Page 8 of Moor (Twisted Bard)

SCENE II

OTHELLO

O thello didn’t know when he’d laughed so hard that his stomach hurt. He really enjoyed fucking with the little doctor. He never knew a man smart enough to be a surgeon could be so na?ve. Othello wiped his tears, got out of bed, and dressed in his robe. Last night, he had been so tired he had forgotten all about the doctor sleeping in his bed, or he would have slept on the couch. Othello pulled back the bedroom drapes and headed to the kitchen to make coffee. Meanwhile, the little doctor emerged from the bathroom wearing an oversized shirt belonging to Othello.

“Why do you always like fucking with me?” the little doctor asked, yet his face reddened in the most adorable flush.

“Because it’s fun,” Othello said, unashamed. “You make it easy. You haven't changed in six months. For the record, if we had fucked last night, I’d be the one on top, and Doc, you should know how big my dick is.”

“How would I know? I didn’t look when you were in the hospital,” he said, crossing his arms.

“We can easily rectify that mistake.” Othello waggled his eyebrows, smirking.

“Nope, that’s okay,” he said, as his eyes drifted down to Othello’s crotch.

The corner of his lips curled in a pleasurable smile at how long the man’s eyes stayed on the imprint of his sleeping beast covered by his robe.

“If you keep staring at it, you might wake up the beast, and then you’d have to put him back to sleep,” he teased. “But I warn you now, he likes to go all day long.” Othello dropped his voice and licked his lips, leaving no questions about what he meant, making the little doctor blush even more, turning as red as a tomato.

However, his embarrassment didn’t stop him from glaring at Othello. “Will you stop with the teasing?” he said, pulling up the collar of his shirt and hiding his face.

“I’ll try.” He smiled. “You look good in my shirt, by the way.”

“Um...I don’t know where my clothes are and...” he explained shyly.

“I put them on the sofa,” he said, cutting the doctor off and pointing to the large black-and-gray couch that was large enough to fit two big men of his build.

“Oh, thank you.” He went over to grab them. “I should get changed.”

“You don’t have to, but do as you wish,” Othello told him. “If you want to brush your teeth, there are extra toothbrushes in the second drawer of the bathroom counter.”

The doctor nodded, turned, and went back into the bathroom while Othello went to see what he could make for breakfast. A few minutes later, he returned, dressed in his clothes from the night before.

“Since I know you were fucking with me, can you tell me how I ended up in your bed?”

Othello paused his search for breakfast ideas, turned, and observed the doctor with his rumpled hair, which seemed as if he didn’t even try to tame its wildness, a stark difference from the night before. The doctor looked every bit confused, making it hard for Othello to fuck with him, so he told him the truth. “You got into a fight with someone you shouldn’t have in my club, and I had one of my guys bring you up here to sleep it off.”

The little doctor groaned, covering his face. “Fuck, this is why I drink at home. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all good. I smoothed things out with the other guy.” Othello walked by him. “Sit tight while I get cleaned up.”

“No, I should leave. I’ve already caused you enough trouble.” He went to move, but Othello stopped him and sat him down.

What the holy fuck am I doing? his brain screamed at him, but still he ignored it. “It’s no trouble. I’ll be out in a bit and make you something to eat to help with your hangover.”

“You...” the doctor started.

“Enough,” Othello interrupted. “Think of this as payback for not letting me die on the operating table.”

“I was only doing my job,” Doc Des mumbled. “So you really don’t have to do this.”

Othello ignored the man and went into the bathroom. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure why he was keeping the doctor around. If the man wanted to leave, he should let him. After freshening up, he walked back into the main room to see the doctor sitting at the large kitchen island. Othello took the time to observe the other man and noticed that besides his new look, there was something off with the doctor. Six months ago, when he met him, there’d been a confident air around him, but now he seemed defeated and sad. Othello wasn’t the kind of guy to pry into business that wasn’t his, but this time, he wanted to know for some odd reason.

“How do you take your coffee?” he asked, walking over to the cabinet and taking two coffee mugs from it.

“Black,” the doctor responded, not even looking up at Othello.

“Do you like your coffee like you like your men, Doc?” He poured the coffee and handed it to the doctor, who took it but didn’t bring the cup to his lips.

“I don’t know. I’ve never had a man,” he responded softly.

Othello quirked an interested brow. “Then women.”

“Never had a woman either.” He finally sipped his coffee, and Othello stared at the man in shock. Who in their right mind wouldn’t want to have a taste of the little cutie?

“So you’re one of those romantics, waiting for the right person to come along and sweep you off your feet. Make you feel all tingly, with butterflies flying around you.”

“I wouldn’t say that. More like I was focused on other things, and it’s only recently that I've decided to live for myself and not others.”

Ah, so that explains the makeover. But what's with the melancholy mood? Maybe I’m overthinking things, and he’s hungover. Perhaps he’s going through a late teenage rebellion?

Deciding to hold off on asking more questions, Othello set his coffee cup down, reached for the remote, and turned on the television. The cool thing about his place was that he could see the screen from any section of his apartment. He turned to the news to play in the background as he got ingredients to make a Spanish omelet.

“The New York Senate race is heating up for Doctor David Ellington, who has announced he is ready to debate his challenger, Benito Grant.”

Othello stopped when he heard a familiar name and looked at the doctor, staring at the screen. Othello had been keeping up with the Senate race. After all, whoever won could affect his and the clan’s business. If politicians couldn’t be bribed to ignore or turn a blind eye to wrongdoing, they would have to find alternative ways to control them. Threatening their family was a good way—until he saw the doctor, who resembled David Ellington. It hadn’t occurred to him that David and Des could be related.

“You know, Doc, you look like the guy running for senate,” Othello stated, making small talk as he diced up the onions.

“That’s what they call genetics,” he said, facing Othello. “He’s my father.” Another air of sadness surrounded him.

“Oh, you don’t sound happy that he’s running for senate.”

“It’s not like that.” He sighed. “It’s hard to explain, and honestly, I don’t want to talk about it, especially with someone I don’t know.”

“Come on, now, Doc, we slept together. I’d say you know me plenty,” Othello teased, and it seemed to lighten the mood as the man gave him a smile that reached his eyes.

The doctor rolled his eyes. “All we did was sleep next to each other, so it doesn’t afford me to tell you about my personal business.”

Othello tutted. “You help a guy fight the Beast, and he keeps secrets from you.”

“The Beast? What the fuck are you going on about?”

Othello was about to explain, but he was interrupted by his cellphone. Rinsing off his hands, he went to grab it off the nightstand. Seeing that it was Iago calling, he picked it up right away.

“What’s up? Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Iago answered. “Just checking to see how the meeting with the Rossetti underboss went.”

“It went well. I’ll update you on it when I get to the house.”

“Why can’t you do it now?”

“I have company,” Othello said.

Iago was silent for a few seconds. “Oh, oh,” he said in surprise, which bothered Othello.

“Why do you sound like that?”

“How do I sound?”

“Like you’re shocked by what I said.”

Iago sighed. “Because truthfully, you haven’t been with anyone since you broke things off with Philip.”

Othello closed his eyes. He could understand what Iago meant. He didn’t want to think about Philip Montano, the man he thought he’d spend his life with, only to discover the man was cheating on him. It hurt worse that Phillip was sleeping with Cassio Ricci, the brother of Dominico Ricci, the boss of the Ricci family. Othello was hurt and angry; honestly, he wanted to kill the man, but he disappeared before Othello could get the chance. Trust and loyalty were important to him, especially when he’d given his entire heart to someone, only to have it trampled on.

After Philip, he hadn’t been in another relationship or even slept with anyone in the past two years since he broke it off, and his ex-lover left Verona Heights, never to be seen or heard from again. He stole a glance at the little doc, who had moved from sitting at the island and was now looking out the window with a troubled expression. He realized he should probably correct his friend’s assumption that what he was thinking was far from the truth.

“Alright, I’ll see you when you get here,” Iago said and hung up before Othello could say anything.

Sighing, he looked at the dark screen, shaking his head, then set the device down. He focused on the doctor still standing at the window, staring out as if he had the world resting on his shoulders. Othello wasn’t sure why or how he came to that conclusion, but he knew something was bothering the doctor. Standing, he went back to the kitchen and made breakfast as promised, with neither speaking, leaving the television to do the talking for them. When everything was done and plated, Othello got the doctor’s attention.

“Hey, Doc, breakfast is ready.” The man didn’t move or make a sound to indicate that he had heard Othello. Furrowing his brows, he walked over to him and lightly tapped the doctor on the shoulder.

He wasn’t shocked when the guy almost jumped out of his skin, and the empty coffee mug slipped from his hands. It was a good thing Othello caught it before it hit the ground. The doctor glanced at the cup in Othello's hand, then at his face. He seemed like he was going to cry, but he stopped himself by biting his lip. Othello was about to ask the doctor if he was okay, but held back. He’d already delved too far into the man’s personal life. He’d promised to feed him and send him on his merry way.

“The food is ready,” Othello said.

“Oh,” the doctor responded, sounding a bit lost. “You really didn’t have to make me anything.”

“It’s no bother.” Othello shrugged. “I’m also hungry and was in the mood for a Spanish omelet. Besides, my mama would skin me alive if she knew I sent you off with an empty stomach. She’s all about propriety and being a gracious host.” He smiled, and the doctor smiled as well, and it seemed to pull the man out of his funk just a little. “Come on. It won’t be good if it gets cold.”

Othello walked back to the kitchen area. He didn’t look to see if the doctor was following him. He’d done far more than what was required of him. Before he sat down to eat, Othello poured them both another cup of coffee. Just as he sat the mugs down, the doctor joined him in the breakfast nook. They began to eat, and silence descended on them again, except for the television that had been switched from the local news. Neither seemed bothered by the noise as they ate their meal.

When Othello was halfway done with his omelet, a soft voice cut through the quiet atmosphere around them.

“Have you always wanted to do what you do?”

“What do you mean?” Othello glanced at the doctor, who still had more than half of his meal on his plate. Should I feel offended that he’s not eating?

“I mean, you work for your father’s company. I think it was construction, right?”

“Yeah,” Othello answered.

“What is it, your choice or your father’s choice?”

“A bit of both.” Don Alejandro had given him and Iago the choice to back out after graduating from college, to step away from the underworld, as he had when he asked them the first time. “I wanted to work with my father. I knew since I was about thirteen. But I also have my own side investments.”

“Oh,” he said and returned to pick up his food.

“Don’t you like the omelet?” Othello asked.

“Oh no,” he said, gaping at Othello with wide eyes. “It’s great. There's just so much on my mind right now. I’m sorry. I feel bad for wasting the food you took the trouble to prepare for me.”

Othello shook his head, more worried about the doctor than annoyed that he ate little of his meal. He pushed both their plates to the side. “I know we’re not friends, but what the hell happened to you? You’re not the same man I met six months ago, and I’m not talking about the new look.”

“It’s no...”

“Don’t tell me it’s nothing or none of my business,” Othello said, cutting him off. “Come on, Doc, talk to me.”

“I killed a patient,” he cried out as tears streamed down his face.

Othello acted without thinking, grabbing the doctor by his neck and pulling him into his arms.

“I tried to save him. I really did, but there was so much blood, and I couldn’t see and...” He wailed into Othello’s chest.

“Shh...it’s okay,” he soothed, wondering what the fuck he was doing. When he’d asked the doctor what was bothering him, Othello hadn’t expected it to be something on that level. “Hey, Doc, I don’t normally do the grunt work, but if you need help hiding the body, I don’t mind doing the lifting this once.”

The doctor stopped crying briefly, and his shoulders began to shake lightly. Othello thought he’d started crying again until he heard snickers, and he pulled his head back, chuckling. Othello sat there staring at the gorgeous pink tear-stained cheeks, listening to the sweet laughter coming from the man’s cherry lips.

Fuck, he’s beautiful. He should smile more.

Blinking at his train of thought, Othello stood and gathered their dishes, moving over to drop them in the sink. He stole a glance at the doctor, who had stopped laughing but had a smile on his face. Shaking his head, he started cleaning up, but a gentle voice stopped him.

“Let me do that.”

Othello turned to the sweet voice to see the doctor moving closer to him. “You don’t have to.”

“I know, but I want to. You’ve done so much for me in the past hour. It’s the least I can do. It’s not every day someone offers to get rid of a body for me. I appreciate the gesture, but it’s not needed.” He took the soapy sponge from Othello and eased him out of the way with his hip.

Seeing that he had no choice, Othello poured himself another cup of coffee and added a splash of milk and a sugar cube—the way he liked it—not too sweet and not too creamy. He sat at the breakfast nook, savoring his coffee, and watched the doctor skillfully clean up the kitchen, as if he had been there many times and knew exactly what needed to be done.

“So, how did the guy die?” Othello asked since his curiosity got the better of him.

The doctor’s back stiffened. “Can I not talk about that?” he said, not looking at Othello.

“Up to you.” He shrugged. “I just figured you might want to get it off your chest since whatever happened got you sulking.”

Des glanced at the homeowner over his shoulder, realizing his attraction for the man hadn’t waned even though he hadn’t seen him in six months. Moor had put on more weight since the last time they saw each other and was more muscular in build. In the bright, sunlit apartment, the other man’s honey-brown eyes seemed to sparkle, drawing attention to them, even if he tried to look away. The deep red robe he wore complemented his golden-brown skin tone. Des wondered if red was Moor’s favorite color since it was a dominant feature in his home, accompanying the blacks, grays, and whites.

“I am not sulking, just contemplative,” he said softly, recalling Moor had said something.

He was finishing up the last of the dishes. He grabbed the cloth and dried his hands, turning to look at Moor. Des wasn’t sure why he’d stuck around for as long as he had. Maybe it was because he knew he had no one waiting for him at home or nothing really important to do. He should have left the second he’d changed into his clothes. The reason he’d drunk as much as he had the night before was because he didn’t have to work that day, and maybe he knew he was going to spend the entire day sulking in his apartment.

Des couldn’t say much had changed about him in the six months since he had left his parents’ party. Sure, he’d grown his hair out, gotten a couple of tattoos, and maybe drank a bit too much on the days he didn’t have to work. But he still had done nothing to change the status of his job. Honestly, he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do. Des had become the kind of fickle person that he hated. It had become even more so since Mr. Alvarez died on his operating table.

Despite his feelings toward his job, Des was good at it. He had performed countless surgeries, including ones that most doctors thought were too difficult. Des was able to handle them. But how was it that he couldn’t save Mr. Alvarez? He had done everything right. The operation was smooth, and just as he was closing up Mr. Alverez, his heart rhythm became erratic.

The monitors started beating frantically, and Mr. Alverez went into cardiac arrest, with blood filling his chest. Des and his team did everything they could to save him. It didn’t take long for him to perform the procedures needed to get the man's heart beating again before he could stop the bleeding. But sadly, thirty minutes later, Mr. Alverez died.

Des had been so distraught about the patient’s death that he’d all but lost his confidence. Despite the review confirming a blood clot in Mr. Alverez's left lung as the cause of death, Des couldn't shake the feeling of doubt. He questioned if he had followed the correct procedures and how he had overlooked the clot. Des had no one he could talk to about how he was feeling.

He tried to explain his feelings to Gray, but the cop didn’t understand. He would have liked to call his parents, but they hadn’t spoken to each other for the past few months. Des had contacted a few lawyers a couple of months ago, but none of them had gotten back to him. He was wondering if his parents had something to do with it.

“You’re sulking...I mean, being contemplative again,” Moor said, breaking into his thoughts. “You might as well tell me. I’ve been told I’m a good listener.”

Des peered at the taller man, wondering if talking with a stranger might help him get over what was bothering him. After a few minutes, he explained what happened with Mr. Alverez’s death. True to Moor’s word, he didn’t interrupt Des once.

“Do you know your eyes don’t sparkle when you talk about your job?” Moor said when he finished talking. “Tell me, Doc, do you like saving people’s lives?”

“It’s not like I want to kill people,” he responded, furrowing his brows.

“But do you like saving them?”

Moor put his elbow on the breakfast nook, resting his jaw on his fist, and Des couldn’t take his eyes off the man’s good looks even with the seriousness of their conversation.

“Let me rephrase the question. Do you like what you do?”

“Not particularly.” Des didn’t bat an eye or take a breath to think about the answer.

“Then why are you a doctor?”

“It’s what my parents wanted me to do,” he whispered. "It's hard to say no to them." Especially when I'm dependent on them financially.

“But what do you want to do?”

That question stumped Des. Other than his paternal grandfather, no one had ever asked him what he wanted. He was simply told what to do, no questions asked. "If I tell you, do you promise not to laugh?"

"It depends on what it is. But tell me anyway."

Des stared at Othello, wondering why it was he felt he could trust the man with his dream. "I want to open an art studio and help others fulfill their dreams of being an artist."

"That's not something to laugh at."

"Most people do or tell me it's foolish."

"Don't you want to be famous? Can you paint or draw?"

"I don't want to be in the spotlight," Des told him, shaking his head and screwing up his face. "And yes, I can do both and more."

“Then quit working at the hospital and go for your dreams,” Moor said.

“I wish it were so easy,” Des said.

“It’s not a hard thing to do. People change jobs all the time.”

Moor leaned back in his seat, and his robe parted open, showing his chest. Des knew that Moor's body was adorned with tattoos on his back, arms, fingers, and down to his legs, while his chest remained unmarked, save for a surgical scar. He had thought by now Moor would have covered it up with tattoos. But Des gave himself a mental pat on the back, knowing he did a good job stitching the wound, to the point the man wouldn’t need plastic surgery to cover it up.

“What's holding you back, Doc?"

A lawyer, Des wanted to say, but he held back and shook his head. He needed to figure things out on his own. "You gave me a lot to think about," he said.

Moor smiled. “Good. As for the man dying, it sounds like you did everything you should have. His death was not your fault.”

“That’s what I keep telling myself.”

“Then believe it. It was his time to go.”

“How would you know that?” Des snapped when he didn’t mean to. “It’s not like you’ve killed a man before.”

“And you have a hero complex if you think you can save every life that comes before you.”

“I saved yours, right?” Des argued, noticing Moor didn’t raise his voice once, but their conversation grew heated.

“Are you angry that I’m still alive?”

“Of course not,” Des shouted. “I did what I was supposed to.”

“So why are you fixated on Alvarez? He’s dead, and you did all you could. What more did you want to do? Pull his soul back from the brink.”

“I...” Des stuttered, not sure what to say to that.

Moor leaned close and took one of his hands in his. “Does Alvarez’s family blame you?” Des shook his head. “Then why are you beating yourself up?”

Again, Des couldn’t respond, as he was finally realizing he wasn’t the cause of the patient's death.

“You really are a good listener,” he said after a few minutes. “Thank you.”

Othello smiled. “I would say anytime, but I doubt we’ll see each other again.”

“Is this your way of telling me I’ve worn out my welcome?” Des smiled when the man didn’t respond, and he took it as a yes. “I guess you’re right. You’ve fed me and all, so I should go.”

Des moved from around the counter and grabbed his cellphone, which had been sitting on the coffee table. Walking to the exit, he didn’t look back to see if Moor was watching him. Just as his hand touched the lock on the door, he paused when the homeowner called out to him.

“Hey, Doc, let me see your phone.”

Des turned and faced Moor. “Why?”

“How else will you call me?” Moor stood and moved over to Des, stretching out a hand.

Des stared at him for a couple of seconds, wondering if the man was being for real. He’d played so many games on him that Des couldn’t help but wonder if he was doing the same thing now. Not wanting to think about it anymore, he unlocked his cellphone and handed it to Moor, who entered his number and gave it back.

“Don’t waste it, Doc. I don’t give out my private number to anyone.” Des looked at the phone and then at Moor, trying to figure out if there was some kind of meaning behind his words. In any event, he nodded and left the handsome man’s apartment.