Unethical

Love burns hotter the second time around…

Two years ago, the medical world was shaken by scandal, and Payton Daniels’s family was at the center of it. The second she graduated, Payton left everything behind—her high school sweetheart, her family, and the controversy surrounding her mother’s death—and hid within the anonymity of college. But Payton’s ex, Blake Hiller, hasn’t forgiven her for leaving, and when he enrolls in the same medical ethics class, she panics. She can’t run the risk of him telling everyone who she
really
is.

As if being at the same university isn’t enough, both Blake and Payton land the same internship. Forced together, their passion for each other reignites, but when Payton is asked to testify in her father’s high-profile trial, she must choose between risking her acceptance into medical school to help her father, and losing every connection to her past—including the only guy she’s ever loved.

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

Copyright © 2014 by Jennifer Blackwood. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

2614 South Timberline Road

Suite 109

Fort Collins, CO 80525

Visit our website at
www.entangledpublishing.com
.

Embrace is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

Edited by Nicole Steinhaus

Cover design by Brittany Marczak and Heather Howland

ISBN 978-1-63375-105-7

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition October 2014

To Justin, forever and always.

Chapter One

Payton

What did a homeless man, an AIDS victim, and a man in an orange jumpsuit have in common?

Well, one of them was ruining my life.

I was about to find out how the other two were connected once the professor began his lecture.

The three pictures blazed on the screen at the front of the classroom, my gaze fixating on the image of the clean-shaven man in the orange jumpsuit. My father.

I wiped my hands on my jeans, the BIC logo of my pen engraved into my palm like a fresh tattoo. In order to get through the next six months, I needed to suck it up. This was bound to happen sooner or later, especially with my major. But, as of right now, I would rather repeat gen chem the rest of my life than sit through one minute of this class.

My body tensed. Would the professor notice if I bolted a couple minutes into lecture? Before I had the opportunity to escape, he began speaking.

“Welcome to Medical Ethics 314. I’m Nicholas Centafont. In here, we’ll discuss all of the major ethical issues medical professionals have to face on a daily basis.”

I blew out a defeated sigh, took a sip of my iced coffee, and let the cold liquid sit in my mouth in an attempt to cool down. I fanned myself with the course syllabus, and my cheeks practically sizzled as the cool air hit my face.

The professor pointed his clicker at the screen, and a red dot appeared on the homeless man’s nose. “Some issues include care for the homeless.” The red dot moved to the picture of the AIDS victim and hovered over his chest. “Patients not wanting their spouses to know about medical conditions, and—”

A wave of goose bumps cascaded down my arms. What colorful words had the professor saved for my father? My bet was on “murderer” or “family-ruiner”—my two favorites. Like a sniper taking a kill shot, the red dot landed in the middle of my father’s forehead.

“Medical professionals, such as Dr. Evan Cooper, who take the law into their own hands.”

Metal from the top of the chair dug into the back of my neck as I sank lower in my seat.

Yep, Dad. You really did our family proud
. At least no one knew who I was; not even my roommate Jules.

I stared at the clock in the right corner of the room. I’d made it two minutes, only 78 more. In the grand scheme of things, an hour and twenty minutes once a week didn’t seem like much. But, as each second ticked away, my anxiety scorched through my veins like I was hooked up to an IV of acid. As if my life had turned into some sick joke, the second hand on the clock stopped.

My knuckles turned an alarming shade of white as I gripped my pen, and I resisted the urge to pull out my phone to check the time.

“You’ll have three essays, one debate, and a group project at the end of the term.”

A collective groan rumbled down the aisles of the auditorium. As juniors, we didn’t have time for so many papers on top of the lab reports in other classes. Another way the system was slowly killing us.

“I was thinking of going costume shopping after class today. Wanna come with?” Jules whispered as Professor Centafont attempted to get the remote for his PowerPoint presentation to work. He smacked it against his palm, and the presentation rapid fired through several slides.

She nudged me. “So what do ya say? You can help me decide between the Satan’s Mistress and Too Hot to Handle costumes.”

Who came up with these names? And, for the love of God, why did she remember them?

The first week of school at any college meant one thing—the beginning of the themed frat party marathon that continued until school let out. In Drexler’s case, Heaven and Hades. I appreciated the offer, since I didn’t really know anyone else on campus. I had transferred over the summer from FSU back to Northern California.

“Can’t. I have a crap load of anthropology and O chem homework,” I said as Professor Centafont mumbled and backtracked through his slides, one hand on the remote, the other raking through his salt-and-pepper hair.

“Fine, but you’re still coming with me to Heaven and Hades tonight, right? Hot guys, free drinks, what more could a girl want?” Jules waggled her eyebrows. She was convinced we could flirt our way into the party, but according to the girls stage-whispering behind us, it sounded like a pretty exclusive event with an even more selective guest list.

To stay in or not to stay in; that was the million dollar question. I needed my grades to be at their best when I applied to medical schools in six months.

“Well…” I doodled hearts in the margin of my paper, weighing the pros and cons of going out on a Friday night.

I had one B minus on my transcript. One more would ruin my chances of getting in to a top-notch school—aka Drexler, the school I had just transferred to. Even though I’d finish my undergrad here, it wouldn’t give me any advantage when I applied to their competitive medical program.

On the other hand, my body was as rigid as Kathy Lee’s Botoxed face. Fun would be good for me, and it would keep my mind off my dad.

“Pleeeeeeease.” Jules batted her baby blues at me. Her palms pressed together as if she was praying to the party gods.

One hour. I could spare one hour. Maybe two, if I finished most of my homework.

“Okay. But just for a little bit.”

Jules fist pumped and did a victory dance in her seat, her blond hair swishing across her face. “I’ll even let you borrow my angel costume from last year so you don’t have to go shopping.”

I hadn’t known her too long, but I had my suspicions about this supposed angel costume. Hypothesis: minimal fabric and maximum skin.

Zoning out the professor’s lecture, I filled in the white space of every letter O on the course syllabus.

Jules looked up from her cell phone, which she had texted on all throughout class. She tapped my desk with her pen and pointed toward the front of the room.

Professor Centafont announced our first assignment. “Your job is to write a three-page essay explaining what ethics means to you as a future health care professional.”

Well, I knew what
wasn
’t
considered ethical as a medical professional. My father was the poster child of what not to do.

My cell phone showed three more minutes left of class. Three more minutes and sixteen more Fridays filled with oodles of medical ethics fun.

Jules’s breath tickled my ear. “I bet at least half the class writes about Dr. Cooper. Seriously, who axes their wife? So cliché.”

The tip of my pen ground down the open page of my notebook, and a trail of jagged paper fragments followed in its wake.

It was one thing to hate my own father, but to have other people—especially my roommate—casually berate him erred on the side of completely effed up.

My pulse raced, the vein in my temple painfully throbbing as I shifted my gaze to Jules. What was I supposed to say to that?

“Yep,” I said, but couldn’t hide the panic in my voice. I busied myself, shoving my notes and textbook into my backpack and praying Jules wasn’t observant enough to see I was in meltdown mode.

“You okay?”

I jumped at Jules’s question like she had slapped me. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I took a deep breath.

Calm the eff down. She doesn’t know anything.

I looked at her as she studied me with an arched brow.

“Mmhmm.” Jules cocked her head at my trembling response, so I added, “Too much coffee.”

She smiled and tucked her bangs behind one ear, revealing seven diamond studs climbing her left lobe. “Caffeine jitters. I know those all too well. Sends you into a completely different dimension.”

I wished I was. One where my mom was still alive and my dad wasn’t in jail.

Okay. Locking those emotions away.

I had ten minutes to get to anthropology. In typical anal-retentive fashion, I calculated the distance from the Keller Building to the Seus Building. To my on-time-obsessed dismay, it was a twelve-minute walk. This campus was too spread out for short people—me—or as my old boyfriend liked to say, vertically challenged.

“The paper is due next Friday. Class dismissed,” announced Professor Centafont.

Thank God it was Friday, but this class sure started my weekend off on a crappy note. At least I had figure drawing at the end of the day to make up for this less-than-stellar morning.

I zipped up my backpack, holding my pencil between my teeth, and turned to Jules. “Ready?” I couldn’t get out of that classroom fast enough.

“Yeah.” She rubbed the side of her upper thigh and hip. “I think my ass fell asleep.”

“Hurry your numb ass up. We’re gonna be late.” I took the pencil out of my mouth and pretended to stab her in the butt.

She squealed and pushed me away, my right arm swinging behind me, making contact with something hard.

“Shit!” a gravelly voice boomed.

I spun around, my arm still extended, my pencil embedded in this guy’s bicep. I quickly pulled away. A piece of lead stuck out of his arm, a trail of blood trickling down his tanned skin.

Crap. I just went all Psycho shower scene on this guy.
Cue shrieky violins.

He pulled the lead out from his arm and wiped off the blood with his finger.

“Oh my God. I’m so sorry.” I opened my backpack, grabbed a wad of napkins and pressed them against his muscular arm, my gaze wandering over his body. He backed up, and my arm brushed over his steel-plate stomach. Shit, I’d break a finger if I pressed any harder.

My gaze drifted to his hair that was the right combination of bed head and deliberate disheveling, or better known as “frat boy hair.” To top off the look, he wore a pair of pink Under Armor socks with black Nikes.

He smiled and said, “No worries; everyone needs a good stabbing to start off their morning.” His southern drawl melted my knees down to a gelatinous state.

“I aim to please.”
I aim to please?
Mental face-palm. Big fat F for Flirting 101. It had been a while since I’d flirted with a guy, but, damn, apparently it had been too long
.

“Well, I think I should at least get the name of my assailant.” His lips parted to reveal perfectly straight teeth, which went along with his rock-hard abs and ripped biceps. The only imperfection on his tanned face was a faint, circular scar above his right eyebrow.

“Payton Daniels.” I looked down at my phone. Nine minutes to get to anthropology. I needed to speed walk to be a minute late.

“Nice to meet you, Payton. I’m Andrew.”

I winced as shooting pain ran up my radius. Bicep-stabbing injury. That was a new one. I massaged my wrist, digging deep into the tissue.

“You okay?” He jutted his chin toward my arm.

“I’m good.” I realized I was still massaging my wrist and slowly moved my hand down to my side.
Awkward.

He raised his brows, unconvinced. “Well, just so I can make sure you’re all right, you should come to our party tonight.” My stomach barrel rolled in response to his slight twang of the word
party
. “I can put your name on the list—as long as you don’t bring any pencils.”

Before I could answer, Jules broke in. “She’d love to!” She flashed a smile at Andrew and stuck out her hand. “I’m Jules Carmichael. Pleased to meet you, Andrew.”

For a split second, I let jealousy creep out of its little hidey-hole where it lurked deep in the pit of my stomach. Couldn’t she find her own cute guy to stab? Obviously, this was irrational. I had no claim on this guy, and she could date whomever she wanted. And from the stories she told me about last summer in Rome, she did.

Jules had this magical ability to make friends instantly, and every guy we had met this week was kissing her feet within two minutes of knowing her. Surprisingly, Andrew kept his stare focused on me instead of her.
Two points for Gryffindor.

“Great! I’ll put you both on the list. Y’all been to Alpha Sigma Sigma before?”

Alpha Sigma Sigma… ASS. Seriously? I disguised my laugh in a cough.

Jules said, “No we haven’t, but we’re looking forward to it. Nice to meet you, Andrew, but we gotta run.”

I muttered a quick good-bye as she ushered me down the aisle and through the double doors.

I was going to be spending my Friday night at the ASS house. Classy.

A thick cloud of Axe and perspired beer hovered in the air as Jules and I entered the fraternity. The beat of some rap song vibrated through my ribcage. Cardboard cutouts of clouds and flames lined the walls. Uneven mounds of sand sloped across the floor, which, as far as I knew, had no relation to either place someone supposedly ended up after death.

Water poured out of a hose duct-taped to the ceiling, posing as a makeshift waterfall. This reminded me more of the beach than heaven or hell, but who was I to argue with the half-naked men who decorated the place?

“Want a beer? I’m going to the bar to get one.” Jules motioned to the tiki hut in the corner that housed four kegs and an inebriated bartender dishing up something from a massive punch bowl.

“I’m good.” Honestly, I could have used a drink, but med schools tended to frown upon applicants sporting an MIP on their record. From what Jules told me, cops in this town passed out Minor in Possession citations faster than a frat guy chugging a beer bong.

She stuck her bottom lip out into a pout. “Fine, I’ll be right back.” She turned, and her body was sucked into the sea of skin, angels, and devils.

I scanned the room for a familiar face. Two girls from my chemistry class staggered to the bar where Jules stood flirting with the bartender.

I should be embarrassed for how much I looked forward to seeing Pencil Stab Victim Andrew. I wasn’t. I had been shut off for so long, relationships being at the bottom of my endless to-do list. But on my flight back to California a few months ago, I had made a pact with myself to live life to the fullest. Yes, grades were still important, but I also needed to
live
and enjoy life.

Andrew was here somewhere, and I was anxious to see what he was wearing, or not wearing, over those rock-hard abs. Goose bumps emerged from imagining my hands running across his bare chest. As I tugged on the almost-non-existent piece of fabric of my skirt, someone tapped me on the shoulder.