Page 2 of The Medic (Dominion Hall #6)

CHARLIE

I didn’t want to offer her a ride. Hell, I didn’t even want to talk to her. But there was something about the way she barked orders into that phone like she was running a small dictatorship that made me stick around. Not because I liked it—but because I needed the entertainment.

The tarmac was sweating, the air thick enough to drink, and there she was: melting in designer sandals, dressed like she was headed to a fashion shoot instead of dragging her luggage through Charleston’s coastal soup.

I’d been under that plane fixing a misaligned flap, trying to keep cool and mind my business, but her voice had cut through the humidity like a blade. Sharp, rich, irritated. Made me laugh.

You could always spot the ones who never heard the word “no” in their lives. They wore it in their posture. In the way they squinted like the world owed them better lighting. And this one—she wore it in spades.

I hadn’t planned on saying a damn thing. But when she turned and glared at the truck like it had personally offended her, I cracked.

“You looked like you were about to start throwing shoes,” I said. “Figured I’d brace for impact.”

She turned that laser-beam glare on me. I expected her to stomp off or call security. Instead, she squared up. “You work here?”

“Something like that.”

She sniffed. Literally sniffed. I swear, if she could’ve conjured a scented handkerchief to hold over her nose, she would’ve. My shirt was stained from a morning of grease and sweat, and I didn’t care. I never did. I’d earned the right to wear whatever the hell I wanted.

She muttered something about Hilton Garden Inns and then demanded I go “find someone in charge.” Like she hadn’t just insulted every inch of my existence.

That was when I offered the ride. Just to see what she’d do. Like poking a bear with a stick.

She hesitated. For all her bravado, her eyes flicked to the gate, then back to me. The tarmac shimmered in waves. Her blouse was sticking to her back. And her patience—if she’d ever had any—was gone.

“Wait!” she called, and I turned, taking my sweet time about it.

“You’re offering a ride?” she asked again, voice all clipped and formal, like I was a valet who’d shown up late.

I jerked a thumb toward my truck. “If you don’t mind slumming it.”

She narrowed her eyes like she was trying to determine whether I had working air conditioning or an unregistered meth lab in the back seat. Then she walked over, slowly, like each step was a concession.

I opened the passenger door with a mock flourish. “After you, princess.”

She climbed in, wrinkling her nose at the interior. Yeah, it smelled like grease and leather and maybe a little too much pine air freshener. No, I didn’t care.

“Buckle up,” I said, slamming my door. “It’s not a Bentley, but she gets the job done.”

Her lips tightened, but she clicked her seatbelt and said nothing. For the first thirty seconds of the drive, the silence was thick. Not awkward—just charged. Like we were both waiting for the other one to start something.

She broke first.

“You know,” she said, adjusting her sunglasses even though we were shaded by the windshield tint, “most people would be flattered I chose their vehicle.”

I scoffed. “You didn’t choose it. You got stranded. I’m the lesser of two evils.”

Her lips twitched. Just a flicker, like she wanted to smile but didn’t want me to see it.

“True,” she said. “But I have standards.”

I glanced at her. “That why your patience wore off with the humidity?”

She ignored the jab. “What’s your name?”

Two minutes and she’d already forgotten. I thought about lying. Thought about giving her something like Randy or Billy Bob just to mess with her. But in the end, I figured it didn’t matter.

“Charlie.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Just Charlie?” Had she really forgotten?

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” I said.

She turned slightly, angling her body toward me like she was deciding how much energy I was worth. “Well, Just Charlie, thanks for the rescue.”

I raised an eyebrow right back. “Wasn’t a rescue. It was charity.”

She let out a tiny scoff. “Bold of you.”

“What’s your name?” I asked, though I already had a dozen guesses. Probably something that sounded like old money and Chanel perfume.

“Sloane.”

I glanced at her, pretending to squint. “Sloane? For a girl?”

Her head whipped toward me like I’d slapped her. “Excuse me?”

I shrugged, deadpan. “Just never met a female Sloane. Sounds like a hedge fund manager who drinks scotch and yells at interns. You a hedge fund manager?”

She stared at me, mouth parted in disbelief.

Then—miracle of miracles—she laughed.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t long. But it was real. A quick, surprised huff that caught her off guard and softened her just enough for me to see the human underneath all the labels. She caught herself fast, covering her mouth like she’d broken character.

The laugh died, and the mask slid right back on.

“Cute,” she said. “Real original.”

I smirked. “I do what I can.”

Another stretch of silence followed, but this time it wasn’t heavy. It hummed. She didn’t fidget with her phone. She didn’t demand to know how much longer the drive would be. She just stared out the window, her expression unreadable.

Truth was, she was gorgeous. Obnoxiously so.

All sun-kissed legs and a megawatt smile, with wide blue eyes that made you feel like you were the only person in the room—right before she cut you down with a single glance.

Her blonde hair had that effortless bounce, like she’d just stepped out of a shampoo commercial and hadn’t even tried.

The kind of beautiful that made men forget their names and women consider homicide.

But it wasn’t just the looks. It was the confidence.

The attitude. Like the whole world had been handed to her on a silver platter and she’d decided it still wasn’t polished enough.

She was everything I couldn’t stand.

Trust fund baby. Raised on silver spoons and staged photo ops. Probably had a trust with more commas than the GDP of most Caribbean nations. And yet, she was still pissed off because her driver took a wrong turn.

I hated people like her.

And yeah, technically I was one now. The Dane fortune had plenty of zeroes.

But I hadn’t grown up in it. I’d earned my way into this life kicking and bleeding—and I’d die before I joined her brunch crew.

I had no interest in champagne towers and black-tie fundraisers.

I didn’t want to sip cocktails with senators or pretend to like foie gras while someone named Chase talked about crypto.

I liked my life the way it was—quiet, dirty, unbothered.

Sloane? She was a walking complication.

Still, I was amused.

“You always this tightly wound, Sloane-for-a-girl?” I asked as we passed the edge of the marsh, her estate looming in the distance like a castle straight out of a Southern fairy tale.

“Only around people who think sarcasm is a personality,” she shot back.

“Good thing I’ve got charm to back it up,” I said.

“Debatable.”

I chuckled. “You ever let your guard down, or is that just for your brunch friends and followers?”

That one hit. I saw it in the slight flick of her lashes. The tiny shift of her mouth.

“I don’t brunch,” she said.

“Liar.”

“Not with people like you.”

“That’s okay. I’m more of a gas station biscuit guy.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Figures.”

“You’d be amazed what you can learn at a truck stop,” I said.

“Oh, I’m sure. Like how many varieties of beef jerky can give you botulism.”

I laughed again, louder this time. “Now you’re getting it.”

We turned onto the drive leading to her father’s estate, and it hit like a slap. Gates taller than my truck. A tree-lined lane that probably took five landscapers a week to maintain. The house itself? Massive. Whitewashed columns, three balconies, and more windows than a glass factory.

“Nice place,” I said, pulling to a stop near the gate. “Electric bill must be a fortune.”

She didn’t smile. She didn’t laugh. She gave me a look. The kind that could peel paint. Then, with the same dignity of a queen addressing a stable boy, she unbuckled her belt, opened the door, and stepped out.

No “thank you.”

Not even a nod.

Just curves for days and an exit that deserved a slow clap.

I watched her walk to the gate like she was on a runway. Head high. Hips swaying. Like she hadn’t spent the last twenty minutes dripping in sarcasm and sweat.

She didn’t look back. She didn’t need to.

I should’ve felt relief. I should’ve been glad to be rid of her.

But as I turned the truck around and headed back toward the hangar, the smell of her perfume lingering in the cab, I found myself shaking my head.

She was the polar opposite of everything I wanted.

And yet, damn if I didn’t find her the most interesting thing I’d seen all year.