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“Everything’s fine,” is my reply. “I’m twenty now, and I’ve been getting my period like clockwork since I was oh, about twelve. It’s fine. I do get cramps once in a while, but nothing that Advil can’t solve. Why?”
The doctor looks distinctly uncomfortable for a moment, but then he continues.
“Well, it’s a matter of policy for the women here to be on birth control,” he says. “We also do a full screen and a battery of tests, just to make sure you’re in perfect health.”
I stare at him. “I am in perfect health. I’ve never even had the chickenpox.”
Dr. Thompson laughs. “Actually, I’d be worried about that,” he says wryly. “Adult chickenpox is much more severe than childhood chicken pox. But are you open to a screen? It’s beneficial,” he says persuasively. “We can help you if something’s wrong, and get you treated asap.”
I shake my head.
“No, everything’s fine,” I say. “I know I don’t have anything.” The reason why I know is because after my last break-up, I went to the local clinic and got everything checked out. Earlier in the relationship, my ex had given me crabs. Can you believe it? It’s the most disgusting thing ever, like lice on your pubes. I’m embarrassed to admit that I ever suffered from something like that, but the good part is that I was treated immediately, and they pronounced me healthy as a horse a month later. Plus, I haven’t exactly had a boyfriend since that breakup two years ago. Kenny hurt me, and the crabs diagnosis didn’t exactly reinforce my belief in the male sex. So actually, I’ve been celibate for about two years, and know for sure I have a clean slate of health.
But Dr. Thompson is shaking his head.
“I’m sorry, my dear, but the health screen is mandatory. I’m sorry I made it sound like it was optional, but it’s not. All staff gets tested, but I promise that the results are confidential. And we will get you the best medical treatment, if anything is needed.”
I think about it for a moment. I don’t feel great giving blood because who knows what will happen? The Club will have my DNA then. But still. If this is free medical care, then I’m not going to pass it up. I don’t have health insurance, so whenever I’m sick or injured, I head straight to the emergency room and the good people of Nevada pick up the bill.
“Fine,” I say shortly, sticking out my arm. “I’ll do it.”
“Good,” replies the doctor. “Now this won’t hurt a bit.”
The needle going in makes me wince a little, but I don’t dwell on it. He finishes sealing the vial of blood and then turns to me again. Those blue eyes are kind, but I still feel wary.
“How do you feel about birth control?” he asks.
I look at him flummoxed.
“I don’t need it,” is my reply. “I’m totally celibate, and honestly, I haven’t been on a date in months. There’s no way I’m getting pregnant, unless it’s through immaculate conception.”
Dr. Thompson’s cheeks color and it’s kind of cute. Sometimes old people can be funny, even when they’re experts in their profession. But he doesn’t lose a beat.
“Ms. Kane, I misspoke,” he says formally. The man almost does a small bow in apology. “Birth control isn’t optional at the Billionaires Club either. All women of childbearing age are required to be on the pill as soon as they step onto our premises. I’m so sorry, but I’ll be writing you a prescription that will be filled immediately.”
I gasp.
“But why?” is my protest. “I don’t need it. It’s not like I’m going to get knocked up.”
Dr. Thompson merely shakes his head.
“It’s a precaution. All women here are on it.”
I shake my head. “It must be because these guys are rich, right?” I ask morosely. “They don’t want some lowly waitress to get knocked up by accident, and then to have their spawn and demand a ton in child support. I know how it goes.”
And the fact is, I do know how it goes. My parents died when I was young, but I’ve seen how the child support and alimony game can play out. I lived in many different foster homes for years, and more often than not, one parent would be screaming bloody murder on the phone, demanding money from their ex every month. It was crazy.
So in a way, I can understand. Sometimes, my foster parent was screaming or yelling for two hundred bucks a month. But if your baby daddy was a billionaire? The damage could be ten times worse, if not a hundred times worse.
“I get it,” I repeat again in a depressed voice. “Don’t worry, I’ll take my pills. There’s no need, I promise you that,” comes my dry reply, “but I’ll take them all the same.”
