Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
"Doctor Anderson, I need you."
Laura's voice is shaking, her phone pressed to her ear. She's in the library bathroom, blood on her hands, terror in her chest. The blood is everywhere. On her thighs, on her underwear, soaking through her skirt. She doesn't know what's happening. She doesn't know why it won't stop.
"Laura?" His voice is calm, steady. "Tell me what's wrong."
"I'm bleeding. A lot. It won't stop."
"Where are you?"
"At work. The library. I'm in the bathroom."
"Listen to me." His voice is authoritative now, commanding. "I need you to come to the clinic right away. Can you do that?"
Laura nods, then realizes he can't see her. "Yes."
"Don't worry. I'll take care of you."
The line goes dead. Laura stares at her phone, her hands trembling. Blood drips onto the tile floor. She grabs a wad of paper towels and presses them between her legs, then pulls her skirt down over the mess. She has to get out of here. She has to get to him.
The drive to the clinic is a blur. She runs three red lights. She doesn't care. The blood is soaking through the paper towels, through her skirt, onto the car seat. She can feel it pooling beneath her, warm and wet.
The clinic is dark when she arrives. The parking lot is empty. The building looms against the evening sky, all shadows and closed blinds. Laura stumbles out of the car, her legs weak, her vision swimming.
Doctor Anderson is waiting at the door.
He opens it before she can knock, his face creased with concern. He's not wearing his white coat. Just a pale blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up. He looks different like this, more human, more real.
"Come in," he says. "I've got you."
He leads her through the dark waiting room, past the silent fountain, down the hallway to the exam room. His hand is on her lower back, warm and steady. She leans into him, grateful for the support.
The exam room is dim, lit only by a small lamp in the corner. He helps her onto the table, his movements gentle but efficient. He doesn't ask her to undress. He does it for her, his fingers working the buttons of her blouse, the zipper of her skirt.
"Lie back," he says. "Let me see."
She lies back, her body trembling. The paper gown is cold against her skin. He positions her feet in the stirrups and sits on the stool between her legs. His hands are bare, warm, steady.
"The bleeding is from the polyp removal site," he says after a moment. "A minor complication. The tissue didn't heal as cleanly as I'd like."
"Is it serious?" Laura's voice is small, scared.
"Not at all. Easily fixed. I just need to cauterize the area."
He reaches for something on the tray. A long, thin instrument with a silver tip. Laura's stomach clenches.
"This might sting," he says. "But it'll be over quickly."
She grips the edges of the table. The instrument touches her, and she gasps. The pain is sharp, sudden, but brief. She smells something burning, acrid and chemical. Then it's over.
"There," he says. "All done. The bleeding has stopped."
Laura exhales, her whole body sagging with relief. She feels tears on her cheeks. She didn't realize she was crying.
Doctor Anderson helps her sit up. He hands her a tissue, then a bottle of water. His hands are steady, his movements calm. He is the only solid thing in a world that has suddenly turned liquid.
"You're okay," he says. "I've got you. Just breathe."
She breathes. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Her heart slows. The terror recedes.
And that's when she realizes it. With a sickening lurch, she understands something she's been avoiding for weeks.
She trusts him. Completely. In this moment of crisis, he is the only person she wants, the only person who can make it stop. Not Helen. Not anyone else. Him.
The trap closes a little tighter.
"Lie back and rest," he says. "Your body has been through a lot."
She lies back. The exam room is dim, quiet. The only sound is the soft hum of the lamp. His hand rests on her thigh, warm through the thin paper.
"Your body has been through a lot," he says again, softer this time. "It needs care. It needs attention."
His hand slides higher, under the gown. His fingers find her still-sore flesh, gentle, probing. Laura's breath catches.
"Let me help you relax," he says.
She should stop him. She knows she should stop him. But she's so tired, and his touch feels so good, and she's been fighting for so long.
His fingers move in lazy circles, slow and gentle. He doesn't rush. He doesn't push. He just touches her, patient and sure, like he has all the time in the world.
"That's it," he murmurs. "Just let go. I'm right here."
The pleasure builds slowly, a warmth spreading through her lower belly. Laura's hips move on their own, rocking against his hand. She feels herself opening, softening, surrendering.
"Good girl," he says. "That's my good girl."
She comes with a soft cry, her body shuddering, her mind going blissfully blank. The orgasm is gentle, almost tender, nothing like the violent convulsions of before. It washes over her like warm water, leaving her limp and boneless.
He holds her afterward, stroking her hair. His arms are strong around her, his chest solid against her back. She buries her face in his shoulder and breathes him in.
"You're safe now," he says. "I'll always take care of you."
She believes him. God help her, she believes him.
Laura leaves the clinic in a daze. The bleeding has stopped. The crisis is over. But something has shifted inside her, some fundamental axis tilted. She realizes she can't imagine her life without him. The thought is terrifying.
She drives home on autopilot. Her apartment is dark and quiet. She showers mechanically, watching the water run pink down the drain. She puts on her pajamas and sits on the edge of her bed.
The dilator kit is on her nightstand. She opens it. The dilators are arranged by size, smooth silicone in graduated lengths. She picks up the largest one. It's thick, intimidating. She's never used this one before.
She lies back on her bed and spreads her legs. She thinks about his voice, his hands, his praise. She thinks about the way he said "good girl" when she came.
She slides the dilator inside her. It stretches her, burns a little. But she doesn't stop. She moves it in and out, slow and steady, thinking about him.
She comes alone in her bed, tears streaming down her face.
Afterward, she picks up her phone. She opens her drafts. There's a message there, one she's been working on for days. A message to the state medical board. A message detailing everything. The locked door. The vibrating wand. The bare hands. The things he's done to her.
She reads it once. Then she deletes it.
She tells herself it's because she has no proof. She tells herself it's because no one would believe her. But deep down, she knows the truth.
She doesn't want him to stop.