Page 12 of Dying for the Doctor

But at the same time I know Wanda more intimately than anyone else in the universe, comes the thought as I glance back at the two security guys who escorted me down in the elevator. They’re big and burly, but they know who I am, know what Dad does for a living, are very familiar with my Family Business. Hell, for all I know, they’ve done some work for Dad on the side. Still, they’ve got legit jobs to do, and I’m not going to give them a hard time. Besides, although I can hold my own in a fight, it would be the height of stupidity to get into it with hospital security. As it is I’m seriously exposed right now. Lenny is suspicious about how the camera in Wanda’s room malfunctioned in exactly the same way the camera in the dead guy’s room lost its signal just long enough for someone to slip in and out without being caught on video.

Stepping towards the exit, I cautiously peer through the glass doors, wondering if Lenny really will call the cops. Doubtful. I’m pretty sure Lenny was bluffing just to get me out of there. Sure, maybe Wanda says something about what happened, says I behaved inappropriately. But there’s an inexplicably confident part of me that says no way, absolutely not, Wanda and I shared that moment together, played out that fantasy together, it wasspecial and private, it was ours and will stay ours forever, even if she did send me away just now. Perhaps I shouldn’t be this confident, but no way is Wanda going to say that something untoward happened in that room.

As for the dead guy down on Two?

Nah.

No way the hospital calls the cops for every Code Blue in Las Vegas. Nope, not unless there are clear signs of foul play. And even then the hospital has strict procedures and protocols outlining when the police need to get involved. Basically, unless someone’s been hacked to death and the damn room is covered in blood, no Las Vegas hospital is calling the police every time a patient dies. Every hospital will avoid it so long as it’s legally acceptable.

So without any toxins in the dead guy’s system, and without any unauthorized visitors caught on camera, Lenny isn’t going to risk getting the Hospital Board of Directors on his ass for calling the police without a damn good reason.

Because the good Doctor Lenworth’s had his own problems with the Hospital Board of Directors, even though it was over a decade ago now, just before my time, a couple of years before I interned at this hospital. Nothing was ever proved—mostly because at the time there were no cameras in the regular inpatient hospital rooms. But there were definitely rumors of Doctor Lenworth’s “inappropriate behavior” with some of the female patients. In the end no criminal charges were filed, and the hospital made some kind of financial settlement with the accusers involving nondisclosure agreements. From what I heard, Lenny was pretty close to being fired, but in the end the Hospital Board decided that firing Lenny would look like an admission of guilt and hurt the hospital’s reputation, so instead they went the other direction and publicly cleared him of all wrongdoing.

They did a pretty good PR job, if I remember correctly. Lenny was made out to be the victim of false accusations. And the truth, though I hate to admit it, is that Lenworth is an excellent ER doctor, superb with trauma patients, good enough that I remember a male ER nurse once commenting that Lenny had saved so many lives that so what if he copped a feel here and there while doing his rounds. Besides, that male nurse had said flippantly, the accusers were strippers and whores to begin with.

That asshole male nurse got arrested shortly after for stealing painkillers from the dispensary, but the memory of that time makes me angry again, pissed off about how victims get blamed about as often as the perps. But reality isn’t fair, and the sad truth about that incident is that we’re in Las Vegas, Sin City, a town where the local gas station has a stripper-stage and a girl can legally become a prostitute before she can order a beer. The accusations against Lenny had all come from working girls who were being treated at the hospital for drug or alcohol related conditions, making them what the lawyers would now call “unreliable witnesses.” And the harsh truth is that twelve years ago, many folks, including the police, weren’t particularly inclined to believe strippers and prostitutes accusing a well-respected Doctor of inappropriate examination techniques.

But now those rumors and reports from a decade ago flash through my head like warning signs as I think back to how Lenny stood over my Wanda’s bedside, how his jackal-gray eyes lewdly scanned her lovely curves that those sheets couldn’t completely hide.

Fuck, and now suddenly I’m heating up again, anger rising hot, jealousy burning red, that protective fire igniting with a violence that makes me want to smash my fist into the glass door overlooking the parking lot. My throat tightens, neck muscles strain, every sinew in my body going taut, every beat of my heart whispering the same words over and over again:

She’s mine.

She’s mine.

She’s fuckingmine!

“Get a grip, you maniac.” I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the dark-tinted glass, and I’m shocked at the way my face is contorted in a vicious grimace. I’m in the throes of an obsession that’s totally unlike me, an all-consuming need to possess Wanda that’s baffling as fuck. Hell, it’s been years since I had a real girlfriend, and even then it never felt like this, never felt like . . . love?

Now I hack out a laugh, a primal coyote-yip of surprise that startles a passing nurse, who frowns in my direction and then gives me a wide berth like I’m contagious with rabies. I stare at my translucent reflection in the glass, then run my fingers through my hair, clawing at the roots, hoping the pain in my scalp will bring me back down to cold reality, chase away this dangerously hot fire of possession, this searing need to protect Wanda from some imagined danger that is irrational at best, recklessly stupid at worst.

You just killed a guy in there, I remind myself.

Besides, Wanda told you to leave, comes the gut-sinking follow-up.

So leave. Just fucking go. You know it’s the best thing to do. Get the hell out of here, Doctor Drake.

“Get in your car. Turn on the engine. Drive home. Do it now.” Willing myself to move towards the sliding doors, I wait for them to open, then stride out into the Vegas sunshine, force myself to walk towards the street. My car’s just a block away, and I tell myself that this obsession will fade once I get out of here. By the time I hit the freeway, I’ll be back in my senses. Back to reality. That cold dead mental clarity that’s been my regular state of mind the past few years, as I’ve come to accept that there’s no getting away from my Family Business, that the moment Icrossed the line and followed Dad’s orders on the first kill, my fate was sealed. I wasn’t strong enough to say no when I was younger, and now I’m trapped by my choices.

But try as I might, that cold dark comfort of knowing that I’m a murdering piece of shit doesn’t bring me the mental clarity that I crave right now. If anything, I’m getting even more worked up as I move farther away from the hospital, from Wanda, from that feeling of being bonded with her.

Gulping back an uncharacteristic lump of raw emotion, I glance down at myself and see that I’m hard as a rock, my erection tenting my trousers like a rocket desperate to launch. Glancing around, I quickly pull my lab-coat closed over my cock, walk faster towards the edge of the parking lot.

Hell, maybe I just need to jerk myself off to get my head clear again, pull myself back to the sad lonely reality that’s my life.

Yeah, that’s probably it, comes the almost-soothing thought. Just get your rocks off and you’ll find that your obsession is just your erection. Sure, Wanda is sexy as hell, with curves that make your heart beat fast, a pussy that makes you drool for another taste, an ass that you want in your face all day. Something about her flipped a switch in your lonely soul, but it’s not real, buddy. Just a mind-trick being played by your dick. Just flip that switch off again and move on. Besides, she basically just told you to fuck off, didn’t she?

Did she?

Now I stop dead in my tracks, right at the parking lot exit-gate leading to the street. The sun beats down on my face, forcing me to lick my lips to cool off.

And I taste Wanda on my sticky lips.

Her tang.

Her scent.

Her sex.

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