Dr. ER (St. Luke's Docuseries #2)

by Max Monroe

  Goddammit, Cruella de Vil. I’ve already taken on two extra pieces this week!

  “Okay.” I forced a smile. “What’s the piece?”

  “That popstar, Smiley Walrus.”

  Not only was Stella a pain in the ass to work for, the woman never got celebrity names right. Like, ever. It was honestly a fucking conundrum considering she was the editor in chief for a gossip rag.

  “Do you mean Miley Cyrus?” I asked, and she raised a pointed brow in my direction.

  Another thing about Stella, the woman refused to admit any mistakes or faults. She was literally the world’s worst human being to work for.

  “That’s what I said, isn’t it?” she questioned in irritation.

  Um. No. I’m pretty sure you said Smiley Walrus…

  “Yep,” I lied.

  “I want a piece about her budding relationship with that Holmsmore brother,” she instructed, and I had the urge to say, Hemsworth brother, but I bit my tongue. The last thing I needed was Stella’s wrath on a Tuesday morning.

  Generally, if you got on her bad side for the week, she’d take pleasure in giving you a month’s worth of work with a deadline of twenty-four hours. And the sickest part of all was that most of the time, she didn’t even use the extra assignments.

  “Okay.” I forced a neutral expression even though the urge to glare was strong as a motherfucker. “No problem.”

  “Finish it by tomorrow so it can go on the site by Friday.”

  Ugh.

  “I’ll start working on it now,” I said, and she strode back out of my office without another word. When the sound of her stilettos click-clacking down the hall disappeared completely, I sagged into my desk chair on a deep and heavy sigh.

  It was times like these that I wondered how I’d gotten so off track in my life. When I’d started my freshman term of college at NYU, I began the year with the intention of going pre-med. And by the time I’d reached my junior year, I’d been ahead and finished all of my prerequisites. Hell, I’d even been accepted for a summer internship with one of the country’s top specialized surgeons.

  But then, I’d met Brent. And my life had taken an abrupt turn and headed in the exact opposite direction of where I’d intended.

  I’d lost a lot during that relationship. I’d lost myself. I’d lost my priorities. I’d lost some of my closest friends. I’d lost everything that was important to me. And it would always be the one example—the most important reminder—of why another long-term relationship was not something I’d ever try again.

  Unless I happened to have already met the right person.

  Good God, not this thought process again…

  No. No relationships. Not with Scott or any other man for that matter. I’d promised myself that, and I was sticking to that fucking promise. I loved myself too much to let myself get lost again like I had with my ex.

  Before the painful memories of my relationship with Brent—or the ridiculous and scarily recurrent thoughts I’d been having about Scott—could find their way inside my head, I moved my focus to my laptop. I was on a deadline, for fuck’s sake. I didn’t have time for bullshit. I had to find my goddamn center and finish this feel-good column about current celebrity relationships that overcame all of the odds—for a couple years, at least—along with the added piece about Smiley Walrus and her Holmsmore fiancé.

  Sigh. Just find your writing mojo, Harlow…

  Twenty minutes later and my brain was void of depressing thoughts and solely focused on my work tasks. Writing gossip columns wasn’t exactly my dream job, but it paid the bills, and often, I did enjoy making Gossip readers laugh with witty one-liners and quirky anecdotes.

  “Knock. Knock.” The unexpected voice stopped my fingers’ progress across the keys and pulled my gaze away from my laptop screen. A young guy, probably college age, stood in the doorway holding a brown paper sack in his hands. “I have a delivery for you.”

  “A delivery? For me?” I questioned in surprise. I wasn’t expecting any deliveries.

  “You’re Harlow Paige, right?”

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “That’s me.”

  “Yep,” he said and walked into the office. “This delivery is definitely for you, then.”

  “Do you know who it’s from?”

  “Uh…” He set the brown paper sack on my desk and scanned the Blackberry in his hand. “It’s from a Dr. Hickey?”

  “Dr. Hickey?” I asked, horrified. Of course, I knew the sender’s real identity.

  Scott Shepard. Only a self-righteous, sarcastic bastard like him would go to the trouble of calling himself something horrendous like Dr. Hickey.

  I bit my lip to fight my smile, but it was a lost cause. My cheeks stung from their abrupt, puffed-out, happy state.

  Jesus. Why am I smiling like a lunatic?

  It was a mindfuck, to be honest. Scott Shepard should have annoyed me, not made me goddamn giddy and grinning like I was one antidepressant away from stripping off my clothes and dancing naked in a field of daisies.

  “Just sign here,” the delivery guy said and held out his iPad and stylus pen.

  I followed his instructions and quickly scribbled my electronic signature across the device.

  “Have a nice day,” he said with a wave and left my office.

  As I unrolled the top of the brown paper bag, goodness assaulted me. Mmm. Sweet and sugary, there was no mistaking the scent of maple syrup. Food. Tasty, high-calorie food was inside this bag.

  I pulled the white takeout box out of the bag and popped it open to find a large serving of the most irresistible looking pancakes I’d ever seen in my life. Nutella, bananas, whipped cream—Jesus Christ, it was heaven in a box.

  I was all set to dive in face first, when I spotted the small envelope attached to the back of the bag. My name was written neatly across the front, and inside sat a little note.

  I know you can’t resist these. Or me.

  Enjoy.

  Dr. Hickey

  I shook my head.

  That cocky bastard.

  Why I was smiling was still a mystery, but I decided to blame it on the pancakes. I mean, no human being in their right mind could frown when looking down at this pile of sugary goodness. Before I ate myself into a carb coma, I pulled my cell phone out of my purse and called the pancake culprit.

  “Harlow,” he greeted on the second ring, a smile apparent in his voice.

  “Dr. Hickey?” I asked, and he chuckled shamelessly.

  “Did you taste them?”

  “Hell no.” I feigned annoyance. “I never eat food sent over by people I don’t know. I trashed them.”

  “You’re so full of shit,” he refuted. “I bet you’ve got a greedy fork within an inch of digging into them right now.”

  I totally did.

  Wow. I don’t even remember pulling that fork out of the plastic.

  But he didn’t need to fucking know that.

  “Nope,” I lied. “I had the delivery guy reroute them to the dumpster behind the building.”

  “You know what’s crazy?”

  “What?”

  “I just got off the phone with Tim, the delivery guy, and he said you accepted the delivery.”

  Fucking Tim.

  Wait…how did he know the delivery guy’s name?

  I raised a skeptical brow. Something was fishy about this scenario, and it wasn’t the fucking pancakes. “How in the hell do you know the delivery guy?”

  “He’s actually one of the techs in the ER,” he explained. “I gave him some extra cash to act like a delivery guy.”

  “What the hell?” I all but shouted. “He even had a fucking iPad and made me sign for the goddamn pancakes.”

  Tim was a total con man and almost as big of an asshole as Scott.

  Too bad you don’t really think Scott’s an asshole…

  Ugh. Stop with the friendly thoughts!

  Scott chuckled softly in response, but he didn’t say anything further about Tim the Trickster. “Ta
ke a bite, Harlow,” he demanded, and every cell in my body agreed that it was the best idea they’d ever heard.

  But despite the drool at the corner of my lips, I stayed strong. “No,” I spat. “Not doing it.”

  “Just take a bite,” he whispered. “You know you want to.”

  “Nope.”

  “Do it, Harlow.”

  But God, they look so good… I couldn’t stop my tongue from licking across my lips in anticipation.

  “Will you leave me alone, then?”

  “Sure.”

  “Fine,” I agreed and dug in with my “at-the-ready” plastic cutlery. My taste buds danced with the delicious flavors of freshly made pancakes covered in the world’s best ingredients.

  Holy Moses, they were amazing. I moaned before I could stop myself.

  “That good?” Scott’s amused voice filled my ear.

  “Shut up,” I retorted over a mouthful of pancakes and Nutella.

  “God,” he purred into my ear. “I fucking love that moan of yours.”

  “I’m not having phone sex with you.”

  A barking laugh left his lips. “Have real sex with me, then.”

  “Nope,” I refuted, even though, for some insane reason, I secretly wanted to shout, Hell yes, fuck me stupid, and then feed me these pancakes again in the morning!

  “Go on a date with me,” he demanded—something he’d been doing more and more since the day after penetration.

  “Nope.”

  “Come on, Harlow,” he cajoled.

  “I don’t date.”

  “Just one date,” he persisted.

  “Not happening.”

  “Dr. Shepard!” A panicked voice filled the background. “We need you in exam room eight!”

  My brow furrowed. “Uh… That sounds important… I better let you go…”

  “Nope,” he refuted. “You have to agree to a date with me first.”

  “Dr. Shepard!” the voice called again, even more anxious this time.

  “Holy hell, Scott!” I shouted into the phone. “Now is not the time to talk about dates! Go to exam room eight!”

  “Dr. Shepard!”

  “A man’s life is on the line here, Harlow,” Scott added. “You should probably just agree to the date so I can go save his life.”

  “This is so fucking dirty!”

  “Uh-oh…” Scott whispered, and my eyes went wide.

  “What?”

  “Nothing…” He paused and then a shocked gasp left his lips. “Oh God, that doesn’t look good…”

  Holy hell.

  “Jesus Christ! I’ll go on a date with you!” I yelled into the phone. “Just go help that man!”

  “Fantastic,” he responded immediately. “Tomorrow night at seven.”

  “Fine,” I said through gritted teeth.

  “Where do you want to eat?”

  “Oh. My. God!” I shouted in exasperation. “I’m hanging up. Go save that guy’s life.”

  “Am I done?” a voice whispered in the background, and Scott responded back to whoever it was with ease. “Yep. Thanks, Cal.”

  And miraculously, the earlier panic and chaos completely disappeared from the background.

  “Wait a minute…” My jaw dropped in shock. “What’s going on, Scott?”

  The line stayed quiet.

  “Scott.”

  “Yeah, Harlow?”

  “You owe me, dude.” The voice was in the background again, and just like before, Scott responded to him, “Eighteen holes next weekend? I’ll buy?”

  “Hell yeah,” the voice agreed.

  That motherfucker.

  I pulled the phone away from my ear and sent a FaceTime video request Scott’s way.

  Within seconds, his handsome face filled my screen.

  “Miss me that much?” he asked with a sexy smirk.

  “Where’s the emergency?” I questioned while my eyes scrutinized his current location. There was no hustle and bustle, no nothing. Just a fridge and a microwave sitting behind him.

  The jerk had been sitting in a goddamn break room the whole time.

  “Oh. My. God. Did you have someone pretend to be dying just so I would agree to a date with you?” I questioned, and he nodded without shame.

  “See you tomorrow night, Harlow,” he said, and I flipped him the bird before hanging up the phone.

  Too bad, after I’d hung up the phone, my entire fucking face was smiling.

  “Oh no,” she groaned as I opened the door to the Slipper Room, a little place I’d been a couple of times on the Lower East Side, and ushered Harlow inside.

  It’d only taken eighteen offers and blackmail in the form of a fake dying man, but she’d finally agreed to a date with me. She wasn’t exactly calling it a date, but I was, and obviously, as she was a gossip columnist, I was more in touch with reality. Right?

  It said something about her, though, that she hadn’t backed out of the date after she knew I’d coerced her into it under false pretenses.

  What it said, I wasn’t sure, but whatever it was seemed positive. But I guessed the evening was still young. I’d have to be on the lookout for poisoned offerings.

  Somebody let me know if you see an apple in her purse.

  The lights of the Slipper Room were a rosy red, and a completely mischievous glow enveloped the place as soon as you stepped inside. The only thing in front of us was a lone, tall set of stairs leading to the unknown.

  “This is a sex club, isn’t it?” Harlow asked, apropos of nothing.

  I coughed a startled bark of laughter and gave her hip an affectionate squeeze. “Not quite.”

  The truth was, as soon as I’d picked her up in a cab from the corner of 42nd and Fifth Avenue a little over forty minutes ago—she’d been adamant that I not know where she actually lived—I’d been wishing a sex club was what I’d planned for the evening. A night in at my place. An overnight at a hotel. Fucking anything that would lead to being able to remove the tiny black skirt she’d donned so I could see what lay underneath it.

  Good Christ, the amount of skin her legs had out to play made her look two feet taller than she actually was.

  Her nose wrinkled, and her eyes turned down at the corners. I had a feeling she was shooting for plain disbelief, but her features betrayed her. Disappointment lived under the surface. I had to laugh. “A letdown, huh?”

  “No!” she snapped. My waning laughter renewed.

  “Okay, Harlow. Whatever you say,” I relented, guiding her toward the stairs, putting my hand to her back, and leaning in to whisper in her ear. “Don’t worry. I’ll punish your pussy later.”

  She tripped, a simple misstep due to clumsiness, I’d have thought—if it weren’t for the timing.

  I smirked to myself and moved my hands to her hips to steady her. “Would you like that, Low? Do you want to be punished?”

  She shivered and tightened her hold on the railing. I’d been hoping to make her trip again, but the tremor would have to do. I’d lost the element of surprise, after all.

  We walked in silence up the rest of the stairs until we reached the front desk and handed over the tickets I’d pre-purchased online.

  “What is this place?” she asked again, albeit in different words.

  “It’s a variety club,” I explained, pushing her deeper into the room so that she could see the stage. I felt a little bad, like I was always pushing her places, but honestly, half the time she moved like her feet were encased in cement.

  It was frustrating. Of course, the hell of it was, it was also alluring, so different from the eager bounce of most women I spent my time with.

  Complicated. That word had never sounded so good until Harlow.

  “They opened nearly twenty years ago. Burlesque, drag, you name it, they were doing it. From the way I hear it, they used to open it up to pretty much anything and everything. The raunchier, the better.”

  Her eyes lit with interest. “Really?”

  “Oh yeah. Some of the performances are
still pretty borderline when it comes to societal appropriateness.”

  “That sounds like so much fun,” she breathed excitedly.

  I laughed. “It does, doesn’t it? The couple of times I’ve been here, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed myself.”

  Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “A regular date spot?”

  I shook my head with a smirk. “Never.” The truth was, both times I’d come, I’d been by myself. It’d never even occurred to me to bring a woman here before.

  I pulled her toward a table in the back, still close to the stage since it wasn’t possible to be far away—the room itself was no more than fifty feet deep—and pulled out her chair for her.

  She murmured her thanks and sat down quickly. I followed the line of her legs, hoping the hem of her skirt would fail to protect her. Unfortunately, it remained in place.

  “I have to write a column about this place,” she mused.

  “Feel free,” I offered magnanimously, even though I had no actual say in the matter. “But keep in mind that as soon as you’re writing about it, it’s bound to lose some of its mysterious allure.”

  “Hmmm…” She frowned thoughtfully. “Maybe I won’t write about it.”

  I shrugged. “Watch the show and decide. You’ve got to be getting pretty tired of writing about Dr. Erotic.” I rolled my eyes.

  She laughed. “He has been pretty boring lately.”

  “Really?” I teased. “I heard he’s sleeping with his inside source. Seems like a juicy story to me.”

  “Ah, see. That’s…yeah. How do I put this?”

  I looked on with wide eyes as she stuttered.

  She took a deep breath and started again. “Let’s just say that story is a little too real for Gossip.” She lowered her voice to a mutter. “And me.”

  I smiled. “What was that last bit?”

  The house lights started to dim, and a spotlight shone on the stage. She winced and pointed to the stage. “Sorry. Can’t talk. The show’s starting.”

  I shook my head but surrendered. That was fine with me. I didn’t really want to talk anyway.

  Grabbing the side of her chair, I pulled her toward me with a rough yank, and she gasped.

  I winked, draping my arm around the back of her chair to twirl her hair and then bringing it back so I could rest my hand on her thigh.