Apparently suturing had come a long way since the days of the Frankenstein-like stitching she associated with big wounds. There hadn’t actually been any sutures on the top layers of skin, just some kind of glue and Steri-Strips. Once the strips had peeled away on their own, the wound healed as beautifully as Mick had promised. The hard and unnatural feeling of metal along her breastbone still freaked her out occasionally, but she was getting better about it.
It had only been four months, but Whitney had all but gotten used to the thin line peeking out through the necklines of her tops and dresses. Her coworkers didn’t even seem to notice it anymore. When she met with new clients or people she hadn’t seen in a while, they tended to stare a bit and then look away as if embarrassed. Some of them asked questions, but most didn’t dare. There seemed to be some kind of unspoken rule about inquiring about those kinds of things.
She peeled back the sides of the robe to look at the other scars marking her once-flawless skin. The bullet wound in her shoulder had healed much like Eddie’s. The incision on her belly wasn’t quite as nice as the one on her chest. Long and curved, it looked a bit gnarly in spots. She’d never be able wear a bikini without it taking center stage, but that was okay. Better to endure interested stares than, you know, death.
She laid her hands on her tummy. Her first post-shooting period had finally arrived the week prior. It had been a bit more uncomfortable than normal but over rather quickly. She’d switched her OB/GYN care to Dr. Cardenas, Mick’s friend, and liked the woman much better than her old doctor who seemed to be in and out the door of the exam room in three minutes flat. Dr. Cardenas sat with her for a full fifteen minutes, discussed Whitney’s concerns, and even walked her through the possible methods that might be required to get her pregnant in the future. She’d left that initial meeting calm and content and no longer afraid of what the bullets had done to her lady bits.
Of course, Dr. C hadn’t had a definitive answer as to why Whitney’s libido had tanked. Counseling had done little to bring that spark back. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. She got hot watching Mick and Eddie go at it like horny weasels, but then who wouldn’t? Two ridiculously sexy men bumping and grinding? Uh, yeah, she’d have to be made of stone not to get turned on by that.
It wasn’t exactly the turning on that was the problem. It was the coming.
Whitney had tried a few times in the privacy of the shower or her bed to get her juices flowing again, so to speak. She’d think of Eddie hammering Mick or Mick’s lips sliding along Eddie’s cock while she rubbed her clit or played with a vibrator. She always got wet, but then nothing happened. It was frustrating as hell and made her want to punch someone in the face.
Deep down inside, Whitney suspected it was fear. Fear her heart might short-circuit if it beat too fast. Fear her still-healing lung would burst from all the hard breathing. Fear the long-since-healed artery feeding her uterus would tear and she’d bleed to death.
Fear. Fear. Fear.
And she was sick of it. Just absolutely disgusted. Enough was enough, she decided. It was time to live again. Really live.
As if on cue, her cell phone chirped. Whitney walked over to her bed and picked up the phone. Her finger tapped the screen and brought up the text message. It was an invite to a private party at The Blue Door, one of LA’s most exclusive clubs and her favorite haunt. There were some great perks to working in the fashion industry, and super-secret invites like this were part of them.
Whitney made a split-second decision and texted back her friend. She was going to this party and would bring a plus one.
She tossed the phone back on the bed and left her bedroom. The clack of fingers dancing across a keyboard led her to the office where Mick sat behind his desk. Stacks of medical books and printed pages clamped together with multicolored binder clips covered the surface. He’d been knocking back iced coffees from the looks of the dregs in the clear plastic cups.
“Busy?” she asked with a teasing smile on her face.
Mick looked up from his laptop and smiled. He rubbed his jaw and stretched his arms high overhead. “Not anymore.”
She walked over and sat on the edge of his desk. “Any chance you’d like to blow off this study for the rest of the night and go out for dinner and dancing?”
Mick’s gaze flicked from the pile of work on his desk to her. He didn’t hesitate. “Love to.” His wheeled chair squeaked as it moved closer to her. “I’ve had just about enough of collating data today.”
“You should get an assistant.” A frisson of excitement shook her belly as Mick’s hand rode the curve of her calf up and over her knee and then disappeared beneath the hem of the robe.
“I’ve got a gaggle of interns I could rope into this,” Mick said thoughtfully as his fingers stroked her inner thigh.
“You’d be surprised at how quickly you’ll get volunteers to sift through all of this. You remember what it was like when you were an intern hungry for recognition and opportunity, right?”
“Mmmhmm,” Mick answered as his lips danced over her knee cap.
She enjoyed the sensation of his soft mouth pressing kisses to her leg but gently stopped him when he started to explore further. “Later,” she said with a hint of promise in her voice. “But first I want dinner.” She slid off the desk. “And dancing.”
“Yes, dear,” Mick said with a laugh. He shut down his laptop, turned off his desk lamp, and followed her out of the office. “May I pick out my own outfit this evening, Mother?”
“Behave.” Whitney smacked his arm. “Yes, you may but no sweaters!”
As Mick sarcastically laughed behind her, Whitney returned to her bedroom and went straight to the closet. She flicked through the hangers until she found the perfect flirty number. Black. Slinky. Ruched. The kind of dress that transitioned seamlessly from restaurant attire to club wear.
She plucked a pair of strappy heels from her shoe rack and then dug through her lingerie drawer for something sexy. Eventually, she picked a pair of cotton-lined black lace boyshorts and a matching pushup bra with padded cups and feminine lace overlay. She slicked on a layer of coconut-and-lime-scented lotion before slipping on her undies and sitting down to fix her hair. She went simple with a little smoothing serum to tame frizz and a quick blow dry to create waves. Makeup took a bit more time but not much. No watch or necklace, she decided, but definitely the bracelet Mick had given her for Christmas and the earrings Eddie had picked out for her birthday.
By the time she got around to picking through the contents of her big purse for the must-haves, Mick was standing in her doorway. She glanced over and gave him a critical once-over. He’d gone for the classic look with black pants, a white shirt, and a black jacket, double button front with a notched collar. Whitney whistled appreciatively and transferred her cell phone, wallet, keys, and small necessities-only makeup bag into a clutch.
Mick laughed as he crossed the room. He surprised her by kneeling down to put on her shoes, his nimble fingers fastening the straps without fumbling. Quite a feat for any man considering the teeny-tiny size of the buckles.
“I’m impressed,” she said with a smile.
“I’m a surgeon,” he replied matter-of-factly and rose to his feet.
She giggled. “Well…there’s that.”
Mick took her hand and led her out of the house. They played musical cars as she backed out and slid into the open space where Eddie’s truck had been that morning and Mick backed out of the spot she’d been blocking. Whitney got into the front seat and buckled her seat belt.