The Monster (Boston Belles 3)

I thought back to the finite mathematics homework he’d worked out for me when I was still a teenager. Devon wasn’t exaggerating.

“What a great way to utilize your analytical talent,” Cillian drawled sarcastically.

“Better to waste a talent in the wrong place than not have one in the first place,” Sam pointed out.

“Your main talent is to find your way into rich people’s inner circle,” Cillian countered, his tone easy. “Which you’ve been doing very well since childhood.”

“Anyway, cards at Badland tonight,” Hunter said. “Right after dinner.”

I wanted to hear more about Sam, but my mother was desperate to draw me into the conversation she was having. She did that often. Lured me into small talk to save her from awkward lulls. She said she found socializing tiring, yet she threw events all the time and counted on me to do all the talking and fundraising on her behalf.

“I’m so lucky to have Aisling…” Mother patted her eyes with her napkin, sighing heavily “…I don’t know what I would have done without her. She is my anchor. No wonder she works at bringing life into this planet. She is my perfect angel.”

“She sure is saintly, ma’am.” Emmabelle flicked up a brow in my direction, giving me the stink eye. I knew Belle would love nothing more than if I showed my devilish side a little more often. “Too good to be true. Almost.”

“Right now, she is working day and night to help me with a charity event this month,” my mother started, and I could see the rest of my friends had already trained their face to stoic politeness, knowing she was going to yap about it for hours.

I felt my phone buzzing under the table, in my lap, and looked down. The number flashing across the screen signaled it came from the clinic. Merde.

I ducked my head down, swiped the bar to the green circle, and answered. “Yes?”

It was the call I dreaded. The one I didn’t want to receive.

A patient who had been struggling pretty badly.

“Yes. Of course. No, it is not a bad time at all. I’m on my way. Thank you.”

I hung up the phone, smiling brightly to everyone at the table, realizing for the first time the phone call drew everyone’s attention. Sam’s eyes rested on me lazily, swirling the whiskey in his tumbler as he watched me with a mildly entertained look I wanted to wipe off of his face.

The whole night he’d been looking at me like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted another round in the sack with me or wanted to kill me. I wished he’d just make up his mind and put me out of my misery.

“My apologies, but I have to run. Something important at work.” I stood up abruptly, patting my mother’s shoulder. Everyone’s attention made my ears hot and my fingers tremble. “Compliments to our chef. I will send her flowers tomorrow morning for her troubles. Thank you, everyone. Have a good evening.”

With that, I dashed out, running straight to my Prius, not even bothering to grab a coat on my way. I made a beeline to the address I punched into my phone.

It took me an hour to get to the residential building in Westford. A newly built apartment complex with a tennis court, a pool, and an indoor gym. There wasn’t security or anyone manning the reception, though, something I’d asked about in advance, just to be on the safe side.

I went to my patient’s house, did what I had to do, and got out of there three hours later. All thoughts about the Thanksgiving dinner I’d left behind were now demolished and gone. All I thought about was my work, my patients, and her.

Oui, mon cheri. It’s not easy doing what you do.

My knees were wobbly and my breath erratic as I made my way to a gas station across the road, trudging over the half-melted, dirty snow. I pushed the door to the small mini mart open. I bought a Coke for myself and a cake and drink for the old man manning the register, which he thanked me for. I poured myself out into the bone-cold November winter in Massachusetts, pressing the back of my head against the wall and taking a gulp of Coke.

Sometimes I hated what I did.

Most times, really.

But then I remembered Ms. B and how I failed her and convinced myself that I deserved it. My occupation. My choices.

Staring down at the Coke in my hand, listening to the faint hiss of fizz coming from the liquid, I suddenly burst into tears, sobbing uncontrollably as I dragged myself down the length of the wall, crouching to my feet and burying my face in my satin Givenchy dress.

“It’s not fair.” I shook my head, seeing the black splotches my mascara left on my gown through blurred tears. “Nothing about this is fair.”