Dr. OB (St. Luke's Docuseries Book 1)

by Max Monroe

  Lies.

  I sat immobile.

  The graphic for the show filled the screen again, and the indication of my segment, Dr. OB appeared at the bottom. Only this time, a ghost of the letters “s-c-e-n-e” filled the space right after.

  Dr. OBscene. Dr. Obscene.

  Me. They’re talking about me.

  Several minutes of footage following me around the hospital ensued, but I was numb to it all. The only thing that penetrated was Kline jumping from his seat and Georgia leaving the room with my niece. Dick and Savannah came back at some point, and they could have yelled for all I knew. But to me, everything was silent.

  My whole life was flashing before my eyes.

  The camera shot followed me into the locker room of the hospital, something I’d had no clue they even had permission to do—an ignorance I had a feeling they intended if the shaky recording and barely cracked door were anything to go by—and continued filming as I pulled my shirt up and over my head and started to pull off my scrub pants. There was nearly a full ass cheek exposed by the time the shot panned away.

  A Grey’s Anatomy-like scenario where they actually filmed you taking your clothes off and having sex in the on-call room wasn’t nearly as appealing in real life. I’d thought they’d follow me around, present me with opportunities to show off my expertise and show the difference I wanted to make in my patients’ lives—not belittle my intent with creative editing and show me getting naked instead of the emergency C-section I’d performed not even an hour earlier. There was a difference between looking hot and capable and looking inappropriate—and this crock of shit was definitely painting me as the latter.

  Christ, my career was on the line here.

  Before I even realized what I was doing, I had my phone out and in my hand, searching for the number of someone who would have some answers, and I really only had one question. What in the fuck was going on?

  Settling on Tammy Schuler, a member of the board for St. Luke’s and one of the biggest advocates for all of the positives the show would bring to our lives, I hit Call and pressed the phone to my red-hot ear.

  She answered on the second ring, and her voice was cautiously chastising. “Will, calm down.”

  I hadn’t even said anything, but I guess that was the power of my fury as it radiated through the phone.

  “Calm down?” I asked, deathly quiet. “You want me to calm down?”

  “Listen—”

  “They’ve got me on camera undressing, Tammy!” I exploded. “How the hell were they allowed to film in the locker room anyway? Where was Legal on this one?”

  “They didn’t exactly detail in their contract that they’d be filming you undressing, Will.”

  “Then let’s go after them! This is an invasion of all professional privacy and a complete misrepresentation.”

  “Will…” She paused. “God, Will.”

  “What?”

  “They didn’t outline that they planned to do it on their side, but we didn’t outline that they couldn’t on ours. I’m sorry.”

  “So…what? I’m just supposed to sit here and let this happen for the next twelve weeks? I thought this was a goddamn docuseries, not one ass cheek away from the start of a porno!”

  “Our hands are tied for the next thirty-six, Will. We’ve checked with the lawyers, I assure you, but we have no legal recourse. Every single planned episode—yours, Scott’s, and Nick’s—will air.”

  “Fucking shit.”

  “Will.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. That’s not exactly professional language.”

  She actually laughed a little, and I considered what kind of technology it would require to have my hand reach through the phone and strangle her. Have they invented it yet? Can my brother-in-law afford it? He’s fucking loaded, so I’m sure he can.

  “No, it’s not, but it’s fine. I was just going to tell you the positive news.”

  “I’m not really seeing how you can spin this one in a good direction, Tammy.”

  “How about five hundred thousand hits in an hour?”

  “What?”

  “That’s how many people have visited the hospital website in the last hour.”

  I rolled my eyes. “And? I’ve always thought of hospitals as one of those things that sell themselves. People get injured, they come. It’s not like they’re choosing a spa.”

  “You’d think that, but you’re wrong. People do choose hospitals, Will, and as much as you don’t like this personally, people are choosing our hospital because of this show.”

  “And they’re all checking in to the psych ward?”

  Deep down, I knew she was right. People really did choose hospitals. I’d seen it enough in my time as a physician, but still…this was about me and I was pissed. Emotion sometimes skews rational thought.

  “Will.”

  I sighed. Goddammit. “Fine. I guess it is what it is.”

  “It is.”

  “Then you better keep me on salary until I’m dead, close, or convicted of an actual crime.”

  It was her turn to sigh. “The hospital cannot actually promise to keep a job for you, but I can guarantee the circumstances have been noted.”

  “My sacrifice has been noted.”

  “Now you’re just being dramatic.”

  Maybe she was right. Maybe I was being dramatic. Or maybe this really was the end of my life as I knew it. Either way, I said my goodbyes, hung up the call, and forced myself to go back into the living room to watch the rest of the show.

  The truth was, as angry as I was with Tammy and the board, and as livid as I felt with the production company, neither of those had anything on the loathing I felt for myself. I’d been excited. Naïvely thinking the show would improve my social life, for fuck’s sake. Oh, you’re so impressive, Will, I’d thought women would say.

  But the show had taken a direction completely different from what they’d pitched—a harrowing account from St. Luke’s most elite doctors—and turned it into a lighthearted romp on everything ethical and professional.

  Unfortunately, with my guard down and my head up my ass, I’d given them the material. I’d been the man on camera, and there wasn’t anyone but myself to blame for that.

  Goddammit.

  On the edge of my seat, I watched with disgust as the man on the screen—me, apparently—said something bordering on offensive and winked…while doing a dilation check on a harmlessly pregnant woman…just before the show faded into the final commercial.

  Good. God.

  I didn’t even remember doing it, winking for the camera like that, and I certainly didn’t remember doing it with my hand inside of a woman. The camera had been right behind her head, and a gown was covering all the skin of her legs, but, for shit’s sake, it was never appropriate to wink at a woman while giving her such an intimate exam. I wonder if she’d felt uncomfortable? If she’d thought I was winking at her?

  Even though I knew I’d never act that way without some kind of pseudo-reasonable explanation, panic and hysteria swirled inside me until the disbelief wore off and let them explode.

  “I look like a predator!”

  No woman was ever going to come near me again. Not for medicine and certainly not for sex. I was going to have to move. To somewhere remote. Without television. And live in a hut or something. Oh my God. No one is ever going to blow me again. I was going to be the male version of a spinster, but instead of cats, I’d just have a collection of pocket pussies.

  Sweet Jesus, I am going to throw up.

  “Don’t worry, Willy. If anything, this will probably up the ante on your female attention and dating life. Women are notorious for seeking out things that are bad for them,” my dad remarked.

  Kline gave a low whistle, and Georgia stood up from her seat in affront. “Um, excuse me?”

  “Dick,” my mom said. But being my mother, she said it through a goddamn chortle.

  Being the center of such discord, I figured it was my familial duty to wade
in. Plus, if I didn’t say what I was thinking soon, I feared I’d burst into something from Men in Black. “No, Dad. Crazy women seek out things that are bad for them. The smart ones run in the other direction.” My voice dropped to a dejected mutter. “Which is exactly what they’re going to be doing with me now. Jesus.”

  “I bet no one is even watching,” Georgia chirped hopefully, trying to make me feel better through a backhanded insult. I’d spent all day hoping the opposite, but at this point, I wanted nothing more than for my sister to be right.

  My phone, the opportunist, chimed tauntingly in my pocket. I half considered not reading the text message that beckoned, but in the long run, I wasn’t sure ignoring this little problem would actually make it go away. Instead, it might just make me a bigger fool.

  My family continued to debate my now questionable eligible bachelor status in the background as I pulled my phone from my pocket and swiped to read the message without pausing to see who it was.

  In hindsight, I probably should have taken the moment.

  Thatch: Hot damn, son. You’ve been pretty good at hiding your freak-a-leek all these years. Cassie already has her legs in the air around the clock, trying to get pregnant again, but if that doesn’t work out, you’re officially our new doctor. Hell, even if it does. Her pussy makes all the others you see on a regular basis look like amateurs.

  There it was. An endorsement from Thatcher Kelly, my brother-in-law’s best friend and one of the most ridiculous human beings ever born. He was an adolescent in a giant’s body, and he didn’t like things that didn’t have a big, obvious pair of tits prepared, just waiting to be suckled. He was the worst judge of normalcy and the exact opposite of my target demographic—and he liked the show.

  I was fucked. Really and truly fucked.

  My head fell back in frustration as my inner voice mocked me with the real truth. You aren’t fucked, Will Cummings. You’re never to be fucked again.

  There was one certainty in this moment, Scott Eastwood looked perfect naked.

  And he looked even better naked in my bed.

  “Good morning, Melody,” he said with that signature grin of his and pulled me on top of his ridiculously beautiful body—toned, firm, and sculpted, it was the kind of physique that Greek gods aspired to have.

  “Morning, Scott Eastwood,” I said, and his smile grew wider.

  “I think you can drop the formalities,” he teased, and I blushed. “We’re married now, honey. It’s about time you started getting used to just calling me Scott.”

  Even though this is most likely a dream, Mel, we’ll never stop calling him Scott Eastwood…

  Shit…am I dreaming?

  I stared into Scott Eastwood’s heavenly blue eyes as he looked at me like the sun rose and set inside of me.

  “You’re so beautiful in the morning, Melody,” he complimented and brushed a lock of hair out of my eyes.

  Hmmm… Yeah… This seems a little too good to be true…

  “I could spend the rest of my life just staring into your eyes,” he whispered and pressed a soft kiss—that included a little tongue—onto my just-woken-up mouth.

  “You taste so perfect,” he told me.

  I took pride in good dental hygiene, but even the cleanest mouths couldn’t escape the morning breath culprit.

  Goddammit. I’m probably dreaming.

  “We’re married, Scott Eastwood?” I asked.

  “Yes, Mrs. Eastwood,” he responded through a soft chuckle, pressing his lips to mine once more. “We’re married.”

  “Did I sign a prenup?”

  He shook his head. “I’d never make the love of my life, my soul mate, sign a prenup.”

  Fucking hell. Definitely a dream.

  Shades of pink and yellow started to filter over Scott Eastwood’s face, and I knew it was only a matter of time. “Kiss me again,” I demanded and he listened.

  A man who listens instead of arguing? Most assuredly a motherfucking dream.

  “Fuck me, Scott Eastwood,” I insisted, but it was too late. My dream husband’s face and our luxurious white bed started to vanish into thin air as the morning sun finally worked its way beneath my lids.

  I opened my eyes and immediately groaned at the sight—pink walls, cardboard boxes, and work-out equipment. In a matter of thirty seconds, I’d gone from floating dreamily on cloud nine with Scott Eastwood’s naked body pressed against mine to one of the seven circles of hell that was actually my reality.

  My parents’ two-bedroom nightmare in Hell’s Kitchen. Bill and Janet thought it was a dream, though. One provided by the grace of two little words: rent control.

  But I didn’t really see it that way. Not right now. My life had been reduced to six cardboard boxes stuffed inside my old bedroom, and every effort I’d put into being my own woman for the last six-plus years was gone. I was back home. With my parents. In the place I grew up.

  Although, it no longer looked like my teenage youth. The beige walls used to be littered with posters of eighties’ New Wave bands like Modern Talking and Rick Springfield.

  Hey, don’t judge my teenage music preferences.

  I might’ve been an outcast in the early 2000s because I refused to jump on the boy band and mainstream pop wagon, but no one could resist songs like Modern Talking’s “Brother Louie,” and let’s be real, even to this day, everyone wants to be “Jessie’s Girl.”

  But now, the room had turned into something out of a bubblegum pink jazzercise nightmare—aka my mother’s “fitness” room. Apparently, pink was one of those colors that motivated people to strive for buns of steel.

  To make a long story short, my life outlook was grim—twenty-nine years old, and I had officially moved back home into my parents’ apartment. I was newly single, had no job, and would be spending my nights sleeping between a treadmill and a thigh master.

  Ugh. Come back to me, Scott Eastwood!

  Shit had just gotten real. Well, real sad. And depressing. And fucking pink.

  “Rise and shine, Melody!” My mother announced her entrance with two soft taps to the already half-opened door. The hinges squeaked, and before I knew it, Janet Marco’s smiling face was in full view from my perch on top of my new bed—a mother-flipping air mattress from 1982. It was old enough to be vintage—and not in the fun way—and you couldn’t even use an air pump to inflate it. This baby required the kind of lung capacity that usually resulted in passing out.

  Jesus. What in the hell time is it? It felt too early for Workout Barbie to be in here working up a sweat. I snatched my phone off the cardboard box—otherwise known as my nightstand—beside the air mattress. I tapped it to life, and the bright screen all but blinded my tired eyes. I ignored the bullshit How’s the weather by you? text from Eli—my newly appointed ex-boyfriend—and focused on the time. The numbers 9:30 a.m. glared back at me, and I mentally gave my bubbly mother the middle finger.

  “How’s my favorite girl?” Janet singsonged as she walked her spandex-covered ass into the room. She left no time for a response before hopping onto her treadmill and jogging at a leisurely pace.

  “It’s too early,” I answered, and she immediately cupped her ear in my direction, giving the universal signal for I didn’t hear you.

  “What was that, sweetheart?”

  “I said, it’s too early,” I repeated, and she offered no response, seemingly still unable to hear what I was saying. I was no rocket scientist, but I’d say the recurrent pounding of her feet against the treadmill track wasn’t helping our conversation.

  “Speak a little louder, Mel,” she instructed and tapped her finger against the controls to increase her speed.

  Fantastic idea, Mom. Because increasing your speed will definitely help us converse like normal human beings.

  A little-known fact about Janet: she was a little hard of hearing. She blamed it on aging and genetics, but considering she’d always had issues, I had a feeling it had something to do with all of the rock concerts she and my father used to g
o to when they were young and wild. Back in the day, Bill and Janet were hard-core Black Sabbath fans and attended no less than twenty concerts in a span of five years. Not to mention, they moonlighted as KISS groupies on the side.

  I was no expert, but it seemed logical that years of Ozzy Osbourne and Gene Simmons shouting into her eardrums didn’t increase my mother’s hearing capabilities.

  “I said, I’m fine,” I tried again, and she glanced down at her watch.

  “It’s just a little after nine, sweetheart, but you still didn’t answer my question,” she said with a smile. “How are you doing this morning?”

  Someone help me. I generally had more patience with my mom, but considering the time of morning and the fact that I’d yet to have a drop of coffee, I pretty much just gave up on having a successful conversation with her and focused on entertaining myself. “I’m a mime,” I said, and she nodded but stared at me skeptically for a few moments.

  “Are you sure you’re fine?” she eventually asked. “You’ve had a rough few weeks.”

  Interesting, I noted in my case study. Saying something ridiculous to her is actually more successful than honest discussion. Maybe I had just uncovered the secret to productive conversation with Janet Marco. “Yep. I’m a mime.”

  “Okay, Mel.” She nodded and offered an apologetic smile. “I guess it’s a little too early for me to start meddling, huh?”

  I held up my forefinger and thumb and gestured just a little bit in her direction.

  Her smile grew wider, and she nodded again.

  Hmm…maybe the whole mime bit isn’t a stretch after all…

  “Okay…just one more question, and then I’ll leave you alone—”

  “Mom,” I groaned.

  She held up one determined hand. “Look, I’m your mother, Mel. It’s my job to worry about you,” she said through panting breaths. “You basically just uprooted your life in a matter of weeks. I mean, a little over a month ago, you were living in Portland with the man I thought you were going to end up marrying, and now, you’re back home and single. You’ve ended a relationship, quit your travel nursing job, and left the city you had been living in for the past five years. It’s just very abrupt is all,” she added and glanced in my direction. “I just want to make sure you’re doing okay.”