Page 55 of Empire State Enemies

She was a driven overachiever once. So what the hell happened to send her from star student to hustling me in my hotel bathroom that night?

Her dad was successful, they would’ve had family money—why resort to stealing cars? Did she think stealing cars was more thrilling than reading Freud? And why waste that sharp mind now on babysitting braindead celebs?

And more importantly, why do I give a damn about her motivations or wasted potential?

My desk phone buzzes over the sounds of Beethoven filtering through the speakers. Can I hear it as clearly as yesterday? I keep the volume on the same notch now, monitoring it daily like an obsessive freak. According to Killian I already have it cranked too loud. But I need to know.

Mary’s voice filters through. “Doctor Caruso is on the line for you, sir.”

The hell’s he doing calling my office?

“Put him through.”

The moment Caruso’s voice hits the air, I’m on him. “You got some nerve calling me here,” I snarl into the receiver. “What the hell were you thinking?”

He stammers, “Mr. Quinn, you didn’t return my calls. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I’ll tell you what’s wrong—your blatant disrespect for my privacy. You remember that NDA you signed? Or should I refresh your memory?”

“Sir, I just asked to be transferred, I’d never break confidentiality—”

“Save it. Consider your services terminated, Doctor.”

I slam the phone down hard enough to shake my desk. I told him only to use my personal cell. I told him five times. Did he think I was kidding?

I wheel around to face the city skyline. His voice grated on my nerves anyway. I’m seeing a new specialist in a few weeks. Someone better.

I don’t give a damn what fancy degrees these hack MDs have. I’m thirty-five and in the best shape of my life, for Christ’s sake, not on the brink of a midlife breakdown. I eat clean. Max out my protein, eat enough greens to shame a vegan bunny. My regular bloodwork is flawless.

Okay, so I’ve been hitting the bottle too hard for reasons I’ll rectify. But I still run five miles daily and crush the gym before work. I’m up at five a.m. no matter what. I don’t do long dates because I try to be in bed by eleven on weeknights, believe it or not.

So I’ll keep training and eating whatever Captain America eats. And this new doc better have solutions, or he’s gone too. They all seem to have the same doom and gloom script. Like they enjoy it.

Well, screw that. I just need the right specialist to tackle this head-on. And I’m sick of driving to East Fucksville in the sticks so I’m not papped outside some Manhattan clinic.

Even if I have to move heaven and earth, I will find a way to fix this.

I’m not giving up control. Period.

???

The only stress relief I get these days is getting my ass thoroughly kicked in the executive gym downstairs by Vik, my sadistic trainer. It’s a rare sight, seeing anyone from the board down there—they’re mostly a bunch of soft-bellied suits too cozy in their corner offices. So it’s just me, Killian, and a handful of others who dare to brave Vik’s brutal regimen.

After an hour as Vik’s human punching bag, I can think straight. Usually.

It doesn’t help that I can’t even blow off steam right either. Willow’s the only one I can fuck, and that ain’t happening despite what Lexi thinks. Never has.

So on top of dealing with my annoying medical issue, I’m also walking around horny as hell. Talk about a short fuse.

A sharp knock at the door cuts through the rhythm of my fists hammering the pads.

“What?” I bark. I’m pissed at the interruption barely twenty minutes into my session.

Jim from security sticks his head in hesitantly. “Sorry, sir. But you wanted an immediate update on the background check . . .”

“Yeah, let’s have it.”

I stop short, hit by dizziness. Must’ve halted too fast. Fucking perfect timing.