Dr. Fake It: A Possessive Doctor Romance

by Hamel, B. B.

  “I’ll leave you some money.” He took out his wallet and placed a stack of twenties on the nightstand, and placed a credit card on top of that. “Go buy yourself clothes. I think you need some, right? Since you left most of them at your place?”

  I nodded a little. “That’d be nice, honestly.”

  “Go ahead. Go nuts, treat yourself. I can afford it.”

  I gave him a look. “Are you sure? You’re not going to add this to my bill?”

  “I promise. I’m a single guy and I’ve been a doctor for a few years now. I’ve got a shitload of money stashed away, more than I need.” He laughed and walked past me, then lingered at the door. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m sure. Where should I meet you?”

  “Down in the lobby in two hours.” He checked his watch. “You have my number if you need anything.”

  “Right.” I wanted to say something else, maybe to thank him for all this—but I was still skeptical, still worried that this kindness was only another way for him to control me and take me and own me.

  He left the room and shut the door behind him, leaving me alone.

  I considered taking the money and running. I could disappear, use his card for a little while, get more cash, then ditch it. I could start a new life somewhere and be someone completely different. I could live in the desert and grow cacti in my yard, or I could wrangle cattle out in Montana, or herd buffalo, or plant apple trees.

  But then I remembered my mother in the coma, and I knew I’d never leave her alone like that, never ever. So I went in to the bathroom, washed my face, then went shopping.

  * * *

  Two hours later, I stood in the lobby wearing a brand new dress from Givenchy—a long, black evening dress with a semi-sheer pleated skirt that hung loosely down toward my ankles and a neckline that plunged almost down to my navel. I caught more than a few looks from men and felt insanely exposed, but I loved the dress, loved how beautiful it made me feel, and plus, it’d cost a fortune.

  I felt strange wearing white to this wedding, but black felt okay.

  I spotted Gavin after a few minutes of waiting. I sucked in a breath as he approached. He wore a black tuxedo, though I had no clue where he’d gotten it, and looked impeccably groomed, his hair parted and combed back. He smiled at me and I felt a thrill as his eyes moved down my body, taking in my chest, staring at me with clear relish.

  “You look good,” he said, stopping a couple feet in front of me.

  “You like it?”

  “I really do.”

  “Good, because you paid a lot for it.” I grinned at him and held out the credit card.

  He laughed and waved me off. “Keep it for now.” He offered me his arm and I took it. “Ready to get married?”

  I felt strangely sick and only nodded, not trusting myself to speak. We walked through the lobby and out front where a car was waiting. It took us down the Strip, past lights and showgirls and people, so many people, hordes of them crawling from casino to casino, existing in the always-lit, always-running netherworlds of gambling and sin and excess. I felt so small watching them live their lives, each of them unique but still melding into the collective, I felt so insignificant and absurd, at least until Gavin reached out to wrap his fingers in mine. I didn’t even realize how strange and intimate the gesture was at first until he turned to me and took a ring box from his jacket.

  I pulled my hand away. “What’s that?”

  He flipped the box open. The ring was simple: gold band with a single, gorgeous, multi-faceted diamond in the center. “I figured we need to make this realistic, right?”

  I stared at the thing. “That must’ve cost you—”

  “Three months’ salary.” He took my hand and slipped it on. It fit, though it was slightly big. “Three months’ salary for me is a lot.”

  I stared at it, chewed on my lip, then laughed at the absurdity of it all. “I love it.”

  “Good. We’ll get it properly sized back in the city.”

  We rode to the chapel in silence. The ring felt foreign against my skin and I kept staring down at it.

  The chapel itself was small, white, with a peaked roof, and an absurdly green lawn. The car parked and we headed inside. An old, fat man in a black suit stumbled out of the front door as we approached, followed by an equally old woman in jeans and a t-shirt. They hugged, kissed, held hands, and the guy grinned at us.

  “We got married!” he said, laughed, and kissed his wife again.

  She beamed at us, clearly drunk, and let the guy lead her away.

  “True love,” Gavin said, sounding wistful.

  I gave him a look and followed him inside. The interior wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d thought—a simple waiting room with several chairs scattered around and a bored woman behind the desk. Gavin checked us in as I sat down, nervously playing with the skirt of my dress.

  He came over and sat next to me. “They’re setting up for us,” he said. “Are you nervous?”

  “I don’t need to be nervous, right? Since this isn’t real.”

  “True, but it’s still a wedding.” He leaned toward me. “We’re going to have to kiss, you know.”

  I glared at him. “I never agreed to that.”

  “We need pictures,” he said. “That’s the whole thing, right? We need this to be as real as possible. It’d be weird if we didn’t kiss.”

  I hesitated but grunted. “Fine, okay? We’ll kiss.”

  “You’re going to love it.”

  I glared at him again then stared down at my shoes and wondered if he was right.

  They didn’t keep us waiting long. I had the feeling they turned these weddings around pretty fast. The officiant was a thin older man in a brown suit with a calming, easy manner. We moved to our spots and stood facing each other as a photographer moved around us, snapping photos.

  I didn’t hear a word of the ceremony. It was all a blur to me as the man droned on and on. I stared at Gavin, trying to come to grips with what we were doing—getting married, for real, a real wedding, an official marriage, even if it was happening in Vegas, even if we both agreed it was just for show—and it was difficult to come to grips with.

  Eventually though, the officiant looked at me expectantly. I panicked, looked at Gavin. “Vows,” he said.

  “Oh, right.” I laughed nervously, then repeated after the officiant, word for word, ending with, “Until death do us part.”

  Gavin went through the same thing, and seemed to enjoy himself.

  “By the power vested in me by the State of Nevada, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

  My heart leapt into my throat. It was the moment I’d been waiting for, the one I’d been dreading and looking forward to, and I wasn’t sure I was ready, wasn’t sure I could do it—but it didn’t matter what I thought. He pressed his hand against my lower back and ran his other up along my chin, into my hair, and pressed his lips to mine.

  Fireworks blew up in my mind. His tongue was gentle against mine, but not aggressive, not invasive—his taste was like honey and smoke, his lips firm and soft at the same time. He commanded me, showed me exactly how to kiss him, how to please him, and for that short moment, maybe five seconds in all, I thought maybe I’d made a horrible mistake.

  He pulled back and the “Wedding March” played. His smile sent shivers along my spine as he led me down the aisle holding my hand. The photographer went nuts, snapping shots from all angles, until we reached the lobby again—and it was over.

  I looked up at him, blinking rapidly. “We’re done?”

  He nodded and squeezed my hand. “All done, wife.”

  “Congratulations,” the woman behind the desk said. “And how will you be paying today?”

  Gavin took care of the logistics while I waited out in the car. I wasn’t sure how I felt, and I kept looking at the ring on my finger and the gold band next to it, and wondered when that had been added—sometime during the ceremony, probably—and I kept wo
ndering how this had happened.

  He climbed into the car a few minutes later and put his hand on my leg as the driver headed back toward the hotel.

  “What should we do now?” he asked. “It’s our wedding night, maybe we should celebrate.”

  “I’m pretty tired,” I said, “and we have a long flight home in the morning.”

  “True. I have to work a late shift tomorrow.” He sighed and I pushed his hand away. “I guess we can order room service and go to bed early.”

  “Sounds good to me.” I stared out the window, trying to process. We got back to the hotel and didn’t talk much on the way back up. I caught him stealing glances at me and I couldn’t read his expression, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know—I was afraid I’d like the look in his eye.

  Up in the room, I took a shower and he ordered food. I put on a pair of sweats and a big sweatshirt, suddenly wanting to look as dumpy as I could, and stared at the ring on my finger for a few moments before I decided to leave it on. I’d better get used to it, and wearing it was the best way to do that.

  The rest of the night was spent eating, sharing a bottle of wine, and talking about our lives. Despite not wanting to get to know him, I couldn’t help it, and soon he had me laughing, and listening to his stories from when he was younger. He talked about his sister a lot, about how he’d had to more or less raise her once their parents died, and how hard that had been at first—but how it’d make them really, really close. I envied that a little bit.

  When it was time to sleep, he gestured at the bed. “It’s all you.”

  “You’re not going to fight me on it?”

  “I’ll take the couch.” He sat down with a sigh and stretched his legs out. “It’s not bad.”

  I hesitated and almost invited him to get in with me, but held my tongue. He brushed his teeth, turned out the light, and I curled up under the sheets.

  I heard him breathing from the couch nearby and I closed my eyes, thinking of that kiss, and wondered what it’d be like if he crawled next to me, body warm and strong and large, and I hated myself a little bit for wanting to find out.

  9

  Gavin

  The trip back to Philly was uneventful, and I kept spinning my simple gold band around my ring finger, over and over again, picturing her lips against mine, the smell of her all over my things, the sight of her body—not in that dress, although she looked incredible in that dress, but in her simple sweatpants and t-shirt, somehow more intimate than anything else. I kept telling myself, over and over again, that I needed to keep it under control, but each passing hour made me want her more and more, made me want to push the boundaries of our little deal.

  I checked in with Fiona as Erica unpacked. “So you really did it?”

  I stood out on my balcony overlooking the city. Down below, cars rolled past on blacktop and people looked like toys. “Really did it.”

  “I have to admit, I’m surprised. I didn’t think you go through with it.”

  “How’s her mother doing?”

  “Hanging in there.” A short pause. “Still under.”

  “We’ll come in tomorrow and she’ll visit.”

  “How’s she doing? You didn’t take advantage of her, did you?”

  I let out a breath. “No, I didn’t. When are you going to drop that?”

  “When you leave the girl alone.”

  “Has it ever occurred to you that she wants to do this?”

  Another short pause. “All right, fine, I think maybe I’m being a little tough on you.”

  I turned around and leaned against the railing, staring in through the glass sliding door. I could see Erica moving around in the kitchen, pouring herself water, getting something to eat, and I watched her with a strange, wistful feeling in my chest.

  “You’re right to be worried,” I said, and quickly followed with, “but not because I’m going to hurt her. It’s a weird situation.”

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “She’s fine though. Settling into things.”

  “How much do you know about her?” She was quiet for a second and I could tell she was working herself up to something else. “I mean, she’s not… dangerous, is she?”

  I laughed and smiled to myself. “Wow, Fiona, I didn’t know you cared.”

  “Don’t be an asshole. I’m involved now too.”

  “There it is, thinking about number one.”

  “Seriously. How much do you know about her?”

  “Not a ton more than you do. We’ve talked a bit and I believe her story, and I heard those guys, so I really don’t think she’s making this up.”

  “I keep thinking about this, you know? The mafia, the whole thing. It’s really crazy.”

  “I know. And I married her last night.”

  “I’m sure it was a lovely ceremony.”

  “Only the best for my new wife.”

  She laughed a little but I could hear the tension. “I should get back to my shift.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She hung up the phone and I lingered out on the patio. I watched as Erica walked to my couch and sat down with a small Greek yogurt and put her feet up on the coffee table. It was strange, having her around, sitting on the couch, eating food, watching TV—normal stuff, but I’d been living alone for a long time, and I wasn’t used to having another person in my space.

  I stepped into the living room and slid the door shut behind me. She looked up. “How’s it going?”

  “Talked to Fiona and assured her that I was a perfect gentleman.”

  She snorted. “I’m not so sure about that.”

  “Oh? Was my conduct not to your liking, your majesty?”

  She rolled her eyes and turned on the TV. “Don’t be a dick.”

  I grinned and walked past her, heading to my room, when there was a knock at my door.

  I froze, frowning. I hadn’t been buzzed from downstairs, which meant whoever that was lived in the building, or had gotten in some other way.

  I glanced at Erica, but she didn’t seem worried. She stared at one of those Real Housewives shows—an older woman with major plastic surgery threw a drink in the face of another slightly younger woman with equally as much plastic surgery, who started crying. I turned to the door and opened it a crack.

  Two men stood in the hall. One was bald and built like a tank, the other was tall, lanky and awkward. They wore dark clothes, and the bald one had a vicious smile.

  “Dr. Majors?” he asked, tilting his head.

  It was the guy from Erica’s room. I recognized him right away, and I felt my pulse spike. “That’s me. What can I do for you?”

  I kept the door closed so that they couldn’t see inside, but the bald man stepped forward. “My name’s Alfonse, this is my associate Justin, and I was hoping we could talk.”

  I went to close the door. “I have office hours at the hospital, you can—”

  The bald man pressed his hand against it. He was strong, and I decided not to get into a shoving match. I thought I could win, but not against both of them.

  “We know you’re helping her.”

  The words sent a jolt through me, but I didn’t know why. I wanted them to know, that was part of the plan, but being faced with the reality of it suddenly knocked me off guard.

  I took a breath and opened the door slightly again. “How did you find me?”

  “You weren’t so hard to track down. Famous, hotshot young doctor. Lots of people like to talk about you.” He smiled and it seemed like he had too many teeth.

  Inside, the Real Housewives were screaming at each other.

  Alfonse arched an eyebrow. “You got some trashy TV on in there?” he asked.

  “It’s my guilty pleasure, and this is my day off.”

  “We want to see her.” His eyes narrowed. “My boss wants to see her.”

  I stared at him and didn’t move. “Tell your boss that he can come talk to me.”

  Alfonse laughed. It was more like a
bark—the bark of an angry, half-trained dog. “Shit don’t work that way.”

  “Tell him anyway. The girl’s mine now.”

  “She’s your what?”

  “She’s my wife.” I held up my hand to show them the wedding band.

  Alfonse didn’t react. I heard Erica get up from the couch behind me, heard her footsteps coming closer. I tried not to show it on my face, but Alfonse tilted his head like he was listening for something and stepped closer. I could feel his breath and see the veins in his eyes.

  “If you’re fucking with me, you will regret it.”

  “I’m a famous, hotshot doctor, remember?” I smiled at him. “I don’t think you’re stupid enough to try anything.”

  We stood like that, staring each other down, and I knew this was the moment where I’d find out if my gamble was correct.

  He let out a snort like an angry bull and took a step back. “We want to see the girl.”

  “I told you, Erica’s my wife now. If your boss wants to talk to her, he needs to come through me first.”

  “Why the fuck do you care about that gutter trash?” He made a face like he was genuinely confused. “Seriously, a nice, rich doctor like you? Why the fuck would you care what happens to some loser bitch like that?”

  “Tell your boss I’ll pay him, but he won’t touch her.”

  He shook his head slowly. “That’s not gonna fly. He wants the girl.”

  “And he can’t have her, so it seems like we’ve reached a crossroads.”

  The tall man, Justin, let out a snort and stepped forward, but Alfonse put a hand on his chest, never taking his eyes off me. I glanced over and Justin’s face was contorted into rage, so angry, so wild, that I almost slammed the door in their faces.

  I controlled myself though and didn’t move.

  “I’ll tell my boss what you said.” Alfonse sounded annoyed, but he didn’t make a move to try to force his way inside. “But I highly suggest you rethink your position.”

  “Duly noted. Now I have some Real Housewives to watch, if you’d excuse me.”

  The two men lingered on the doorstep for another moment, staring me down, until Alfonse turned, shaking his head, and walked off. Justin showed me his teeth, more of a snarl than a smile, and followed Alfonse.