2. Hunter

TWO

Hunter

Friday, April 19

8:17 pm

The hospital is eerily quiet at this hour, the kind of silence that presses in on you. It's broken only by the the distant beeping of machines. That and the hum of that creepy robot floor-polishing machine that makes its rounds unattended, like a rogue AI after-hours maintenance crew.

I've just wrapped up another grueling surgery, and exhaustion is settling into my bones. But instead of heading home, I find myself lingering in the staff room, thumbing through a white paper on Hodgkins lymphoma and letting the stillness of the night seep into me.

Or at least, I try to.

You'd be surprised what can happen on a ward when there's a quiet moment or two. As I sit here reading about HL and its relationship to heart injury—a subject that has become personal very recently—the commotion next door makes it clear that the rumors about residents screwing around aren't just urban legends.

To a lot of people, this is the stuff medical drama TV shows are made of, not real hospitals. One night in a quiet hospital hall would be enough to let them know that, yes, doctors and nurses get horny and bored, too, but not necessarily in that order.

Through the thin walls, I can hear the unmistakable sounds of what I believe is a resident and nurse making out in the custodian's closet next door. It's muffled but clear enough that there's no mistaking what's going on.

I roll my eyes and try to ignore it, but instead, my mind drifts to a night six months ago. Whoever is next door isn't the only medical professional getting his rocks off.

And suddenly my mind is right back there in that lab with Frankie.

Frankie, the hot researcher who managed to throw me off my game in a way no one else ever has. A quickie with no strings attached. I've done it a hundred times, just never in the hospital. So why does this one keep replaying in my mind?

I'm a cardiothoracic surgeon—a damn good one if you ask around. I take pride in what I do and work hard. Hell, work is my life—I'm obsessive like that.

I've spent years building a reputation as someone who can be counted on when it matters most. I'm the guy who stays late, takes the tough cases, the one who doesn't flinch when the pressure's on.

I don't do it for the accolades, though they come with the territory. I do it because I don't do anything half-ass. When I decided to go into this I knew I had to be the best. It's a heavy responsibility, but it's one I take very seriously.

I'm not a hero, not by a long shot. But I'm good at what I do, and that means something. It means everything, actually. It's why I've never had much time for anything else. Relationships, hobbies, downtime—they all take a back seat when you're in this field.

Maybe that's why I don't let myself get close to anyone. When I've already got so much on my plate, there's no room for anything else. The last thing I need is another person depending on me, another responsibility to add to the list. It's easier to keep my distance, to focus on the work, to keep my personal life—what little there is of it—compartmentalized and far away from the hospital.

I don't know what came over me that night, though. One minute she was showing me some slides, excited about some studies she had been conducting, and the next I was fucking her like a rabbit.

She's not the kind of woman you forget easily. One of those natural beautiful, no-frills, women. Something about her continues to pull me in. Those wide, intelligent green eyes, the way she speaks so animatedly about her research. Her passion and dedication is fucking hot.

That night, she looked at me like I was the only person who could understand what she was experiencing. Maybe that, along with the long and arduous surgery that preceded my visit, is why I lost control. Anyone who knows me knows that I never let myself get caught up in the heat of the moment.

Except with her that night.

It was quick, explosive, and over almost before it started. And afterward was awkward as hell. A couple of, "well, I'll see you around," and then I was out the door, running like I was trying to escape my own skin.

I've got to work on my exit moves.

Besides that, I've got these rules—I don't sleep with colleagues, and I don't sleep with anyone I might have to see again after. That was risky, going there with her. Luckily, I haven't seen her since that night forever ago.

The sounds from next door are fading now, and I sigh, scrubbing a hand over my face. I need to get out of here, get some sleep, and stop thinking about a woman that could get me in trouble.

"You're still here, Hunter?" The voice of Jonah Bellinger cuts through my thoughts. "You're not satisfied with being the top surgeon on the East Coast? Now you want to work the most hours, too? Keep all us mediocre surgeons behind you any way you can?"

It's kind of eerie how Bellinger can just glide into a room without making a sound. He's like a ninja, popping up with some smartass comment before I even know he's there.

The chuckle I hear as he opens the fridge is just barely audible because someone next door bellows, "Right there! Right there. Fuck, baby!" I guess things aren't winding down after all.

"Who's busting a nut now?" Jonah asks, shaking a bottle of juice as he comes to sit next to me on the couch. Like always, he doesn't so much collapse on the couch as he does float onto it like a paper airplane coming in for a landing.

How someone who is so the epitome of cool tolerates this environment is anyone's guess. It's like the college quarterback hanging with a bunch of tight-ass nerds.

"Not sure. I've been too focused on this to care," I wave the papers I've been perusing.

"Kind of quiet tonight," he says with a mild groan, leaning back against the faded leather couch used by so many of us in this place over the last five years. The last one was nearly down to the frame when it was finally replaced. Hopefully, we won't get to that point this time.

"Hey, earth to Hunter. What're you thinking about now?"

I sigh, "Too much, like always. Long surgery tonight," I sigh as I let my head fall to the back of the couch. "I need to get my ass up and head home, but I'm too intrigued by your handsome face."

"Fuck you, dork. Whatcha reading that's got you all hot and bothered?"

He holds his hand out, and I don't bother hesitating to pass the report over. There's enough medical jargon around here to keep us busy for a solid year if we read all of it.

"Hodgkin's lymphoma case, eh? Sexy. Last I heard, it was curable."

"Yeah," I reply, crossing my right leg over my left knee. "It typically is. But there's either a new strain out there, or there's a miniscule tweak in the RNA causing a risk to several people that we don't fully know about."

"Oh, even sexier." He continues to scan and seems moderately interested.

"This report was issued last year," I point to the page he is on currently. "It's been revised at least once. But so far, no one has nailed down the reason why the affected individuals are more susceptible and less likely to respond to treatment."

"How long has this been an issue?"

"I'm not sure," I say with a shrug. "I believe it's a fairly recent phenomenon. This case just caught my attention a few months ago. Things have been busy, but I've been reading up on everything I can get my hands on. Everything is just coming out, like water out of a fire hose."

I can almost sense his eyebrows raise, so I don't bother looking. He knows when I'm lying or not telling the whole truth. But Jonah doesn't grill me, which I appreciate.

"You mean Superman can't hear around corners?" His low, sardonic whistle would normally make me roll my eyes, but not now. "Damn, man. I thought you knew everything about everything."

"Eat shit."

"Lick nuts."

He laughs a little before he sighs, "We can't fix it all, man, you know that. But seriously, are you that riled up about this? This isn't even your focus."

Neither of us speaks as we hear the door to the supply closet unlock and then open. The light, padding footsteps that sneak out first likely belong to Ellen Sanchez, one of the newer, hot nurses. Her soft yet solid cadence in her clogs is unmistakable.

The next set of footsteps that comes out is a bit heavier and a little more cocky. Perhaps getting laid built up his confidence somewhat.

"Oh! I, ah, I didn't…" I recognize his distinct voice immediately: Teddy, the tall, lanky resident. He bursts into the staff room, expecting it to be empty, I'm sure.

"Just zip it up and move on, McFly," I say without turning around to face him. "I'm sure you've got rounds to do or something else you've been avoiding."

"Step to it, newbie," Jonah adds, "Make sure your dingle isn't dangling."

I roll my eyes behind closed lids, picturing the kid behind us checking his fly only to realize that he's wearing scrubs and doesn't have a zipper.

I'll admit it. Giving the residents shit is sometimes a nice change to the regular pace we set around here. It's like a sadistic form of entertainment for us and a rite of passage for them.

Jonah flips the page he was reading back up as we hear the footsteps trailing off toward the hallway. I know in a few moments, he'll ask me again why this report has me so fired up.

"Is Grace still out at the desk?"

"Yep," Jonah replies, smirking as he chomps on his gum. I hate it when people smack on chewing gum. "Big Mama's been looking for you, too. She wants you to try the caramel muffins she brought in."

"Big Mama" is an affectionate term we use for one of our oldest and most well-liked ER nurses, Grace Petit. She's a tough old woman who looks twenty years younger than her actual age, which is probably in her late sixties.

She isn't big at all. In fact, she is only five feet tall with her thick-soled shoes on and probably weighs a hundred pounds soaking wet.

Big Mama is not to be confused with Mama Bear, who is Maijka, our other mother-figure nurse, and the person who takes care of us all. We are a lucky bunch to have these two mom figures around to keep us straight and well-fed.

Grace recently had a medical complication, so we are all being extra protective of her. She has always been there for of us, so we are trying to do the same for her. We have to do it quietly, though, because she doesn't want anyone to fuss over her. Ever.

She likes Jonah the best. I'm sure it's because he showed up at UAB first. His calm and peaceful nature doesn't hurt. He's just one of those likable guy.

For years, she's been like a surrogate mother to him. That's cool, I guess, since his own mother was a piece of work from what little I've heard of her over the years. Come to think of it, I think mothering Jonah that is how she got the nickname "Big Mama."

"Caramel muffins, huh?"

"Oh yeah, sweet, sticky, and guaranteed to clog an artery or add a few pounds."

"Keeps us in business."

Surgeon jokes. They might be worse than dad jokes. But seriously, those fucking muffins are the epitome of food sin.

10:49 pm

"I'm out of here, man. You're charming and all, but my bed is calling."

"Get some rest. I'm here for the night on call, so you know where to find me if you need me."

I act like I'm going to blow him a kiss but instead throw up a middle finger. We have a sophomoric sense of humor together, which is a nice break from the all-business approach I apply to life for the most part. Everyone needs a friend like Jonah to lighten the mood.

Pushing through the door into the hallway, my pace quickens as I make my way toward the parking garage. I round the corner, half-focused on my cases tomorrow, and suddenly, I slam right into someone. Papers go flying, scattering across the floor. Instinctively, I reach out to steady whoever I just ran into.

"Frankie?" The name slips out before I can stop it, and there she is, standing in front of me, her eyes wide with surprise. "Dr. Renna. I didn't see you coming."

Why the fuck did I call her Frankie? Fuck. Fuck.

"Dr. Parrish," she says, her voice calm, even though she's kneeling down to gather her papers, clearly as caught off guard by our collision as I am.

She doesn't seem pissed, but then again, Frankie always seems as cool as a cucumber. She's got this easygoing nature, like nothing rattles her. Fuck if it doesn't throw me off.

I should say something, apologize maybe, but instead, I just stand there like an idiot, looking awkward as hell. I haven't seen her since I ran into her with my dick.

"Here, let me help," I mutter, crouching down to pick up a few papers, trying to keep my hands steady.

"Thanks," she says, her tone light, no indication that she is as ruffled as I am.

I hand her the two papers I managed to pick up while she picks up everything else. For a second, our fingers brush. It's just a touch, but it's enough to send a jolt through me. Damn it, why does she have to look so fucking hot?

"You're here late," I finally grumble, more to fill the silence than anything else. The words come out harsher than I intend, and I instantly regret it. That's the best I've got? Wasn't that my lead-in last time?

She smiles, that same easy smile I remember, and stands up, smoothing out her papers. "I just had to pick up some charts before a meeting tomorrow morning."

I clear my throat, trying to regain some semblance of control. "Look, about that night in the lab. I'm sorry I haven't reached out."

She cuts me off, waving a hand dismissively. "It's fine, Dr. Parrish. Really. We were both caught up in the moment, and we stay busy. All good."

Her response is so simple, so unbothered, that it only throws me even more off-kilter.

Good. I will accept she is being honest. I nod, not trusting myself to say anything more. I shove my hands into my pockets, trying to find something—anything—to focus on besides her.

She tilts her head slightly, studying me in that way she has, like she's reading every thought in my head. "Everything else okay?"

I can't help the scoff that escapes me. "Long day. Always something. But yes, all good."

She nods, and for a moment, there's a hint of something in her eyes. It seems like she wants to say more. "Well, don't let me keep you. I'm sure you're eager to get home." It must have been wishful thinking.

There's no sarcasm in her tone, no bitterness, just a simple statement. And for some reason, that makes it worse.

I should be grateful she's not making this more complicated than it needs to be, but instead, I just get more annoyed. At myself, at the situation, at how damn perfect she's handling all of this.

"Yeah," I mutter, already turning to go. "Take care, Dr. Renna."

"You too," she replies. When I glance back, she's already walking away, back to whatever task she was so focused on before I ran into her.

As I head to the parking garage, the encounter plays over in my head, every word, every look. She's right—it was just a moment, nothing more.

Hunter's Condo

The City Federal Building, Downtown Birmingham

11:31 pm

The elevator doors glide open with a soft chime, and I step into the hallway of my building's top floor.

It's quiet, as it always is at this hour. I swipe my key card and push open the door to my condo, instantly greeted by the cool air conditioning. I keep it at seventy-two at all times.

Everything here is just as I left it—immaculate, organized, and undeniably high-end, but not in a flashy way. It's the kind of luxury that whispers rather than shouts.

The living room is spacious, with large, clear glass windows that offer a sweeping view of the Birmingham skyline. The lights of the city glitter far below, but up here, it feels like I'm a world apart.

The furniture is modern, with clean lines, soft leather, and polished wood. A low-slung sectional in a deep charcoal gray anchors the room, facing a sleek fireplace that I almost never use.

On the opposite wall, there's a built-in bookshelf filled with medical texts, a few novels I keep meaning to read, and a scattering of framed photos—mostly impersonal, like shots of places I've traveled or abstract art that caught my eye.

The kitchen is open, with granite countertops and high-end stainless steel appliances that gleam under the soft lighting. I make my way over to the fridge, grab a bottle of water, and lean against the counter, letting the silence of the space settle over me.

This condo is everything I thought I wanted. It's comfortable, it's luxurious, it's mine. It's small, but the view more than makes up for it. But sometimes, standing here alone, it's almost too empty. Like I've curated this perfect fortress and locked the world out.

I take a long sip, my mind drifting back to the path that got me here. My parents always pushed me to be the best. Excellence wasn't an option, it was a requirement. That pressure was both a blessing and a curse.

They drilled it into me that hard work was the only path to happiness in life and that there was no room for failure and no time for distractions. As much as I resented it and still do to this day, it's hard-wired into me now. That is how I live.

Their high-pressure campaign worked, I guess. I graduated at the top of my class, got into the best undergrad and med schools, and became the surgeon they always said I could be. But somewhere along the way, I lost sight of what I wanted, if I ever even knew. I was always told what I would be, and I just accepted it.

Trading happiness for perfection isn't necessarily the best bargain.

I'm sure it's why I am the way I am—why I bury myself in work, why I keep people at a distance. It's easier to focus on the next surgery, the next challenge, than to think about how I've built my life around expectations that were never really my own.

I'm good at what I do, but there's always that voice in the back of my mind, telling me it's not enough. That it will never be enough.

I love my parents, I suppose. But it's a distant kind of love, stretched thin over years of resentment and unmet expectations on both sides.

My father died a few years ago and it was both a relief and extremely painful. My mother blamed me for his death, in a way, and made it seem like I had failed by not saving him. That is the type of relationship we have.

We talk on holidays, mostly out of obligation. Mother will ask about my work, and I'll give her the highlights, the things that sound impressive enough to satisfy her. But we don't talk about the things that matter. There's no room for that in the world they built for me.

I finish my water and push off the counter to head toward the bedroom, kicking off my shoes as I go. Quickly, I strip off my clothes and head into the bathroom, turning on the shower. As the water heats up, I catch a glimpse of the dark bags under my eyes in the mirror. Damn, I look like shit.

The tattoos on my chest and arms are stark against my skin—remnants from my rebellion years ago, when I thought I could carve out a piece of myself that wasn't dictated by anyone else. But they seem distant now, more like reminders of a person I once wanted to be than who I am.

I step into the shower and let the hot water wash over me as I try to clear my mind. Even here, in the one place that's supposed to be my sanctuary, I can't escape the thoughts that keep circling back: the pressure to be the best, the constant drive to push harder, work longer, achieve more.

As the water pounds against my back, I can't help but wonder what it's cost me. And if, someday, it'll be too much. Can I keep this up forever?

My hand finds its way to my chest, tracing the lines of ink that adorn my skin. They're a part of me, a part of the rebellion that's been brewing inside of me since I was a kid. But that rebellion feels hollow tonight, because it's not the ink I'm thinking of—it's her.

Seeing her brought all of it back to the front of my mind. It's a good thing we don't see each other regularly because she's got my head all turned around.

I close my eyes, and there she is. I can see her humble smirk, hear the sound of her voice as she called out my name… It's been half a year since that night, since we lost ourselves in the lab, but the memory is so vivid like it was yesterday.

My hand slides lower, wrapping around my shaft, the water slicking my movements. I grip tighter, the pressure building as I think of Frankie, of the way her body felt against mine, the heat of her skin, the softness of her lips.

It's too risky to let her in, too likely to end in disappointment or heartache. But a man can always dream. Fantasy is safe and fulfilling enough for my needs.

I stroke harder, the friction sending jolts of pleasure through me. My breaths come faster, my pulse thundering in my ears as I picture her beneath me… Her green eyes looking up at me with that mix of challenge and desire that sets me off without even a touch.

The water pounds down, mingling with the sweat on my brow as I chase the release that's been building since the moment I saw her in the hallway, her papers scattering around us like fallen leaves. I remember the way she looked at me. The surprise in her eyes was quickly replaced by that quiet confidence.

My movements become more frenzied, my grip on reality slipping as I lose myself in the fantasy. I can almost feel her hands on me, her breath on my neck as our bodies move together in that rough, quick experience we shared.

"Fuck!" I yell out.

With a low groan, I come. The intensity of it washes over me as I lean against the cool tile of the shower wall. The water continues to pour down around me, a steady beat that mimics the rhythm of my heart before it gradually slows to its usual pace.

For a moment, I allow myself to bask in the aftermath, to savor the fleeting sensation of peace that wraps around me. But as the water starts to cool, reality seeps back in. I turn off the shower and step out, grabbing a towel and drying off.

I step out of the shower, wrapping a towel around my waist as I head into the bedroom. The steam follows me, clouding the mirror, but the cool air from the bedroom hits my skin, grounding me back into reality. My phone's screen lights up on the nightstand, catching my eye.

Missed call.

I swipe it off the stand, and my stomach tightens when I see her name—Mother. It's 11:30 at night here in Alabama, which means it's 9:30 on the West Coast. She has zero respect.

It's not necessarily an unreasonable hour in California, but she knows I'm two hours ahead. Shit like this is what really pisses me off. She knows I work long hours and that I'm usually exhausted by the time I get home. But that's my mother for you—always pushing, never aware, or maybe she doesn't care, what might be going on for me.

The tension is building in my shoulders again, the brief relief from the shower already fading.

I know I should call her back, even though it's the absolute last thing I want to do right now. It's probably nothing, some trivial update she could've waited until tomorrow to share.

But I can't shake the possibility that it might be something important. Something related to the Hodgkin's lymphoma she was diagnosed with just over a month ago.

The memory of our conversation about that is still fresh—her voice tight but trying to sound casual as she told me the news, the immediate cold dread that settled in my gut. I jumped into action mode, of course, because that is what I do.

I rattled off the tests she needed to have done, the scans, the blood work, but made a conscious decision to stay out of it beyond that. But there's this part of me that's been on edge ever since I got the news, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I know I could reach out to her doctor directly, consult on her care, and make sure every step is being handled exactly the way I think it should be. But that's a line I won't cross. Not with my mother. If I get too involved, if I take on that responsibility, and something goes wrong… I'll get blamed again, just like with my father.

But I also can't ignore it. I need to stay on top of what's going on, and I need to make sure she's getting the best care possible, even if I have to do it in a way that keeps me at a safe distance.

With a deep breath, I press her name in the missed calls list and listen as the phone rings. Each ring is like a gut punch. She picks up after the third one.

"Hunter, darling," she says, her voice warm but tinged with her familiar evening slur. It's probably her second gin and tonic.

"Mom, it's late," I reply, trying to keep my voice neutral, even though irritation is bubbling just beneath the surface. "Is everything okay? Did you need something?"

There's a pause on the other end, and I can hear her take a breath. "I'm sorry, I realized after I called how late it is. I just got the results back from the tests you told me to get."

My heart skips a beat. I'm surprised she was listening and even more that she passed my suggestions on. Suddenly, the exhaustion I've been carrying all day evaporates, and is replaced by a desire to know more. "And? What did they say?"

"They're not terrible," she says slowly, like she's weighing each word before saying it. "But they're not great either. The doctor said we need to discuss alternative treatment options."

I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. Of course it's not straightforward. Of course it's more complicated than I'd hoped, requiring me to analyze them. "Did he mention what kind of treatment? Chemotherapy? Radiation?"

"He mentioned both, and something about a possible clinical trial. I'm supposed to go back in a couple of days to talk it over with him."

I'm already calculating in my head, thinking about what I know and the options that might be on the table. "Send me what he gave you. I'll do some research on the trial. Make sure it's worth considering."

Fuck. Why am I doing this? I told myself to stay out of it.

"Hunter," she trails off, and there's that tone again, that hesitant, almost vulnerable tone that I'm not used to hearing from her. "You don't have to do that. I trust my doctor. You don't need to get involved."

Lies. All passive-aggressive lies. Take her up on it, Hunter!

"I'm not getting involved," I say, my voice sharper than I intended. "But you're right, your doctor knows what's best. I'm going to stay out of it so he doesn't think I'm interfering. I just thought you'd want me to look at them. Just let me know if anything changes."

I haven't said a word about my concerns to her or the possibility of a more aggressive strain. Hopefully her doctor is worth a shit and will explore all avenues.

Another pause. "I appreciate that, Hunter. Really, I do. But… you don't need to carry this, too. I'm going to be fine. My understanding is that this type of cancer is very treatable."

She says it like she's trying to convince both of us. But she doesn't know what I've recently learned about HL.

"Did the results come back on the specific strain?" I say, softer this time. I don't want to alarm her, but I want to know the answer, even if it is to quiet the chatter in my own mind.

"He didn't say specifically, but I'll call the office tomorrow and find out," she promises, and for a moment, it's almost like we have a normal relationship. Like we're just a mother and son talking about mundane things instead of life and death.

We exchange a few more words, but they're empty, just filler to avoid the silence that neither of us knows how to deal with. When the call finally ends, I let out a long breath. As much as tell myself to keep my distance, I'm worried. The stress of it settles back onto my shoulders, where it's lived for the last month, ever since she first told me.

I toss the phone onto the bed and stare out the window at the city below. A rage rises inside of me as I try to balance the need to protect my mother with the fear of getting too close.

And it's tearing me apart.