Page 122 of Clinically Awkward

“Because you punched Vivian’s boyfriend,” Fitz said. “And because you’re sleeping with Vivian. And because you’re the one in charge of the clinic while he’s gone. You’re basically a walking target.”

“Thanks for that.”

“Just being honest, mate.”

Hayden headed for the door. “I’m out. I’m done. I’m retiring. Effective immediately.”

“Hayden,” Gabriel groaned.

“No. I’ve spent thirty years building a respectable medical career. I’m not throwing it away because you idiots can’t go to a bar without starting a riot.”

He reached for the door handle just as the door slammed open.

Hayden jumped back with a yelp, and there... standing in the doorway, backlit by the fluorescent lights of the hallway, dressed in an immaculate navy suit with a perfectly knotted tie and not a single hair out of place, was Julien Darcy.

His face was calm.

Too calm.

The kind of calm that preceded volcanic eruptions and natural disasters.

His eyes swept over the room, taking in the newspaper on the table, our bruised faces, our guilty expressions, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet.

Dangerously quiet.

“Everyone out,” he said. “Now.”

Nobody moved.

Nobody breathed.

“Now,” Julien repeated firmly, as my so-called best friends and the love of my life ran from the room as if their asses were on fire.

And I realized with absolute certainty that I was about to die.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Quinton

The door clicked shut.

Not slammed. Not banged. Clicked. With the kind of precision that suggested Julien had calculated the exact amount of force required to close a door without appearing aggressive while still communicating imminent death.

I was alone. In a conference room. With Julien Darcy.

Who was… smiling?

Oh God.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

This was it. This was how I died. Not in a dramatic surgery gone wrong, not in a heroic rescue attempt, but murdered by my best friend in a beige conference room that smelled faintly of stale coffee and broken dreams.

The smile wasn’t normal. It wasn’t the “hey, good to see you,” smile or the “that’s a funny joke,” smile or even the “I’m being polite to a patient’s family,” smile. It was the smile of a man who had finally snapped. The smile of someone who had reached the end of their rope, tied a noose, and was now deciding whether to use it on themselves or someone else.

Spoiler alert: he was going to use it on me!

“Julien,” I said carefully, my voice coming out higher than intended. “You’re back early. How were the triplets? Did you⁠—”