Page 251 of The Doctors Will See You Now

There weren’t many patients in here yet, the real mayhem of a weekend overnight in New York City was just starting up. But the ones who looked on with mild distrust and disbelief at my antics until the rest of the staff fell victim to participating one by one, the beat of Shakira too powerful to resist. I watched as some of their faces melted to amusement, while others skipped surface-level delight and jumped straight to recognition.

Yep, I’m that guy. Dr. Erotic, here in the flesh. There was a GIF of me out there hip rolling as I did one of these very warm-ups, something they’d featured heavily on the show, if I wasn’t mistaken.

A few cell phones appeared, but I was used to that, me popping up on YouTube and Facebook and Insta-fuck and whatever else there was to post elaborately staged pictures of fake reality these days.

I’m not anti-social media like it might sound. I’m just a liver, a doer, a partier of sorts. I’d much rather be out and about than posting pictures of myself with my dinner plate. If Shakira appeared in front of me right now, I wouldn’t waste my time taking her picture, if you catch my drift.

Although, when one of the episodes aired featuring her song, “Whenever, Wherever,” she tweeted me, and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit it thrilled me. I just wish “tweeted” meant something more physical—dirtier. Seriously, I’m down with whatever freaky shit she’s into.

“Dr. Shepard!” Debbie, the head nurse in charge of admission yelled, completely interrupting the climax of my performance. In her midforties with a generic blond bob, serious hazel eyes, and little to no makeup, Deb was the walking, talking dictionary definition of “business.” She meant it, she enforced it, and she got shit done.

In real terms, she was a pain in my ass.

“Geez, Deb,” I grumbled as I climbed down from my perch halfway on top of the desk. “Why do you always have to undermine my performances?”

She smirked and shook her head. “Because they’re terrible. And you’re needed on stage B, aka Bay Two, for an actual patient, that has to do with your actual job.”

“I’m offended, Deb. You should know better than anyone that the warm-up is a crucial part of my process. Working conditions are integral to success. Would you consider patient care without your gloves?”

“Scott—”

“I think not!” I cried, fake outrage making my voice carry. Several sets of eyes followed us closely.

“Stop making a scene,” Debbie chastised. “Aren’t you tired of making a fool of yourself?”

“I’ll never tire of it, Deb,” I vowed solemnly. She sighed. “Not ever.”

“Fine. Then make a scene in Bay Two. But do it while you’re sewing up a head lac, would you?”

“I live to serve you, my sweet emergency goddess.”

“Jesus Christ,” she grumbled, shoving the patient chart into my chest. “They don’t pay me enough for this shit.”

Fortunately, Sherry found me far more amusing than Deb did, if the glowing smile on her face as she looked on was any indication. I winked at her as a reward.

“Scott!” Deb yelled from across the room.

Whoops. Patient in Bay Two. Apparently, I wasn’t moving fast enough.

“I sure hope you’re close to bleeding out,” I told the faceless patient behind the curtain as I approached Bay Two. “You’ve interrupted my performance, gotten me scolded by Deb—”

The chink of the curtain hooks rang out into the space as I yanked it back, and I immediately stopped speaking.

Well, I’ll be damned. She’s cute. Shoulder-length, half-curl-rumpled hair, sexy smoky eyes with glowing green irises, and a body that could kill. She also had a fucking mess on her forehead, a blood-soaked rag and both of her hands pushing into it, but that was just a surface detail.

“You know what?” I asked her rhetorically. “Strike all of that. Don’t you even worry about interrupting me.”

She rolled her eyes and sank back onto the bed. “I wasn’t worried about you at all. The gushing, bleeding wound in my forehead? That concerns me.”

I smiled at her candor and sarcasm and then nudged at her hands with my forearm. “I’m concerned too. Truly. So move your hands.”

She narrowed her eyes, and I laughed. “I’m concerned. I promise.” I made an X over my heart with one hand and grabbed some gloves from the tray beside the bed with the other. “This is my job.”

“According to your argument with Deb, performing is your job—”

“No, no,” I interrupted as I popped the second glove into place. “You can’t actually use my argument with Deb as evidence. That’s just routine. It’s mundane, actually.”

“Listen, Doctor…?”