by Shen, L. J.
“Oh but, Ash, it is hard to bloom in the storm. All I need is a little pick-me-up. I even have a list of things that might help. It’s right here.” She messed with the pocket of her nightgown, producing a wrinkled paper and handing it to me.
I scanned the list, my blood turning cold.
“That’s a lot of pills. Some of them are strong. Zoloft. Prozac … you cannot mix them together, and you definitely can’t consume alcohol if you take any of them.”
Then something had occurred to me. Something that made me want to throw up. It was perfectly possible she had already taken them. Because all those things were prescribed to so many of her bored, housewife friends, and they all loved to exchange pills like it was some sort of a hobby. If she asked for them, it might be because she wanted more of them.
“You haven’t taken any, have you?”
She sniffed but didn’t say anything. I stepped back, shaking her off of my feet.
“For goodness’ sake, Mother!”
“Just get me the medicines and get to the bottom of this.” Jane threw herself over the carpet pathetically, very intentionally wiping her snot over it.
For one brief moment I forgave myself.
Forgave myself for being so weak when it came to Sam Brennan, for going to the schools my parents chose for me, and for never quite standing up for myself. Not with my friends, not with my brothers, and not with my family.
It was obvious my role model at home wasn’t exactly Marie Curie. Secretly, I wondered what I would have been like if I were raised by anyone else. By someone strong. A woman like Sparrow, who was terrifyingly direct and always made her opinion known publicly about every matter.
I redirected my thoughts quickly when I felt anger flaring in my chest. There was no time for that.
Hurrying toward the closet, I jammed my feet into the scrubs I didn’t need, for a job that was a lie to please my parents.
For the first time, I wondered what it would feel like to live in my own place. An apartment where I could get precious sleeping time between shifts at work without drawing my mother baths and listening to her complain about my father. Where she wouldn’t threaten to cut herself to get back at me for not giving her enough attention.
“I need to get to work. Please get yourself in the shower and brush your hair. Maybe go on a walk or see friends. You need to start taking care of yourself, Mother. I won’t live here forever.” I began buttoning my pea coat over my scrubs.
“No one has asked you to!” She shot me a hostile look from the floor, pouting. “And go, why don’t you. Go when I need you. Just don’t come crying at my grave when you lose me.”
This old tune again.
Do this and this and that or else I will take my own life.
She needs help, mon cheri, and maybe you are not the place she should get it from.
“I’m calling your psychiatrist as soon as I get to work,” I announced to her. She never agreed to see him. Said he never prescribed her the drugs she wanted.
“You can be mean, you know?” She stared at my ceiling numbly, zoning out. “Just like your father.”
“I’m not mean.” I sighed, grabbing my backpack. “But I am tired.”
She said something else, but I didn’t hear her. I walked away before she could convince me to stay. To tend to her. To give myself up for her.
On my way to the clinic, I called one of our trusted housekeepers and asked her to keep an eye on Mother, knowing I was paying lip service for my conscience.
Sam was right. A twenty-seven-year-old woman had no business living with her parents if she could afford her own place.
It was time to spread my wings.
Even and especially because Jane Fitzpatrick kept them carefully clipped.
It was a quiet day at the clinic. Full of consultations, paperwork, and research. No major decisions were made, which was always good news.
I saw Mrs. Martinez again for a checkup and accepted a new patient, a sixty-eight-year-old man so fragile he had to be carried downstairs into the clinic in Dr. Doyle’s arms.
When it was time to close shop, Dr. Doyle—a tall, sixty-something man who bore an uncanny similarity to Pierce Brosnan—patted my shoulder.
“You know, Aisling, you’re a brilliant young doctor. You should find a residency and start next year. Tell your future employer you took a gap year to spend some time with your family or to do some traveling. This clinic is no place for someone as promising as you.”
“I like working here.” I closed Mrs. Martinez’s file after making vague notes. I couldn’t write anything too specific out of fear this place would be found. I tucked the document in the filing cabinet. “We’ve already been through this, Greg. You know why I’m doing this. This is my calling.”
“And I appreciate your life experience has brought you here. I can’t help but feel guilty, too…” he leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest “…such medical talent shouldn’t be wasted in some underground, illegal clinic. You are a Harvard graduate, Fitzpatrick. Top of the crop.”
“How long have you felt this way?” I frowned at him, clearing up the table.
“Long enough,” he grumbled.
I swallowed uncomfortably. I hated change, and if I didn’t work here, that would be one heck of a change.
“Please don’t shackle yourself in unearned guilt. You are much too pragmatic for that.” I stood up, patting his cheek with a smile on my way to the bathroom before going home. From my periphery, Dr. Doyle glanced at his wristwatch. I closed the door behind me in the bathroom.
“We’ll talk about it some other time,” he determined.
“Fine, but if you think you’re getting rid of me so easily, you have another thing coming, Greg,” I spoke in a singsong. “Close the place up?”
I needed to go check on my mother. As per usual, she gave me the silent treatment after what happened this morning and refused to take my calls.
“Actually, I have to run. A patient just paged me. Mind locking up before you leave?” he called out to me.
“Not at all!” I answered from the restroom. “Go ahead. It’s been a moon and a half since I closed shop.”
Five minutes later, I found myself scrubbing medical equipment clean and locking up cabinets.
I heard a knock on the clinic’s door.
Who on earth …?
For obvious reasons, we didn’t allow walk-ins.
Frowning, I walked over to the door and looked through the peephole.
Merde.
I quickly smoothed my scrubs over my body, rearranging my long ponytail.
Still, I didn’t open the door. I didn’t breathe. I didn’t move.
Go away. Please. You are too much and not enough all at the same time.
“Too late, Nix. I know you’re in there. Your car is parked directly in front of the doorway.”
Double merde. I had no one but myself to blame for my lack of discretion.
Still, I didn’t move. I watched through the peephole as Sam braced one arm over the doorframe, sneering down at the floor like they were sharing a secret.
“We can do this the nice way or the not-so-nice way. But you should know, my not-so-nice ways include smashing doors down, rummaging through places, and doing very dangerous fucking things.”
“Go to hell.”
“Can’t. Satan has a restraining order against me. Now open the damn door.”
“I hate you,” I groaned, plastering my forehead to the door, closing my eyes.
“No, you don’t.”
“I should.”
“No fucking shit, Sherlock. Open up.”
Reluctantly, I did as I was told, stepping aside. There was no point blocking his way with all one hundred and twenty pounds of me.
We stared at each other, the threshold between us like an ocean neither of us was willing to cross. My heart beat wildly.
He did it again. He came to see me. Sought me out.
“You kill people,” he said
softly.
I gasped, stumbling backward. He stepped forward, walking into the clinic, not bothering to close the door behind him.
“I finally figured it out. Even though it was in front of me all this time, in plain sight. You kill people. That’s what you do. Mercy killing. Euthanasia.”
My back bumped against the opposite wall, and I squeezed my eyes shut childishly. Maybe if I pretended he wasn’t there, he’d disappear. But no. His voice hovered around me, thickening the air, making it too hot to breathe.
“That’s why you limit yourself to very few patients. That’s why it’s an underground operation. That’s why you keep all the drugs you have in here. That’s why you treat them at their homes. It all makes sense. You’re not here to cure people, you’re here to kill them. The only question is why? Why are you, the sweet, caring Aisling Fitzpatrick, doing this? Your brothers always told me you wanted to be an OB-GYN or a pediatrician. Something with babies involved, they said. The exact opposite of what you turned out to be.”
My eyes fluttered open on their own accord, and I met his gaze. Images of my mother earlier this morning spread over my bedroom carpet, helplessly bawling, attacked my memory. I didn’t want to be her. Meek and weak and always hiding her real self from the world. I straightened my back, taking a deep breath.
But old habits die hard …
“You can’t prove it.”
“I don’t need to. You’ll tell me your truth.”
“While you’re keeping so many secrets from me?” I choked on my bitterness, spluttering, “Nice try. Why are you here, Sam?”
His jaw ticked, but he said nothing.
“I find it hard to believe my job means so much to you. Whether I cure or kill people, it makes no difference to you. You owe me nothing, and your job is not to watch over me. In fact, it is the very opposite—to stay away from me. So why are you pushing this?”
His nostrils flared. He took my face in his rough palm, tilting my head so our mouths were aligned.
“I don’t fucking know, Aisling. I have no idea what keeps bringing me back to you, but I can’t seem to stop, and you don’t seem to mind, so let’s just get this out of our system and fuck already.”
The next thing happened like a snake bite. Sudden and fast and violent.
I kissed him roughly, this time taking what I wanted instead of waiting for it. Our kiss made me feel like we were lashing out at each other. Sam caught my lower lip between his teeth and tugged me closer to him, until there was no more space between us. He hoisted me up and carried me into the examination room, kicking the door open and spreading me flat over the table, kissing me as I toed off my work sneakers and unbuttoned his shirt.
There was nothing romantic or calculated about what we were doing. We both just needed to be physically connected as soon as possible. I tried to tell myself that it was fine. That no one had been on the examination table anyway. It was more for show. In case the place was discovered and Dr. Doyle and I needed to give the police some plausible explanation. Treating people without insurance underground wasn’t half as frightening as what we were trying to hide.
Sam’s tongue ran from my lips, down to my chin, heading south to my neck, licking a path between my tits. He cupped one of my breasts in his mouth through my shirt, groaning as he pushed my pants down, swirling his tongue around my erect nipple.
“Goddammit,” he muttered, sucking my whole breast into his mouth.
I shuddered. Something about the fact there was fabric and a sports bra between us made the act so much dirtier and erotic. I threaded my fingers through his hair—his body, hard and imposing, pressing against mine everywhere—as he moved to my other breast, giving it the same treatment.
When my pants and underwear were gone, and I was sitting on the examination table naked from the waist down, Sam pushed me roughly to lie down, using one hand to pry my thighs open and spread them as wide as he could.
“I sincerely hope you don’t intend to ask me to stop.”
I shook my head. “No. Don’t stop.”
“You know, growing up, I never played kiddie games. I graduated from formula to guns without a pit stop at toy cars and puzzles.” His mouth was swollen from our filthy kisses, and he grinned at me, his fingers on my hipbones as he plastered me to the cold, metallic table.
“Want to play doctor and patient?” I quickly caught his drift.
I wouldn’t bet on it, but I swore his cheeks pinked slightly.
“All right. Open up for me, Nix.” His fingers skimmed their way from my inner thigh to my center. I clapped a hand over his wrist, shaking my head with a taunting smile.
“Glove up first, Doc. First drawer on your left.”
He paused, then his face broke into a terrible smile. Terrible because it was the first genuine, giddy, hopeful smile I’d seen on Sam’s face in the decade I’d known him—and how awful was that?
Sam returned in a pair of my latex gloves that were tight around his massive palms. I nodded, satisfied.
“I’m new at this,” he feigned an apology, his grin turning sinister again, “so you’ll have to excuse me in advance as I conduct this pap smear, Miss Fitzpatrick.”
“Please, call me Nix.”
“Sorry, I don’t treat Knicks fans,” he deadpanned.
I bit down on my lip, suppressing wild laughter. I didn’t know many men who knew about pap smears, let alone how to conduct one. I let the hair in my ponytail spill over the edge of the examining table, blinking at him innocently.
“My name has nothing to do with the basketball team. It’s after an enticing female monster. Does that put you at ease?”
“Definitely.”
To my surprise, Sam wasn’t completely off. He settled himself between my legs and pushed me open so wide I felt the delicious pain of being stretched to my limit.
“You might experience some discomfort here,” he groaned, pushing two fingers deep into my core. I clenched onto them immediately, letting out a soft moan, rolling my hips to meet more of his hand.
“Miss Fitzpatrick,” he tsked, “control yourself, please.”
“S-sorry,” I mumbled, half-opening my eyes to watch as he pulled his hand away, only to drive it in again, this time using three fingers, curling them upward until he hit my G-spot, his free hand still stretching me wide open.
“Oh!” I cried.
“Still can’t get to that right angle. Better try again.”
He thrust again, fucking me with his fingers—with his entire fist, almost—in and out, in and out. I lay there on my back and took it, wet and turned on like I had never been in my entire life, chanting his name under my breath, not caring if he knew how much of a goner I was for him.
“H-how did you learn how to do this?” I asked, bucking my hips upward. Every time I did, he pinned my waist down, his way of telling me to behave as he fingered me. “You look like you know what you’re doing.”
“Got accepted to premed after high school.”
I let out a piercing laugh at that, but when I looked up, he seemed completely sober.
“You’re serious.” My smile dropped, and I felt the cloying feeling of an orgasm tingling through me. He didn’t even touch my clit, and I always needed clitoral stimulation to come. Huh.
“Dead fucking serious.” He sent me a nonchalant smirk as he fucked me with one hand and spread me with the other.
“You thought about becoming a doctor?” I wheezed.
“Hell no. I made a bet with a friend I could get into premed. Didn’t study for it either. But I read a gynecology book on one of my train rides to New York City while attending an arms deal and got the gist of it.”
I had a million questions to ask him, but all of them had to wait as my climax washed over me, shaking me to the core and making me cry out, grasping onto the edges of the examination table.
“Always so dramatic,” Sam muttered. Instead of getting on top of me like I thought he would, he grabbed me by the ankles, tugging me until my ass p
erched on the edge of the table.
“Sorry, Miss Fitzpatrick, but I couldn’t find what I needed. This might be a little unorthodox, but I think I know how to finish this exam.”
I was all boneless desire and satisfaction. I couldn’t even lift my head to see what he was doing before he squatted down between my legs, his tongue finding my clit and swirling around it slowly, teasingly, putting delicious pressure on it. I grabbed his hair and groaned so loud I thanked my lucky stars Dr. Doyle wasn’t upstairs in his apartment because I could probably be heard in neighboring cities.
“Merde,” I panted.
“I fucking love it when you say that,” he murmured between my legs, and I felt the wetness of me coating my inner thighs and his face as he began to eat me out, literally.
Eat. Me. Out.
Nibbled and bit and licked me thoroughly. My eyes rolled back inside their sockets, the pleasure so poignant, so intense, the oxygen rattled in my lungs. I was close to a second, violent orgasm, I couldn’t help but buck my groin, thrusting it into his face.
“Please. Ohhhhh.”
I stopped breathing, every muscle in my body clenching as intense pleasure coursed over me. I reached the highest point of la petite mort—my own little death, as the French referred to an orgasm—just when I felt him plunging into me, heavy and thick and long, in one smooth movement.
I was drenched, hot and ready for him.
My eyes opened and I saw him leaning against the examination table, between my legs, while I was full to the hilt with his erection. He closed his eyes and hissed, the pleasure too much for both of us, as he began to move inside me.
“Found what you were looking for?” I croaked, referring to his so-called pap smear.
He thrust into me with a punishing rhythm. “And then some.”
Something about his movements, so sure, so nonchalantly punishing, told me that he was used to getting what he wanted not only outside of the bedroom but inside it, too.
“I can’t believe I’m fucking you again.” He shook his head, frowning at me.