Page 132 of The Doctors Will See You Now

Barron didn’t give me a chance to make the move myself, instead, he gripped my hips and flipped me onto my belly. Only, he wasn’t superior in the skillset, fumbling the maneuver with a bobble, a shove, and collapsing onto me with the force of his weight. His chest hit my back, and my body catapulted forward, my forehead smacking into the headboard of his giant king-sized bed with a loud and piercing thud. Instantly, my vision blurred, and a jagged line of pain shot behind my eye.

“Oh, holy mother lover!” I cried and held a hand to my forehead. Hot embers focused at the point of impact, making it hard to breathe through the intensity. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph at Applebee’s! What the hell!”

“Oh my God,” he said behind me. Shock clung to his voice. “I’m so sorry, Harlow. Oh my God, are you okay?”

I pulled my hand away from my forehead to mutter some nonsense about him maiming me being okay—and realized I probably wasn’t okay. Bright red blood covered my fingers and palm, and now that I’d moved my hand, a little puddle of it was soaking into the fine silk of his pillowcase as we spoke. Whatever had happened to my forehead during the throes of Barron’s passion for my ass, it appeared it’d done some damage.

I turned toward him.

“Oh, fuck,” he muttered when he caught sight of my injury. “That’s a really big gash, Harlow.”

Uh…ya think?

“Mind grabbing me a towel so I can, you know, not bleed all over your bed?” Any more than I already have anyway…

“Shit. Sorry,” he muttered and hopped off the bed, his now deflated penis flapping in the wind as he jogged toward the bathroom.

I sighed out loud. This was literally the worst fucking night ever. It honestly deserved one of those internet articles about terrible first-date experiences.

Not even a minute later, Barron had a towel pressed to my forehead, his worried gaze assessing my face. I guess it’s nice that he’s concerned.

“Thanks,” I said, and he grimaced.

“God, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

I mean, it really wasn’t fine, but what was I going to say in this situation? Yeah, you should be sorry. You give awful oral, and while fucking me, you managed to toss me into your headboard that just so happens to be made out of glass crystals.

Which, why the fuck was that his headboard? I was lucky I didn’t lose an eye.

I stood up and walked into the bathroom to assess the damage for myself, and Barron didn’t follow me. I looked back just in time to watch him touch the bloody pillow with his hand, move his fingers closer to his face in horror, and faint dead away into the middle of his plush bed.

Jesus Christ.

I shook my head in disgust but stopped nearly immediately. Dizziness took root in the base of my skull and radiated outward, threatening to drop me like the fucker in the other room if I wasn’t careful. After a glance in the mirror, a noticeable and still-bleeding gash on my forehead swelling, I knew I needed stitches.

All I’d wanted was penis. And yet, for my trouble, I was getting a solo trip to the emergency room. No chance in hell I’m waking up Minnie Mouse in there to go with me.

Jesus. It might be time to consider the convent.

“Yo! Scott!” Justin, one of the day nurses, greeted me and I slapped him a high five.

It was the changing of the guards, the switch of the shift, and things in New York City were about to get motherfucking interesting.

Trust me, as a doctor of ten years, and the head of the Emergency Department at St. Luke’s Hospital for the last three and a half, I’d seen just about any injury you could conjure in your depraved mind—and then some.

From stabbings, shootings, and muggings to broken kneecaps from a trip on the crowded sidewalks to sex toys trapped deep within the female genitalia—medicine in an emergent capacity knew no boundaries.

Fortunately for my patients, I didn’t know many either. While work was the most important part of work—always—I didn’t think that meant I couldn’t have fun at the same time.

Most attending physicians would use their station as head of the department to get out of night shifts, but not me. The nights were when you met the most interesting characters, experienced the weirdest of cases, and I’d always been a night owl anyway. I did this shift as often as I could.

“Another day, another dollar,” I shouted back as Justin pushed open the door to the locker room.

He paused with a smirk. “Do they shove them in your G-string, Dr. Erotic?”

I laughed. Not only was I comfortable with the nickname my ever-growing reality show fame had brought me, I lived for it. Nine weeks of being on the air, and I felt like I was on top of the world. Some might call me outgoing—others might call me an attention whore. Either way, I didn’t mind living in the limelight.