Ivory

A NineStar Press Publication

Published by NineStar Press

P.O. Box 91792,

Albuquerque, New Mexico, 87199 USA.

www.ninestarpress.com

Ivory

Copyright © 2017 by J. Rocci

Cover Art by Natasha Snow Copyright © 2017

Edited by: Amanda

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact NineStar Press at the physical or web addresses above or at Contact@ninestarpress.com

ISBN: 978-1-947904-48-4

Printed in the USA

Second Edition, December, 2017

First Edition, Torquere Press, 2010

Warning: This book contains sexually explicit content, which may only be suitable for mature readers, and depictions of toxic/abusive parental relationship, suicidal ideation, and depression.

Ivory

J. Rocci

Table of Contents

Ivory

About the Author

—IS A VERY influential woman who is a close friend of Dr. Mathews. Bradley? Are you still there?

Bradley made an affirmative noise in his throat, adjusting his reading glasses as he turned a page in the patient file spread across his desk.

I said that Mrs. Ambrose is a close friend of Dr. Mathews. Bradley, you need to secure this invitation if you want to join—

He let his mother continue on speakerphone as he studied the latest blood panel results. A little girl, age nineteen months, neuroblastoma. Her response to chemotherapy was not what he’d been hoping for, but with children especially, every cancer case was unique. He dragged one of his reference books across his desk and started flipping through it.

—that noise? Bradley?

Yes, Mother, I am, he responded absently, pulling out his sticky notes.

It’s getting late, darling. Why are you still at the office? she asked with a sigh in her cultured tones. She was nearing sixty but looked and sounded as though she were still in her mid-forties. She had guided Bradley’s father through social galas, philanthropic work, and maintaining the proper connections, and now Bradley bore the brunt of her energies as she attempted to groom him to become the chair of the hospital board.

Thirty-four years old and he had learned to rebel in small ways.

Mother, he said gently, I’m almost finished here, then I’ll head out.

Ah yes, your Tuesday dinner with Brianna, she said with an undertone of satisfaction. Please give her my regards, darling.

I will. Goodnight, Mother. He disconnected and returned the phone to its customary position under several medical journals.

Checking his watch, he pushed away from his desk and headed for the door, pausing only to return the stray toys on his carpet to the basket on his bookshelf. The pictures of patients and their families on the shelves always made him smile.

Scrubbing tiredly at his face, he strode down the hall to the elevator banks and debated getting a cup of coffee from the cafeteria but ultimately decided against it. He’d be fine.

Only one of the four night-shift nurses was sitting behind the children’s oncology station when Bradley arrived. He waved and she blushed, looking down at her desk.

Oh, Dr. Durrant, Glen said, glancing up again. Monica left a note for you on Room 342.

He slowed down. Is it urgent?

No, her parents have requested a visit in the morning, after your rounds.

He nodded. Let them know that I’ll stop by, please.

She grinned at him and he gave a halfhearted smile before continuing to the recreation room. Visiting hours and rec time were long past, but Bradley didn’t need more than the light of the city streets outside to navigate the room.

His objective gripped firmly in one hand, he went to see his nightly problem patient.

He popped his head around the privacy curtain in Room 355. Sure enough, Mrs. Lewkowski was snoring in her cot, exhausted, and a pair of bored seven-year-old eyes blinked at him from the hospital bed.

Hey there, Bradley whispered. You up for company?

Tommy nodded eagerly. Yeah. What do you have tonight?

The drugs always affected kids differently. Tommy had the worst of it in the evenings, when he’d get restless and was prone to making a fuss, which could set off half the floor. His parents traded off nights at the hospital so someone was always home with Tommy’s brother and sisters. Tommy had a clip-on book light and comic books for when he couldn’t settle down, but even with palliative care, the pain could be taxing on a kid.

If Bradley could be a distraction for a couple hours a night to let either parent rest, he considered it part of maintaining his patient’s overall health.

How are you at Uno? he asked conspiratorially, tucking himself in the visitor’s chair and ready to stay for a while.

THE NEXT WEEK, Bradley was early to Ivoire for once. He came to the restaurant every Tuesday evening—when he couldn’t find a reason to excuse himself—for a standing date with his fiancée. Same restaurant, same table, same inane chatter.

There was some charity ball Brianna wanted to discuss with him this time. He’d relented to dinner, and she’d smiled with his brother and his mother, and they had proceeded to plan his schedule uninterrupted. Brianna was the perfect trophy, and if his life were easy, he could love her.

But if he had learned one thing, it was that his life would never be easy. That wasn’t the Durrant way.

He had been using Brianna for years, and she had been all too willing to comply. All she had to do was provide the façade, that respectable façade, and he would provide the bankroll to supplement her hefty trust fund. She would keep herself pretty, and he would buy her pretty things. He would cart her around and show her off, and all her friends could be jealous she had found herself a nice secured future. All she had to do was accommodate the freak. Make him seem normal.

So he hated his life, hated himself, hated her smile and perfume and perfect manners, but never her.

Because she deserved better. She deserved someone who could love her. Not this sham. Not someone cold and torn and wondering how much longer he could drag his seventeen-hour workday out when he knew full well she was sitting at the restaurant he preferred, checking the watch he hadn’t given her, smiling at the staff who fawned over her, and never once reproaching him for his tardiness.

So for once, he had pulled himself out of his world of labs and patients and exam rooms. Bradley waited at the usual table tucked away in the back behind velvet drapes, near the french doors to the patios so that he could see the city lights outside.

Soft candlelight reflected off his glasses, broken by the thick crystal diffusing the tea light. The quiet strains of the piano near the bar reached him and should have been relaxing. He cursed the constant tension headache that had shadowed him for longer than he could remember and removed his wire-framed glasses to massage the bridge of his nose.

Dr. Durrant? A quiet voice at his elbow, confident but reserved, spoke.

Yes? He moved just his head, not really seeing the waiter standing patiently in front of him. Everyone was patient when he wore his Gucci suit and Rolex.

Ms. Beauchester just phoned, sir. She wished you to know her driver is not feeling well, and she will be delayed until his replacement arrives.

Thank you.

Is there anything I can get for you, sir?

Nothing, thank you.

A quick nod and the waiter was gone. Bradley checked his watch again and stood up before he thought the action through.

Brianna was late to the restaurant, but he wouldn’t be there when she arrived. He knew she wouldn’t hold it against him.

The night air was cool when he stepped outside, autumn whispering in the brisk wind. He’d forgotten his jacket at the office, along with his cell phone. No one would say anything about it the next day, and the night shift would call his house if there was a real emergency with one of his patients, but his assistants would frown as they gave him the morning report.

He found it difficult to care.

His feet started moving, hauling him a block away before he