Page 9 of Redamancy (Fated Fixation #2)

Chapter six

A round me, there’s chaos—glass flying, someone shouting for a server, whiskey trickling down my leg—but it might as well be happening on another planet.

Because my world has whittled down to one person and one person only and— Jesus Christ.

And I want to draw every single one.

I want to draw all of him. I want to drink him in for hours until I’ve memorized every detail, old and new, and—

“Poppy?” Someone has a hand on my shoulder.

It should be criminal for him to look this good after ten years. He’s like—

“Poppy? You’re bleeding.” I blink, and the rest of the world sharpens into focus. The hand on my shoulder is LuAnne’s, and she’s staring at my leg, concern etched into her brow.

I follow her gaze.

“I’m not bleeding,” I say. “That’s just—” Except, she's right. That’s not whiskey dribbling down my leg; it’s blood oozing from the gash on the side of my calf. “Oh.”

I’m not sure if it’s the shock or the alcohol that’s making me feel so disconnected from my body, but my leg doesn’t hurt.

“That’s definitely going to need more than a band-aid,” she sighs. “Here. Sit down on the bottom step.” She’s in doctor mode already, leading me toward the spiral staircase and away from all the broken glass and curious stares.

My face heats, and embarrassment clouds some of the shock.

Great job playing it cool, Poppy.

“Would you like someone to take you to the hospital?” Dr. Nichols steps into view as I sit down on the bottom step. “Just looking at it, I’d say there’s a fair chance you’ll need stitches.”

My eyes widen.

Stitches?

I can barely afford a MetroCard, let alone a ten-thousand dollar medical bill.

But it feels wildly inappropriate to tell LuAnne’s boss that I’d rather superglue the wound shut myself than sit in an ER waiting room, so I just clear my throat awkwardly. “Uh…”

“Maybe we should take this one step at a time,” LuAnne cuts in, and I shoot her a grateful glance. “Why don’t I examine the wound? If it needs stitches, I’ll take Poppy to the hospital.”

Translation: if I need stitches, LuAnne will take me home and sew me up on the kitchen floor herself.

It’s not the first time she’s played doctor for me.

Dr. Nichols looks like there’s nothing he’d rather do than pack me in a cab and send me on my way so that the night can resume, but he reluctantly nods and claps his hands together.

“Can someone get a first-aid kit over here?” He moves back, and signals to the string quartet that’s stopped playing.

“And music, please! Nobody’s dying—we don’t need to stop dancing. It’s just a minor cut.”

A cut that’s starting to hurt like hell.

The shock must be wearing off because now I feel it—a sharp pain radiating up my lower leg. Unpleasant, for sure, but at least I can focus on something that’s not the Adrian-shaped elephant standing ten feet away.

If I really try, I tell myself. I can pretend he’s not even here.

I concentrate on the staff, who are making quick work of the broken glass.

Not here at all.

And LuAnne, who’s rifling through the hefty first-aid kit for a pair of gloves.

Not. Here. At—

“Allow me.”

I can’t tell if I’m choking or if Adrian Ellis has just sucked every bit of oxygen out of the room, but either way, I’m pinned to the spot, eyes wide and watching as he wordlessly takes the first-aid kit from LuAnne.

What the hell is he doing?

“Oh, Dr. Ellis,” LuAnne breathes out, looking more star-struck than that time we stood in the same coffee line as Chris Hemsworth. “You don’t need to go to the trouble. Poppy’s my friend. I don’t mind patching her up.”

She reaches for the kit, but Adrian’s full lips curve into one of those enigmatic smiles and— fuck.

I’d forgotten what it felt like to be on the receiving end of one of those smiles.

It’s like everyone in a two-mile radius lights up with him.

“If we’re going to forgo a hospital visit,” he says, oozing charm so thick it’s suffocating.

“Then it’s probably best someone who’s a little more familiar with human anatomy does the examination, don’t you think? ”

From the lips of anyone else, it’d sound condescending—and LuAnne would take it as such. She’d square her shoulders, and she’d make some snarky comment about how humans are really just big, hairless chihuahuas, and she doesn’t need advice from some bored billionaire who went to medical school.

But even LuAnne isn’t impervious to his charming facade because all she does is giggle.

Like he’s cracked a joke.

Like he’s just another pretty doctor we’re going to gush about later tonight.

Like he’s not a psychopath she’s willingly handing me over to.

His smile broadens—just slightly—and he asks, not me, but LuAnne: “So, that’s alright with you?”

No.

Absolutely not.

That is NOT alright.

But LuAnne just nods eagerly, and when she steps back to let him through, she winks at me.

Like she’s doing me a favor.

My stomach sinks.

I should speak up. I should shout. I should let LuAnne know that I’ve changed my mind about the hospital, and I’d rather spend eight hours and twenty-grand in an ER waiting room than eight minutes with Adrian Ellis.

But I feel frozen, my jaw wired shut, and utterly helpless to stop what’s already in motion.

What the hell is he doing?

Did he know I was going to be here tonight? Did he plan this?

I’ve got about two seconds to ponder those questions before Adrian steps close, and the rest of the world flatlines again.

Or maybe it’s me—maybe I’m the one flatlining—as he crouches down in front of me.

Oblivious to my thoughts, Adrian sorts through the kit, and I subtly eye the way his biceps strain against the suit jacket with every movement.

I remember him being tall—taller than just about everyone at Lionswood—but now he’s simply massive . His arms and shoulders effortlessly fill out the lines of his suit, and some instinctual part of me rears with warning.

This man is dangerous.

Which—Adrian has always been dangerous, but this version of him seems menacing.

He’s older.

He’s more charming.

And I don’t know what the hell his intentions are.

If he wanted to, he could reach out and snap my injured leg in two. He could break my neck. He could slam my head into the steps and stain the marble floors with more than just whiskey.

My breath quickens, and I can feel the edges of a panic attack creeping in, so I brace myself against the cold marble steps.

He’s just examining my leg, I tell myself. Even if he wanted to hurt me, he couldn’t do it here. Not in a room full of people.

Just don’t think about him.

Think about anything else.

Think about the searing pain in your leg.

And that’s exactly what I try to do as he dons a pair of sterile gloves, grabs a bottle of Neosporin from the kit, and begins cleaning my leg.

I flinch—not from pain—but because he’s touching me.

Adrian Ellis is touching me, and his hands are so large that when he cradles my calf to keep it still, his fingers completely encircle the muscle.

It’s all I can think about now, and some traitorous part of me wants him to shed the thin layer of latex separating my skin from his.

But he doesn’t.

Adrian’s touch is nothing but professional as he applies a generous amount of Neosporin to the cut. He’s precise and methodical—like he’s already three steps ahead, calculating how to precisely spread the ointment or bandage my leg for full coverage.

He doesn’t linger or pause or touch me with any kind of familiarity that might signal we’re more than strangers.

He’s perfectly clinical about the whole affair, except...

He doesn’t look at me.

In fact, he hasn’t looked at me this entire time.

He’s looked at the spilled whiskey on the floor. He’s looked at LuAnne. He’s looked at my leg.

But he hasn’t looked at me.

Not once.

“There’s no glass in the cut,” he says, and I whip my head up to look at him, but again—he's not speaking to me. “She won’t need stitches. I doubt it’ll even scar. I’d keep the bandage on for twenty-four hours, and well—I doubt I need to go over basic bandage care with a fellow doctor.”

In my periphery, I make out the relieved slump of LuAnne’s shoulders. “No, we’ve got a handle on it. Thank you.”

Adrian closes up the kit, stands, and doesn’t look at me.

Why won’t he look at me?

He discards the bloody gloves in a trash can one of the staff has brought over, and still, doesn’t look at me—not even as I wobble to my feet.

“You’re a saint, Adrian. Truly,” Dr. Nichols claps him on the shoulder. “And now I get to lord it all over my colleagues that I’ve seen Mount Sinai’s newest cardiovascular surgery fellow in action!”

I go still.

What?

There are a lot of words in that sentence, but my brain only gloms onto two of them: Mount Sinai.

As in the largest hospital in New York City.

In my city.

My breath catches because, according to the internet, Adrian is supposed to be finishing his residency at John-Hopkins.

In Maryland.

192 miles away.

“Well, not yet,” Adrian cracks a smile that’s utterly charming to everyone else, and utterly insincere to the girl who’s actually seen beneath the mask. “Come Monday, it’ll be official.”

Adrian is going to be living here.

In my city.

“You may not see a whole lot of it outside the operating room, but you couldn’t have ended up in a better city, Dr. Ellis. You’re going to love New York,” says another veterinarian hovering nearby. I don’t recognize him—or the pool of doctors that are now orbiting Adrian like he’s hung the sun.

“I’d say he already does,” Dr. Nichols chimes in. “Dr. Ellis here had his pick of the litter. He could’ve had a spot anywhere in the country, and he chose Mount Sinai.”

I don’t hear the humble comment Adrian offers in return, but I do see him turn his back to me and take a step into the fold of doctorate degrees.

And something in me snaps.

Look at me.

“Adrian,” I say, and I’m reaching for the sleeve of his suit jacket before social decency can override my frustration.

Look. At. Me.

And he does.

For the first time in minutes, in years, Adrian turns and our eyes lock.

My heart stutters to a stop.

He’s still smiling—charming, polite, and insincere—but when his dark eyes settle on me, it’s like someone has strapped a fifty-pound dumbbell to my chest.

I can’t speak.

I can’t breathe.

He’s finally looking at me, and it’s suffocating.

He arcs an eyebrow, clearly waiting for a question.

And I stand there, mouth agape with no questions to ask, as everyone else in the room watches us.

“Uh…” My cheeks burn, and my brain isn’t working. It's like he flipped the OFF switch in my head the moment he walked through the door.

“Was there something else you needed, Miss…?” He pauses there, like he’s waiting for me to supply the rest.

Miss?

My eyebrows scrunch together.

I stare at him.

He stares back. Still waiting.

“Davis,” I finally say when it’s clear he’s not going to.

“Well, have a good night, Miss Davis.” And maybe I imagine it, but I swear his eyes flicker to my dress—the dress he bought me ten years ago—as he turns away.

What the hell?

I’m left, rooted to the spot and gawking, as he disappears into the crowd—with only one question circling through my head:

Did that asshole seriously just pretend like he didn’t know my name?