Page 6 of Bad Medicine

She let out a light laugh. “I understand, and I don’t want to take up too much of your time, but I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say.” She smiled at me, her eyes bright. “I’ll even throw in pastries. My treat.”

I wanted to say no. Ineededto say no.

Unfortunately, my stomach chose that moment to growl, reminding me that it had been a long twelve hours since I had last eaten.

If this woman heard it, she was polite enough to pretend she hadn’t.

I glanced at the guy, standing behind her like a silent sentinel, and even though my brain was screaming at me to get out of this strange situation as fast as possible, my mouth opened and I said, “Sure, why not. I’ve already missed the bus. I have some time before the next one if you’re buying.”

A short while later, I found myself seated at a booth in a kitschy cafe as the guy, whose name I’d learned was Vinnie, stood in line to fetch my requested cup of black coffee.

“So,” I started, not wanting to beat around the bush. “Are you gonna tell me what this is all about? Because I gotta say, I am not in the mood to listen to a presentation on how essential oils can cure my PMS. I happen to like my PMS. It serves a great purpose.”

“Really? What purpose is that?” Frankie asked, a smile curling the corner of her mouth.

“If I’m a moody bitch, people will leave me the hell alone.”

Shortly after, Vinnie returned to our table, setting down the mugs and a plate of baked goods that looked like they had been delivered straight from sugar heaven. I grit my teeth, not wanting to seem desperate, and instead took a sip of the coffee, done just the way I liked it.

Bitter.

“Vinnie?” Francesca asked, staring at her own mug. “What’s this?”

“You’ve already had two coffees this morning,” he responded quietly, his voice deceptively deep for his age, “and the caffeine hasn’t helped the headache. I thought you could try the chamomile tea. See if it helps.” He paused, his voice low. “It’s the kind my ma likes.”

Francesca turned to him, a soft smile on her face, and I was shocked at how gentle she looked. At the bus stop, she had come across as a predator, her demeanor indicating that she would get what she wanted whether I liked it or not. But sitting in the coffee shop, with a smile on her face and laughter in her eyes, Francesca looked like the kind of woman I could have been friends with.

I snorted softly to myself at the thought.

Maybe in another life.

But when Frankie turned back to me, her face once again all business, any thoughts of friendship flew right out the window.

Because I had been right; she had been in the market for black market medicine, just not the type I had thought.

“Mia, I’m looking for an associate to join my team. It would be a casual position, on call, but you’d be paid a retainer for your services.”

She slid a card across the table, and when I looked at the number, my heart sped up.

“That’s what I’d get a month?”

“That’s what you’d get a week, Mia.”

Holy hell. That was more than I was making in a month at the hospital. I could feel my fingers shaking, the thoughts of what this money could do for me—forus—causing my head to spin.

“And what kind of services are you retaining me for?”

“The kind you are already providing at the hospital, just in a much more discrete setting.” A cold feeling crept up my spine, and I clenched my teeth hard. This was dangerous, her tempting me this way. A big part of my brain was screaming at me to get up and walk away. That no amount of money was worth the trouble this situation could cause for me.

But I wasn’t sure I could say no to her.

“I would need you to be available to me when I call,” Francesca went on, “and to provide whatever services are required with no questions asked. Each time you are called to work, there will be an additional bonus paid for your time. The only stipulation is that you tell no one of our involvement, and of course, it goes without saying that you never mention anything you should see or hear to anyone outside my organization.”

Ah. There it was. The catch.

“And, what organization is that, exactly?”

“That’s not important.”