Jocelyn #3
internalized it when I looked at her name because I recognize her. It’s Asher’s MA.
“Hey, Talia. You hurtin’ a little bit?”
She reaches for me. “Yes! My frickin’ savior. I’m not about to do this without an epidural.”
My kind of woman.
The nurse and I help position her while the father of the baby stands behind me. Hunched over her positioning device at the
edge of the bed, Talia drops her face into the headrest.
While I open the kit and prep the meds, we chat, but she pauses every three minutes to breathe through a contraction.
I have to clean her back, so I push aside the hospital gown and freeze.
Talia’s lower back is inked with a large black tattoo.
Not uncommon.
But the tattoo . . .
It’s a line drawing of a naked woman sitting on a man’s face. His hands grasp giant fistfuls of her tits. She’s headless.
Footless. Back arched. Fucking his face.
“What the fuck—” The words startle out of me. Shit! Did I just say that? At work?
“Something wrong?” Talia asks.
I clear my throat. “No. So sorry. This will be cold.”
Have I noticed a tattoo here before? She usually wears one-pieces to Pool Party Saturday. I would definitely remember this.
Sterile gloves donned, I scrub the tattoo with blue surgical prep and place my drape. So now they’re an alien couple doing
dirty, dirty things on her back. And of course the needle will have to go straight into Tattoo Woman’s clit.
How awkward. Can I actually do that? This is uncomfortable.
Should I ask about it? I want to ask. Is it my business, though? I probably shouldn’t. But here’s the real question: Will
I be able to stop myself?
“Um.” I crack my neck. My voice is off. “This is an interesting tattoo.”
“You think? I got it for my grandma.”
I choke. What? “Oh?”
“Yeah. She always said, Talia, when you find something you love, you embrace it. You wear it on your skin.”
OMG.
That can’t be true—
Asher loves his MA more than he loves the ducklings on the man-made pond outside, but that wouldn’t stop him from telling
me all about this tattoo if he knew about it. He’s her doctor. How could he not know about it?
“This next part will sting.” Because what else can I say?
“Ah!” Her shoulders bunch while I inject local anesthetic, then she chuckles. “And what do I love more than having that man
over there eat a little tuna sandwich?”
A laugh bursts out of me before I can register the exact degree of inappropriateness. It’s irrepressible. But come on. Tuna
sandwich? Did she just say that?
“Are you laughing at me, Doctor Mattox?” Talia demands, tone full of affront.
I force myself to stop, placing the catheter. “Of course not. No. I mean . . . Yes. I was laughing, but not at you. I’m so
sorry.”
“That’s really rude. I should write you up. I feel judged.”
“No— That’s not— I’m so sorry—”
She says nothing as I finish up, taping the tube to her back while apologies continued to spew from my mouth. With the aid
of me and the nurse, we help her lie flat on the bed. Her lips are pinched. Arms crossed.
“Has— Has Foley seen this tattoo?” I ask.
Her demeanor breaks, and she bursts into raucous laughter. Behind me, her partner also laughs. I glance at him, and he raises
his hands. “Don’t ask me. This was their bet.”
I set my hands on my hips. “Bet?”
“It’s a fake tattoo,” Talia says. “My idea, by the way, so don’t let him take credit. I’m a genius, right?”
“Fake . . . tattoo?” My mind has gone mushy.
“Doctor Foley bet me you couldn’t keep from laughing. He actually wanted to do a creepy clown face and see if you screamed,
but I thought that was too easy.”
What? Seriously? These jerks! “Christ, Talia.”
“You lost me two Snickers bars. I bet him you’d stay professional.”
Yeah. No way was that happening. Asher knows me well. “I’m going to kill him. I’ll buy you an entire truckload of Snickers if you deliver that message for me.”
Talia roars in laughter, unaware she’s in the middle of a contraction.
Epidural: 1
Labor pains: 0
Suck it.
“Clown face?” I say. “Seriously?” That wouldn’t have gone over well. I might’ve peed my pants. “How long have you been plotting
this?”
She wipes her eyes with a long-nailed finger. “I thought of it that Pool Party Saturday when you ate the last hot dog. We
planned my induction for when you were on OB call.”
That was months ago! I hide my face in my hands to laugh. Pranks are Asher’s love language, but if he thinks I won’t be paying him back for
this one . . .
“He’s lucky it wasn’t the clown. I might have murdered him.”
The nurse nods vigorously. “I might have, too.”
“I still might do it,” I mutter under my breath. “Betting on my professionalism and being right. How dare he?” My mess takes
only a minute to clean, disposing of sharps and trashing the rest. “I’ll be back to check on you once he’s dead.”
She hoots again. “You ain’t mad, right?”
“Of course not, but you know I can’t let him win this game.” I open the door, and Asher leans against the opposite wall, arms
crossed, one foot flat against the drywall.
Smirking.
The most pleased, dazzling smirk known to man.
This habit he has of leaning on walls and doors is distracting. I’ve suddenly forgotten to be irate.
“You ever heard of Inkbox?” he asks.
My eyes narrow.
“Really interesting company. You send in a picture. They make a semipermanent tattoo.”
I stand before him, pretend-glaring up into his face. “Really? To win a bet?”
He chuckles. “I only regret not getting to see your face.”
“Did she come up with the grandma story?”
His eyes gleam. “Inspired, right?”
I poke his stomach hard enough to hurt the abs that are just as sore as mine. He oofs. “Clown face? Seriously?”
His eyes brighten. “Yeah, it would have been way better with the clown face. Your scream would’ve been louder than that lady
who delivered in room three just now.”
“Rubber snakes in my toilet and swapping my salt for sugar are one thing, but insulting my professionalism? I’m going to pay
you back so hard for this.”
To my great irritation, he doesn’t look appropriately terrified. “You’re awful at pranks. I’m the reigning king.”
“Well, don’t get too comfy on that throne, Ash. I’m coming for you.”
“Bring it, sugar cookie.”
I raise an eyebrow, choosing to overlook his progressively more idiotic nicknames. “Drinks Friday?”
“Can’t. Boys’ night.”
“Aw. The biweekly circle jerk?”
“You know it.” He clips my chin with his knuckle. “But I hear Cassie Hersl is looking to make some new friends. You know . . .
if you’re searching for a place to hang.”
I shoot him a sour face. “Ha. Ha. Listen to what karma did with her crab rangoon . . .”