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“How did I get in here?” I ask, my voice sounding more like a squeak than I’d intended.
* * *
Wakingup in Domenico’s bed this morning and finding two sets of dominant eyes on me has replayed more times than I can count on all my fingers and toes combined. I never did get an answer to my question. Domenico’s lips curled into a sneer, and then he barked an order for me to get out of his room.
There is a knock on the door a second before it opens, revealing Dr. Weston with a fake smile plastered on her pretty but plastic-looking features. She’s at least twice my age, maybe more, yet I have more creases on my forehead than she does. Her makeup is camera ready, and she has perfect white teeth to go along with an overly-used smile.
“Miss Fitzgerald, thank you for being patient after your exam.” She enters, closes the door behind her, then takes a seat on the stool positioned in front of the computer screen across from the exam table. Her fingers click on the keyboard as she signs into the clinic’s electronic medical record system. After she’s finished, she twists to face me, placing her hands on her lap. “Most of the results from the lab work we did before your pelvic exam this morning are in.”
“Okay,” I say for lack of not knowing how else to reply.
“The culture from your urine sample will likely take four to five days, but otherwise, you are in good health.” Her features transition from friendly to serious, making my spine straighten from where I’m seated on the exam table. The thin paper underneath me crinkles as my body squirms. “I would like you to shed a few pounds by the time you return to see me again in a year. Perhaps incorporate some cardiovascular exercise in your daily routine.”
“I thought you said I’m healthy,” I can’t help but comment. It’s not like I don’t know I’m slightly overweight, but seriously, her tact could use work. I like to eat, but I hate exercising. There is nothing fun about sweating.
“Your blood work was normal, Miss Fitzgerald, but you want to ensure it stays that way. Eating a low-fat diet and exercising is something we all should be doing to ensure we live a long and healthy life.” Her brow arches as if she expects me to challenge her authority on the matter. She’s the doctor, not me, and maybe she is right, but that doesn’t mean I won’t live a long and healthy life if I’m not skinny like her.
I blink, waiting for her to continue so I can leave. It was already awkward, and she’s only making this more uncomfortable the longer she speaks. This is the first time I’ve ever been to a gynecologist, and I can’t say I want to do it again in a year. The only other time I’ve seen a doctor was one my great-uncle had do a house call, and I didn’t like that experience either.
I really hope Tony takes me back to his home when we leave here. All I want to do is take a shower and change into another set of clothes. I feel dirty, and my anxiety is starting to kick back up now that I’m thinking about where her fingers were and the two sets of eyes staring at my vagina—the doctor and her nurse who was chaperoning the ordeal.
“There was something else, Miss Fitzgerald.” She pauses, and the skin between her eyebrows creases, showing the first line on her face that I’ve seen. “Normally, I wouldn’t speculate on something that I could be way off base with.” She takes a breath, then releases it through her mouth, causing me to squirm more and the paper beneath me to make noises. “But knowing who scheduled your appointment and who is waiting out in the parking lot for you to be finished, I’m concerned for your wellbeing.”
“I’m fine,” I say, and it sounds monotonous to my own ears.
“Are you sure? You have evidence of scarring.” She rolls her stool closer to the exam table, her eyes showing concern. “I’m friends with a lady that knows Antonio Caputo well. I’ve heard many stories about him, and I know what he’s capable of, of the things he’s probably done often. You don’t have to be afraid of him. If you need out of a situ—”
“I said, I’m fine,” I say with more vigor, interrupting where her conversation is going and not sure why I feel the need to defend a man that I’m sure has done bad things. But he hasn’t done bad things to me, and I don’t like her thinking he has.
I slide my butt to the edge of the exam table, about to tell her I’d like to leave, when the door opens, revealing Domenico with his hand squeezing the metal door handle and those dark eyes landing on mine, making me swallow my words. “Are you done? I’m not in a waiting mood.”
“Excuse me,” Dr. Weston says, her shocked expression taking in all six-feet-two-inches of my soon-to-be husband. “You cannot come in here.”
“Yet, here I stand.” His gaze flicks to the doctor’s as I step down to the tiled floor. “Now, are you finished with my pet or not?”
“I’m sorry, what?” Her bottom lip hangs open as her eyes grow round. It makes me want to laugh, which is better than the awkwardness she created with her probing questions, even if Domenico called me that degrading nickname he thinks is getting under my skin with.
He’ll have to step up his game if he plans to do that. Name-calling doesn’t hurt me.
“Ciera.” He says my name slowly. “Have you finished all the doctor bullshit?”
“We’re done,” I answer for Dr. Weston.
“We were not finished, Miss Fitzgerald,” she argues.
“I’m finished. It was nice to meet you, and thank you,” I say, being polite so that she’ll hopefully take a hint and not make a big deal about this. I don’t think Tony would do anything to her if she caused trouble, but I’m not so sure the same can be said about Domenico. He seems more protective over the Caputos than his father and boss.
I turn away from Dr. Weston, intent on leaving with Domenico, and frankly, glad he rescued me even if that wasn’t his purpose.
“Wait,” she calls out. “I still have to give you a prescription for birth control since I removed the IUD and you didn’t want it replaced.”
Domenico’s left brow arches, his dark eyes on mine, asking a question I’m unsure how to decipher. He’s a guy, so more than likely, he doesn’t know what an intrauterine device is. Not even I knew what it was when it was placed inside me at the age of fourteen. My great uncle nor the doctor that implanted it explained what it was for. It wasn’t until I was using a computer and researching schoolwork that I looked it up and discovered it was a form of birth control. I was both relieved and sickened at the thought.
I look over my shoulder to see her scribbling something on a pad with a pen. When she finishes, she tears a piece of paper off and then holds it out between us for me to take.
Domenico reaches for it before I do, shoving it into the pocket of his dress pants. “I’ll take care of it. Let’s go, my little pet.”
A gasp sounds from behind me, but instead of acknowledging the doctor’s outburst, I slip past Domenico and out the door.
