THE BONE DOCTOR

  HOT NIGHTS IN THE BIG EASY

  D.K. SUTTON

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

  Copyright © 2024 by D. K. Sutton

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Design: Lex Valentine

  Edited by: Abbie Nicole

  Beta Read by: Kelly and Mat

  Created with Vellum

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  More From the Hot Nights in the Big Easy Collection

  Also by D.K. Sutton

  Written as Addison Loyd

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  THE BONE DOCTOR

  When an awkward naked man with amnesia shows up at my door, I have the usual theories: alien, time-traveling assassin, lost tourist who partied too hard the night before.

  This is New Orleans, so my money is on the last one.

  What doesn’t make the list? A dinosaur shifter.

  But there’s no time to dwell because something is chasing us. And Killian—not his real name, but Sexy Beast is a little too on the nose—is willing to take on the world for me. Which is a nice change since I’m usually to blame for everything. Just ask my mother or the New Orleans Police Department.

  As we run for our lives and investigate a murder somehow connected to me, Killian’s memory returns. Turns out, time traveling assassin isn’t that far off.

  Now I'm hiding out with a gorgeous beast of a man who may or may not want to kill me. And there’s only one bed.

  Is this my worst nightmare or a fantasy come true?

  The Bone Doctor is part of the Hot Night in the Big Easy series and the first book in my dino-shifter trilogy. It features a snarky hero, a protective anti-hero, a swashbuckling four-foot pirate, and a hidden world where dinosaurs still exist.

  This book is dedicated to Jim, a tattoo artist at Downtown Tattoo in New Orleans, who told me that after a heavy rain, he walks around New Orleans and collects various things that rise up out of the ground.

  CHAPTER ONE

  BEAU

  This being New Orleans, plenty of things turn up in my yard after a hard rain. Antique marbles. Glass. Pottery. Even occasionally, a bone. But never an entire grown-ass man.

  Naked. On my doorstep.

  And it’s not even my birthday.

  The camera app on my phone isn’t doing him or those gorgeous muscles justice. The man is right there within reach. But should I open my door? These are dangerous times and all. Still, where would he hide a weapon?

  And would he consent to a search?

  Stop perving on the man, Beau, and open the damn door.

  Except…he hasn’t knocked. Weird. I slip my phone into my back pocket and prepare to meet the real thing. Months ago, I installed the camera and the various locks I’m now impatient to get through. The bolt slides back with a click, and I fumble the next one, trying to push back the memories. My furniture overturned. Dishes broken. Research stolen. And a month before, Professor Jassan telling me to keep my mouth shut. Then, getting me fired.

  The smart thing, the safe thing, would be to shoo the naked man away or completely ignore him.

  But I’ve spent five months playing it safe. All I do is work. First at my two jobs and then continuing my research to salvage my career. Those bastards aren’t ruining my life. I’m too close to give up now.

  And a Saturday morning distraction is just what I need.

  I wrench open the door, bringing in the warm, sticky air with the scents of rain, the coral honeysuckle winding up the trellis in front of my house, and this man’s sweat. Intoxicating. He’s visibly startled by the door opening but stands his ground. Cocking my head to the side, I grin. “I ordered a blond, but I guess you’ll do.”

  The man is hot. Classical face with a Grecian nose, like he was carved out of marble. Firm muscles in all the right places. I feast on his glorious body. Why not if he’s willing to put it out there? No weapons, but he’s definitely packing.

  He tilts his head and blinks. His eyes are unusual. Green with flecks of gold, or is it the other way around? The colors swirl together, and as his gaze meets mine, I’m caught in a myriad of emotions. Wild and untamed.

  And confused.

  Is he on something? Did he party too hard and get lost? Or did he rise up, like the bones, from the fertile sandy loams of New Orleans? I have many, many questions. But so far, this man isn’t talking. “What happened to your clothes, cher?”

  He stares down at himself as if just now realizing he’s naked. Raising his hands, he turns them over and touches his fingertips together one by one. Those long fingers move to his arms. His face. A sigh escapes his lips, cutting through the silence, and his hands drop to his throat. His eyes widen. “Ahhhh.” This sigh is slow. Deliberate. Audible.

  Holy Jesus. “Look, I’m not sure what you took—and no judgment—but roaming around with your junk hanging out is not smart.”

  His gaze shifts to his body and returns to me just as quickly. He gracefully moves closer, those muscles tightening and flexing, working together beautifully. Instinctually. Like a wild animal. I shake loose those fanciful thoughts.

  Get it together, Beau.

  As he steps forward, his foot catches on the doormat, causing him to stumble. I reach out to steady him, but he catches himself. What am I doing? I jerk my hand away. This man has pretty eyes and a tempting body, but that doesn’t mean I need to get stupid.

  I ignore the damn warning bells in my head. I’m too curious. Why is he here? And why in the holy hell is he naked?

  “This is why people take advantage of you, Beau. You don’t have the sense God gave a goose.”

  Those are my mother’s words, and I’ve heard them so often it’s all white noise at this point. Or maybe the soundtrack of my life, playing in the background. His hand reaches out—those long fingers—does he want to shake my hand? Weird. Awkward. My lips twitch, fighting the urge to laugh.

  Until he grabs my throat.

  “Sh—” My embarrassing sounds cut off as his hand tightens. I’m frozen. My heart jackhammering. Predator and prey. His eyes on mine like a croc ready to snap. Blackness skirts the edges of my vision, and I blink to clear it. But the eyes watching me are mostly green and clear. Not dark and threatening.

  I drag in a breath. Easily. And then I let it out.

  His grip on my throat loosens, along with my panic, leaving me lightheaded. He gently brushes his thumb over my Adam’s apple.

  I yank his hand away and gulp in air, fighting back the lingering darkness.

  “What…what the fuck?” I retreat to the sanctuary of my home.

  Close the door, Beau. Call the police.

  No, not the police. Never the police.

  His eyes widen as he holds out his hands, palms forward.

  Is he trying to calm me down? Fat chance. My heart’s still galloping and I’m gripping the door so hard the wood bites into my palm. I should shut it. I really should. But he looks…vulnerable. Concern flashes in his eyes and his mouth parts. His movements are graceful one moment and stumbling the next, like the white-tailed fawns learning to walk at the wildlife refuge.

  I’ve seen Star Man. My last boyfriend was nerdy. And I mean, beaucoup nerdy. Who plays Dungeons and Dragons every damn day? No wonder he barely lasted two months—and that was a year ago.

  Anyway…back to my point. This guy could be…what? An alien from another planet? Beau, you’re officially losing it.

  Statistically, there has to be life on other planets, so I can’t dismiss it entirely. And how cool would that be? But logic—damn logic—dictates that this guy is not from Mars or any other planet, only high on some unknown substance. But besides the confusion, his eyes are clear. He isn’t displaying any symptoms—not counting his nudist impression. No tremors. No picking at his skin. No frantic movements.

  “Ah,” he says as if testing out his voice. “Ahh…umm.”

  “Are you okay?” My hand tightens on the door, ready to slam it in his face if he tries to grab me again.

  His eyes narrow, causing a tiny crease in his forehead.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, but not like he’s really asking.

  Is he mimicking me? Well, hell. Maybe he is an alien.

  “No, I’m not okay.” I point my finger at him, glad my hand is steady and not shaking. “A naked man on my doorstep grabbed me. Not okay.”

  “I’m…” He stops and swallows. “Sorry. I’m sorry. That was not my indication.” He shakes his head, and his brows knit together. “Intention,” he says slowly, touching on every syllable.

  “Who in the hell are you?”

  He steps closer and I

back up. “Where…?” He stops and nods. Is he testing the word? Approving it? “Where am I?”

  A laugh, wild and untamed, bubbles up, and I force it back down. “Are you for real right now? I think you need to go.”

  But do I really want him to leave? My life has sucked balls for the last six months. Job after job, never working anywhere too long. What’s the point when the world is being destroyed? When hundreds of species go extinct every day? When the people you trust the most let you down or leave?

  “I am…for real.” He pushes the wild curls of brown hair from his forehead and stops, pulling his hand out and staring at it. His eyes return to my face. “I’m not sure where I am.”

  “Cummings Street.” At his blank look, I add, “Metairie. Jefferson Parrish?” Nothing. “New Orleans?” His eyes flicker with recognition. “And I suspect you partied a little too hard last night.”

  But the thing is, he doesn’t look hungover. The opposite. His skin glows with a freshness I envy. No scars or blemishes. Nothing visible. Just a few freckles across his nose. He swallows and glances around. Houses line the empty streets. Not surprising. It’s eight in the morning on a Saturday. People are inside nursing their hangovers and their coffee.

  “America?” His head tilts. “The United States?”

  My mouth drops open, and I choke back a laugh. Is he messing with me? Acting all innocent while his plan is to rob me or something. And my traitorous body heats as I think about what else a naked man standing on my doorstep might be interested in. I give my body and my visitor a clear signal by taking another step back.

  The music from my speakers flows over us as the song reaches its crescendo. I’d totally forgotten it was on.

  “M-m-music.” He steps closer, crowding me, and I reach out to stop him. My hand fits perfectly between his pecs. His skin is hot against my palm and his heart beats wildly like a startled bird. When I was a kid, a hummingbird got stuck in our house, frantically flying from room to room, trying to get out. It took me forever to free it while my mom thrashed around with a broom, trying to kill it.

  Another part of me, a part I’m not proud of, notices the firm muscle beneath my fingers. The soft smattering of silky chest hair. The stranger’s gaze turns hot as his attention focuses on me. The air around us crackles. His earthy scent intoxicates me. I flex my fingers, wanting to touch him everywhere. If I kissed him, would he taste like sunshine?

  I push down the overwhelming need to have him. Sure, the man is scorching hot. But so what? It’s chemistry. Biology. A result of using my hand for far too long.

  It means nothing. I repeat the mantra I perfected over the last six months. Don’t trust men or my body. Because they both fucking lie.

  His fingers curl around my wrist and my knees turn to jelly. His grip is strong. Protective. Any blood left in my upper body surges south. Thank the Lord, I’m not the naked one. I keep my eyes forward, resisting the urge to check his reaction. His quick intake of breath tells me plenty enough.

  What the hell am I doing? Same ol’ Beau. Easily distracted by a pretty face.

  I jerk my hand back and move out of his reach.

  “I would like to hear the music.” His eyes plead with me, but I can’t give in. Shouldn’t give in.

  I clear my throat. “First, tell me your name, cher.”

  His shoulders sag, but he doesn’t look away. The green of his eyes sharpens like a crystal while the gold specks pulse like molten lava. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

  What the hell? “Why not?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know my name. Or who I am.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  KILLIAN

  I feel like I’m slowly waking up. Not that I remember ever waking up before, but the knowledge is there somewhere. At least I can communicate now.

  My heart pounds as I search for answers. Thoughts swirl. My skin tingles and the hair on my arms stands straight up. Something is terribly wrong.

  Why can’t I remember anything?

  I listen to my body—that’s the key—but my body isn’t focused on survival or regaining my memories. It’s focused on this man.

  He’s attractive. My brain catalogs his messy blond hair, warm brown eyes, and full lips and tags him accordingly: safe. The word pops into my head, but there isn’t enough information to test its validity. I know nothing about him.

  I know nothing about myself.

  My body registers more. The scent of oranges and sweat. The way his hand settles on my chest. My fingers wrapping around his wrist. The increase in his breathing. His pulse racing under my thumb. The flush in his face. He wants me. And my body responds in kind.

  Irrelevant. I ignore my body’s demands and turn my head toward the music coming from the house. Thrumming. Pulsing. Then light. Airy. Words pop into my head and my brain accepts them as true with no resistance. Jazz. A familiar warmth washes over me, and I grasp it like a lifeline. A clue to the life I can’t remember.

  The man crosses his arms and watches me with narrowed eyes. Does he think I’m lying? Consider me a threat? I don’t sense any fear. I open my mouth to reassure him, but the words I’m not a threat stick in my throat. A string of something…memory? It floats on the edge but slips away before I can grab it, leaving a trail of unease.

  I might be a threat.

  A cool breeze blows over me, and I shiver. Right, I’m naked. According to my brain and the scorn in the man’s words—but not his eyes—I should be ashamed. But I’m not. It’s one of the few things that feels right.

  He huffs and his hands move to his hips. “What do you remember?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You must remember something.”

  I examine my dearth of memories. “Standing in your yard. At your door. That’s all.”

  “None of this makes sense, cher.”

  “Agreed. May I come in? I’m…cold.”

  The change is immediate. His body relaxes. The suspicion in his eyes vanishes. He chews his bottom lip and steps back. “Fine. But don’t try anything.”

  My lips twitch in amusement. “I promise I will not try anything.”

  He seems wary, but it’s overridden by compassion. A need to…protect? Care for someone in need? Interesting.

  The home is open. The living room and kitchen are divided only by a small counter with bright-green bar stools. Various knick-knacks, dishes, and clothes clutter the room, spilling from the mustard-yellow couch and coffee table onto the floor. Leftover pizza and cans of something called Red Bull.

  Music pours from a speaker on the counter leading into the kitchen, and I’m drawn to it. Jazz. I’m sure of it now.

  It unlocks some of the tension swirling in my stomach, leaving me lightheaded. Who am I? But that’s not important. Why am I here? In this place? With this man?

  None of this feels random.

  “Listen, cher⁠—”

  “My name is not Cher.”

  “It might be.” His crooked grin adds to his attractiveness. “How would you know?”

  Then he shrugs and moves around the room, cleaning the mess. Grabbing books, papers, and a plate containing a half-eaten slice of pizza off the couch. Once the spot is clear, I start to sit, but his hand clasps my arm. The sparks from before return, and he jerks his hand away.

  “You’re not sitting on my couch with your junk hanging out.”

  I glance down at my “junk” and back up. “What do you suggest?”

  He shakes his head, a small smile on his lips. “Hold on a minute.”

  In the hallway, he turns and glances around the room and back at me. Then he leaves me alone. Is that a safe thing for him to do? Am I a danger to him? I hate that I don’t know the answer.

  Doesn’t matter. I can’t leave. I’m here for a reason.

  Even if I don’t remember what it is.

  The urge to investigate is difficult to ignore. I want to sift through his things to look for clues. Finding out why I’m here is important, but he let me in despite his fears. I can’t betray that trust.

  He’s only gone for a moment, and the churning in my stomach stops upon his return. The sweatpants and shirt he hands me are soft. Worn. Why do I enjoy that thought? Of wearing something of his softened by use?

 

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