Dr. ER (St. Luke's Docuseries #2) Page 22

  “Now, Scott. I need you inside of me,” I whimpered against his mouth, and he groaned.

  Without breaking our connection, he grabbed a condom from the nightstand and put it on with practiced efficiency. And then he was sliding inside of me, changing my breathing with every thrust, hearing my moans timed to his body.

  Fuck, it felt so good. He felt so good. God, our bodies fit together as if we were made just for this, to fall into one another, to feel this natural rhythm.

  “It’s never enough,” he panted into my ear. “When it comes to you, I always want more. I’ll never stop wanting more.”

  “Me too,” I answered, and my words were followed by a moan as he pushed himself deeper.

  His eyes searched mine, and then, he just said it. Out loud and while we were still intimately connected, he said what I’d already been thinking. “I’m in love with you, Harlow.”

  And I didn’t fight it this time. I didn’t hold back.

  “Me too,” I whispered. “I’m in love with you too.”

  It’d been a week since Harlow and I were splashed across the front page of every gossip column in Manhattan as an item—except for hers—and a week and one day since we’d told each other we were in love. Obviously, it hadn’t taken a ton of research for the paparazzi at the municipal event to find out who Harlow was. And to say her boss was unhappy that Harlow hadn’t broken an exclusive on her own fucking relationship was an understatement.

  And, maybe even more obviously—and simultaneously surprisingly—I was deliriously happy. Me. Happy. In a relationship. Go figure.

  Harlow’s boss had given her until today to come up with something just as juicy as the story of us—or better—or else.

  I’d been trying to gently encourage the “or else” option, making it clear that I’d be a resource at her disposal should she decide to make another go of medical school.

  It was easy for the lines to blur, though, being a doctor myself. So I was trying not to push her in any one direction without knowing it was what she truly wanted.

  I’d watched her struggle to come up with something good enough to keep her job all week, and she’d texted me late last night from her apartment to tell me she’d finally come up with something.

  I didn’t know what it was, but knowing how stressed she’d been about it, and how good whatever she’d come up with had to be, I’d set an alert on my phone to go off as soon as her column posted.

  Today in the ER had been absolutely fucking crazy with three pedestrian accidents and a stab wound, but that didn’t stop me from checking to make sure the volume on my phone was turned on every chance I got.

  Still on. Still nothing.

  I was just putting the phone back in my pocket when the alert sounded so loudly I jumped and dropped it.

  “Shit!” I cursed, picking my phone back up from the harsh hospital tile quickly and flipping it over to inspect the screen for cracks. A small one ran the entire line of the center, but I could still read all the words on the screen, and everything seemed to be in working condition, so I decided to deal with it later.

  Quickly, I clicked the link in the alert that took me straight to Harlow’s page on Gossip’s website. A little thrill ran through me at the sight of my name.

  Dr. Erotic or Dr. Hypnotic?

  I didn’t really understand the title, but Harlow had been under a lot of pressure with this one, so I decided not to hold it against her too much when I teased her later.

  Scrolling down quickly to the meat of the story, I let myself fall into the article with a twinge of intimate pride coursing through me.

  Dr. Scott Shepard isn’t new to the Gossip scene, and hardly anything about him is new news.

  But you should all know by now, I’ve got the inside scoop on all of the details.

  I smiled in excitement. I hoped she painted me as a sex god. Or, as I considered it, maybe I wanted her to say I was lame.

  It might solve some of my overenthusiastic problems with outside interest. Cough, Pam, Cough.

  They. Are. Horrifying.

  He may seem like a charming guy next door, but illusion is a powerful thing.

  Entitled and used to getting what he wants, Dr. Erotic is every female’s worst nightmare.

  The closer you get, the more he reveals, and if your answer isn’t yes, that won’t stop him.

  Look out, ladies. If you don’t give Dr. Erotic what he wants when he asks for it, he might just take it.

  What the fuck? She basically implied I’m a sex offender.

  Frantic, I read on, scrolling painfully through pages and pages of a bitter diatribe about how awful I was in every sense of the word. Not only was I lacking in character and trustworthiness, she spoke candidly and expressly about my propensity not to take no as an answer when it came to women and my insatiable sexual desires, as she put it. And, as if that weren’t horrifying enough, pointed details accused me of insurance fraud and malpractice, absolutely crucifying everything I’d built as a physician.

  Oh shit. Oh Jesus Christ, why would she do this to me? Why would she make this shit up? For what? A fucking byline?

  I’d actually been expecting something about us, her little decree of don’t be mad at me for using you shamelessly last night seeming playful and harmless but telling all the same.

  I’d thought maybe she’d finally broken some details about our sex life, the real inside scoop on Dr. Erotic’s erotic moves.

  But not this. Never this.

  This would fucking ruin me.

  “Scott?” Deb said hesitantly from the end of the hall as I stood there shaking my head in disbelief.

  “Not now, Deb,” I said as gently as I could for a guy literally coming apart at the seams. I just assumed she left me to my agony until she called my name again—this time from a lot closer.

  “Scott,” she murmured in a barely there whisper.

  I lifted my eyes to hers, but they didn’t stay there long. Two security guards stood behind her. Good news spreads fast, I see.

  “The board wants to see you,” she said sympathetically. I could barely even swallow my saliva without throwing up as I succumbed to my fate.

  Just like that, I knew it was over. I was going to lose everything I’d ever had, ever wanted, ever needed, in one fell swoop.

  The job and the girl, both a mutilated mess.

  I might have been the doctor, but this blood was on Harlow’s hands.

  After a week’s worth of stress, mostly because of Stella riding my ass over the fact that I hadn’t been the one to give the personal exclusive on Dr. Erotic’s new relationship with yours truly, I’d managed to write a column I was proud of. One that actually made me smile when I read it versus my normal apathetic meh reaction I gave most of my columns.

  And it wasn’t because I thought my writing was shit; it was because I wasn’t passionate about any of it. Until now. Until this column. And I owed it all to one very important person—Scott.

  With him on my mind, I grabbed my phone off my desk and typed a quick message to him.

  Me: Did you read it? Tell me you read it and loved it! :)

  I watched the message box like a hawk, waiting impatiently for text bubbles to appear from his side of the conversation, but it never came. And before I could call him and demand that he stop saving lives and start reading my latest column, an all too familiar voice of doom grabbed my attention.

  “Great work on that article.” I glanced up to find Stella standing in the doorway of my office. A proud and even slightly evil smile plastered on her face. “I didn’t think you had it in you, but obviously, you did.”

  “You liked my column?” I questioned with a furrowed brow. This was the absolute last reaction I expected to get from her. If I was being honest, I wasn’t sure if I’d still have a job at Gossip after she read it. She’d basically given me an ultimatum and made it more than clear that if I hadn’t come up with something good, I’d be packing my shit and finding a new job.

  And well,
this week’s column shouldn’t have evoked such an enthusiastic response from her.

  She nodded. “It was genius. And devious. And I have no idea how you pulled it off, but I definitely loved it. If you keep going above and beyond to bring material like that to me, you’ll be promoted and writing only exclusives in no time.

  “I guess I should’ve known there was more to that whole relationship thing with Scott, huh?” she asked with a smile that made a shiver roll up my spine. “You’re not the type of woman to settle down with a man, but it appears that you are the type of woman who will do whatever it takes for her career. My favorite kind of woman, by the way,” she added with a wink.

  The type of woman who will do whatever it takes for her career?

  I blinked three times.

  What is she talking about?

  I didn’t even consider this job my career. It was just a fucking job that paid the bills and achieved that without giving me any sense of satisfaction or purpose. I sure as hell wouldn’t do whatever it took for Gossip.

  Something feels real fucking off right now…

  The tiny hairs on my arms stood on end. I opened my mouth to ask her what in the fuck was happening, but she chimed in before I could get the words past my suddenly dry and scratchy throat.

  “Great work, Harlow. And, for legality purposes, shoot me an email with your various sources for that article. We’re already getting phone calls from the media,” she said.

  And before I could add anything to the conversation, she strode away on her stilettos, her shoes click-clacking down the hallway with every power step while I sat in my desk chair completely confused.

  There was no way in hell she was talking about the column I’d written for this week.

  Had she run a different column of mine? Maybe one she’d saved up from a previous week or something?

  I had no idea, but it only took ten seconds for me to snap out of my trance, and pull up Gossip’s website to find which columns had run. Dead center, on the very first page sat an unfamiliar article titled: Dr. Erotic or Dr. Hypnotic?

  But oddly enough, my name sat in the byline. By: Harlow Paige

  Have they retitled my piece? was my first thought, but then I realized my piece about assisting Scott in the ER for a day taking care of pediatric patients sure as fuck shouldn’t have been titled that.

  My column had focused around the fact that, although most of the world knew him as Dr. Erotic, his patients knew him as Dr. Shepard—a talented physician who truly cared about the health and well-being of the community. Hell, I’d even gone to great lengths to get Josie and a few of the other pediatric patients we’d seen the day I’d assisted him in the ER to answer questions about Dr. Shepard—who just happened to be unanimously voted as their favorite emergency room doctor in the city, mostly because of his funny jokes and goofy smiles.

  Obviously, I’d received nothing less than adorable responses. But none of my words or the patients’ answers would’ve worked with this garbage title.

  Quickly, I clicked on the link and started to scan the words, and by the time I got three paragraphs in, I wanted to vomit.

  The closer you get, the more he reveals, and if your answer isn’t yes, that won’t stop him. Look out, ladies. If you don’t give Dr. Erotic what he wants when he asks for it, he might just take it.

  What in the ever-loving fuck is this?

  I didn’t write this!

  And horribly enough, those words weren’t even the worst of it. The article continued for another ten paragraphs and was riddled with accusations including insurance fraud and sexual misconduct.

  Basically, it was one giant clusterfuck of horrible and the kind of article that would literally ruin someone’s life and career. And to the public, I had been the one to write it.

  Oh. My. God.

  Had Scott read this?

  Well, he definitely isn’t answering my text messages…

  My stomach fell to the floor, and my chest grew tight with anxiety. I had to do something. I didn’t know what, but I knew I couldn’t just sit here and let an article like this exist.

  With shaky hands and adrenaline coursing through my veins, I grabbed my purse, hopped out of my chair, and sprinted down the hallway like a maniac—completely unconcerned with who I was railroading past.

  I had to fix this. Jesus Christ, I had to fix this.

  Panicked, I picked up my pace to a full-out sprint, and by the time I’d reached Stella’s office, I was gasping for air.

  “I didn’t write that!” I shouted through panting breaths.

  She looked up from her desk, and her brow furrowed in puzzlement.

  “I didn’t write that article about Scott Shepard!”

  “What?” she questioned. “What do you mean you didn’t write it?”

  “I didn’t write it, Stella,” I tried to explain through the thickness in my throat. “I don’t know where that article came from, but I know those are not my words. Yes, my column was about Scott, but it wasn’t this fucking mess of horrible accusations.” I put my hands on my knees and took big, deep breaths.

  With relaxed shoulders and a neutral mouth, Stella continued to sit in her chair—not reacting, not responding—and watched me have a mental breakdown. I wanted to strangle her.

  “It was a goddamn personal interest story that showed what an amazing physician he is,” I yelled. “Hell, I even had cute interviews in there from his pediatric patients!”

  A pregnant pause filled the space in her office, and it felt like an eternity before she finally said, “But that article came directly from your email to my email, Harlow.”

  “What?” I shouted. “How is that even fucking possible?”

  “I’m one hundred percent sure that you’re the one who emailed me that article.”

  “This is completely fucked, Stella! I didn’t write this. Take it off the site now!”

  She frowned. “That article is the talk of the day at every news source in the city, Harlow. You should be proud of it, not feeling guilty.”

  “Proud of it?” I exclaimed in frustration. “That article is bullshit, Stella. All of those accusations are untrue. If anything, that article is a lawsuit for Gossip waiting to happen.”

  Her brow popped up in surprise at the word lawsuit.

  I guess I’m finally speaking her fucking language.

  “Wait…you really didn’t write it?”

  “I. Didn’t. Write. It,” I responded. “Those are not my words, Stella. I sent a completely different article to your email that you should’ve received yesterday around eight in the morning.”

  “But I received this column two days ago.”

  “I was still writing my fucking column two days ago!”

  She scrutinized my steadfast gaze before muttering, “Fuck,” and picking up her phone. Her finger tapped a speed dial button, and she held the receiver to her ear.

  “Dave,” she greeted. “I need you to look into Harlow Paige’s email account. Check all outgoing messages for me over the past seventy-two hours and see if you note anything suspicious.”

  After a few nerve-racking moments, she glanced up at me with concern creasing the corners of her normally evil eyes.

  “Really?” she asked into the receiver. “Two days ago…? Uh-huh… She says the last article about Scott Shepard wasn’t from her… It came from a different IP address? Can you do some kind of search to find out…” Her words bled into a hum as my mind reeled.

  Hacked. That’s what a different IP address had to mean, right?

  It was literally the only thing that made sense.

  Jesus Christ. Who would do this to me? Why couldn’t they just send me fictitious emails about being a Nigerian Prince and needing money?

  Why ruin my reputation, and more importantly, Scott’s life?

  He was all I could think about in that moment. I didn’t give a fuck about myself or what that article could potentially mean for my career.

  I just cared about him. I loved him.
I wanted the best for him. And this, well, this fucking article that had been published was the absolute worst.

  Had he seen it? Was he okay?

  I could only stand in her office for so long before the urge to sprint to Scott’s apartment was too strong. Without another word, I turned for the hall and ran toward the elevator.

  I had to get to him. I had to make this okay again.

  But after sprinting across the city like a madwoman and pounding my arrival against the door to his apartment with my fist, when the door opened, what I was greeted with on the other side made it very clear that everything was the opposite of okay.

  It was all completely fucked.

  As the detective swung open the door of my apartment, time stood still and Harlow stood on the other side. Drenched in fresh tears and wild with sweat and anguish, she bounced her eyes off of the detective in horror, only to land on the two uniformed officers standing with me.

  Three hours since the article had made its splash in the shark-infested waters of New York City, and my entire life had been dismantled.

  I’d met with the board immediately, and while they’d been professionally cautious and respectful, I’d been suspended pending an investigation. They were keeping it in-house they’d said, waiting for any allegations from victims to come forward and looking through each and every one of my case files for signs of malpractice before making permanent changes to my position—aka: firing me for fucking forever.

  Victims.

  Chaos tortured my mind better than any dripping water ever could. If ever there was a time to be clearheaded, I’d have thought this was it. But I couldn’t seem to hold on to a single thought long enough to analyze it for fucking anything.

  After the meeting with the board, I’d done my best to keep my head high and my mouth closed as I gathered my belongings and left the premises—escorted by security, of course—of a building I’d called home for the last ten years. Sure, I had an actual apartment—I was standing in it—but I’d seen more, done more, fucking grown more in that hospital than anywhere else in my life. Ten years of one-hundred-hour-plus weeks—gone.