Dr. ER (St. Luke's Docuseries #2) Page 4

  By the time I’d remembered to track down my sexy mystery woman’s name, it was half past four in the morning, and the result wasn’t what I was expecting at all.

  A woman as witty, antagonistic, and drop-dead hot as she was should not be named Frances.

  Jesus. Frances. No wonder she hadn’t wanted to give me her name.

  But even with a name that should be left in the corner and five hours of surgery time to get over her, I was still interested—a reality even I found surprising.

  Unfortunately, four numbers into copying down her phone number—a practice that was actually highly illegal—Deb stole the file back and threatened to castrate me in my sleep if I looked Frances’s information up again.

  Something about a Hippocratic Oath and patient confidentiality, and then another little bit about what a manwhore I was.

  She wasn’t far off on any of it, especially the bit about it being morally, ethically, and legally wrong. So, as a way to cope, I’d called up three of my not-even-remotely close friends, Hilda, Brenna, and Esmeralda, and strolled over to Club Indigo for a night out of drinking, dancing, and sex.

  Of course, that was only my surface reasoning, as good as it was. I was really here, at this club, on this night, because Pamela Lockhead was too.

  Mysterious, right?

  Assistant to the assistant of the mayor or something equally ridiculous, Pamela Lockhead was also young, impressionable, easily swayed by good flirting and appropriately placed dirty talk, and liked this club on Thursday nights—or so I’d heard.

  As far as I could tell, she was the most direct route to the mayor.

  I’d been working this connection for months, trying to get a meeting with him. I know it seems a little cliché to be making this huge outcry about public health policy—and a little ridiculous to be chatting up a few women as a means to do it—but changes to the current policy and protocol the last administration put in place as a Band-Aid were absolutely vital, and I was willing to work with what I had. And I, Scott Shepard, had the ability to flirt like no other. Initially, I’d tried to go through the proper channels. I’d met with several heads of emergency departments from other hospitals here in the city, and eventually, even approached a lobbyist group known for targeting health care reform. Just being in contact with that many politicos made me itchy. And in the end, it hadn’t moved fast enough for my interest anyway. The only option was to return to what I knew—malleable women like Pamela Lockhead.

  I knew it sounded terrible, but I’d seen the effects of political shortcuts to public health up close and personal on, unfortunately, several occasions now. Terrorism and other public attacks were the unwelcome way of our current world, and that kind of medical emergency added an angle to our procedure that we weren’t properly prepared for. Short on funding, training, and an appropriate list of priorities, the policy had been built on paper, for looks rather than for implementation. Quite frankly, it tied my and other professionals’ hands in ways that occasionally prevented us from actually administering care when the public was in need. And to me, that was unacceptable.

  I wasn’t thinking of running for office or anything—don’t worry. They’d fucking crucify me in a court of public opinion. But as the guy in charge of saving lives at St. Luke’s Hospital, I wouldn’t mind a little fucking help from the law doing it. At the very least, finding a way to avoid having it work against me.

  And, as I sat here tonight with Bippity, Boppity, and Bimbo Barbie, I’d never felt my sacrifice was greater. Hopefully, Pamela was witty enough to give me a little verbal sparring as conversational foreplay at the very least.

  I wasn’t actually planning on sleeping with Pam to get to the mayor, just spending a little time making her feel good—emotionally—by tending to her ego and flirting the line with inappropriate in an effort to secure an ally on the inside. My morals and boundaries are mostly questionable, but I usually start out with the best of intentions.

  Flirting in the name of public health isn’t a crime, is it?

  While Brenna blew in my ear like a gnat, I watched Pam weave through the crowd on her way to the dance floor, separating from the women she’d come with and making coy glances at any and all eligible men around her.

  She was primed, in search of male company, and ready to give in to the first guy who showed her interest. Now was the time to make my move.

  Up and off of the sofa, I winked at my company and gestured to the dance floor. One of them made a move to follow me, but I shook my head.

  No, no, sweetheart. You stay here. Scotty’s got some work to do.

  Pam had short, dark, cropped hair and a dress a size too tight to be sophisticated, and I lasered in on my target and prowled. I had to give myself a short mental pep talk to dial up the charm. Normally, this was the epitome of my scene. Flashing lights, writhing, dancing bodies, too tight clothes, and women who were more than willing to loosen their inhibitions.

  But tonight didn’t feel the same, and I wasn’t sure if it was the game, the long chase, or the fact that no one seemed as interesting as Bleeding Woman anymore. Which, to be honest, probably had a lot to do with the challenge she presented.

  Nonetheless, I shook off any and all uncertainty and tapped Pamela on the shoulder. As much of a flirt as I was, I had a rule of thumb about physical contact.

  Never touch a woman with any form of intimacy until she consents—and no one can consent through the back of their head.

  But as soon as she turned around and surveyed me, it was a different story. I was up to her standards, possibly even exceeded them, and she made her interest more than a little visible by plumping up her lips and thrusting her chest forward to garner attention.

  “Hi,” I greeted, leaning in to the shell of her ear to tackle a multisensory approach. She shivered as the air from my hot mouth made contact with her clammy, post-dance-exertion skin.

  “Hi,” she purred back, kicking her hips slowly back and forth to the building beat of the club remix of “Believer” by Imagine Dragons.

  I held out a hand in an offer to shake, but she rejected polite pretense, grabbing it and placing it on her swaying hip. I smiled. This might be even easier than I thought.

  “I’m Scott.”

  She smiled and pushed her body into mine, forcing me to move to the same sexy beat. “Pamela.”

  “Hi, Pamela.”

  “Hi, Scott.”

  Internally, I laughed. It was really fucking sad how ridiculous these conversations actually were.

  “You look familiar,” she said. A twinge of discomfort flared in my stomach before I tamped it down. I wasn’t sure if being known as Dr. Erotic of reality show stardom would be a good thing or a bad thing as far as getting a meeting with the mayor was concerned.

  “Oh, yeah?” I asked, unwilling to offer up any unnecessary information. “Been to the hospital lately?”

  “That’s it!” she chirped, snapping her fingers right in my face. Here we go. “You’re that doctor that Harlow Paige wrote the article about.”

  Okay. There were at least two things in that statement that weren’t at all what I was expecting.

  Article? I was thinking TV show.

  And who the hell was Harlow Paige?

  “Huh?” I asked eloquently. Really, I was doing a stellar job executing my plan so far.

  “Harlow Paige at Gossip. She just wrote an article about you. Dr. Erotic, right?”

  “Yeah,” I admitted, not recognizing one word about the article, but I was completely familiar with the nickname.

  “Did she say nice things?” I asked teasingly, trying to bring the conversation back around to something that would get me somewhere. Pam shook her head with a smile.

  “Not really. Apparently, you’re a great flirt but terrible with commitment.”

  Fuck. This was going somewhere, all right, but not at all where I wanted. Though, this article sounds pretty fucking accurate.

  I racked my brain for the answer, for what I could say to chan
ge her mind about whatever she was convinced I was like, so I’d have enough time to win her over, to make her an ally, to—

  “So, you want to get out of here?”

  Wait…what?

  I laughed to myself and nodded before I could think twice about it. “Yeah, Pam. Yeah, I do.”

  God bless women wanting things that are bad for them.

  What? I told you I always start out with the best of intentions.

  But I was a single guy, and Pam was an attractive, willing woman who seemed pretty well informed on the score. Whoever this Harlow Paige was had given Pam the speech for me.

  Who said a little work couldn’t lead to a lot of play?

  I never thought I’d witness a woman feeding Fritos to a small hamster hiding inside of her purse in public, but I guess I’d severely underestimated the glorious people watching opportunities on the subway.

  Because that happened. Actually, it was still happening.

  As the subway slowed to a stop, I glanced up at the sign on the platform, and quickly realized I still had six more stops to go. And for the first time in my life, I wasn’t disappointed by this fact. I had Hamster Lady, and she apparently had enough Fritos inside of her pocket to put her little rodent buddy into a food coma.

  The train’s doors shut, and its wheels squealed as it picked up speed, down the dark tunnels of the city toward the next stop. All the while, the rodent lover sitting across from me pulled another Frito out of a clear, plastic sandwich baggie and held it toward the opening of her purse.

  Her miniature, furry—and possibly infected with rabies—pal looked up at her as she looked down at him, and they shared a little moment before he grabbed the Frito with two hands and started chowing down on the salty goodness until it was completely gone.

  I swear to God he smiled once he was finished, and even though I’d never been a fan of anything that resembled rats, I was fucking mesmerized by the tiny disease incubator.

  Before I could witness him munch on Frito number three, my phone buzzed inside my pocket and grabbed my attention.

  Amanda: Look, I know I’m a little late to the party here, but please forgive me. I’ve been busy since the second I stepped off the plane. Managing an international PR tour ain’t exactly easy. It’s a fucking pain in my ass. Anyway, I just read your column about Dr. Erotic. Fucking tell me that he’s the one who stitched your sex wound!

  Sex wound? I grimaced. She made it sound like I’d obtained an injury to my vagina, not my forehead.

  Amanda had only been gone for a few days, and already, I missed the hell out of her. But, with that being said, I never revealed my inside sources. Even when they were me.

  Me: My lips are sealed. I will never give up my sources.

  Amanda: You’re such a fucking tease. And I know it was you! OMG! I can’t believe he was your doctor in the ER! I love his episodes so, so, so much. So sexy and fun. God, you should’ve boned him. Please, Please, Please…,Make my year and tell me you boned him.

  Me: Seriously? You honestly think me having sex with Dr. Erotic was even an option after my earlier bone from the evening had been the reason I was in the ER in the first place? What kind of floozy do you think I am??

  Amanda: Hmmm… what’s the rule on double boning in one night?

  Me: Same guy = Awesome. Different guys = A little too loosey-goosey for me.

  Amanda: Yeah, but there has to be an exception for this case, though. The first bone wasn’t a full bone. Pretty sure that makes it a null and void bone. Which means, you could’ve boned Dr. Erotic with a clean slate for the night.

  Me: Your last text bone count = 4. That’s a lot of bones, dude. It appears to me that someone is jonesing for the penis. Probably of the Spanish variety…

  Amanda: Shut up. I do not want to bone my client.

  Me: Liar.

  She was full of baloney on this one. Pretty much every woman in the world saw Mateo Cruz and immediately thought, muy caliente. With a voice like honey and a face like sin, everyone wanted to get inside the pants of the next big thing in the music industry. Including my best friend, even though she refused to admit it.

  Amanda: And don’t think I didn’t notice you basically admitted that Dr. Erotic took care of you in ER. Did you at least get his number so you can bone him after you’ve fully recovered? Which, pretty sure you should be good to go by now…

  Me: Leave me alone. Go bone your Spanish client.

  Amanda: I don’t bone my clients!

  Me: Then go find someone to bone so you stop talking to me about boning. Anyway, I actually do have to go. I have an appointment in like ten minutes.

  Amanda: An appointment to bone Dr. Erotic?

  Me: Stop saying bone.

  Amanda: I bet Dr. Erotic has nice bones…

  Me: That doesn’t even make sense.

  Amanda: I meant BONERS. I bet he has nice boners. I know they say the eyes are the window to your soul, but I’m pretty sure Dr. Erotic’s eyes are the windows to his penis. A man with those gorgeous fucking brown eyes, and who looks the way he does, has to have an ah-mazing penis.

  She had a bit of a point. Scott Shepard’s eyes were like ooey-gooey chocolate morsels that contained the power to make any woman melt. But I didn’t need to add fuel to the already burning fire of penis metaphors. I had to change the subject.

  Me: What about Mateo? Shouldn’t you be servicing his penis right now under the pretense of “PR”?

  Amanda: Shut up.

  Me: You’re totally going to go for a ride on the Spanish stallion. I know it.

  Amanda: I miss you. But you’re an asshole. He’s my client. Business and BONE-ING do not mix.

  Business and Bone-ing… Real fucking clever…

  Me: Just couldn’t help yourself, huh?

  Amanda: Nope. :)

  Instead of simply putting my phone back in my pocket, I turned it off and then put it in my pocket. Otherwise, I would’ve received no less than ten more text messages about bones and boners and Dr. Erotic.

  Plus, I didn’t want to be in the middle of my doctor’s appointment while my phone lit up with “bone” texts.

  Forty minutes later, I was sitting patiently on my doctor’s exam table while he gently assessed the stitches on my forehead with gloved hands.

  “These healed very nicely,” he said with a little nod of approval.

  At the young age of seventy, Dr. Barry Williams had been my doctor for my whole life. From diaper rashes to upper respiratory infections to that time I’d managed to catch the flu when I was twenty-one, this guy had been privy to it all.

  “How did you manage this one, by the way?”

  “Uh…” I searched for a sugarcoated version of my sex injury. Dr. Williams was also a good family friend and golf buddies with my dad. The last thing he needed to hear was that my date had basically fucked me into his glass headboard. “Just a clumsy moment, I guess.”

  He quirked an amused brow. “Was alcohol involved during this clumsy moment?”

  I wish there had been more… “Of course not, Dr. Williams,” I lied. “You know I’m a good girl who stays on the straight and narrow.”

  A barking laugh left his lips. “Yeah, and I’m one nomination away from being the next Democratic candidate for President.”

  “You are?” I feigned gullibility, and he smirked.

  “I’m guessing you don’t want to tell me what really happened because you’re afraid I’ll tell your dad?”

  “I know you’ll tell my dad,” I retorted, and his smirk turned into a full smile.

  “You’re just going to feel some tugging as I pull these out, okay? It might feel a little strange, but it shouldn’t hurt,” he instructed as he started the removal process.

  I nodded and shut my eyes in preparation. Even if it wasn’t supposed to be painful, it still wasn’t fun having a doctor remove fucking stitches from your head.

  “Whoever did these did a fantastic job. You’re probably not even going to have a scar once it’s fully h
ealed,” he updated as he tugged gently on the sutures, and I grimaced from the odd sensation.

  “It was Dr. Shepard at St. Luke’s.” I opened my eyes as I spoke. He focused as he finished up.

  “Wait…” He quirked that brow again. “The ER doc that’s on that reality show?”

  “Yep. That’s him.”

  “My wife loves that guy,” he muttered. “She never misses an episode. Every Tuesday night she’s in front of the TV waiting for that stupid Dr. Erotic.”

  I giggled. “He’s quite the character. A lot of women love him.”

  “Uh-oh…You think I should be concerned?” he teased, and I shook my head.

  “Nah,” I responded with a smile. “You’ve got that older distinguished gentleman thing going for ya. Plus, you’re a hot doctor too, so I think your marriage is safe.”

  “Thank God,” he joked and set his instruments on the metal tray beside the exam table. “There. All set, Harlow. It healed nicely and shows no signs of infection, but just keep an eye on it over the next few weeks and give me a call if you have any issues,” he instructed and headed toward the counter to scribble something down on my medical file.

  “Okay. Sounds good.” Tingly needles shot up my legs as I jumped down from the exam table and came to a jarring stop on the ground. Ow. Twenty-nine years young and already ailing. I was going to be fucked when I got older.