The Doctor's Nanny

by Emerson Rose

  “I feel like we’re in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, sneaking out with my music playing.” I hand her my shoes and watch as she tosses both pairs over the edge and into the grass below.

  “Ferris what?”

  “The movie; you haven’t seen Ferris Bueller’s Day Off?” How can my best friend not have seen one of my favorite movies?

  “Nope, I’ve never seen it.”

  “Well, if my mother ever lets me see you again after this, we’re watching it together.”

  “Deal. Be careful—it’s a little wobbly,” she whispers up to me as she reaches the ground and drops herself easily onto the grass.

  “Coast is clear. Your mama has the curtains closed. Hurry up.” She waves her hand in a circle toward her body, motioning for me to follow, and I gracefully lower myself to the ground.

  “You’re pretty good at that.”

  “Thanks. It must have been the gymnastics in third grade.” She chuckles as we gather up our shoes and hurry through the perfectly manicured bushes into the neighbor’s yard and down the street where our friend, Mika, is parked and waiting for us. Mika is twenty-two. She lives in our neighborhood, and we’ve all grown up together, so she’s cool with hanging around with us even though we’re younger.

  I open the door and jump in the back, and Savannah slides into the passenger seat.

  The second our butts hit the seats, Mika turns the ignition and pulls into the street without looking at us.

  “Took you long enough, ladies.”

  “Had to look the part,” Savannah says, turning to wink at me in the back seat and flipping her blonde waves over her shoulder.

  Mika glances at Savannah and then in the rearview mirror at me. “Well, you did a fine job. Man, Savannah, you should go to school to do that shit. You two look like those Victoria’s Secret models.”

  “Well I don’t know about that, but I don’t think we’re going to have trouble getting into the club now,” I say. I slip on the ultra-uncomfortable shoes and wince.

  “Where did you get shoes like this anyway, Savannah?”

  “My mama.”

  “Your mama? No way.”

  “Yep, she used to be a party girl before my daddy ditched us, I guess.”

  Wow. I can’t imagine her mama wearing these shoes . . . ever. She’s practically lived in a uniform sixteen hours a day for two years.

  Savannah is flippant about her daddy, but I know mentioning him hurts. She’s good at concealing her emotions with distraction, and she proves it when she rolls down the window to holler at the world.

  “It’s Friday night, and we’re gonna party!”

  “Friday night at Ecstasy. Oh yeah . . . fun,” I mutter under my breath and turn to look out the window. I gather my hair behind my neck to protect all the hard work Savannah put into straightening it and watch the cars pass by. I wish I were back in my boring bedroom with my violin and my dull homework.

  Twenty minutes and ten base-pounding club hits later, Mika pulls her candy apple red VW Bug into a spot that is at least a half mile away from the front door. Savannah and I exchange concerned looks.

  “Mika, can’t we look for a place closer? I don’t think I can walk that far in these stilts.” I hoist my foot up between the seats so she can see my ridiculous shoe situation.

  “We’re lucky to have a spot in the parking lot at all. It’s usually overflowing by now.”

  Well, I guess she would know; she comes here every weekend. Savannah pulls me from the back seat and helps me get my balance when I’m out.

  “It’s good practice. Work those hips.” Mika laughs as I take my first couple of steps. I’ve worn heels before, but not like these.

  “I think I’ll stick to a simple walk. If I shake anything, I’ll be on the ground.”

  Savannah links her arm through mine and we follow Mika through the parking lot to the brightly lit entrance of the hottest new dance club in the city, Ecstasy. Halfway through the parking lot, I start to feel the beat of the music vibrating the ground under my feet. Savannah and I pause and look at each other with wide eyes. For the first time all night, I’m excited.

  “Oh my God, I didn’t know it would be so . . .”

  “So loud?” Mika asks with a grin.

  “Yeah, and busy,” I say, looking at the people lined up all the way down the sidewalk and around the side of the building. Outdoor speakers blast an electronic version of Beyoncé’s 7/11, and several of the people waiting in line are getting a head start on their ass shaking.

  “The line moves pretty fast, and the people are interesting. Don’t worry, your little feet will get some relief soon.” Mika winks and bumps her hip against mine, throwing me slightly off balance.

  Mika is gay, and she’s never made it a secret that she likes me, but she also knows I’m not into girls—or boys, for that matter. I have no social life to speak of, and I don’t have time for a boyfriend. Mama would kill me if I did. Daddy travels a lot for work, but Mama’s always there keeping a sharp eye out for me—except for tonight, I hope. Savannah and Mika affectionately call me a goody two shoes, but they just don’t understand. I’m different. I don’t care about popularity or boys or stylish clothes. I’m quiet. I read, study and practice. That’s my life and I like it that way.

  Mika was right. The line moves fast, and within twenty minutes—five of which are spent having heart palpitations while the bouncer looks at our IDs—we are inside. They’re good IDs, the best money can buy, according to Savannah, and she wasn’t lying. He doesn’t question it at all. He just hands it back to me and gestures toward the second set of doors leading into the club. Mika goes ahead, and when she opens the door, I swear my hair blasts back over my shoulders from the pulsing beat of the music. I wince and resist the urge to cover my ears. A wicked grin spreads across Mika’s face as she motions for us to follow her into the deafening, dark, packed club.

  “Welcome to Ecstasy, ladies.” My ears are buzzing as we squeeze through the throngs of people toward the main bar, which is, of course, as far from the front door as possible. My feet are already killing me.

  It’s a three-level club, and we’ve just entered on the second floor, where the lighting is a glowing electric blue with the exception of the dizzying strobes reflecting off of mirrored pillars and walls. Mika leads our little caravan past an atrium, where you can look over the rail and see through the entire club. When we stop, I lean forward to check it out. One floor down is a glowing pink pit of beautiful, sweating bodies moving fluidly with the music like one big, pulsing entity. Savannah smiles wide, pointing up. I look and see that the third floor is darker than the others and glowing red. It’s creepy and it reminds me of a vampire movie I once saw on Netflix. Mika grabs Savannah’s right hand and I take her left, forming a chain. We make our way to the bar without getting separated. “What do you want?” Mika yells over her shoulder, squeezing between two tall blonde women that could very well be twins. Her smile has ‘threesome’ written all over it.

  “I don’t know. I don’t drink,” I yell.

  “Two raspberry Kamikazes,” Savannah answers for me. God, that sounds menacing.

  “A drink named after suicide attacks by military aviators?” I yell at Savannah, and Mika turns around again, looking at me like I’ve suddenly grown a second head.

  “What?” I shrug my shoulders.

  “You’re too smart. Relax and have fun.” She’s directly in front of me, but she still has to yell to be heard; this place is too loud. I’m definitely leaving with some degree of hearing loss tonight. People press in from every side, and I feel a hand slide between my legs from behind, squeeze my thigh, and disappear so quickly I’m not sure it really happened.

  “What’s wrong? I thought your eyes were going to bug out of your head,” Mika says. I’m surprised she saw me at all. She’s had her eyes on the Doublemint twins’ asses since she placed our drink order. I’m glad she did, though, because I may have thought I’d imagined that. Yeah, okay, no. I didn’t imagine tha
t.

  “Someone just grabbed my . . . well, my ass, sort of.” I turn, bumping shoulders and hips with strangers to see if I can find the thigh violator, but it’s body against body in here. Any one of a dozen people could have done it.

  “You have a fine ‘sort of’ ass, Holland. Get used to it.” I frown at Mika and she hands me my drink. Fine ‘sort of’ ass or not, it’s mine, and I don’t want strangers touching it.

  Our drinks are a bright red raspberry color, with a stick across the rim of each glass speared with raspberries.

  “Drink it fast and let’s go dance,” Savannah says in my ear, and I nod. I’m not sure I want to be walking around this place with people putting their hands in places they don’t belong—which is anywhere on my body—but I’m here, and I know every party has its pooper, but I don’t want to be ours, so I toss back the drink and slide the berries off the stick and into my mouth with fanfare.

  “Woohoo! Look at our little virgin drinker go,” Mika yells.

  I blink several times and feel tears pricking at the corners of my eyes while the alcohol burns its way down my throat.

  “You like it?” Savannah asks.

  “Uh, yeah, sure . . . if you like turpentine and berries.” I open my eyes wide one more time and clear my throat. Mika hands us both another glass of the red paint thinner while Savannah throws back her first. We exchange a look that says this night is going to be utterly chaotic, and she turns me around to press her body against mine, moving me forward through the crowd.

  “The stairs are over there. I’ll protect your ass.” She’s laughing, but I’m glad to have her do it. I grasp the bannister tightly all the way down the wide spiral staircase. My head is already swimming from one drink, and I’m teetering on heels that are beginning to kill my feet.

  About three steps from the bottom, I realize that we aren’t taking our drinks out on the dance floor. I’m not sure you can even consider what they are doing as dancing. It’s more like a unified wave of movement, two hundred strong. I look over my shoulder and see both of the girls finishing their second drink and handing the glasses to a waitress through the spindles of stairs. Here goes nothing. I choke down my second alcoholic beverage ever. I literally choke and sputter as I drink it all, just in time to be pushed onto the dance floor and swallowed up by the crowd.

  It’s really hot down here, and my head is fuzzy when the music and the people suck me in and take me with them, making me part of their single unit. It only takes a minute before I lose my hold of Savannah’s hand, but the crazy thing is . . . I don’t even care. This is fun. No wonder she put it on the itinerary. I don’t even have to try to dance. Bodies press in from all sides, moving me around. Occasionally, hands circle my waist and someone grinds against me from behind, but as soon as I try to turn and see their face, the hands are gone. You would think that with all these sweaty bodies it would smell bad, but it doesn’t. It smells like heat and musk infused with sweet vanilla.

  Long wisps of my hair stick to my face and neck. My tank top is damp and plastered to my skin, and I smile to myself and giggle when I start to see two of every face around me.

  I drop my head back and look through the atrium at the blue and red levels above, and I notice that the ceiling is painted like the Sistine Chapel, with cherubs and angels making the red lighting even more eerie. The alcohol flows through my veins full force now as I raise my arms over my head and let my body flow like liquid through the crowd. There is a thin, constantly changing and mesmerizing screen surrounding the dance floor. I watch, hypnotized, as the images switch from a flow of smoke to dripping honey, each visual effect cooler than the last, until one particular optical illusion of tiny pulsing squares nearly causes me to fall.

  A pair of hands circles my hips, rescuing me from a certain death by trampling. With what little bit of southern hospitality I have left, I try to turn and thank whoever is now plastered against my backside, but he’s not having it. Instead, I watch one sexy, strong hand slide over my bare belly as another one glides down my thigh. Lean muscle holds me in place while our bodies roll together in time with the beat. He follows my lead as the music drops the base, blending a fast electronic club song with a slow, syrupy grind. This should cause some serious alarm bells to go off, but the alcohol has stolen every ounce of inhibition from me, and I welcome the guidance of his hands. I give up the idea of turning around and relax my head back against his chest.

  I may be intoxicated, but I still know my anatomy. This man is at least six feet to my five three. He’s solid and strong and has an amazing sense of rhythm. My hands wander along his thighs as we flow together, and he finally turns me around to face him. My poor heart was already pounding wildly in my chest from the exertion of dancing and the alcohol diluting my blood, but the second my eyes meet his, it stops altogether for a beat—maybe two. Time stands still during that paused beat, and something tells me my life is about to change forever. He leans in close to my face, and instead of moving away, I gravitate toward him. His mouth brushes my cheek on its way to my ear, where he speaks one word without yelling.

  “King.”

  I don’t understand what ‘King’ is supposed to mean, so I just nod and watch as he cradles my face, moving my soaking wet hair with his thumb so he can see me better. When he smiles down at me, I fear I might faint—not from the heat in the club, but from the heat of passion in his dark eyes. As inexperienced as I am, which is pathetically inexperienced, I know without a doubt that this gorgeous, dangerous looking man wants more than just a dance.

  “What’s your name?” He mouths.

  “Holland.” He can’t hear me, and my name isn’t your average run of the mill name, so he draws my mouth to the side of his head for me to repeat myself directly into his ear. Oh my God, this guy’s picture should be next to the word delicious in the dictionary. He smells so good.

  “Holland.” I swear that he moans when I say it. The beat gradually becomes faster, and the mystery man takes my hand, leading me to the edge of the dance floor. His forearm is tan, and he has the thick, ropey veins of an athlete. I follow his arm to his broad shoulders and admire the way his thick, dark hair curls up at the nape of his neck.

  Just as we emerge from the crowd of dancing people, I tear my gaze from mystery man’s very, very fine backside and look out over the dance floor for Savannah and Mika. It’s impossible to recognize anyone in this massive cluster of bodies, and the magnetic pull of this man mixed with alcohol has given me a ‘go with the flow’ sort of attitude, so I do . . . go with the flow, that is. Except in this case, the flow is my fine mystery man.

  Unlike when Savannah, Mika and I walked through the bar clutching each other’s hands to stay together, people seem to part like the red sea in front of mystery man until we reach the closest bar, where three men and two women also step aside, giving him a wide berth. He squeezes my hand tightly, as if he’s worried he might lose me, while the patrons around us stare. Some of them, mostly women, are staring at our joined hands with their mouths hanging open, and several are shooting daggers at me with their eyes. This all makes me very uncomfortable. I shift my weight and lean toward mystery man and turn my head in his direction. My hair drapes across the exposed side of my face, shielding me from their sharp glares. The only time I enjoy being the center of attention is when I’m on stage with my violin in my hands, and even then, I close my eyes and the audience disappears.

  The bartender leans across the bar to take his order and immediately snaps into action, retrieving two glasses and a bottle of champagne. The bartender offers to open it for him, but he shakes his head back and forth and gathers both glasses and the bottle with his free hand without losing hold of mine with his other. The thought of any woman voluntarily letting go of this man’s hand is ludicrous, and I’m guessing from the shocked looks we’re getting from the women around us, mystery man doesn’t hold hands with many of them.

  He turns away from the bar to check on me when he feels me move closer, and our ey
es lock. In the middle of all of this chaos, something is happening. I can’t put my finger on it, because I’ve never felt it before, but it’s intense and powerful, and I’m pretty sure it’s mutual. I’m close enough to him that even in the dim light of the club I can see that he has the deepest chocolate brown eyes, with tiny flecks of amber around his pupils. When he blinks, his long black lashes sweep up and down like a Vegas showgirl’s feathery headdress, and I’m entranced. He shakes his head as if to clear a thought and juts his chin upward. He wants to go upstairs. Oh God. Should I let him take me so far away from the girls? Just as that thought flickers through my mind, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I hold one finger up to him, asking him to wait while I tug it out of the back pocket of my tight jeans.

  It’s a text from Savannah. Where are you? I quickly type back, Went to get another drink. It’s sort of true. I just happened to leave out the fact that I’m with an extremely hot, much older, dangerous looking man, who is taking me upstairs to the vampire red floor with an entire bottle of champagne. She texts back Okay, going to the bathroom. Meet you on the dance floor in fifteen. I send a thumbs up icon and notice that mystery man is reading over my shoulder. When I catch him, a faint smile flickers across his face and he playfully looks away, knowing full well he’s been caught eavesdropping on my message. I laugh, and he cocks his head in a ‘follow me’ gesture. Just as before, people move aside and allow us to pass easily. It takes mystery man two minutes to cover the distance it would have taken the girls and me twenty minutes to fight our way through earlier.

  When we arrive at an elevator just around the corner from the main entrance, I have another moment of panic when I watch him press the up button. This is such a bad idea. He has no idea how young I am. I have no idea who he is. He could be a murderer or some crazy freak who is taking me upstairs to rape and murder me like those dumb girls I always see on Criminal Minds. I should be saying, ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’ I should be finding my friends. I should be at home studying for finals and playing the violin. But no . . . a liquor gremlin in my brain has taken my common sense hostage and he’s yelling, “Have some fun! He’s hot, go for it.” Meanwhile, my poor, sweet common sense tries to warn me through a gag in her mouth. ‘Don’t be stupid, he could be dangerous.’ But when the doors slide open, my feet have a mind of their own. The gremlin wins, and I follow mystery man into the elevator. There’s something about him that calms me, and for some crazy reason I naively trust him.