No White Knight Page 14

  Hopefully, whatever she said didn’t need a response beyond my cordial nod. I let my eyelids slide closed, hinting how I planned on spending the flight asleep, not becoming her new best friend.

  But the ping-pong grenades were fucking merciless.

  They exploded in the depths of my exhausted sleep, filling my imagination with vivid dreams of the woman I was obsessed with. Jesus, maybe even more than that. I didn’t know yet, but in sleep, I was relieved of the burden of caring. In my dreams, we could just…be. She came to me, all gorgeous blond hair and pearlescent skin, her ocean-blue eyes so wide they looked like a child’s drawing. She gazed up at me with the full power of those eyes as she begged me to fuck her more. Harder, Mac—and I obliged without asking questions—deeper, Mac—until the familiar weight gathered in my balls, and I pumped faster and faster and faster until she screamed my name over and over, even calling me Sir by the end. Yes, Sir. Hurt me, Sir. Fuck me, Sir. Please, Sir…

  “Sir!”

  “Wha? What?” I jumped a bit as reality crashed in. Consciousness followed fast as the woman leaned across the empty space between us, shaking my arm. The second I focused, I yanked out of her grasp.

  “So sorry, hon. I didn’t mean to startle you. We’ve landed and are getting off. You’ve slept like the dead.” She smiled at me, kindness crinkling the corners of her eyes, causing a hint of guilt for the way I’d treated her earlier. But just a hint.

  “Thank you. I appreciate you waking me. I had a long night.” My voice was dry from the processed plane air.

  “Sure.” She patted my arm. “Take care of yourself, hon.”

  “You too…hon.” But she was long past hearing me, having bustled off with all her bags and extraneous shit. I was left inside the big tin can with just the cleaning crew as witnesses to my scowl of puzzled introspection. Since when do I give a weirdo like that lady anything other than my disdain, let alone a chuckle and a nicety? Granted, it’d been secret politeness, but still…what the hell?

  My physical state didn’t help worth shit. As I stood and stretched, rearranging my crotch quickly became a practice of discretion. I was damn sure I’d been on my way to a sleeping hard-on, and even now, the downstairs junk was registering at the high end of a semi. Everything was bunched up.

  And to be honest, I liked it.

  Bunched up because of a woman, even hours after I’d left her side.

  When was the last time that had happened?

  Never. That was when.

  I should have been terrified. Instead, I wore a fat grin as I left the plane, pulling out my phone during the walk. I’d had the wherewithal to text myself from Taylor’s phone as she’d slept, realizing she might not have supplied it had I asked. Wasn’t as if I was committing a high crime. The woman’s device wasn’t password protected, so it served her right for not being more careful with her personal security. Maybe there would have to be discipline about that. My smirk widened at the possibility.

  No. Not possibility. Somehow, in some way, I had to make it a reality. Had to see that girl again. To be uncomfortable because of her again.

  Might as well start now.

  I stopped, leaning against a wall to let an airport passenger cart roll by—Lipstick Lady rode shotgun, waving cheerfully as they passed—weirdly making it possible for my thumb to stop shaking as I tapped out a text, testing the waters.

  Good morning, sass. Hope you slept well after I wore you out so thoroughly.

  I thought better of adding an emoji to emphasize my macho gloat—though the punctuation would’ve been justified. I didn’t know a man alive not inclined to preen after making his woman scream down the neighborhood. And fuck the semantics. Last night, Taylor Mathews had been mine.

  A few minutes passed as I made my way to baggage claim and waited for my luggage. By the time I got my bag and headed to the parking structure, still without a return text, I figured the cold shoulder would be my response.

  At least the welcome wagon softened the blow a little.

  My daily ride was a mineral white BMW m235i. Like all of my cars, I loved this little beauty. She was fun to drive, and this particular one was perfect for city commuting. I hated leaving any of my cars at the airport while I went out of town, but sometimes it couldn’t be avoided. Hopefully traffic would be light, since it was still during midweek work hours, and it wouldn’t take me long to get home.

  Just before I started the car, my phone chirped with a new text message. My idiot grin reactivated when I saw Taylor’s name on the screen.

  Clown. How did you get my number?

  I quickly tapped back a reply.

  Good morning, sunshine.

  Seriously. How?

  You should password protect your phone, love.

  STOP calling me that.

  Trust you slept well?

  How I slept isn’t really your concern, is it?

  Just asking on behalf of my cock—since your sweet ass kept IT up most of the night…

  There was a long delay, but the little balls kept dancing on her end, betraying her dilemma about how to come back to that one. I chuffed, betraying my fresh gloat. I’d thrown the sass off-balance—fitting retaliation for what she’d done to me.

  Finally, her answer sprang to the screen.

  Where are you?

  Oh, yeah. She was off-keel—though my victory was toothless at softening the sting of giving my reply.

  Chicago.

  Good.

  Took her only five seconds to fling that one.

  Good?

  Yeah. Good.

  Now I was the one with nothing to give, except a scowl of butt-hurt and an ego with a black eye. And my ego did not like bruises.

  Have to drive. We’ll talk soon.

  No. Let’s not.

  For some reason, I chuckled again. She was still plenty pissy, which meant, whether she liked it or not, she was still in the game. I could work with that.

  I could work plenty with that.

  I sent her a winking emoji—sometimes they did come in handy—and let our exchange end at that. For now. She could interpret it however she wanted, or maybe she wouldn’t take it as anything at all. I even shrugged off the little blow she’d gotten in, remembering what she’d revealed to me yesterday. If she’d spent her whole life cleaning up after an addict parent, she only knew one way to react to fear. Punch back first.

  Which meant she was afraid.

  As afraid as I was?

  Deeper thoughts for a different time. Right now, I pulled in a long breath and reassured myself that every syllable of her reaction, especially after what had happened between us last night, made perfect sense. It was time to weigh expectations against reality. I mean, come on. I made my living throwing expectations against the walls of reality and could usually knock those fuckers right out of the ballpark, but that didn’t mean I ignored the wall.

  So now, it was time to study Taylor Mathews’ walls.

  I couldn’t kid myself. I was good in bed, but I wasn’t a goddamn sorcerer. Breaking down this woman’s walls in one take—or even four orgasms—wasn’t realistic. She was going to take some full bombardments, set on repeat.

  I was more than up for the challenge.

  But first, I had to get my own shit in order.

  A good drive into the city would help.

  I shifted my little rocket into first gear, let out the clutch, and took a right out of the O’Hare parking garage. A drive, a shower, and some food were on the schedule, and then, if I had enough stamina, maybe a visit with Mother, to let her know my plans in person. No way would a phone call suffice. If I tried news of this magnitude over the phone, she’d do one of three things. Option one—screaming. A lot of it. Option two and most preferable—a bald hang-up. Option three and most torturous—talking at me in circles until I was worn down enough to change my mind. None of those outcomes were acceptable. My best chance of keeping the upper hand was to deal with her face-to-face.

  In the end, the Scripps G
reen Neurology Department saved my bacon on having to deal with my mom that day. Their formal offer letter didn’t arrive for a few more days and, as expected, the initial salary wasn’t what I’d hoped for. I countered at once and was waiting to hear their response but was confident the position would be mine. I went ahead and clicked Send on my resignation letter at Memorial, so James McCafferey’s phone call didn’t come as a huge surprise. I’d been friends with Jim since our residency days, so it also wasn’t shocking that he dove right into the subject as soon as I opened the line.

  “Mac. What do we need to do to keep you on? Is it the money? The hours? Rescheduling that asshole resident in Trauma you’ve been butting heads with?”

  I laughed. “Jim, I butt heads with everyone.” If they got rid of all the staff I didn’t get along with, HR would be handing out a hundred pink slips today.

  “Yeah, but that Brooks kid is a king-size cocksucker.”

  “And a brilliant doctor.”

  “Semantics.”

  “Sorry, man,” I said after another snicker. “I can’t help you. I’m not content here, you know that.” He also knew I enjoyed putting shits like Brooks in their place eventually. “It’s Chicago in general. The city, the crowds. The winters.”

  “Really?” Jim was thoughtfully quiet for a minute. “But that kind of makes sense, with the racing and all. It’s become a real passion, eh?”

  “Yeah.” I toyed with a little steel balancing doo-hickey on my desk, debating whether to confess that wasn’t the only passion pushing me toward the West Coast. While Jim wasn’t my fucking therapist, nor did I expect him to be, he might be a good sounding board about this kind of shit. He had a sweet wife and a kid. Or three. Or maybe it was just a dog.

  The bouncing ball on the curved steel rod began swinging back and forth, as if telling me no. I heeded the ball. The thing had served me well over the years. It had been a gift from my secretary a few Christmases ago, long before those spinning things were declared the be-all-and-end-all for ping-pong brains.

  “So you have to put all that on hold over the winter months, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I said again. “Either that or head to the circuit down south.”

  “Which isn’t realistic with your schedule,” he filled in. “So where are you headed?”

  “West,” I supplied. “Scripps. In San Diego.”

  “Well, anyone will be lucky to have you. I’m sorry it comes at the price of us losing you. You’re an excellent surgeon, Mac. You’ll be missed around here.”

  We exchanged pleasantries and hung up. Jim was a good man, a very fine doctor, and an even better administrator. Most hospitals would give anything to have a man like him running their show.

  My realtor agreed to sublet my condo for the first six months in case things didn’t work out in San Diego. If I decided to stay in California, I would have the option to sell or continue to rent at that point. I could sublet the unit furnished, to make the move easier. I could just take personal items and find a furnished place in San Diego. I claimed no emotional attachment to furniture—except maybe Taylor Mathews’ bed, the beacon of my new Holy Grail. Now that this change was going to be a sure thing, I vowed my ass would finally make it to that bed—right before I fucked her into its mattress.

  The thought made me smile as I enjoyed a bottle of Flywheel in my living room the next night. Everything was coming together nicely. Maybe too nicely. I started waiting for the other shoe to drop—suspecting that thud would come when I broke the news to my mother.

  But tonight wasn’t the time for facing the dragon. I’d been on my feet for ten hours and then completing dictations for another two, and all I wanted to do was enjoy my view, my beer, and the sassy center of my spirit.

  I’d been dropping her texts here and there, cautious about wearing out the scant welcome she allowed me to have. Sometimes she replied, though others—more than I cared to count—she ignored altogether. But today marked three weeks since I’d ravished her on her living room floor, and the memories could only take me through so many more hand jobs. Sure, I was officially free to dial up a number of willing booty call participants from all corners of this city, but what would that bring me? Flimsy stand-ins for the woman I’d be fantasizing about in their place. The pussy I yearned to be buried in, instead of theirs. The lips I craved around my dick, milking me of every drop of my orgasm…

  I dragged on my beer, shifting in discomfort, and contemplated unzipping my fly and just dealing with this fucking ache…again. But goddamn it, I was tired of jacking off. I needed to touch her flesh again. Fuck it. I needed her again, in any way I could get.

  I called up her number on my phone and tapped out a swift, frantic note.

  Taylor. Please. Talk to me.

  The dancing dots appeared at once from her end. Thank fuck.

  I’m still at work.

  I smiled. There was my sassy.

  No, you’re not.

  Hello? Two-hour time difference?

  Oh yeah.

  You’re not very bright for a “brain surgeon.”

  Let’s FaceTime. I want to see your beautiful face.

  You have to stop this. We aren’t bf/gf.

  Bf/gf?

  Boyfriend/girlfriend.

  Oh. I think I’d be a good bf.

  LOL.

  Why is that funny?

  No, you’re funny.

  Call me tonight when you get home.

  No.

  Yes.

  The next few hours were torture. I really wanted to hear her voice. No. Needed to. God, her giggle. Her snark. Her sass. Just thinking of all of it was a complete reaffirmation of my decision about the job, the move, the massive life change. Hearing her would make things even better. Just a few minutes of her unmistakable, irreplaceable fire, even from thousands of miles away, would be the best thing for my spirit—not to mention my throbbing cock.

  More minutes inched by like hours.

  I even started rehearsing what I’d say—and maybe what I wouldn’t. I’d held off on telling her about the move to San Diego. A deep instinct said she’d try to talk me out of it and then spook herself away as soon as she suspected she was the reason for it. And fine, maybe she was one of the reasons—maybe even a major one—but I’d agreed to the interview at Scripps weeks before she became a huge pixel in the picture, and my increased hours at the track were a direct result of feeling restless with Chicago as a whole. I’d known I needed this change long before Taylor Mathews became one of its catalysts.

  Around eight thirty, my phone rang with the very special ring tone I’d chosen for her profile—I Feel It Coming by The Weeknd.

  “Sassy.”

  “Well, if it isn’t Doc Clown himself.”

  “I’ve missed your voice.” I sounded like a mooning teenager and didn’t care.

  “Mac.” Her tone was thick with resignation. And I hated it.

  “There’s nothing wrong with me saying that. It’s the truth, damn it.”

  “But really, what’s the point?” She was frustrated, that much was clear—though I couldn’t pinpoint if it was with me or herself.

  “Of what?” Playing dumb wasn’t my specialty, but I thought I’d try it out.

  “Of what we’re doing here.”

  “Taylor. We’re two grown adults, just talking to one another. We’re friends. Sometimes we text. Why are you making such a big deal out of it?” Perhaps because she sensed it was “big deal” territory for me? But I’d been careful about the messaging. Casual about the approach. At least I thought. At least I hoped.

  “I just don’t want to be giving you the wrong idea.”

  Her voice edged on whiny. When the tone came from other women, I started searching for excuses for the End Call button. From her, the sound was like my fucking catnip. It made me even more restless. More desperate. Christ, were my palms sweating?

  “And what ‘wrong idea’ would that be?”

  Her huff roughened the line. “Don’t be obtuse.”
>
  “Obtuse? I think I’ve been pretty straightforward with you, Miss Mathews.” I dropped my voice in volume and tone.

  “And don’t use that voice with me,” she retorted.

  “Why not?” I dipped my octave again.

  “Because I know what comes next.”

  “You, hopefully.”

  Ahhh, now we’re getting somewhere.

  “See? This is what I’m talking about. We’re not doing this again!”

  “I’m open to hearing your supporting argument on that, sassy—because the screaming opera you gave your neighbors and me last time is a glaring barometer otherwise.”

  “Barometer?” But she laughed out the end of it. “What, am I your damn dew point report now?”

  I growled, filling the sound with dark pleasure. “You’re gorgeous when you’re dewy.”

  “Oh, my God.” Another laugh, longer this time. “You’re such an ass.”

  “The ass who can make you scream again like that,” I promised. “Even, I’d wager, from all the way over here.”

  Her breath snagged. She probably thought I didn’t hear it, but I was listening so hard to her end of the call, I’d have heard her stomach growl.