Page 4 of Dying for the Doctor

Mama and Papa both nod earnestly, perhaps even proudly, their gazes fixed on this doctor, all their hopes and dreams now being transferred to his authority, like they’re silently begging him to fix what’s broken in their once-perfect daughter.

The doctor sighs, taps his chin with his index finger. His fingernails are neatly trimmed, clean enough to perform surgery without gloves, to slide into the secret spaces of my body andheal me from the inside. His fingernails have never been bitten, I think feverishly as my own horribly chewed fingertips curl up against my palm. Oh, how wonderful it must be to have fingernails that aren’t hideous little stubs that look like chew-toys for a family of mice.

“Look, don’t get me wrong. There are tons of life-saving drugs out there, real miracles of modern medicine that absolutely benefit us all,” says the doctor thoughtfully, still tapping his chin. “But although all drugs are thoroughly tested, it’s hard to predict what happens when you mix dozens of different prescriptions. Besides, many of the drugs you’ve been taking are designed for short-term use, to temporarily take the edge off the symptoms.” He takes a breath, exhales slowly, gaze narrowing to a focus that makes me squirm. “Have you considered that perhaps there’s a root cause for your anxiety that isn’t going to be solved by popping more pills?”

The entire room goes deathly silent, like a church service where someone dares to question the existence of God. I’m not entirely sure if a doctor is even allowed to say things like this in today’s world, to even suggest that prescriptions won’t fix what’s broken, that the solution is something that won’t come from a pharmacy.

My brow still furrowed in those familiar grooves, I nod dumbly even though of course I’ve considered the possibility that my anxiety is psychological more than physical, that the insomnia and panic-attacks are just physical manifestations of something that’s broken in my mind. After all, I’m on the cusp of earning a Doctorate in Psychology. I’m not dumb. And I’m not in denial.

“I’ve tried therapy,” I inform the doctor while peering at him from above the sheets that I’m clutching around my body as I sit up in bed. “It helps for a while, just like the pills help for a while.” I shrug, then sigh, finally shake my head glumly. “I don’t thinkit’s all in my head. And I don’t think it’s all in my body. But what else is there? Where else can I look, Doctor . . .” I look for his nametag, but there isn’t one.

“Doctor Drake.” The doctor gazes into my eyes as he tells me his name. He rubs his chin again, glances off to the side like he’s thinking, then takes a breath and exhales slow. “And there is another place to look, Wanda. A place that’s between mind and body, the meeting place of the spirit and the flesh.” He gazes at me in silence for what feels like several minutes but is probably just a second or two. Still, in that pregnant pause I see something wicked flash behind his eyes again, something akin to that wolfish grin which twisted his dark red lips when he licked them at the sight of me curled up in bed, nothing but a hospital gown and a sweat-soaked sheet separating our bodies.

Separating our flesh.

My heart lurches when I realize my thoughts are once again spinning in a strangely sexual direction, which is very unusual for me. Gulping back the surprise, I force a smile while I wait for Doctor Drake to tell me what secret place he’s going to search for the axis of my anxiety, the source of my symptoms, the formula to my freedom.

But Doctor Drake says nothing. I wait as the silent tension builds. My heightened heartrate and escalating anxiety might be messing with my sense of time, but I’m pretty sure it’s been almost a full minute now that Doctor Drake has been gazing at me like he’s thinking deep and hard.

“It’s hard for me to say this . . .” Doctor Drake’s voice is a low drawl, his clean fingertip tapping the slight cleft in his chin, right beneath his smooth red lips that I can’t help staring at, am suddenly imagining closing on my lips, now moving down to my nipples which are uncharacteristically pert, like they’re aching to be kissed, sucked, slurped by his lips and tongue, pinched by his fingers, all of his appendages erotic instruments of provocativeprobing, heat-seeking tentacles snaking over my skin. “But I’m going to have to tell you the truth.”

“Tell me,” comes the whisper from my tensed-up throat as I clamp my thighs tight beneath the bedclothes, my mind beginning to unravel as my body tingles in the strangest of places, like this doctor’s presence is doing something to me, like he’s infected me with need, poisoned me with desire, is penetrating me with that blue-eyed gaze, fucking me with his facetious disregard for conventional medicine and the diagnoses of every other doctor. “You can tell me, Doctor Drake.”

Doctor Drake steps closer to my bed, and I gasp silently when I see movement at the front of his gray trousers which I only just notice aren’t standard scrubs at all, are expensive material that might be lambswool or even cashmere. Hard to tell when they’re stretched thin with whatever’s bulging beneath that belt buckle.

“Not with your parents in the room,” says Doctor Drake softly, the words barely audible, like there’s a constriction in his throat. His muscular neck thickens as he swallows, and now the buzzing in my body is loud enough that I can barely see straight, am not sure what’s happening, what’s going to happen if he’s alone in the room with me. “I need to ask you some personal questions first, and I think you’re more likely to be honest without your parents in the room.”

My eyes are wider than Jupiter’s moons as I stare at Doctor Drake and try desperately to make sense of what he’s saying and what I’m feeling. My lips move but I’m not sure if words are coming out or if I’m just a fish drowning in air. Things are getting surreal enough that yeah, it seems plausible that I’m a fish in a cosmic aquarium and some trickster just drained all the water.

And things get a whole lot more surreal when I realize I’m nodding my head and Doctor Drake is grinning and now he’s ushering my parents towards the door.

“Could you two step out of the room for a minute, please.” Doctor Drake speaks with calm authority to my parents. “I’d like to speak with your daughter in private. Doctor-patient confidentiality, you see. It’s a legal thing. Go on. I’ll call you back in when we’re done.”

“Done with what?” asks Mama, wide-eyed and worried. “Is Wanda all right?”

“No, she isn’t all right,” says Doctor Drake grimly even though I see a devilish gleam in his wicked blue eyes. “But she will be all right once I’m done with her.”

3

DRAKE

What the hell are you doing, comes the thought as Wanda’s parents exit the room and I close the door and silently slide the stainless-steel deadbolt to lock in my decision, seal in my fate, decide on my destiny.

Turning back towards the bed, I gasp silently when I realize Wanda looks even more beautiful to me now than when I first laid eyes on her pretty round face with that cute nose and gorgeous eyes that are both wise and worried, curious and concerned. That overwhelming thought that she’s mine, all mine, mine forever, just fuckingmine, is cutting a canyon through my brain, burning a pathway through my heart, hardening my cock to the point where I’m certain it’s going to rip through my lambswool trousers like a heat-seeking missile searching for warm pussy.

But this is more than just lust. More than just my dick wanting a release. A lifetime in Vegas has taught me way more than any man needs to know about meaningless sex and how it gets old real damn fast, quickly becomes more trouble than it’s worth. Vegas is overflowing with warm pussy, and the Family Business makes it so easily available that it’s sickening. Just like too much processed sugar destroys your body with diabetes, too much meaningless sex ravages your soul with emptiness.

But in this moment a feeling of fullness overwhelms me as I stand there with my back to the door, my gaze resting on Wanda’s lovely form ensconced in white sheets like an angel. She’s covered from head to toe, sitting upright against the inclined backrest of the big hospital bed in this baby-bluehospital room, an oasis of innocence and purity in this depraved city of pure American sin. My head spins from a potent mix of blood rushing to my cock and adrenaline surging through my brain, and I almost laugh in surprise at the trivial coincidences and casual choices that led me to this moment in time.

Led me to Wanda.

“Listen,” I say, glancing up at the cyclops-eye camera in the upper corner of the room, pointed right at the bed. Sliding my hand into my back pocket, I click on the little Wi-Fi-jamming device that blocks the signal from the camera, killing the video feed to the monitors at the nurse-station all the way down the hall near the elevators. This isn’t the ICU or ER, so nobody’s watching the monitors too closely. We’ve got complete privacy for at least twenty minutes, maybe more, before anyone bothers to check on us.

Plenty of time to take this thing to the next level.

Take it past the point of no return.

Though it feels like I’m already past the point of no return.

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