The Doctor's Nanny

by Emerson Rose

  “Okay, gorgeous, I’ve interrupted your night long enough. When can I see you again?” He squeezes me tight and chastely kisses the tip of my nose while I scramble for an answer. I can’t possibly see him again . . . can I?

  “I’ll give you my number.” Two little frown lines form between his brows.

  “You’re not giving me a fake number. I hope I didn’t scare you off tonight. I really want to see you again. I was serious about hearing you play.” His eyes follow his finger as he traces the edge of my jaw, sending a shiver up my spine.

  “I won’t give you a fake number. I promise. You can call me before I leave.” I smile, and he presses one last lingering kiss on my lips before leading me to the door. I have to ask about that bathroom before I go. It’s too outlandish not to mention it.

  “Hey, what’s with the golden bathroom?” I ask and he chuckles.

  “I had a decorator that thought my name was funny. I let her take a few too many liberties and ended up with a bathroom fit for a King.”

  I roll my eyes and mouth ‘wow’ to myself when he turns his back. I get the idea that he may actually like his royal potty.

  When the door to the club opens, the music seems much louder. In fact, the whole red floor looks a little different. Could I have been that drunk?

  “Holland!” Savannah yells across the bar before nearly trampling a couple in her effort to get to me. The couple barely escapes, and the woman says something that I can’t hear, but I’m sure from the look on her face that it’s not nice. Mika is right on her heels, apologizing to them for Savannah.

  “Where the hell have you been? We’ve been looking all over for you. Shit, I thought you’d been kidnapped, or roofied, or kidnapped and roofied.” She grabs me into a suffocating bear hug, inadvertently yanking my hand out of King’s.

  “I’m sorry, we were dancing, and it was so loud that King brought me up here to talk,” I explain while she holds me at arm's length, checking me over from head to toe like she’s my mama.

  “Savannah, this is King,” I say, twisting out of her arms to avoid the pat down she’s giving me. “He’s the owner of this club. And King, these are my friends, Savannah and Mika.” King extends his hand to both of my friends, who are standing frozen with their mouths hanging open.

  “Oh . . .” Is all Savannah can manage, but Mika has her wits about her, and as usual with strangers, she strikes up a conversation, easing the awkward moment.

  “The owner, huh? Wow . . . impressive.” Her gaze passes back and forth, from his to mine. “I love your club. I’m here every weekend.” King flashes her his perfect Superman smile.

  “I appreciate your business, but more than that, I appreciate you bringing your friends—this one in particular,” King says, nodding in my direction. We all stare as he bows and lifts my hand to press his lips against my knuckles in a soft kiss. I think we all jump simultaneously when he breaks the spell with his next comment.

  “I also want to apologize for stealing Holland away. Please accept an open tab for the rest of the evening and a free membership to the VIP club for future visits. It’s the least I can do. Savannah shakes her head when she’s returned from Shockville and announces that an open tab isn’t necessary, because apparently, we are leaving. But before she can refuse the memberships, Mika steps forward, accepting his offer enthusiastically.

  “Thank you, Mr. Romero. We would love that.”

  “Very good then. I’ll have someone put your names on the list.”

  He turns his attention back to me, and a tingly sensation flutters in my chest. “Your number, Holland?” King says.

  My phone. Where is my phone? I glance at Savannah’s hands and then Mika’s. No phone. “Yes, but I don’t have my phone,” I say.

  He looks at Savannah, and she jumps when she realizes he’s waiting for her to give me the phone.

  “Oh, sorry. The bartender found it in a booth. Here.” She slips my phone out of her pocket and hands it to me. I pull up my phone number and turn the screen to King, proving it’s my real number. He smirks and leans forward to see the number.

  “Consider it memorized. I’ll call you soon,” he says, leaning in to kiss me on the cheek.

  “You’re amazing, Holland, and so very sweet,” he whispers in my ear. He takes several steps backward before he turns to walk away, leaving the girls staring at me in disbelief. Savannah regains her composure first—with her hands on her hips, the way she does when she’s being motherly.

  “We are going home right now, Holland Blue Bennett, and you are telling me everything that happened with that man tonight . . . everything.”

  “Me too,” Mika says enthusiastically.

  “Okay, okay. Let’s go then. My feet are killing me in these stupid shoes.”

  Chapter 2

  King

  “Monty, buzz me in, will you?” I need to be alone. What have I done? That woman completely bewitched me. I lost control tonight, and I don’t lose control. Holland is irresistible. That long, silky black hair and those clear, grey, haunting eyes did something to me—something I can’t explain. The way she melded with the music and the crowd on the dance floor made my head swim. Before I knew it, I was in the elevator and going down to get her. I can’t believe I broke rule number one—don’t bring strange women into the VIP club, let alone my apartment. Smashed that rule. Rule number two—don’t give the guests something to gossip about. Rule obliterated. I’m sure the whole club is buzzing about the woman King hauled off to his apartment. Fuck. I can’t believe I wasn’t more discreet. I should have never brought her here. Rule number three is just plain common sense—never, ever have unprotected sex. I crushed that one too. At least she’s on birth control, or so she says. I don’t see her lying, though. She seemed honest. I went after her. She wasn’t some slut looking to score the big dog. I wanted her. Fuck, King, you sound pathetically pussy whipped right now, and you don’t even know this woman. Why would you think she doesn’t sleep around when she let you do her after thirty minutes of dancing and light flirting?

  My bartender, Monty, buzzes me into my apartment, where I flop down on the couch. I can still smell her on the cushions. I roll over face-down to inhale her intoxicating scent. What the fuck is going on? It’s not like I can’t get a piece of ass whenever I want. I own the hottest fucking club in the U.S. Something’s been different over the past couple of years, though. I haven’t been craving my normal meaningless one-night stands. They’ve become boring. Lately, I’ve been yearning for something more, something normal. I’ve found myself searching for a person I can trust, someone I can spend some time with, someone with common interests. I don’t do long-term relationships. The longest I have ever been able to stand the same woman is a weekend, maybe two weeks—that’s it. But Holland . . . something in her soul called to mine. The second I laid eyes on her, I knew she was special. I don’t believe in love at first sight, but something clicked when I saw Holland. The atmosphere changed and the earth shifted under my feet.

  I’m sleeping on the couch tonight. I never sleep on the couch, but she’s everywhere out here and nowhere in there—and I want her everywhere. I’m starting to regret letting her go. Actually, that’s not true. I regretted letting her go the second she started panicking about her phone and her friends.

  I’m calling her in the morning. Shit, I might not even wait that long. This must be how a drug addict feels after getting high for the first time: the temptation, the rush, and then, as soon as it’s over, the craving for more. I’ve never been addicted to drugs, but if Holland Bennett were a drug, I’d be addicted to her.

  I’ve been staying in the club apartment and overseeing operations since we opened two months ago. I spend every evening in the club until it closes to make sure things go smoothly. I’m love stoned tonight, however, and I have no desire to be around clingy women and drunken people. I’m staying in.

  Down the hall in my bedroom, I strip down to my boxers and grab my comforter and a pillow. In the living room,
I make a bed on top of Holland’s sweet scent. Everything about that woman is sweet—her smile, her scent, her personality—but my favorite sweet thing is the way she tastes on my tongue.

  It’s too soon to call her. She’s probably just getting to her car. I should have offered to drive her home. I could have at least called a car to pick her up at the door. Those shoes of hers were killing her feet, and rightly so. I’m sure she’s fine. She’s with her friends. I ruined their night by stealing her away. Well, I’m pretty sure I didn’t ruin Holland’s night. I can’t fucking believe I’m doing this when I grab my phone and text her to make sure she’s safe. I’ve known this woman for all of an hour, and I’ve been separated from her for fifteen minutes, but I’m worrying about her safety. Something is very fucking wrong with this scenario.

  Just wanted to be sure you made it to your car safely. The parking lot can be a dangerous place for incredibly beautiful women like you. I hope whoever is driving is sober. I feel terrible for not making sure of that before you left. I could have called for a car to take you all home, but I was distracted thinking of our time together. Please let me know when you’re home safe and sound--King.

  My text is saccharine and romantic, like a boyfriend worrying about his girlfriend, ugh. My thumb hovers over the send button while I contemplate the possible ramifications of sending this text, but I tap the button anyway. I have to.

  I reach over the back of the couch to the console table and grab the remote and my smokes. I switch the television on to ESPN and toss the remote on the cushion next to me. I flip open my Zippo, hold the flame to the end of my cigarette, and take a long drag. I hate smoking. It’s a nasty habit, but it comes with my lifestyle.

  My phone chirps; it’s a text from Holland.

  Thank you for being concerned. Mika is driving and she is sober. We’re safe and sound. Thank you for the compliment. I had a nice time tonight too.–H

  She has no idea the kind of man she’s dealing with, and I don’t ever want her to. I steer clear of relationships, another rule I made for myself when I was younger. They’re messy and time consuming, and they require honesty and dedication. My father’s line of work never allowed for any of those things, especially honesty. I knew how my family made money, and so did everyone else, but it was a taboo subject that no one ever mentioned.

  Note to self: scratch that rule from the rulebook . . . permanently. I’m pretty sure Holland is the thing I’ve been searching for to help me escape my crazy lifestyle. In the short amount of time we spent together, she has already made me want to be someone different. She’s not the type of woman who associates with dark people from the world’s underbelly like me. She is delicate and fine-spun, graceful and angelic, so contrary to myself. I didn’t know exactly what I was searching for until I saw Holland on the dance floor tonight. It was the first time since I was a child that I didn’t feel unclean or polluted.

  Right now, I want to text her back, but more than that, I want to hear her voice. I want to tuck her under my arm and kiss the top of her head and snuggle with her until morning—and that’s a little unnerving. I don’t do this. I don’t form bonds or connect with women. I show them a good time, get what I want, and dismiss them. That’s what a drug lord’s son does.

  I prop my feet up while John Anderson talks about the day’s sports scores and highlights on Sports Center. I lean my head back against the couch and pull the last of the carcinogens from my cigarette deep into my lungs. I blow the smoke straight up and watch it swirl and roll up to the ceiling until I smell the scent of the filter burning. I toss my duvet onto the floor and stomp into the kitchen, where I drop what’s left of the smoldering filter into the sink. I open the fridge and grab a Corona, twist off the top and head into the den where I can check my security cameras and see what’s happening in the club. The cameras cover the main entrance, the elevators, all of the exits, and every bar, as well as the dance floor. Everyone is having a good time. Everything’s in order, and even though I know she has gone home, I find myself searching the crowd for Holland’s sultry figure. Every woman with raven hair causes me to look twice, searching for her haunting eyes, those curves, and that sweet mouth. Fuck, King. Go to bed.

  I punch the button, shutting off the monitors, and return to the couch, where her scent is already fading. I need to change that soon.

  Chapter 3

  Holland

  Not two minutes after we’ve piled into the car, I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. It’s him. He’s asking if I’m okay. Crap, what should I say? What should I do? My common sense takes a temporary leave of absence, and before I know it, I’m typing a response.

  What did I do? What did I do? What did I do? My heart leaps in my chest and I begin to silently panic. I was supposed to leave the club and never look back. I was supposed to forget my first night of drinking and everything that happened with King. Oh hell. Who am I kidding? King is impossible to forget, and that is why I couldn’t ignore his text.

  “So Holland? Holland? Holland!” Savannah yells at me, turning around in her seat and snapping me back to reality. When I look up with hot tears brimming in my eyes, her eyes widen.

  “Oh my gosh, what’s wrong? Did that bastard hurt you?” She reaches out to take my hand and squeezes it tight.

  “No, no. He didn’t hurt me.” I shake my head vigorously. “I’ve just never . . . I don’t know.”

  “Never what, Holland?” she says sharply, squeezing my hand so hard that the ring I always wear pinches my skin. I’m not sure how to answer her. Should I lie and say we just messed around? I’ve never done anything with a guy, so her question could be honestly answered many ways. Or should I just tell her everything and get it off my chest? Mika pulls over to the side of the road and turns in her seat, locking her suspicious eyes on me. Mika is more experienced. She knows immediately—I don’t have to say a word.

  “Oh my God, you had sex with him, Holland. How the hell did that happen? Holy shit! I’m gay, but I’d do that man. He’s fucking impressive.” Nausea hits me hard. My head is pounding, my pulse is racing, and I feel faint. If I had to guess what an anxiety attack feels like, it would be exactly like this.

  “Mika, shut up. She didn’t have sex with him,” Savannah snaps. When I don’t answer, she looks at me again.

  “Did you, Holland?”

  I fumble with the door handle and open the car door just in time to puke all over the curb. Relief washes over me for a few seconds. It feels good to purge my body of the alcohol that’s been sloshing around in my belly for three hours. But the feeling is short lived when I retch two more times. Savannah is out of the car in a flash, holding my hand, and Mika has abandoned the driver’s seat to slide into the back seat behind me.

  “Shit, I’m sorry. I don’t know to be subtle, Holland. It’s a curse.” I’m panting and gasping for breath as Mika holds my hair away from my face and Savannah speaks soothing words into my ear.

  “Shush, Holland, it’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.” When I catch my breath, I pull my legs back into the car and flop my head against the back seat and close my eyes. I take a few cleansing breaths and lift my heavy lids to find that both girls are staring at me, full of anticipation. Savannah’s hand is splayed over her heart, and Mika is nervously running her finger along the inside of her necklace.

  “I . . . I’ve never . . .”

  “Did he force himself on you?” Savannah’s voice rises with every word. I shake my head back and forth.

  “I’m fine. It’s just my stomach. I drank too much.”

  “Alcohol? I think this is more than alcohol messing with your nerves,” Mika says.

  “We made out, but I wanted to as much as he did.”

  “He’s so old,” Savannah whispers.

  “Well, you made me look like I’m twenty-five, Savannah. What do you expect? And he wants to see me again. He wants to hear me play.” I push my way out of the car and teeter when the sidewalk tilts in front of me. I reach out and grip the door
until I have my balance, and I start to pace, opening and closing my hands and shaking them out at my sides.

  “What are you gonna do?” Mika asks. She leans against the back of the car and crosses her arms over her chest, propping her foot on the bumper. I stop and stare at her shoes—wedges. She’s so smart. Note to self: never allow Savannah to choose my shoes again. I turn and take a few steps down the sidewalk away from them.

  “I don’t know,” I tell them I don’t know, but I do. I’m going to see him again. There’s no way I can’t.

  “Do you like him?” Mika asks. Savannah answers for her.

  “Who cares if she likes him or not? She’s nineteen, and he is so not. She can’t see him again . . . ever. If he finds out we were in there with fake IDs, we could get in a lot of trouble. He’s old enough to be your daddy, Holland.”

  I spin around. Savannah’s standing with her hands on her hips, and it irks me. She’s the reason I’m in this mess, and now she’s going to scold me for it?

  “No, he is not. I mean, I don’t know how old he is, but . . . you don’t really think he’s that old, do you?” Both girls look at me like I’ve grown a second head.

  “What?” I shrug my shoulders.

  “You’re actually thinking about seeing him again, aren’t you? You like him,” Savannah says.

  “Just how much making out did you guys do, Holland?” Mika asks, holding up her fingers to put quotes around the words ‘making out’.