4
WANDA
I can’t believe what’s happening.
What I’m allowing to happen.
What I maybe want to have happen.
“What if it doesn’t happen?” I hear myself ask, my own voice sounding distant and surreal, like it’s being filtered through many dimensions. “I mean, it’s never happened before, so maybe my body just doesn’t do that.”
Doctor Drake’s mask moves like he’s smiling beneath the surgical material. His gloved fingers touch my upper arm, and he squeezes gently, reassuringly, maybe even clinically?
I almost laugh at myself for actually believing that any of this is standard clinical procedure. But in a way there’s a part of me that does believe it. It’s weird how our minds have so many different levels, how we can actually observe ourselves doing mental gymnastics, convincing ourselves to interpret reality in a way that fits with our predetermined self-image.
It makes sense, though. After all, back in the 1920s and 1930s, male American doctors did in fact regularly induce orgasms for female patients. Sure, it was a “cure” for the phantom feminine ailment known as “hysteria,” but the dirty truth was that thousands of American women visited their male doctors weekly to get this pseudoscientific cure.
It wasn’t considered dirty or immoral because it was done under the guise of “science” and performed by a “licensed medical professional.”
Just like what’s about to happen here.
Now I feel myself slipping back into that weird place where my brain relaxes and says listen, Doctor Drake is a doctor, he’s got gloves on and is wearing a mask. It’s completely clean and totally appropriate. So just do what you’re told, Wanda. Imagine you’re one of those lonely women from 1926 who goes to a handsome male doctor every week to get treated for her oh-so-terrible medically diagnosed hysteria.
“Have you ever touched yourself, Wanda?” Doctor Drake strokes my upper arm, gazing warmly down at me as he stands against the side of my bed. Without looking directly, I can sense movement at the front of his trousers, and it makes my heart hammer against the inside of my chest to know that he’s obscenely erect, dangerously aroused.
Now a flash of panic shoots through me when I realize the door is locked and the cameras are supposedly off. When did the cameras get turned off? Did Doctor Drake have them turned off before he entered my room?
Was this always part of the plan?
Tension rips through my body again, and I feel that familiar anxiety-attack looming. I try to swallow but my throat is dry like a desert, prickly like a cactus. My breathing goes shallow, and I know that short breaths raise your heartrate and make the panic-attacks a hundred times worse. Gulping in a mouthful of air, I try to slow my breathing, but instead I swallow some saliva the wrong way and break into a coughing fit.
My body lurches as I cough, and now I’m bent forward over my knees, desperately covering my mouth, my face bright red as I hack up a lung and perhaps an alien fetus with it. Mortified at how undignified I must look right now, it suddenly occurs to me that this burst of anxiety isn’t because I’m scared.
It’s because I’m self-conscious.
Self-conscious about how I look, how I smell, that it’s been weeks since I trimmed down there. Will I even get wet? Wait, am I already wet? Sure feels that way! And what does it mean if I’m wet? Ohmygod, when is my period due? What day is today? Am I going to spurt blood all over his purple gloves?
“Here,” comes Doctor Drake’s voice. He rubs my back as I finish up my coughing fit. His palm presses flat against my upper back, and I can feel his strength even though he’s being gentle. Looking up, I see him holding a paper cup with filtered water from the dispenser by the sink. “Drink up. You’re probably dehydrated. Being chronically anxious burns a lot of energy, you know.”
“Doubt it, because I’d be skinnier than a soap model if that were true.” Gratefully, I gulp down the cool water, smacking my lips to wet them as I drain the cup and hand it back to Doctor Drake. I watch him turn and toss the empty cup clear across the room into the plastic waste-basket near the bathroom door. It’s a perfect shot, like this guy always hits his target, always gets what he wants.
Wait, does that mean I’m what he wants right now?
Suddenly Doctor Drake’s earlier remark about me being pretty echoes in my head. Actually, he said I’m beautiful, not just pretty! Beautiful is better than pretty, isn’t it? Or is it just a different thing? Pretty sounds too casual, unserious, something you’d say to a silly girl to make her smile. But calling a woman beautiful is something else.
It made me feel beautiful for a moment.
Something I’ve never felt in my entire life, not once, not even close.
Doctor Drake raises an eyebrow as he peers down at me. “Soap model? Do they still advertise soap?”
I laugh involuntarily, shrugging as I sit up straight and hold my shoulders back, letting my bedraggled hair flop any which way like a mop. “I have no idea. Don’t watch TV, don’t go on Social Media, and I block all internet ads when I do online research.”
Drake raises his other eyebrow. “So you’re ultra-focused on your PhD. No wonder you’re wound tighter than my cock.” His blue eyes go wide and he blinks twice, his big Adam’s apple moving as he swallows thickly, his cheeks darkening with color. “I mean wound tighter than my . . . clock. My watch, I mean.”
A giggle bursts out of me, and although his involuntary slip should have ratcheted up the awkwardness, for some reason it does the opposite. The tension breaks and my shoulders relax, my body settling back against the soft pillow, my breathing slowing to a steady pace as I smile up at Doctor Drake.
He’s clearly grinning beneath his mask, his eyes narrowed to mirth-filled slits of iridescent blue. For a moment he looks boyishly young, even though he’s probably ten years older than I am. It’s more noticeable because he actually looks younger than he did when he first walked into this room. There was a heaviness that hung around him earlier. Maybe even a darkness.
Though the darkness is still very much there in him, I realize when I see Drake’s gaze flick down to the hint of cleavage that’s peeking out the neckline of my awful hospital gown that looks like an oversized bib, like I’m about to sit down at an all-you-can-eat ribfest in rural Texas. Squirming my oversized butt beneath the sheets, that flash of insecurity and self-consciousness makes itself known again.
But it’s not as overwhelming as before, and when Drake’s gaze moves slowly down the outline of my not-so-petite body beneath the sheets. I notice how his breath catches, how he swallows thickly, how there’s bulging movement at the front of his pants again, like in his mind the sheets are gone and my legs are spread wide, his gloved fingers already working their way into my vagina, doing whatever needs to be done to get me to that place which I’ve never been able to get to by myself, haven’t even really attempted to reach very often, certainly not in the past two years as my PhD deadline loomed closer while my thesis seemed to get further away from completion.
“I’ve never done this before,” comes the whisper from my throat as I watch Doctor Drake’s gaze stop right where my hips quiver beneath the sheets.
“You don’t need to do anything.” Drake drags his gaze away from the outline of my hips. It seems to take some effort for him to do it. “I’m going to do everything for you. You just relax and let it happen, Wanda.” Now he smiles with his wicked blue eyes. “Remember, I’m a doctor. It’s just a clinical procedure. Simple as clockwork.”
“Cockwork?” My face reddens at my audacious little joke, but Drake chuckles deep in his throat, a mirth-filled growl that makes my toes curl and makes my pussy tighten in a way I don’t think it ever has, didn’t think it even could. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”
“Perfect. That’s exactly what you need to do. Not resist. Relax and let it happen.” Drake nods once, then frowns like he’s thinking. A moment later he’s striding across the room to the medical cabinet. He snatches a tube of something from the shelf, walks back over to the bed.
I glance at the tube. It says K-Y JELLY. My eyes go wide. Pussy tightens to where I don’t think even a pencil could fit inside right now.
“The nurses use it for rectal thermometers.” Doctor Drake squeezes a blob of the white creamy lubricant onto his purple-gloved fingertips, then spreads the lube so all five digits on his right hand glisten under the warm lights of this suddenly-hot hospital room, like the temperature just got ratcheted up to scorching the moment I realized where those thick long fingers are headed.
“Shh,” whispers the masked Doctor, stroking my hair gently with his left hand, the one without the lube. “Lie back, Wanda. Relax and let the doctor do his work. Let your body do what comes naturally.”
What if it naturally wants to pee, comes the mortified thought as my self-consciousness tries to stage an intervention, my common sense tries to push through the overwhelmingly surreal sense that this fantasy is more real than reality, that yes, it totally makes sense that a doctor making me come in my hospital bed will fix all the broken parts, mend my damaged heart, cure my sickness, heal my wounds.
It’s ridiculous, but damn, it does feel real in this moment. The way he’s gently stroking my hair is so relaxing, so soothing, so lovely . . . oh, now I’m lying down on my back, head resting on my soft pillow, body settling into the cozy groove of my warm mattress, sheets slowly getting pulled down, down past my tingling breasts, now past my quivering hips, and he’s still caressing my hair like I’m his little pet, his perfect patient, oh, and I feel the cool air swirling beneath my gown now, which means the sheets are gone, nothing but this hospital robe that felt like a crinkly bib earlier but is now a silk negligee, no underwear, bare bottom and naked pussy, and, oh God, my legs are being spread apart, and are those his fingertips snaking up the tender skin of my inner thighs, circling their way to my trembling clit, slick fingertips teasing their way past my quivering lips, gloved thumb pressing gently on my little hood, now pulling it back, oh fuck, what’s happening, how can it possibly feel like this, how can this possibly be happening, is it really happening, is anything real at all, oh, oh, oh !
My head jerks up and my eyelids pop open and I let out a shuddering moan as my body convulses like I’m dying. Time seems to stop, and my mouth hangs open as I stare down along my body, see my gown pushed up over my hips, my mound raised, Drake’s thumb and fingers buried in the delicate curls hiding my sex, his hand moving back and forth as I shudder and shake.
“Oh, shit, what’s happening?” My words come out as urgent gasps through my shuddering breaths. Drake’s gaze is locked on my face, his eyes penetrating my soul even as his fingertips slide into my slit, spreading my opening gently and carefully, gloved fingers gliding past my slick labia, entering my vagina, curling gently as his fingertips drag against the inner walls, now two fingers, oh, oh, and he’s making little circles at the rim of my pussy, coaxing my hole to open wider, oh damn, oh hell, oh fuck !
And now my vision goes black and then suddenly explodes into light, streaks of purple and red and blue and violet, and I know I’m coming, I know I’m going, I know I’m being reborn, I know I’m dying.
My head slams back into the pillow as the orgasm rips through me like I’ve been struck by lightning. My hips jerk upwards, the motion driving Drake’s fingers deep into my pussy and making me whimper and wail, thrash and flail. I have no idea if I’m being loud or not, if I’m screaming or sighing, being born or dying. All I know is that my body has never felt this way, that I’m somehow outside my body yet totally inside it, deep inside, so damn deep inside.
“That’s it, baby,” comes the doctor’s growling voice, his own arousal unmistakable, his own desire rippling dangerously through the crackling air surrounding my squeaking hospital bed. “You’re perfect, Wendy. That’s perfect. Come again. Come all over my fingers. There we go. Perfect. You’re fucking perfect, Wendy. Oh, hell, you’re so perfect. So mine. So fucking mine !”
His unexpectedly personal words unleash another vicious climax, and I squeal in shock as my pussy clamps tight over Doctor Drake’s fingers, locking them in place as he fucks me with them, his thumb grinding into my clit and sending torrents of ecstasy through my heaving body.
I come again, yet again, once more and again, still again, oh again, yes again, fuck again, body jerking, neck straining, lips quivering, eyelids fluttering, each successive orgasm so intense that only when I feel the doctor’s masked face buried in my bush, his tongue pushing through the surgical barrier and entering my pussy to join his fingers that I realize he just said I’m his, all his, totally his, is now eating me out as he finger-fucks me to glory, that mask now ripping off his face as he growls into my bush, slides both hands under my big ass, raises my hips off the mattress and drives his thick tongue all the way into my cunt.
My vision is a blur of colors and patterns, my body a mess of sensation so vivid it can’t be real. My hands are buried in Drake’s hair, my fingers clawing and digging, holding on as he laps at my pussy, then drives his tongue back inside and curls it up to bring forth the crescendo to my climax, the peak of my passion, unleashing an avalanche of ecstasy that has me tumbling down a rabbithole of ruinous pleasure, totally annihilating my grip on reality, shattering me while making me whole at the same time, for all of time.
My breath comes out in short, savage spurts like I’m an animal in heat, a she-beast being taken by her feral mate. Drake is hungrily kissing my wet mound, still carefully fucking me with his gloved fingers as I slowly come back to the real world, his gloved hand snaked up beneath my scrunched-up gown, fingers pinching my left nipple as I whimper and shudder, groan and mutter.
Now Drake senses me relax, and he looks up from between my legs. His eyes are blurry with arousal, like he’s as messed up as I am right now, as unmoored from reality as I feel right now. Then he blinks twice and snaps back into focus, like he’s only just realized his mask is off and his face is covered with a mixture of lube and pussy-juice. “Oh, fuck me. Are you all right, Wanda? Listen, I—”
But the rest of whatever he’s saying is drowned out by the real world violently knocking at the door.
“Wanda?” comes Mama’s voice from outside the door, high-pitched with concern. “Wanda, it’s your mother. Are you all right? Doctor Lenworth is here to see you. He says Doctor Drake isn’t supposed to be in there. Wanda, can you open this door, please? Your father and I are worried. Why is the door locked? Doctor Lenworth says—”
“Drake, is that you in there?” comes a man’s loud voice through the closed door. It sounds like that vaguely unnerving older doctor who’d seen me down in the ER last night. Doctor Lenworth. I didn’t like him. He pretty much dismissed my symptoms, told the nurse to give me some sedatives and keep me overnight for observation, like he was just humoring me. “Drake, you aren’t supposed to be in there,” shouts Lenworth. “Damn it, open this door or I’m going to call hospital security. Hell, I should call the police on your gangster ass. You hear me, Drake?”
“Shit.” Drake springs back upright from between my legs, and I feel a strange emptiness as the air swirls cool against the wet skin of my inner thighs. Suddenly I want Drake’s face back in there, his warm lips kissing me gently, his thick tongue filling my hole like it’s plugging a leak, fixing what’s broken, making me complete in a way I didn’t know was possible. “Damn it. Should have left the hospital when I had the chance. Should never have come in here. What was I thinking. Shit. Shit. Shit !”
“Wait, what?” Pulling my hospital gown over my naked sex, I snatch up the sheets and quickly cover myself. “You wish you’d never come in here?”
“What? No!” Drake’s eyes go wide, and he shakes his head vigorously. “Hey, that’s not what I meant, Wanda. That’s not what I fucking meant! Hey, listen, let me deal with Lenny and your parents, and then we’ll talk about what just happened, all right? Listen, what just happened was the most wonderful experience of my damn life, Wanda. Just let me handle this asshole Lenny first. I promise you, what just happened is not what it seems. I mean, it is what it seems in a way, but also isn’t. Shit, I don’t know what I’m saying. But I promise you, Wanda, I swear that I—”
“It’s all right.” Cutting him off sharply, my face droops to a sulky pout as I lie back and stare up at the ceiling. Now self-consciousness and anxiety leap to the forefront of my awareness, and I don’t know what to think about what just happened. Don’t know what to think about all that stuff Drake said about me being beautiful, about me being perfect, about me being . . . his.
Was any of that true?
Do I want any of it to be true?
Now I snort in disgust. Not at Drake but at myself. How dumb can I be to suddenly think that this handsome smooth-talking doctor takes one look at me and decides I’m perfect, I’m lovely, I’m his. How gullible am I to believe that despite the evidence that my mirror provides every day of my life, I’m suddenly beautiful like Cinderella at the ball.
Give me a break.
I’m just a dumb girl who got seduced by a fast-talking doctor.
The fast-talking doctor glances at me to make sure I’m covered up and decent. As if he gives a shit, I think angrily.
But the anger dissipates suddenly when Drake gazes at me with an expression that’s strangely warm, displaying a startling vulnerability in those once-cold blue eyes, like my angry reaction just now really got to him, really hurt him in a way that gives me a perverse delight.
It thrills me, and I try to keep pouting, refusing to look at him. Finally he sighs, shakes his head, then turns and strides to the door. He looks angry at himself, and it makes me happy in a sickeningly childish way. I watch from the corner of my vision as Drake snaps the deadbolt aside with a loud click, then yanks at the doorknob so hard the door swings all the way open and slams into the rubber stopper against the alcove wall, almost flying off the hinges with the force of his self-directed anger.
Mama and Papa and Lenworth are right outside, but they all hesitate when Drake blocks the door with his body, standing tall and broad like a sentry, fisted hands on his hips, those purple gloves still wet with a sticky mixture of lubricants . . . both artificial and natural.
Inhaling sharply, I pick up the scent of my own sex from beneath the sheets. It arouses me in a startlingly filthy way, that salty-sweet, tangy-tart, dirty-delicious aroma that I realize must be all over Drake’s lips and tongue right now. Oh, the way he lapped at me like a wolf at a waterfall, drinking from me in the most filthy way . . . oh, God, am I . . . am I wet again right now? With Mama and Papa right there?! Oh, I’m going to hell, aren’t I. I’m a dirty filthy girl who deserves to go to hell.
Except none of it feels filthy at all, no matter how hard I try to scold myself. No, none of it was filthy, I decide firmly. None of it was wrong. None of it was bad.
In fact I loved every minute of it.
Loved every stroke, every lick, every flick.
Oh, God, did he really mean it when he said I’m his?
Maybe he did, it occurs to me as I admire Drake’s straight-backed, broad-shouldered posture, the way he’s standing in front of the door, positioned in line with the foot of my bed like some protective guardian from a mythical fantasy, a knight shielding his princess from the dragons.
Now the vividness of our shared fantasy envelopes me again, and suddenly I decide that yes, we’re still in that fantasy, still in that dream, that dream where I’m his to heal, his to cure, his to make whole again.
As if Drake can feel the energy of my emotion, he turns his head sideways, glances slyly at me like we’re both in on the same secret, privy to some inside joke that nobody else gets because it’s ours, just ours, mine and his.
“You think this is a joke, Drake?” Lenworth steps into the room, peers around Drake’s tightly muscled frame and looks at me with a suspicious frown, his beady gray eyes scanning the outline of my body beneath the sheets. His long face twists into a frown, and he draws his attention back to Drake. “What the hell are you doing in here? Why was the door locked? What happened to the camera in this room? There’s no video feed on the monitor down by the reception desk. But all the other room-cameras seem to be working. Just this one camera is dead. Very suspicious. You know anything about that, Drake?”
Drake shrugs lazily, flicks his gaze to the camera, then shrugs again. “How the hell should I know? Ask the hospital tech guys.”
“Oh, I will.” Lenworth steps all the way into the room now, giving Mama and Papa space to enter.
Mama rushes to the side of my bed. Papa stands uncertainly by the door. Mama is whispering something to me, asking if I’m all right, but I don’t reply, just smile and nod, my attention focused on Drake and Lenworth.
“The same thing happened with a camera down on the Second Floor, where we had that Code Blue about a half hour ago.” Lenworth’s jaw is tight, his eyes like gray daggers. “No video signal from the camera to the monitor, just like this camera. A bit too coincidental, don’t you think?” He shakes his head, biting his thin bloodless lower lip and narrowing his eyes at Drake. “You know, I think you’d better stick around. Maybe I should call the police. They might have some questions about how the cameras seem to glitch out every time you walk into a hospital room.”
“Maybe it’s my magnetic personality, Lenny.” Drake chuckles dryly, then glances at Mama and smiles warmly at her, then at Papa by the door. “Look, I was on my way out when I ran into the Turners near the exit. They were worried about their daughter. I know the hospital is short-staffed right now and you were busy in the ER. So I thought I’d help the Turners out, take a look at their daughter, set everyone’s minds at ease.” He pauses, looks coolly at Lenworth. “You’re right, Lenny. It’s not protocol. I’m not on the staff rotation here. But I figured it’s all right because I’m still technically associated with the UNLV Medical Center. And I am still a doctor, Lenny. A damn good one.”
“Ten years ago, you were a good doctor.” Lenworth snorts. “Now you’re just another thug on Daddy’s payroll. Just because you don’t break kneecaps like the other goons in your dad’s crooked operation doesn’t mean you aren’t just like them.” He snorts again, shakes his head and scans the room with his gray-eyed gaze, like he’s looking for evidence of a crime.
I glance at Drake. He looks cool as ice, but I can tell that he doesn’t want to talk to the police. Is it because Drake is worried I’m going to say something that will get him in trouble?
No, I decide when I remember that strangely familiar moment Drake and I shared when our gazes met and we both smiled like we were in on the same private joke, the same sinful secret. It’s crazy, I know, but we bonded in a primal, visceral, almost animalistic way when Drake made me come like that, buried his face in my pussy like he couldn’t stop himself, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it until it was done.
Now my pussy tightens between my legs again, a little squeeze like it’s trying to communicate something, provide its input, perhaps back up my totally illogical but completely confident feeling that Drake and I are sorta-kinda together after that.
That maybe I am his after all.
Just like he said.
Yes. I’m his. All his.
“She’s my patient now.” Drake speaks as if he’s voicing my thoughts, like we’re in cosmic communion right now, bonded in spirit and soul. Ridiculous, of course. But absolutely real in my mind as I watch Drake glance at me, flash that familiar grin with a hint of wickedness, then turn to my parents and nod seriously. “We’ll be moving Wanda to my private clinic near Lake Mead. I’ll be treating her condition there. You can follow us in your car, if you like. There’s a hotel in the area you can stay at if you’d like to stick around. But there’s no need. A few days under my care and Wanda should be out of danger.”
Mama blinks three times, gasps twice. “Is she in danger now?”
Drake flashes a mischievous look in my direction, then nods gravely at Mama. “Indeed. We need to get her to my clinic immediately. My car is out back. Let’s go.”
“She isn’t going anywhere.” Lenworth snorts loudly. “This is complete nonsense. Wanda isn’t in any danger at all. Her symptoms are mild, almost nonexistent, in my opinion. She doesn’t even need to be in a hospital, but since her UNLV student insurance covers everything, I figured what the hell, check her in for a day so she can settle down. We get students coming in here all the time with anxiety and panic attacks because they’ve procrastinated on their term papers and are looking to get out of doing the hard work.” Lenworth snorts again, shakes his head, then looks towards the open door, where there’s some activity near the elevator doors down the hallway.
Following Lenworth’s gaze, I see two burly hospital security guys exit the elevator and make their way down the hall towards my room. I glance at Drake, wondering if he’s serious about moving me to his private clinic. I’m still all turned around in my head, overwhelmed by a surreal sense that I’m halfway between reality and fantasy. I’m almost giggly and slap-happy right now, and although it’s cruel and awful, I love how Drake told Mama and Papa that I’m in grave danger and need to get to his private clinic right away.
Now my heart does a little hop, and suddenly panic streaks through me as I wonder if maybe there’s some truth to Doctor Drake’s diagnosis. Is my heart really worn out from so many different pills over the years? Uppers and downers. Stimulants and relaxants. A cocktail of capsules, pinks and purples, blues and green, yellows and blacks . . . oh, God, my head’s spinning now, heart speeding up, breaths coming in shallow bursts again, and here comes the heart-attack, here comes the seizure, oh please heal me, Doctor, make me whole again, make me come again, make me yours again . . .
My vision blurs and my ears are buzzing so loud I can’t hear what Lenworth and Drake seem to be arguing about. Then Drake turns towards me, notices my eyelids fluttering, and suddenly he’s by my side, snapping off his gloves and tossing them away, one hand gently stroking my forehead, the other slipped into my palm, our fingers interlocked as I look up into his blue eyes and see the concern twisting his handsome face into a mask of worry.
“Breathe, baby,” he whispers. “Breathe with me. Long inhale. Hold for a count of five. Now exhale as slowly as you can. That’s it, baby. I’ve got you. You’re doing great. Perfect. So perfect. There we go.”
The slow exhale does the trick. And it’s a well-known trick. There’s extensive scientific literature about how breathing affects your heartrate, how you can totally de-stress yourself by breathing in, holding for a few seconds, and then exhaling very slowly. Apparently, the slow exhale sends calming signals to your body, causing it to stop releasing more adrenaline, and that causes your heart to slow down, and eventually it brings your entire body back into a steady state of calm.
Easier said than done, of course.
I’ve tried it for years, but it’s not that easy to do when you’re actually panicking or having a serious anxiety attack.
But with Drake taking control, suddenly it feels easy as . . . breathing.
“Can you sit up for me?” Drake whispers, glancing over his shoulders at Lenworth, who is talking to the security guys now. I hear Lenworth say something about the police, and now I remember something about a Code Blue down on the Second Floor, then some comment about Drake’s father being in the business of breaking kneecaps. “We need to get out of here.”
“She isn’t going anywhere, Drake.” Lenworth breaks from his hushed conversation with the security guys, strides over to the side of my bed across from Drake, and now he’s suddenly standing over me, gazing down at my body in a way that makes me uncomfortable even though I’m covered from neck to toe. “I can’t allow her to leave until the full twenty-four-hour observation period is done and everything checks out. It’s a hospital liability thing.”
“Bullshit.” Drake stands tall, gazing sternly at Lenworth. “This is a hospital, not a prison. And step back away from the bed, Lenny. You’re crowding Wanda, making her uncomfortable. Hey, did you hear what I said, Lenny? Step back right now.” Drake swallows hard, and I sense his entire body tighten, feel the protective instinct burning in him as his fists clench by his sides and his muscles coil like an animal about to pounce to protect its mate. “Lenny, step away from her or I’ll fucking make you step away.”
Drake’s voice lowers to a threatening growl, and I see primal fear streak across Lenworth’s face. Lenworth gulps, then steps back and flicks his gaze towards the two big security guys by the door.
“Escort Doctor Drake downstairs to the lobby, please, boys.” Lenworth folds his long arms over his chest, flashes a smug, tight-lipped smile, then beckons with his head for the security guys to approach. “The good doctor can wait there while I talk to Miss Turner and decide whether we need to call the police. Or Drake can run home to Daddy if he wants. The cops know where to find him if they have any questions.” Lenworth raises his head and looks down his nose at Drake. “Your choice, Drake. What’s it going to be?”
Drake stands silently at the side of my bed. The two security guards are flanking him, one on either side. For one wild moment it seems like Drake is going to lash out at them, get into a physical fight. But then his body relaxes and he exhales, like he’s decided that punching two security guards isn’t the smartest choice for anyone.
“I’ll be right outside,” Drake whispers warmly to me. “Lenny’s just being an asshole. Tell him you want to be discharged, and he’ll send in a nurse to take your vitals. After that you can check yourself out of the hospital. That crap about liability is horseshit. They can’t hold you here against your will. I’ll be waiting for you, Wanda.” Drake pauses abruptly, blinks twice, a flash of uncharacteristic uncertainty in his eyes, a hint of that strange vulnerability I’d seen in him earlier, when he seemed to be upset that he’d upset me with that remark about how he shouldn’t have ever walked into this room. “Only if you want me to wait, of course. I mean, you don’t have to go with me. Oh, hell, I know this whole thing is crazy, but I can’t help feeling like . . . like you’re really mine, Wanda.”
Drake’s voice is so low even I can barely pick up the words. But they hit me hard, shake me to the core, touch something in me that makes everything make sense even though none of it makes sense.
Blinking up at Drake, I glance around the room. Lenworth is saying something to my parents now, and the two security guards are shifting uneasily on their feet behind Drake, like they’re impatient but not particularly interested in a physical altercation with a doctor.
“Do you really have a private clinic?” My voice is a whisper as I look up at Drake’s questioning eyes. When he nods, I suddenly realize that I need to make a choice right now. Lenworth is distracted talking to Mama and Papa by the door, but that won’t last long. The security guards are fidgeting behind Drake, but soon enough they’re going to escort him out of the room. Time is running out. If I say no, Drake probably isn’t going to stick around. He clearly doesn’t want Lenworth to call the police—for reasons I don’t really want to think about right now.
So should I tell Drake to just leave? That’s clearly the sensible option. Probably the safest option. After all, I know nothing about Doctor Drake. And what I do know should warn me to turn and run. Doctor Drake is just a walking talking series of red flags, isn’t he? This handsome smooth-talking doctor tells me I’m going to die unless he fingers me to orgasm? Then he wants me to come to his private clinic?
Oh, and he’s clearly hesitant about sticking around for when the police get here. And what was that about some patient dying on the Second Floor while the camera was off?
What the hell am I doing even considering going to this guy’s private clinic?!
He could be one of those medical serial killers!
I might be his next victim!
Am I that idiot character in a horror movie who invites the psycho into her house, then runs to the basement when he chases her, totally ignoring the wide-open front door leading to her getaway car?
Get away from him, whispers that voice of common sense, logic, and reason. Just shake your head and say you don’t feel well enough to leave the hospital right now. Smile politely and let Doctor Drake walk away. Treat it like a one-night stand and forget it. You don’t want to get mixed up with this guy. He’s bad news. Red flags sticking out all over the place. Warning signs bigger than a billboard. Cease and desist. Deny and resist. Sushi and sashimi. Turkey and tahini.
My mind is unraveling now, gibberish-words and monkey-sounds dancing their way through my consciousness. I can’t figure out if time has stopped or sped up, if the world has faded to black or is lit up in vivid color. I think there’s a medical term for it . . . Synesthesia or something like that, where your five senses get all muddled and you can hear smells and see sounds and taste colors. Yup, I’m losing it. Marbles gone. Brain scrambled.
“I . . . I should stay.” The words barely escape my trembling lips. My heart sinks and my pussy sighs, but Mama’s face lights up and Papa exhales in relief.
Drake blinks twice, his face going ashen, like he’s just been punched in the gut and all the air’s been pushed out of his lungs. Again I’m struck by how profoundly I seem to be affecting him, like he’s truly shattered right now. It doesn’t compute, does it? After all, if he’s just some sick pervert doctor who talks his way into female patients’ panties and then goes on his merry way, he should be relieved, not heartbroken, right?
“Right.” Drake swallows thickly, his blue eyes hardening, like he’s drawing the blinds closed on that little window into his soul. “Fine.”
Suddenly the room feels cold as Drake withdraws his attention from me, turns briskly away from the bed, then strides out the room, almost knocking over Lenworth on his way out, the two security guards hurriedly following him.
I stare as Drake storms through the open door, stomps down the empty hallway, and now I’m even more confused about what I’m feeling, about what Drake’s feeling, about whether there were any feelings at all between us!
“Are you feeling better, honey?” Mama comes up to me, touches my forehead. “Oh, you’re so cold and clammy. Doctor Lenworth, can you check her temperature?”
“I’m fine, Ma.” Turning my head to the side, away from Mama, I stare blankly at the empty hallway stretching to infinity. The elevator doors swish closed. Drake and the security guys are gone.
Suddenly I feel like throwing up, like I just made a huge mistake, made the wrong decision! Ohgod, it feels like I just sent my entire life down a different path by not having the courage to follow my heart!
That wouldn’t be courage, my common-sense voice sternly informs me. It would be recklessness. And it isn’t your heart talking, it’s your dirty little pussy aching to do what pussies are designed to do.
Spread for a man’s seed.
My breath catches in my throat as my mind spins back through years of reading psychology, everything from Jung to Freud. And there’s a lot of literature about how sexuality lies at the core of human behavior, how our physiology dictates our psychology, how our bodies whisper thoughts to our minds, how our animalistic urges are the foundations for what we like to think are the “higher” drives of human nature.
Because there’s nothing more fundamental in nature than the drive to reproduce. Life exists on Earth because every creature, no matter how dumb, silly, or stupid, has an irresistible need to find a mate, to be a mate.
To fuck and be fucked.
Have I suppressed that instinct too long?
Have I hidden that urge too deep?
Did this unexpectedly intense sexual experience suddenly open the floodgates? And if so, does it mean I’m simply overreacting to Drake’s touch, seeing profound meaning in something that’s basically meaningless to a normal sexually active person in today’s world? Hell, maybe I’d have reacted that way to any man who made a bold move, turned on the charm, called me beautiful. Maybe it’s for the best that Drake’s gone.
After all, I think now as I claw myself back to the cold truth of reality, recall that Drake might very well be a murderer, a psycho in a lab coat, not a good doctor at all. That probably explains why he went from obsessively claiming that I’m his to suddenly going cold and walking away like I’m nothing to him.
Like I’m nothing at all.
Never was, never will be.
Either way, Drake is gone, and I’m still here, still myself, still anxious.
Still alone.