Mercy Love Read online

  MERCY LOVE

  A BILLIONAIRES MEDICAL ROMANCE

  LOVE SERIES

  BOOK 1

  LAUREN SNOW

  TABLE OF CONTENT

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  EPILOGUE

  MORE BOOKS IN THIS SERIES

  JOIN MY NEWLETTER

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

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

  Copyright © 2017 LAUREN SNOW

  All rights Reserved All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication / use of the trademarks is not authorized, associated with or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  CHAPTER ONE

  This emergency waiting room is teeming with the mortally wounded. From forehead gashes to busted knuckles, the injuries in here run the gamut. Most of the casualties are banged up drunks who either got in fistfights or hurt themselves doing something stupid. At least, those were the reasons I’ve heard since I’ve been sitting here for the last hour and a half. Post-Super Bowl antics. And all of this following an Eagles victory. I’d hate to see the state of things if Philly had lost tonight’s game.

  I sit in the minority here that isn’t maimed. That’s because I’m here for my friend, who actually was maimed, by a reckless speed demon in a BMW. The last I saw of her, she was unconscious and leaking from her head. Everything happened so fast. I rode in the ambulance with her. Next thing I knew, they launched her gurney through the hospital doors and swept her off to the back where I have not seen her since. Needless to say, I’m anxious. That much is obvious by my rapidly bouncing leg.

  I check my phone to see if anyone’s called me. It’s dry. Good. Because I don’t think I’m in a mood to talk. But that all changes the moment this man comes and sits next to me. I probably would’ve protested this if it wasn’t crowded. But since the seats are pretty much filled to capacity, I let it slide.

  I glance over at him and see that he’s incredibly good-looking; the geometry of his face reminds me of a model. Perfect angles, perfect symmetry. I can only imagine there’s a perfect body to match underneath that peacoat that’s protecting him from the February air. On top of that, he smells divine; some kind of expensive pheromone that makes it hard to ignore his presence.

  I notice something else, though, besides his looks. His hand is wrapped up and blood is soaking through the makeshift bandage. He’s holding it as if he’s trying to keep it from falling off. I don’t even want to think about what caused it.

  “Gonna be a little wait for me,” he says out the side of his mouth. He smiles at me to break the ice. His teeth are just as perfect as the rest of him.

  I smile in return, for politeness’ sake. It’s that smile you do when you acknowledge what someone said, but you’d prefer to be left alone. Yeah, that’s me currently.

  I feel him inspecting me, trying to figure me out.

  “You look rather healthy over there,” he comments. “Don’t see any lesions or gaping holes in you. What’re you in for?”

  Gee, he makes this sound just like jail. But I humor him still.

  “My friend. She got hurt by this idiot on the road,” I tell him. I leave it there and let him interpret that however he sees fit.

  “Was it Super Bowl-related? God, these people are animals out here,” he says, shaking his head. “Yes, the Eagles won. Whoop-dee-doo.” He twirls his good hand in the air with sarcasm. “I don’t know why folks are going crazy over the game. It was a travesty, honestly. So many bad calls. Detroit should’ve won it, if you ask me.”

  I don’t know why he’s telling me this, because quite frankly, I really couldn’t care less about football. All I care about is whether or not my friend is going to be okay after getting run over like roadkill.

  “I’m Pearce, by the way.” He extends his good hand for a shake.

  I smile and take his hand. His grip is warm and strong, and some of his cologne gets on my skin. Now I have a souvenir of him that I can carry home.

  Normally, in situations like this, I give guys fake names so they’ll get off my back. I’ve been Rhonda, I’ve been Ellie, I’ve been Shannon, even a Martha once or twice. No particular rhyme or reason; just whatever feels right in the moment. This time, however, I decide to give Pearce my real name.

  “I’m Wendie.”

  “Wendie,” he repeats, with a tinge of fascination in his tone. “Very nice to meet you. And sorry that I chose to plop down next to you, but there was literally nowhere else for me to sit, so . . . hope you don’t mind.” He laughs.

  “Oh no, you’re fine. It’s pretty full in here, so I totally understand.”

  “You’re not kidding.” He looks around the room. “Is half the city in here?”

  I chuckle. “Certainly seems like it. So what are you in for? How’d you get the—” I point at his bloodied paw wrapped in a white (now burgundy) dishtowel.

  “It’s a long story,” he replies. “One that I care not to get into. How long have you been here waiting?”

  “About an hour and a half, give or take,” I reply.

  “Has anyone been out here to let you know the status of your friend?”

  “Nope. No one.”

  “Well, let’s hope she’s gonna be okay. They might be doing the best they can for her,” Pearce vouches. “I’m sure they’ll let you know something soon.”

  I hum with doubt.

  “Soon came and went a long time ago,” I mumble.

  “What’s that?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “You just gotta be patient, Wendie. Not an actual hospital patient, but—you know what I mean.” He laughs at his own pun.

  I press my lips together to buffer the absolute cringe I just felt surge through me. Also to keep myself from bursting with laughter in his face.

  “No? You didn’t like that one?”

  I shake my head. “Corniness at its finest.”

  He laughs. “Wow, frosty energy I’m feeling from you right now. I thought I’d get at least a giggle outta you.”

  I actually do giggle once he says that. “Frosty energy? I’m entertaining you, right? I haven’t quite iced you out. Not yet, anyway.”

  “You better not ice me out. I don’t like when pretty girls do that to me.”

  My insides freeze the second he says that. I just stare at him, like a deer in headlights.

  “Did I say something wrong?” he asks.

  “No, no, you didn’t. I just, uh . . . was totally not expecting you to say that.”

  “Why not? I mean, you are pretty after all.”

  My cheeks grow warm.

  “I’m not just gassing you up either,” he continues. “I think you’re very attractive. You smell amazing. You have awesome hair.” He bares that perfect grill of his again in a smile.

  Shallow much? The jury’s still out on that. But I’ve got to be truthful. I’m super flattered by his opinion of me. Is it real, though? Or
is he just tickling my ear? Thanks to how I’ve been done in the past, I usually can smell bullshit from a mile away. And I think I may be getting a whiff of it now. I’ve seen this before from plenty of guys which is why I always have my guard up. I have to admit, though, that Pearce is beautiful. And he smells really good. But he knows all the right things to say, like he’s a veteran at this. Those are the guys you watch out for.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “So are you from around here, or no?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I am actually,” Wendie says. “You?”

  “I’m originally from D.C., but I moved here about six years ago for work.”

  “Ah, okay.”

  Awkward silence. Conversation just abruptly stops. I lean toward her.

  “Well, aren’t you gonna ask me what I do?” I laugh to keep things light.

  “Sure, Pearce. What do you do?”

  “Wendie, I’m glad you asked. I’m the CEO of an IT consultant firm,” I say. “Gemware Solutions. Heard of it?”

  “Not at all,” Wendie says. “I consider myself horribly illiterate when it comes to techie stuff, so I wouldn’t know anything about your company.”

  “Ah, I see. So what’re you into?”

  Wendie’s eyes jump in surprise. I think she took that question differently than what I intended. Freudian slip. I admit. My mind is on other things. Things that shouldn’t actually be discussed in public. I clean it up so she doesn’t get the wrong idea.

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” I clarify, chuckling nervously. “I should’ve asked what you do for a living.”

  She presses her lips together, trying to stifle a smile. Or a laugh. I can’t fully tell.

  “I do administrative support for Philadelphia Community College,” she says. “Clerical stuff. I mostly work with students and alumni in the nursing division.”

  “Hmm. Interesting. What made you get into that?”

  “Life,” she says with a dry snicker. “Was never my ideal career, but I just fell into it out of necessity.”

  “Gotcha. Well, I can kinda say the same about my IT thing. Not much of a computer guy, really, but I was nineteen and needed money. Started working for this IT solutions group and the rest is history. Now here I am, sixteen years later, running my own corporation. We decided to pick up and move our headquarters to Philly to stimulate economic growth here and . . .”

  My sentence drags to a close. Wendie nods and smiles, just to be nice, it feels like. I think that’s my cue to stop talking so much.

  “Hey, I’ll shut up,” I tell her. “I don’t mean to be a nuisance.”

  She smiles more genuinely this time. “Look, Pearce, you’re a great conversationalist and all, but honestly, I’m more worried about my friend than talking about my life to a stranger. Nothing personal.”

  “I understand. May I ask what happened to your friend, though?”

  She sighs heavily. “It was a hit-and-run,” she explains. “Me and Karlie were just coming out of a bar, we were crossing the street, and this white BMW just blew through a red light and mowed her down. Kept going. Never stopped. In the moment, I was livid that someone could be that damn heartless. And I swear to you, I wanted to chase that car down, slash their tires, bust their windows and make them eat curb. But Karlie was my priority. So that’s what kept me from losing it. Still lost it, though, ‘cause I was panicking.”

  “Wow. I’m really sorry about that. I hope she pulls through this.”

  “Thanks,” she says softly. “But what about that hand? I’m still curious as to what happened with that. If it happened because of something stupid you did, I promise I won’t judge.”

  I laugh. And just as I’m about to explain what happened, a guy storms into the emergency waiting room with fury written all over his face. His complexion is beet-red, veins streak across his forehead like lightning bolts, and his eyes are wild and ravenous. He’s ready for mayhem. His name: Kyle Kingsley. The one person I definitely do not want to see.

  “I knew I’d find you here!” he shouts with venom in his voice, immediately drawing the attention of everyone else in the waiting room. “You thought you could avoid me, huh?!”

  Adrenaline begins to build inside me. Just hold it together, Pearce, I tell myself. Whatever you do, don’t let this guy bring out the worst in you.

  But Kyle tries me. The Devil in him emerges because he gets right in my face. The stench of booze rolls off his breath and invades my nostrils.

  “So you’re not gonna answer me? You’re just gonna sit there like a little punk bitch?” He sprays my face on that last word. People are looking. My pride is hurting. Dude is embarrassing me big time. It’s taking everything in me to not lay this guy out.

  I glance at the folks at the reception desk and they’re stunned. They don’t really know what to do.

  “Hey idiot, I’m talkin’ to you!” he screams. “Look at me!”

  I sit there, trying to remain as unbothered as possible. A security guard approaches us. He grabs Kyle’s shoulder.

  “Hey, don’t put your damn hands on me!” Kyle hisses at security and snatches away. He looks back at me. “How’s that hand feel, Pearce? Huh? Still throbbing after I smashed that bottle of bourbon on top of it? You better pray there’s no glass lodged in there.”

  “Sir, you’re gonna have to leave or we’re calling the police,” security warns.

  “Arrest him!” Kyle shouts, pointing at me. “He’s the bad guy! He’s the one that stole from me!”

  The guard ushers him toward the door. “Sir, please. You’re causing a scene. We can talk outside.”

  “Pearce Ballot is the villain here, ladies and gentlemen!” Kyle screams, garnering an audience. “He’s the one that needs to be escorted out!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The people in the waiting room murmur in shock after the surprise meltdown. Security whisks the crazy guy out the door and I’m sitting here dumbfounded. What in the hell just happened? This man just accused Pearce of stealing. Stealing what, I wonder. I look at Pearce for an explanation. He’s rendered speechless, much like me.

  “Umm . . .” I swallow, still trying to register the madness (literally) that I just witnessed.

  Pearce cuts his eyes at me guiltily. His face turns red with humiliation.

  “Sorry you had to see that,” he says, scratching his forehead with shame.

  “What was all that about?” I ask. “He acted like you murdered his firstborn or something.” I turn around and look at the psycho through the window. Then I turn back to Pearce and lean over discreetly. “You didn’t, did you?”

  Pearce scoffs out a laugh. “No, of course not. And even if I did, I wouldn’t admit it.”

  “Who the hell was that?”

  “He—”

  “Pearce Ballot?” a nurse announces from the door leading to the back. She scans the room with her clipboard in hand.

  Pearce raises his good hand. “That’s me,” he says.

  “Follow me, please, sir,” she says. She holds the door open and waits for him. He turns to me, then smiles and winks.

  “So long, Wendie,” he says, saluting me with two fingers. “We’ll see each other again.”

  He stands up and something falls out of his coat pocket. Looks like a wallet or something.

  “Hey, you dropped your—”

  I look closer at the thing he dropped. It’s a small, beat-up black notebook. My first thought: it’s a player’s rolodex, probably filled cover to cover with girls’ phone numbers. I bet mine would have been squeezed in there at some point, too, if he’d kept talking to me.

  I bend down to pick it up, but before I can even offer it back, he’s already at the door. I still have time. I can run after him to return it, or yell across the room to get his attention. Then I get an opposite urge, the urge to be nosy and just . . . casually peruse its contents. Yeah, that’s what we’ll call it. Just casual observation.

  I look at the people sitting around me to make sure they’re not looking a
t me commit this heinous act. Stealthily, I slip the notebook into my coat pocket only for a moment, so as to not make myself so obvious. Once I deem it safe enough, I take it back out and proceed to examine it. Violently etched on the cover with pen are the words, “The King’s Journal”.

  At first, I carelessly skim through the pages to get its vibe. To my surprise, none of the pages are littered with numbers. That, in itself, is a good sign. So he’s not the player type that I pegged him as. I do, however, come across a couple of disturbing drawings. One is a doodle of a stick figure with half its head missing and a gun next to it. Surrounding it is a bunch of red scribble, more than likely done with red pen, which I can only assume represents blood. I feel a cold knot swell in my stomach. The next picture I see shows an angry, snarling face with sharp fangs, and a knife right beside it. The artwork quality is quite poor and basic, like a kindergartener had done it. Which makes these drawings ten times creepier.

  On the next page is a written message, which reads:

  All I want to do, God, is blow Philadelphia to smithereens. God, can you help me do this? If not, can you help me blow up the whole world? That might be better. I could really use your help. I know you have the power…

  —signed, ME

  And who exactly is me? Is this actually Pearce? That cold knot migrates from my stomach up to my throat. I flip through the pages rather quickly now, getting snapshots of some of the other horrific messages he’s written. Most of them are too intense (and bizarre) to even repeat. I land on the last page of the journal; this contains a message much more vulnerable:

  Dear DiARy:

  PLEASE HELP ME! I’m confused, I don’t know what to do… I’m scared. And I want to die. I just want it all to end, here, now, PLEASE… PLEASE TAKE ME

  My heart sinks at these troubling words. I put my hand up to my mouth and leave it there while this marinates in my head. This man needs serious help. I look at him in a totally different light now.