I shouldn’t be here.

I knew it was going to take some time for me to adjust to being here, but this fucking sucks.

The spotlight feels hot on my skin, and I have to squint to even see anything. I thank a bunch of names from a list Dad gave me, then grab my shiny award and walk down the stage as strangers clap their hands.

A few doctors and their partners at my table hold out their hands as I take my seat, offering their congratulations.

What do they care, though?

They don’t even know me. All they know is I’m my father’s son, and they want to kiss his ass.

I’d say I don’t deserve this award if I thought it meant anything. These events are just gimmicks made up by people who want to stroke each other’s egos and inflate their own credentials.

I used to like going to these events, but that was back when I was younger. A lot younger. Before The Incident happened and changed everything.

Back then, I treated this annual event like a hunting ground.

I was just a med school student back then, but my dad was already one of the most important people in the business, so that made me look good to the social-climbing types. Some girls had families that would’ve killed to be connected to a name like mine.

As I scan the hall tonight, I couldn’t care less about the women. Sure, some of them are pretty. But they’re also either heartless, high-powered medical professionals or brainless, money-grubbing gold diggers.

I’ve had enough of these people.

I excuse myself from the table and push open the door leading onto the big balcony. As I walk toward the edge, I wonder if I could just keep walking and never come back. But I’ve already told my dad I’m staying, at least for a short while.

I reach the concrete balustrade and turn around. I can see the banquet hall just fine from here, through the glass inserts in the row of French doors lining the wall. I’ll just slip back inside when it’s over.

Some of Dad’s friends probably want to shake hands with me or something. And even though Dad was the one who chose to sit with his important friends at one of the tables at the front, he’ll be annoyed if he couldn’t find me at the end of the event.

I pull out a cigarette and hold it between my lips.

I don’t smoke as much as I used to. But now that I’m back home, I need a little help coping.

I flick open my Zippo and strike down on the wheel.

Let there be light.

I inhale deeply, inviting poison into my lungs and throughout my body.

It tastes strange, this Marlboro Red. It’s the same brand I’ve always smoked, but there’s a subtle difference between this and the ones in Africa.

Have I made the wrong decision?

I’ve gotten used to my life over there. I’ve lived there for eight years. Almost a decade. That’s about a quarter of my life.

Sure, life is easier here, so it’s not like I’m going through torture. And like Dad said, things are only going to get better.

I have a bright future and I’m on track to earn more money than 99% of the American population. Nobody’s going to play a sad tune and cry for me.

But I wonder if it’s going to be enough.

Maybe that sounds ridiculous, considering how much I have. But it’s not about money.

I had enough, back in Africa, even if there was less money. I was helping people, which admittedly is an inherent part of being a physician, but I was helping those who couldn’t get help from anybody else. It meant something.

But maybe I’m too quick to dismiss the rewards of being an American doctor.

I’ve already promised Dad I’d at least try on this life for size, in exchange for his sizeable donation to my preferred charity.

Besides, I’ve been working hard to keep up with the American standards in medicine, going through countless certification examinations, all so I’d be able to come back and work here.

So I might as well give this a good shot.

But as I glance at the sorry faces that have joined me on the balcony… I’m not hopeful.

They look depressing, these pasty, overweight, middle-aged men who are starting to light up their cigarettes and make small talk with one another. I feel like Ebenezer Scrooge, being visited by The Ghost of Christmas Future. If staying here is going to turn into one of these people, I’d rather take off again.

I start to turn around to avoid being pulled into some inane conversation, but the sight of a stunning woman stops me in my tracks.

How did I not see her before?

She’s got hair so fair it’s almost white. It’s glowing under the pale moonlight. She’s like an angel… except an angel wouldn’t look so sinfully tempting.

In her red dress, she stands out like a flower against the backdrop of the white balcony and the black suits of the men who have come out to smoke.

They have noticed her, too. In my peripheral vision, I can see heads turning and eyes staring at that absolute knock-out.

She’s sexy as hell, in a classy, red-carpet way. Her dress shows just enough of her curves to keep me wondering what else is under there.

The fabric wraps beautifully around her narrow waist and lets a hint of her smooth, creamy cleavage peek out. I can almost see the flare of her hips, but the dress also widens at that point, letting my imagination fill in the rest of the picture.

She looks like the perfect forbidden fruit.

I want to drag her into bed, peel that dress off her body, and see if my imagination matches the reality. Then, I’d spread those toned legs and bury myself balls deep inside her.

But getting entangled with someone here, before I decide whether to stay or to go, would be a disaster.

But this girl.

Just one look and I’m almost ready to throw away everything to have a taste. There’s something almost familiar about her, which is strange, because I’d remember meeting someone like her.

Before I can do anything stupid, I turn around and look out into the distance. The view from up here isn’t bad.

We’re on the roof of one of the oldest, most established hotels in San Francisco, and we’re looking out into the open ocean. These old buildings have the best locations.

Waves lap at the sand below and a light breeze cools my lust. With a cold shower out of the question, this is my best bet at keeping myself under control.

But I can still hear those sexy, sexy steps.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack. Click.

I can’t help but visualize those shapely legs and those dainty feet, getting closer and closer. Bolder with every step.

If that temptress gets within my arm’s reach, I don’t know what I’ll do to her. I definitely can’t promise I’ll be a gentleman.

If she knows what’s good for her, she’ll stay away.

“Excuse me,” a soft, feminine voice says from behind me.

Last time I checked, she was the only woman on the balcony. And I’m the only person in this corner of the big balcony.

I gave her a chance to walk away, but she didn’t take it.

That’s it, angel. You’re mine tonight.