning.
Beckett is only looking at Charlie.
And Charlie is leaning against the shut car door, staring directly at me like I’m made of cellophane.
“Let it be known”—Eliot speaks first, which doesn’t seem to surprise any of his brothers—“Charlie cannot be swayed by blow jobs.”
Is Charlie smiling?
“And you.” Eliot points a finger at me, then claps. The applause is overly loud in the parking deck, like twenty hands coming together and not two. “Very inspired ploy to protect our little brother.”
“Therapy can’t come soon enough,” Tom mutters in a breathy whisper, then gives me a lackluster thumbs-up. Which is way better than the middle finger I was expecting.
“You’re okay?” Beckett asksme.
I try not to startle in shock. I nod once, my cheeks roasting at the attention. “Yeah, fine.” A warm, unfamiliar feeling washes over me that I instantly wish would stay. I cross my arms, shifting my weight with uncertainty.
“Ben?” Beckett asks.
“All good,” Ben tells him, then glances down at me with a rising smile.
Tension slowly ekes out of my body as I realize they’re not brandishing pitchforks. It’s the exact opposite. Do they really not see me as an enemy? Or in the very least, too unhinged to be friends with their brother?
No one gets another word out—not when we hear a car rumbling closer. Everyone turns as a sleek black Audi with red stripes slows to a stop at the butt of the Range Rover. I gauge their complete lack of apprehension right before the driver’s door opens.
Stepping out, black boots touch the ground, and I look up to see black slacks, black belt, and tucked-in black V-neck ona fit, masculine body. So many tattoos scatter his white skin, all the way up his neck. He swings out a trauma bag. Blows a bubblegum bubble, pops it in his mouth. Then lifts sunglasses up to his ash-brown hair—which I’ve seen dyed white, black, even blue before (but never in person, always online and in tabloids).
If “effortlessly cool” were a person, it’d be this guy.
“Famous ones,” he says to the Cobalts, his voice sounding naturally rough and deep while he stays chill. “Pop the trunk.” He’s already snapping on medical gloves. “Whoever’s bleeding goes first.”
I find myself locked in on him. On how he’s triaging Charlie and Tom. On his assured demeanor. He’s not a paramedic. He’s a Yale medical school graduate. He went through residency at Philadelphia General Hospital, according to my Wiki search on him.
He’s a doctor.
Seeing one in the wild isn’t like spotting a rare albino moose, okay, but this little seed of envy-adoration grows being so close to someone who’smade it.Who knows their shit. Who’s done the arduous leg work, came out with the M.D., practices medicine, and his patientstrust him to help them. It’s clear the Cobalt boys called him at two a.m. to come to the rescue. Now he’s at a random NYC parking deck acting like this is just any regular Friday night.
“That’s Farrow,” Ben whispers to me, probably seeing me ogle the fuck out of him while Charlie hops up on the opened trunk. I sincerely hope Ben doesn’t think I have the hots for their family’s on-call concierge doctor.
I’m like ninety-nine percent positive that’s his job title because I’ve researched the position out of curiosity.
We’re all congregated at the rear of the Range Rover. Charlie’s bodyguard has even joined us, but I keep my distance from everyone.
Only Ben hangs beside me, and I whisper back, “Farrow Redford Keene, I’ve heard of him.”
