Doctor Hot Mess (Doctor Feel Good #4)

1. Jonah

ONE

Jonah

Friday, March 17

The Red Shamrock

42 Manning Place, Birmingham

11:28 PM

“Alright, karaoke time!” Carly announces, swaying slightly as she hoists her green plastic cup. “Who’s in?”

The table groans in unison, half the group already collecting coats and clutching Uber confirmations like life preservers. St. Patrick’s Day had, predictably, spiraled into one too many rounds of Jameson shots and “just one more” rounds of Guinness.

“Not me,” Shep mutters, his normally sharp gaze glassy. “I’m tapping out.” He stands, bracing himself on the edge of the table. “My dignity’s already questionable without adding karaoke to the mix.”

“Same,” Kate says, yawning. “This was fun, but I’m not drunk enough to butcher Journey’s 'Don't Stop Believin’ in public.”

“You mean you don’t want to witness history in the making?” I pipe up, sliding a mischievous grin across the table. We are just getting started. “Because I plan to bring the house down tonight.”

“More like burn it down,” Carly teases, rolling her eyes.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” I fire back, tipping my chair slightly as I balance it on two legs.

This is my zone—charming, sharp-witted, keeping the energy up so no one wants to leave. A few beers in, the edges of the world blur just enough to make everything feel a little brighter, a little easier. I know how to play the room, how to keep the laughs coming. It’s second nature by now, and it works. It always works.

The group trickles out, leaving just me, Harper, and two of Carly’s friends from her old nursing program—a guy named Seth and a bubbly blonde named Amanda, even though Carly took off.

Lightweights.

Saturday, March 18

Neon Moon

2316 2nd Avenue N, Birmingham

12:42 AM

The karaoke bar reeks of bad decisions and stale smoke. This is the kind of place where the walls are tinged yellow from years of poor ventilation and questionable life choices.

It’s both a relic and a disaster—the last bar in Birmingham where you can still smoke inside because it’s technically a “private club.” The irony? Membership is just signing your name on a clipboard at the door.

A haze of cigarette smoke lingers in the air, swirling under neon beer signs that flicker like they’re on their last legs. The faint tang of spilled beer clings to the sticky floor, and somewhere in the corner, a guy belts out a screechy rendition of Bon Jovi’s "Livin’ on a Prayer" with all the confidence of a rock star and none of the talent.

It’s a train wreck, but no one looks away. This is where the drunk and desperate end up when the night refuses to die. It's a beautiful mix of misery and comedy that’s somehow both disturbing and brilliant.

And honestly? It’s perfect.

I’m sweating from my "performance" of "Sweet Caroline ," but it’s the good kind—the kind that leaves your cheeks sore from grinning and your chest lighter than it’s been in weeks.

Harper’s leaning on the high-top table. Her cheeks are flushed from laughing too hard, and her hair’s a little messy from the pure debauchery of the night. She throws her head back as I make some ridiculous comment, and it hits me how easy it is to be around her. It always has been.

We’re the last two standing from our group, which is saying something. The last few hangers-on finally dropped off a little while ago. Just me and my ride-or-die. It’s one of the things I like most about her—she’s not afraid to stick it out and enjoy the party while it lasts.

“You realize this makes us the most fun people in the room,” I say, raising my almost empty, lukewarm beer to her.

“Or the dumbest,” she shoots back, her eyes sparkling. “Probably both.”

“Speak for yourself. I’m brilliant.”

She snorts. “Right. Forgot. Smartest man in the room.”

That’s the thing about us—banter like this is easy and natural. It’s been that way since we first started hanging out a few years ago. No walls, no pretenses, just two people who know how to give each other a hard time and enjoy it.

“You’re welcome,” I say, sliding into the seat beside her after snagging another round of drinks.

“For what?” she asks, raising an eyebrow as she looks up at me.

“Brightening your life. Bringing joy. Lifting the entire mood of this place. Take your pick.”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “You did all that with 'Sweet Caroline’ and a warm beer ? ”

“Among other things,” I say, tapping the rim of her glass with mine. "Mainly because I brought the drinks, but I'll take it where I can get it."

Her laugh is warm and easy, and it hits me somewhere I wasn’t expecting. We’re friends. Always have been. But there’s something about tonight—the way the neon lights play across her face, the way her eyes crinkle when she smiles—that makes me wonder how I’ve never seen her like this before.

“Don’t let it go to your head, Bellinger,” she says, smirking. “Your vocals were passable at best.”

“Passable?” I feign offense, clutching my chest. “I think I have what it takes to make it big . ”

“You’re exhausting,” she says, shaking her head. But there’s affection in her voice, a softness that lingers.

“You want to call it?” I ask, leaning close enough to catch a hint of her perfume. “Or are you ready for round two?”

She arches an eyebrow. “Round two? That’s a tempting offer,” she coos, leaning against the high top with a smirk. “But I don’t think I can handle another duet with you. My ears are still recovering.”

“Fine, no more singing. How about this—come back to my place? We can have a nightcap on my balcony and play some music I promise not to sign along to.”

Her eyebrow arches, her smirk softening into something thoughtful. “Good one, Bellinger.”

“It’s a great idea,” I say, holding her gaze. “Better than subjecting you to more off-key drunk renditions of Journey.”

She studies me for a moment, like she’s weighing the invitation, deciding what’s really behind it. The air shifts between us, and it's suddenly charged. We are at a precipice, and I think we both know what going back to my place for a nightcap means.

“Alright,” she says finally, a small smile tugging at her lips. “But only because I can’t trust you to appreciate good music without my guidance.”

“Deal.” I grin, tossing some cash on the table for our drinks we didn’t finish. Probably the most mature decision we’ve made all night. “Let’s get out of here before I change my mind and make you duet with me one last time.”

Jonah’s House

904 Parkway Drive, Birmingham

2:11 AM

The door clicks shut behind us, and I waste no time pulling Harper into my arms. Our lips crash together in a hungry kiss, the tension that's been building all night finally igniting. She tastes like vodka and possibility.

I press her against the wall. One hand cups her face while the other grips her hip. Our bodies fit together like puzzle pieces. Her curves mold against my groin. I break the kiss just long enough to murmur, "You're trouble, Harper."

She smirks, eyes flashing with mischief. “That’s all you, Bellinger," she quips, fingers already working at my shirt buttons.

Laughter bubbles up between us as we fumble with each other's clothes. I tug her blouse over her head, revealing a lacy black bra that makes my mouth go dry. "Jesus, Harper," I breathe, drinking in the sight of her.

Her hands find my belt, deftly undoing it. "Like what you see?" she teases, pushing my pants down my hips. They pool at my feet, and I step out of them, kicking them aside.

"You have no idea," I growl, reclaiming her lips. The kiss is all heat and need, our tongues tangling as hands roam newly exposed skin. I trail kisses down her neck, relishing her soft gasp when I find that sensitive spot below her ear.

We stumble towards the bedroom, shedding more clothes along the way. By the time we cross the threshold, we're both down to our underwear. I spin Harper towards the bed, guiding her onto it with gentle pressure on her lower back.

She looks up at me, hair tousled and lips swollen from our kisses. The sight of her sprawled across the crisp white sheets, all creamy skin and toned curves, nearly undoes me. I retrieve a condom from my wallet and roll it on as her eyes follow my every move.

"Come here," Harper beckons, voice husky with desire. I oblige, covering her body with mine. The feeling of skin on skin is electric, sending shivers down my spine.

I kiss her deeply as I enter her, swallowing her moan. We move together in perfect sync, finding a rhythm that builds steadily. Harper arches beneath me, nails raking down my back. "God, Jonah," she gasps, "don't stop."

The room fills with the sounds of our pleasure - breathless moans, skin against skin, and whispered encouragements. I lose myself in the sensation of her, the way she feels around me, the intoxicating scent of her skin.

"Harper," I groan, feeling myself getting close. "You feel so good, so perfect."

She responds by wrapping her legs around my waist and pulling me in until there's no space left between us. Our rhythm turns desperate as we chase that final release.

Harper gasps, and her body tenses beneath me as she cries out, pleasure rippling through her. The sight of her coming undone, the way she clenches around me, pushes me over the edge. I bury my face in the crook of her neck, and her name crashes from my lips as I follow.

We collapse together, tangled in the sheets. Our bodies are slick with sweat, and our chests rise and fall in sync. I press my forehead to hers, still lost in the aftershocks, the lingering hum of pleasure keeping me tethered to this moment.

Everything is heightened—the warmth of her skin, the deep, rhythmic pounding of my heartbeat, the way she sighs, satisfied, against my lips.

Her fingers trace lazily along my shoulder, absentminded and soft, like she’s memorizing the shape of me. I should move. Say something. Shift the mood before it settles into something it shouldn’t.

Instead, I let my eyes fall shut, just for a second, just long enough to breathe her in. It’s dangerous—how easy it is to stay right here.

I press a kiss to her hair because that’s what I do. A little thing, nothing serious, just a habit. Women like that kind of thing. They like me. And they know the deal.

Harper isn’t any different.

Right?

She shifts against me, her lips grazing my jaw. “You okay?” she asks.

I swallow, clearing the rough edge from my voice. “Yeah, of course. You good?”

“Yeah,” she says, more like a question than an answer.

Her body is still wrapped around mine, warm and inviting. Too inviting. If I stay, she’s going to get the wrong idea. Hell, I might, too.

I shift slightly to release myself from her and stretch an arm behind my head. "That was fun," I murmur, letting the words roll out like they always do. Smooth, light, and the perfect transition back to reality.

She’s quiet. It’s not awkward, just unexpected. Then she exhales a soft laugh, one that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. "Yeah," she says. "It was."

That’s my cue. No weird expectations, no misunderstandings, but an acknowledgement that we both know this was just a fun end to a fun night. We’re on the same page. If anyone knows me, it’s Harper.

We’re good.

And that’s exactly how it should be.