Chapter 1
Benjamin
I never understood online dating. The concept of making a connection through digital written words seems almost impossible.
Not that what I’m doing at this moment is technically dating.
Leaning forward in my chair—a massive executive design made of supple Italian leather—I type a reply to @elencosti89. Tonight. 11pm. Have a blindfold on. And you should be a little afraid.
I consider my choice of words before I hit send. I’ve learned enough about this woman to know fear is part of her turn on. I don’t know her full name—just her user id of @elencosti89—but I do know her darkest fantasies.
When we connected through the new Wicked Horse Vegas Fantasy app, she admitted her desire to give up absolute control to a stranger. That meant she was going to lay her body out for her partner to use in any way he chose, and she would have no say in it.
She also admitted to being fearful in her submission, and I’m surprised by how much that interests me. I have no clue the reasons behind her wanting to do this, but it’s fascinating fear is a motivator for her.
I’m shocked because I can’t remember the last time I’ve been intrigued by a woman.
Even more unusual is the fact we haven’t met yet. I’ve only seen a picture of her, and there’s no doubt I’m attracted to the petite woman with chocolate-brown hair and matching eyes. She has no idea what I look like as I didn’t bother uploading a photo to the app. I’m not hiding my identity or insecure in my looks. Quite the opposite… I know women find me incredibly attractive.
I just didn’t have time. My life is so busy that when the owner, Jerico Jameson, told me about the new fantasy service at the Wicked Horse that matches people by proclivities, I gave it a cursory overview and hastily plugged in the bare necessities of information. I did this after a long day of surgery while I was eating a dried-out bagel with suspect cream cheese from my fridge. Such is the life of a renowned neurosurgeon who concentrates on saving lives and not on proper nutrition.
My app chimes before I can even lay my phone back down on my desk, and I’m surprised when I see a return message from @elencosti89.
Okay, is all she says, and a tiny frisson of excitement travels through me.
I freeze and focus in on the feeling, which is fleeting and soon sputters out cold. Still, it’s something I haven’t felt in an exceedingly long time. It’s the reason I started going to The Wicked Horse a few months ago—I just wasn’t feeling anything. I thought perhaps immersing myself into the seedy depths of kink and dirty sex would spark something, but, so far, my orgasms there have been lukewarm at best. My interest in going has started to wane lately, especially knowing I can do the job with my hand just as well. It’s why the fantasy app held some appeal. I thought perhaps I could find something a little more tailor-made for what I needed.
And there it is. I have a fantasy hookup set at the Wicked Horse tonight. I take a moment to reserve one of the new private rooms in The Apartments, which is where Jerico used to live when he first opened the high-end sex club in downtown Vegas, atop The Onyx Casino. It’s now an exclusive, super private area the wealthy elite can congregate to live out their dirtiest fantasies if mixing it with the common folks in the other areas of the club aren’t of interest. There are three sex rooms within The Apartments that aren’t frequently used because they are closed off and secluded, and most people come to the Wicked Horse for the thrill of fucking in front of other people.
I send one more quick text to the private concierge to request rope, soy candles, and an electric vibrator to be stocked inside. That should keep me quite busy with @elencosti89.
There’s a sharp knock on my door. Before I can even grant entrance, it’s swinging open. My body tightens when I see my best friend walking through.
Brandon Aimes.
We clicked in medical school, then went into the same specialty of neurosurgery. While he focuses more on spinal surgeries and my love is working on the brain, we both settled in Vegas and founded what has become a much sought-after medical practice because of our skills. Over the years, we have added other doctors, but Brandon and I are the majority owners in Aimes Hewitt Neurosurgical Services, PA.
These days, however, my anxiety flares when I must deal with Brandon. It’s obvious by the expression on his face he’s not happy to see me either.
He shuts the door, strides to one of the guest chairs on the other side of my desk, then sits with a heavy sigh. I’m not sure if the way he squeezes the bridge of his nose with a brief closing of his eyes is for dramatic flair, but when he opens them, my stomach tightens even further.
“We have a problem,” he clips out.
“What’s that?” I ask neutrally, not quite sure what I’ve done now.
“The Harlan family has filed a formal complaint about you to the ethics committee at the hospital.” His brown eyes, which are normally warm and friendly, seem to expel frost.
My mind races, trying to remember what, if anything, I did to deserve such a thing. These days, my brain and my mouth aren’t often connected in a good way. Sometimes, I say things I later regret.
“I can see you don’t remember, so let me refresh you,” he snarls, sitting forward in his seat. “After you scrubbed out of surgery, you met with the wife and two sons, who were obviously upset Mr. Harlan didn’t make it. And you told them his brain resembled scrambled eggs and there was only so much you could do to help, but perhaps had he not been drinking and driving, he’d be alive and well today.”
Yeah… totally remember saying that. It was the fucking truth, too, but I’m not stupid enough to think that would go without consequences. As doctors who hold human lives within our hands, we have to deal with families using a feather touch.
“Goddamn it, Benjamin,” Brandon mutters as he flings himself back into the seat with what seems like resignation. “You have got to get your head out of your ass. You cannot talk to our patients that way. You’re going to fucking ruin our medical practice, and I’m about out of patience.”
I’d say I’m sorry, but that would be a lie. Peter Harlan was a douche. He’d gotten drunk in a bar, thought he could drive home, then ran off the road and hit a concrete culvert. Without a seat belt on to protect himself, he flew through the windshield and cracked his head open on the drainpipe. His frontal lobe had been scrambled by the time I’d been called in to meet the helicopter that had transported the drunk to the hospital for emergency brain surgery. It was his fucking fault, not mine.
“It’s been over a year, Benjamin,” he says quietly, but the ice is gone. Now it’s just pity and some semblance of understanding. “You have got to move on.”
I glance at the clock on my phone. One year, one month, eleven days, six hours, and twenty-three minutes. But who’s counting?
He sighs when I refuse to acknowledge anything he’s said so far. This isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation. Anything I might say to defend myself will fall on deaf ears.
Brandon scans my office. It’s clean and modern, decorated in black leather and chrome. I’m slightly OCD when it comes to neatness, and everything is pristine.
When he returns his gaze to me, he says, “You made a mistake taking their pictures down.”
My entire body jerks as if I’d been zapped by electricity. Although it’s been one year, one month, eleven days, six hours, and now twenty-four minutes, Brandon has never once criticized the way in which I’ve handled the death of my wife and five-year-old daughter.
Until now.
I sense he’s reaching his limits of tolerance with the way I’m trying to cope with their deaths. But I’m not sure if he can understand.
More importantly, I don’t even want to try to explain it. Like with most things in my life, I only have so much bandwidth available. If I’m to maintain my status as a top-notch surgeon, I have to put my efforts there. Sure, my social skills with patients have taken a nosedive, but at least I’m still fucking amazing at what I do.
If I’m given a brain that hasn’t been scrambled, that is.
“Don’t you have anything to say?” Brandon demands angrily, noting I haven’t said a word since he walked in.
I just stare at him, marveling his ire doesn’t even touch me. I don’t feel attacked, threatened, or even guilty over his accusations.
Like always lately, I feel nothing.
“You’ve shut everyone out of your life since the accident,” he continues. “Me. Your parents. Your brother. How in the fuck can you live like that?”
While I can technically sit here and listen to him rant for hours, I have some hospital rounds to do. I rise silently from my desk, ignoring the ache in my left thigh, and grab the cane I can’t even muster up the strength to loathe, clutching onto the T-shaped handle. My mother bought it for me, and I didn’t question its need. My leg still hurts if I put full weight on it for prolonged periods, so I use it all the time.
I remember how hesitant she was to give it to me. She’d had it custom made from ebony wood so I wouldn’t have to suffer one of those gaudy aluminum ones with a rubber grip. Not that I’d care.
These days, I don’t care about much other than doing my job well. It’s all I have the energy to worry about.
I walk around my desk, using the cane to support enough of my weight to keep the pain away. My orthopedic team has assured me it will continue to get better as I strengthen the leg. It’s just taking time given the femur was crushed, and I lost a good chunk of my thigh muscle. As it stands, I don’t use the cane if I’m walking around a room or a short distance, but it’s just easier to take it everywhere with me.
The weight of Brandon’s stare presses on me, but like everything else, I just don’t care.
“This is serious business with the Harlan family,” Brandon says as I move past him. I can hear him lurch out of the chair. His voice follows me out the door, but I don’t give him my regard. “You’re going to have to appear before the ethics panel.”
“Let me know when,” I reply, knowing I’m being a dick but not able to help myself.
“Please,” Brandon murmurs, and the desperation within that one word almost causes me to stop. Almost.
I leave my office, my limp only slightly pronounced since I’ve gotten so good at walking with this cane.
“Don’t throw everything away,” he says, and the warning within is clear. “I can only do so much to help you, Benjamin, but you’re making it hard to even fucking do that.”
I don’t respond as I walk away from him. I’m going to have to pay for my rash words with the Harlans. Deep down, I realize I’m going to have to figure out some way to keep my mouth shut when I get angry at patients.
But that’s a worry for another day.
