Page 1 of Doc Showmance
1
Amber
“He pooped all over my shirt?”
My patient’s owner stretched his flamingo-patterned aloha shirt away from his chest to examine the stain I’d been trying not to stare at for the past few minutes. With a rip, he tore apart the snaps holding his shirt together in a fluid motion that would make any male stripper proud.
Don’t laugh. Do not crack a smile.
I caught the rotund Shih Tzu panting on the exam table between us when he attempted to jump off.
Didn’t need to see the guy’s chest. Most definitely didn’t need to see the yellow tattoo of Pikachu wielding Thor’s hammer around his left nipple. I’m all about some nice ink work, but I had to believe that’d been a drunken dare.
I met the gaze of my bomb-proof fifty-something career veterinary technician, Susan, where she stood at the computer station, ready to type in the details of our conversation. Susan’s face flushed as she compressed her lips tight and ducked her head.
A small noise came from the corner behind me. The cameraman, Martin, failed to hide his smirk.I’d forgotten he’d followed us into this appointment.
Controversy made great TV for the reality show based at this San Diego emergency hospital. All doctors here were required to allow the cameras to follow 30 percent of the time. It was part of our employment contract. The extra money rocked, which was why I tolerated it, but being on camera sucked. I wasn’t a showman in need of attention. The cameras made me hyper alert to details like ensuring I didn’t have food between my teeth. Being cautious about what I said was a lost cause. I have a potty mouth that surfaces at the wrong times.
“You’ve been great, Doc Hardin… Amber? Can I call you that? Maybe Dr. Amber? It feels like we have a connection. We’re both doctors, you know. I’m a chiropractor. I work over in South Park. You seem great at what you do.” The now half-naked man rotated to give the camera a clear visual of his chest. He had the kind of fluffy blondish hair that looked like he’d jumped in the ocean hours ago and dried it in the sun. Smelled like it, too.
He was preening, actually peacocking, for the flipping camera?
“Thanks,” I answered distractedly. He’d experienced but a pinch of my veterinary skills. I was so much better than an exam and one lab test to conquer his dog’s diarrhea. I’d never boast about myself. I do critique myself without pity and always give 100 percent. I know when it comes to medicine and surgery, I’m good. Sure, I have an ego and a big mouth. Both get me into a crapload of trouble, which is why my boss has kept me around. Great TV, he says.
“Do you know how to get liquid crap out of carpet?” He stress-smiled. “I’m house sitting for my mom. She’s going to kill me.”
“Steam cleaner?” Based on the poop Doudrop deposited on the exam room floor a few minutes ago, I speculated a powerful stinkage awaited him when he returned home.
The brightness in his eyes changed to something more intimate. He stared at me as if chewing on his next question.
Oh, no.
His hand began a slow path toward where mine rested on the metal exam table.
He was about to ask me out. This happened from time to time. I’d offered him a solution to resolve his biggest problem and worked with Susan to clean up his dog’s bum so he’d go home smelling like roses. Maybe not roses. More of a synthetic baby powder smell, but it was heavenly in comparison to where the dog’s aroma started.
He must’ve realized I was about his age, single, and… Who was I kidding? This guy didn’t care aboutme.He wanted his five minutes in the TV spotlight. He wanted to be on next week’s show.
I was selling myself short. Maybe he thought I was hot. I had solid curves in my hips and butt—not talking Kardashian-large, but solid curves—and my hair sported varying colors. Right now, it was red mixed with blonde over my base of light brown. I was on the edgier side that put many guys off. Edgier, meaning the hoop in one side of my nose, a few extra ear piercings, and many colorful tattoos. My Spanish heritage granted me a perma-tan that many here in California wished for but had to work hard to maintain.
Moments before he forced me to step back to ensure my hand stayed well out of reach, his dog ripped a fart. My eyes watered as the smell waged war inside my nostrils.
I laughed and waved my hand in front of my nose. “You poor thing, Doudrop. We need your meds to kick in fast.”
He grabbed the little dog off the table to pull her in for a hug. I bit back a reminder not to squeeze her too tight or things might come out the back end that he didn’t want on his bare skin. “Mom named her for a WWE lady wrestler, you know.”
“The name works for her.” I cleared my throat and offered what I hoped came off as a professional smile before asking in my hard tone, “Any other questions about Doudrop’s care? I think she should be blow-out free by tomorrow.”
“You love animals, right? It’s why you do this?”
“Yep.” I was a veterinarian so, of course, I loved animals—the furry, the hairless, the ones with chronic skin allergies who were always combatting some form of stink, the drooly, and those who showed love by sitting on my toes. In this job, animals played a big role. In reality, it was about far more than the patient. It was 80 percent about the person who came with the pet—like my half naked client demo-ing his chest for the camera. Also, it was 4 percent about food. People food. As in food to fill up my complaining stomach. As if on cue, my stomach grumbled to remind me I’d missed lunch to take care of this dog’s blowout diarrhea.
“You want to get coffee one day this week? I’m fascinated by your job. Love to talk about it more.” He seemed to angle his hold on Doudrop to make sure I still had a full visual of Pikachu over his left pec.
Ugh.Not saved by his dog’s gas.
I don’t date clients. Hell, I don’t date in general. It’s not that I dislike men or sex. I like both. I simply don’t have the patience or energy necessary to cultivate what most men of my age, closing in on their thirties, might be looking for. My focus for the next eight months was to finish this residency and pass my board exam. No distractions allowed.
