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COHEN

A t first, watching her was more of a necessity than anything else. Needing to see her without being seen. I understood it would take time for her to accept me the way I was, the things I’d done to survive and maintain the sort of freedom I was used to. I couldn’t exactly practice traditional medicine without a license. But that’s not to say I didn’t have a certain set of skills that other… less-than-savory individuals found useful. Especially those who weren’t aboveboard themselves. And those skills proved more lucrative than a couple of letters following my name.

That necessity quickly morphed into obsession as the days passed, and nothing about her seemed to change. I was waiting for her lower abdomen to stretch the fabric of her blouse, her breasts to press tighter against her bra. Her cheeks to round out and her skin to glow. Instead, my Emily remained rail thin, gaunt even. She barely ate, and whenever she did, it was nothing more than a few bites before she tossed whatever it was into the closest trash bin.

Hyperemesis gravidarum was my initial assessment. Severe morning sickness. It was the most likely cause of her weight loss and waning appetite. I gave the woman the benefit of the doubt. Until I saw her walk into this bar and order herself a double. That was when my prefrontal cortex went into overdrive. Distrust bubbled to the surface and congealed.

I lifted two fingers, flagging the bartender over, and repeated Emily’s order, the same drink she was currently pressing to her lips. It was the closest I could get to tasting her right now.

Two hours passed before she left the bar, alone. And just as I was about to follow her, a heavy hand slammed onto my shoulder and shoved me back down onto the stool. I could have shrugged him off had I been expecting it, but the several rounds of liquor had dulled my senses while self-loathing had me wanting to dull them further.

Before I could look up, the bartender had placed two more drinks in front of us without having to be told and walked back down to the other side of the counter.

“Dr. Cohen Michaels,” the stranger hummed. “It’s a pleasure to meet your acquaintance.”

“Not a doctor,” I grunted as I eyed the fucker from head to polished toe. Not a hair was out of place, his shirt perfectly ironed and tucked into his designer dress pants. His belt and shoes real leather from the looks of them. When my glare landed on his square jaw, perfect teeth on display with the catlike smirk curling his lips and dark deadened eyes, I added, “Do I know you?”

I knew I didn’t.

He shrugged a shoulder before snapping his fingers. His coat was collected by some kid I didn’t even see standing behind him, and then the fucker lowered himself down on the vacant stool between us. The guy looked out of place in this hole-in-the-wall bar. But then again, so did I. For a totally different reason.

“I know you , Dr. Michaels. And that’s all that matters.”

“Already told ya not a doctor.” I returned my attention to the amber liquid coating the bottom of my glass before chugging the rest of the contents and pushing to my feet. “Thanks for the drink.” I slammed it down again and moved to shove back from the bar.

His hand clamped onto my shoulder for a second time. “I wouldn’t if I were you…”

This had one side of my mouth lifting into a grin. The other side was long since dead. “And why’s that…?”

“It wouldn’t be good for your health.”

I barked out a loud laugh that had half the room looking in my direction. Good thing I was used to them looking. “And what makes you think I give a shit about my health?”

“Emily Shaw: female, age nineteen, seen at Mercy General on the 28 th of October for a scheduled D&C. Four-hundred micrograms of misoprostol administered orally three hours prior to scheduled procedure. Evacuation completed by attending without incident. Patient alert and oriented times three before discharged to care of emergency contact with aftercare instructions.”

I swiped my glass off the bar top, slamming it down until it shattered, then grabbed the largest shard and pressed it to the fucker’s jugular vein. I didn’t know what kind of nonsense he was spewing while the ethanol flooding my neurological pathways had me swaying on my feet, my cognitive functioning too dulled to piece together everything he was telling me without telling me .

What I did know was he said her fucking name. And that shit had my blood boiling beneath the surface.

He laughed and dipped his head forward until the glass bit into his throat, and a small trickle of blood streamed down his Adam’s apple before it was soaked up by the white collar of his dress shirt.

“Thought that might get your attention.” He grinned while waving a dismissive hand at the kid still hovering at his back.

“Who the fuck are you and what the fuck do you want?” I tossed the shard across the counter and signaled for a top off. There wasn’t enough liquor in this bar for me tonight.

“The man whose business you’ve been stealing, it seems.” He tugged off a leather glove and offered me a steady hand. “Dr. Adrian Lambert. But everyone ?round here calls me The Surgeon.”