by Kimberly Fox
The Best Medicine
Kimberly Fox
By Kimberly Fox
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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Contains explicit love scenes and adult language.
18+
www.AuthorKimberlyFox.com
Cover Model: Jake Roberts
Photographer: James Critchley
Proofreading: Beverly Bernard
Cover: Kimberly Fox
Copyright© 2017 by Kimberly Fox
Contents
About The Best Medicine
Preface
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
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
Chapter One of Well Hung Over in Vegas
Chapter Two of Well Hung Over in Vegas
Chapter Three of Well Hung Over in Vegas
About The Best Medicine
I treat my female conquests like I treat my motocross stunts—I never stop trying until I nail them.
Madison
When Shane Winters rolled into my ER, I knew I had to save him.
I had an obligation to the human race to save the motocross star. He was too beautiful to have his DNA eliminated from the species. He had to reproduce.
For the sake of all humanity.
I fixed his back, but unfortunately there’s no cure for a dirty mouth, and Shane Winters likes to use his. A lot.
But now that he’s safe and healthy and constantly hitting on me, the only thing I want to do is put him back in a coma.
I’ve always had one strict rule as a doctor: don’t get close to my patients.
But Shane is teaching me so much.
I’m learning that a hospital gown can look sexy, that a medical exam can be erotic, and that a hospital cafeteria can be as romantic as a five-star restaurant.
So yeah, all kinds of rules are getting broken with Shane.
I just hope that my heart and my career don’t end up in pieces.
From Best Selling Author, okay let’s be honest, Moderately Selling Author Kimberly Fox comes a sexy, new standalone romantic comedy.
Preface
Confession.
I’m not a doctor. I turn as green as the Hulk when I see blood, but instead of getting super strength and invulnerability, I usually just get weak in the knees and pass out.
I once fainted after getting a paper cut (to be fair it did look like a sword wound) and hit my forehead on the kitchen counter on the way down to the floor (unfortunately that’s a true story).
I’m the mom whose kids end up comforting her whenever they have a skinned knee.
I say all of this because the following story takes place in a hospital. In college, I did not spend sixteen hours a day hunched over dozens of dusty medical textbooks and studying like a mad woman. So, there may be some medical inaccuracies throughout. If you want a realistic portrayal of keg stands, sleeping through classes, and getting a 2.1 GPA, then I’m your girl, but this medical stuff is a little over my pay grade.
Now, I did do a lot of research to try and make this book as accurate as possible. I read a few dozen medical articles that gave me the irresistible urge to crawl under my desk, curl up to my pug, and take a nap. I went through horrific Google Image searches of injuries that almost made me call up my service provider and cancel my internet, and I spoke with a few doctors hoping to find my own Dr. Dreamy, but the best I could find was Dr. Krispy Kreemie (who looked like he had a few too many donuts throughout his career).
So, enjoy the book, but do not take any of the information inside as actual medical advice because if you do, you will surely die.
However, you can use the sexual advice inside. I am an expert in that!
Kimberly Fox
Chapter 1
Shane
“You absolutely have to nail this last course,” my manager Christopher says as I climb onto my dirt bike.
I take a deep breath to calm my excited nerves as I grip the throttle and squeeze it. Christopher is right. I fucked up the last landing in the semi-finals when my bike slipped in the mud, and if I want to win the Freestyle Motocross gold medal, I have to do something big.
Something only a lunatic would try.
Good thing I’m the right kind of crazy.
We’re at the EXXXtreme Motocross Championship, the biggest event in Freestyle Motocross, and this year I’m determined to go home with the medal. I finished second last year, and it’s still a sore spot with me. I’m not going to fail again.
Christopher is biting at his lips as he looks up at the clock. “They’re about to announce you,” he says, blinking rapidly.
I’m the one about to risk my life doing insane acrobatic stunts on a dirt bike in front of forty thousand people watching in the stadium and another million or so watching at home, and he’s the one who’s nervous.
“Relax, C,” I say as I slip on my helmet. “I got this. I’m going for it.”
“For what?” Christopher asks as his face goes pale. “Shane?”
I give him a playful grin as I lean back, completely relaxed. This is my moment. I’ve got this.
“The Kamikaze Twister. I’m going to do it.”
Christopher rubs his sweaty forehead as he closes his eyes, trying to calm his nerves with deep breaths. I’m his only client, so if this goes bad for me, it’s going to go bad for him too.
“Shane,” he says, sounding breathless. “You’ve never landed it once in practice.”
I grin as I look past him to the huge crowd of people in the motocross stadium. The flashes of cameras, the big screen, the energy of the crowd—it’s all making me that much more sure of myself. If I can do it anywhere, it’s going to be here in Seattle, the city I live in.
“This is not practice,” I say, feeling more confident than ever. “This is where dreams come true.”
“Shane,” he says as I slap down the visor on my helmet. I rev the throttle, drowning out his negative words with the rumbling sounds of my motor.
I know I can do this. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for my whole life. The moment where I test myself to see what I’m really capable of. If I pull it off, I’m a hero. If I don’t, I might be leaving here in a body bag.
“Make a big Seattle welcome for Shane Winters,” the announcer hollers through th
e stadium speakers. The crowd roars as I ride up to the starting line to complete the last tour of the night.
I’m competing in the Sexy Six. I have to perform six aerial tricks, and the rider with the best scores on style, level of trick difficulty, and crowd reactions wins.
I ride to the top of the ramp and grin as I look at my picture on the huge jumbo screen. I’m soaring through the air at last year’s competition in the middle of a Fender Grab, my signature move. Until now.
Next year’s competition will have a picture of me completing the Kamikaze Twister—the insane move that’s going to win me the gold medal.
The crowd is going nuts as I take one last breath and drop down the dirt ramp with every cell in my body on full red alert.
Adrenaline is pumping through my veins like a broken fire hydrant, but I’m in perfect control as I hit the first jump and complete my signature move, the Fender Grab. The crowd goes nuts as I land it easily and turn toward the second ramp.
I whip around the course, nailing each landing after soaring through the air and twisting my body like a pretzel.
I can hear the crowd over the pounding in my ears as I line up for the last ramp.
“Let’s do this,” I mutter to myself as I take off at full speed, about to complete my destiny.
I hit the ramp at a breakneck speed, flying up the steep incline as I grit my teeth. It’s the last jump. The time to lay it all on the line and win the gold.
My knuckles are burning as I crank the throttle to the max on my way up. The crowd explodes into camera flashes as my tires leave the ramp, and I soar through the air like a motherfucking fighter jet.
Time slows to a crawl.
I don’t have to think. My body just reacts.
Turn hips. Release handlebars. Rotate. Faster. Faster. Good. Kick feet up. Dip head. Grab the handleb—
Fuck!
I stretch my arm so far that it feels like it’s going to pop out of my shoulder, but only two of my fingertips graze the handlebars.
My bike dives to the ground as my body flies forward. A feeling of dread and panic fills me as the hard ground comes up insanely fast.
“Fuck!” I scream into my helmet through a clenched jaw.
The ground is racing at me. I close my eyes.
And then…
Nothing.
Chapter 2
Madison
“Dr. Madison Mendes,” a tight voice echoes from down the hospital hall.
“Shit,” I curse under my breath as I force out a tight smile and turn around. “Hello, Dr. Clark. I was just about to check in with you after my rounds.”
“Your rounds can wait,” he says, staring at me through his thick glasses. The bright lights on the ceiling are reflecting on his head under his thin comb-over. “Follow me.”
He turns his tense body and storms down the hallway to his office. I feel an empty pit in my stomach as I follow him.
Two nurses, Carol and Shondra, give me matching smiles of sympathy as I pass their station. They saw the whole thing and know I’m about to get chewed out by my boss, the medical chief of staff.
I swallow hard as I step into his office where he’s already sitting behind his desk, staring at me with a stern look on his face. He looks pissed.
He’s been looking at me that way for the past five days.
“Everything okay, Dr. Clark?” I ask with a wariness in my voice as I slide into the chair in front of him. I keep my back straight as he crosses his hairy arms over his chest—staring me down like an elementary school principal on a power trip.
“No,” he snaps. “In your case, Dr. Mendes, everything is certifiably not okay.”
He pulls out a file from the drawer and slaps it onto the desk between us.
I lean forward and read the name. Patient Louis Newport. He was in here last week. Ruptured spleen. Bleeding internally. I diagnosed him and got him onto the surgeon’s table just in time.
“What’s the problem?” I ask when he just stares at me with a smug look on his face.
“What is the problem?” he repeats with a laugh. “Look at the paperwork. It’s a mess.”
“The paperwork?” I say, staring at him in disbelief. “I saved the man’s life.”
“Saving lives is your job,” he says, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. He picks up the stapled papers and waves them around in front of me. “This is also your job. And it’s unsatisfactory at best. Sloppy handwriting, writing outside the lines, and you missed your initials here.”
He tosses the papers back onto the desk and stares at me with a triumphant look on his weaselly face.
“Is this about Anabelle?” I ask.
His hard look and authoritative demeanor crumbles like a house of cards. The threatening man who was sitting in front of me is gone—replaced with a wet-eyed, sniveling pathetic shell of a man.
“Did she mention me?” he asks, staring at me with wide hopeful eyes.
“Um,” I say, trying to stall. He’s wringing his hands as he starts breathing heavier, barely holding himself together.
He grabs his cellphone off the desk and looks at it with a hope in his eyes that quickly disappears once he sees that she didn’t text him.
The text he’s looking for is from my best friend Anabelle who dumped him after three dates. I’m so glad I set them up.
“I keep calling her,” he says, looking frustrated as he runs his hand through his thin comb-over. “I always get her voicemail. Do you think she got the flowers I sent?”
I glance back at the door as my heart starts pounding. “I’m not sure,” I say with a gulp. “Like I said, I haven’t talked to her.”
He frowns as he squeezes the cellphone in his hand, turning his knuckles white. “I better send her some more, just in case.”
“No,” I say when he hits a button that lights up his phone. “Maybe you should just give her some space.”
Anabelle definitely received the flowers. All four dozen of them. She also received the oversized teddy bear that went straight into the dumpster, the chocolates that I helped her eat, and the singing Lady Gaga telegram who was no lady at all. Nothing says romance like a poorly dressed transvestite singing Poker Face in the hallway of your apartment building.
“I’ve given her space,” he snaps. “What more does she want?”
A galaxy of space from what she’s told me.
“Maybe,” I stammer as I drop my eyes to the desk. “Maybe you two just aren’t meant to be?”
His wet eyes narrow sharply on me, causing me to lean back involuntarily.
“That’s the woman I want to marry,” he says, taking heavy breaths like an angry bull. “We will get married. And you will help that become a reality.”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “I will?”
“Yes,” he says, picking up Mr. Newport’s file off the desk. “Or we’re going to have bigger problems than just sloppy handwriting.”
“Sir,” I say as my stomach hardens. “I think we should separate our work lives from our personal lives. I’m worried they’re getting too muddled together.”
He grins as he looks over the form. “And I think you should give Anabelle a call to put in a good word for me. Or you might not have a work life anymore to worry about.”
My cheeks get hot as I stand up and shuffle to the door. I want to give him a piece of my mind for threatening my job over his dried-up sex life, but I just swallow it down instead. He’s heartbroken and not acting rationally. Maybe in a few days he’ll start thinking clearer.
I slip into a supply closet after leaving his office and sit on a stack of folded sheets as I dial Anabelle.
“Give me a second, sweetie,” she says when she answers. “I’m just ordering.”
I lean back against the wall and close my eyes as I listen to her ordering a late dinner at the drive-through.
“Yeah, I’ll take the chicken burger with a salad… You know what? Fuck it. Give me the fries. Do you have turkey burgers instead of chicken?”
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All I hear is a muffled sound from the drive-through speaker, but whatever they’re saying, Anabelle doesn’t like it.
“Well, maybe people would order it if you had it on the freaking menu. Ever think of that?”
More muffled sounds.
“A bottled water… No, wait. I’ll take a Coke. No. A chocolate milkshake. Large.”
I hear more muffled sounds, and then she’s back. “Sorry about that, sweetie. I was just ordering a salad for dinner. Work has been c-ra-zy. How do people have time to cook anymore?”
I’m about to call her on her ‘salad’ when I decide that it’s better not to get on her bad side right before asking for a favor.
“I just had an interesting talk with Mitchell,” I say instead.
“Who?”
“Dr. Mitchell Clark,” I say with a roll of my eyes. “My boss who you dated.”
“Ew.” I can hear the disgust in her voice through the phone. “And we never dated.”
“You went on three dates.”
“As a favor to you.”
“I thought you’d like him.”
She’s laughing so hard that I have to pull the phone from my ear. “That guy?!? Madison, he proposed to me on the third date! The third freaking date. I know I’m lovable, but come on!”
“He’s not that bad.” He’s definitely that bad.
“You know what he has tattooed on his arm? Alf.”