“Ooh, Scott,” one of my companions for the evening, Brenna, giggled directly into my ear. I hadn’t done anything, said anything, touched her anywhere that mattered¸ but she was primed regardless. Ever since that first episode aired, my personal relationship workload had gone down significantly.
Hell, it was almost like the damn show was foreplay. And maybe it made me an asshole, but I wasn’t complaining.
It’d been almost a week since the mysterious, shit-talking woman of my dreams had come into the ER and left without even giving me her name. I knew next to nothing about her and I wasn’t sure a woman of my dreams actually existed, but she’d starred in a couple of the erotic variety since that night. Close enough.
The instant I’d walked away from her ER bed, grinning and ready to take a closer look at her medical file, a gunshot victim had rolled through the doors on a gurney and in need of five hours’ worth of surgery time. Thirty minutes after scrubbing into the OR, and with my hands inside the man’s opened chest, I’d given a quick verbal order for Deb to discharge Bleeding Woman from Bay Two. She’d done as told, efficient as ever, doing all of the paperwork to release her before setting it aside for my signature for legal purposes.
By the time I’d remembered to track down my sexy mystery woman’s name, it was half past four in the morning, and the result wasn’t what I was expecting at all.
A woman as witty, antagonistic, and drop-dead hot as she was should not be named Frances.
Jesus. Frances. No wonder she hadn’t wanted to give me her name.
But even with a name that should be left in the corner and five hours of surgery time to get over her, I was still interested—a reality even I found surprising.
Unfortunately, four numbers into copying down her phone number—a practice that was actually highly illegal—Deb stole the file back and threatened to castrate me in my sleep if I looked Frances’s information up again.
Something about a Hippocratic Oath and patient confidentiality, and then another little bit about what a manwhore I was.
She wasn’t far off on any of it, especially the bit about it being morally, ethically, and legally wrong. So, as a way to cope, I’d called up three of my not-even-remotely close friends, Hilda, Brenna, and Esmeralda, and strolled over to Club Indigo for a night out of drinking, dancing, and sex.
Of course, that was only my surface reasoning, as good as it was. I was really here, at this club, on this night, because Pamela Lockhead was too.
Mysterious, right?
Assistant to the assistant of the mayor or something equally ridiculous, Pamela Lockhead was also young, impressionable, easily swayed by good flirting and appropriately placed dirty talk, and liked this club on Thursday nights—or so I’d heard.
As far as I could tell, she was the most direct route to the mayor.
I’d been working this connection for months, trying to get a meeting with him. I know it seems a little cliché to be making this huge outcry about public health policy—and a little ridiculous to be chatting up a few women as a means to do it—but changes to the current policy and protocol the last administration put in place as a Band-Aid were absolutely vital, and I was willing to work with what I had. And I, Scott Shepard, had the ability to flirt like no other. Initially, I’d tried to go through the proper channels. I’d met with several heads of emergency departments from other hospitals here in the city, and eventually, even approached a lobbyist group known for targeting health care reform. Just being in contact with that many politicos made me itchy. And in the end, it hadn’t moved fast enough for my interest anyway. The only option was to return to what I knew—malleable women like Pamela Lockhead.
I knew it sounded terrible, but I’d seen the effects of political shortcuts to public health up close and personal on, unfortunately, several occasions now. Terrorism and other public attacks were the unwelcome way of our current world, and that kind of medical emergency added an angle to our procedure that we weren’t properly prepared for. Short on funding, training, and an appropriate list of priorities, the policy had been built on paper, for looks rather than for implementation. Quite frankly, it tied my and other professionals’ hands in ways that occasionally prevented us from actually administering care when the public was in need. And to me, that was unacceptable.
I wasn’t thinking of running for office or anything—don’t worry. They’d fucking crucify me in a court of public opinion. But as the guy in charge of saving lives at St. Luke’s Hospital, I wouldn’t mind a little fucking help from the law doing it. At the very least, finding a way to avoid having it work against me.
And, as I sat here tonight with Bippity, Boppity, and Bimbo Barbie, I’d never felt my sacrifice was greater. Hopefully, Pamela was witty enough to give me a little verbal sparring as conversational foreplay at the very least.
I wasn’t actually planning on sleeping with Pam to get to the mayor, just spending a little time making her feel good—emotionally—by tending to her ego and flirting the line with inappropriate in an effort to secure an ally on the inside. My morals and boundaries are mostly questionable, but I usually start out with the best of intentions.
Flirting in the name of public health isn’t a crime, is it?
While Brenna blew in my ear like a gnat, I watched Pam weave through the crowd on her way to the dance floor, separating from the women she’d come with and making coy glances at any and all eligible men around her.
She was primed, in search of male company, and ready to give in to the first guy who showed her interest. Now was the time to make my move.
Up and off of the sofa, I winked at my company and gestured to the dance floor. One of them made a move to follow me, but I shook my head.
No, no, sweetheart. You stay here. Scotty’s got some work to do.
Pam had short, dark, cropped hair and a dress a size too tight to be sophisticated, and I lasered in on my target and prowled. I had to give myself a short mental pep talk to dial up the charm. Normally, this was the epitome of my scene. Flashing lights, writhing, dancing bodies, too tight clothes, and women who were more than willing to loosen their inhibitions.
But tonight didn’t feel the same, and I wasn’t sure if it was the game, the long chase, or the fact that no one seemed as interesting as Bleeding Woman anymore. Which, to be honest, probably had a lot to do with the challenge she presented.
Nonetheless, I shook off any and all uncertainty and tapped Pamela on the shoulder. As much of a flirt as I was, I had a rule of thumb about physical contact.
Never touch a woman with any form of intimacy until she consents—and no one can consent through the back of their head.
But as soon as she turned around and surveyed me, it was a different story. I was up to her standards, possibly even exceeded them, and she made her interest more than a little visible by plumping up her lips and thrusting her chest forward to garner attention.
“Hi,” I greeted, leaning in to the shell of her ear to tackle a multisensory approach. She shivered as the air from my hot mouth made contact with her clammy, post-dance-exertion skin.
“Hi,” she purred back, kicking her hips slowly back and forth to the building beat of the club remix of “Believer” by Imagine Dragons.
I held out a hand in an offer to shake, but she rejected polite pretense, grabbing it and placing it on her swaying hip. I smiled. This might be even easier than I thought.
“I’m Scott.”
She smiled and pushed her body into mine, forcing me to move to the same sexy beat. “Pamela.”
“Hi, Pamela.”
“Hi, Scott.”
Internally, I laughed. It was really fucking sad how ridiculous these conversations actually were.
“You look familiar,” she said. A twinge of discomfort flared in my stomach before I tamped it down. I wasn’t sure if being known as Dr. Erotic of reality show stardom would be a good thing or a bad thing as far as getting a meeting with the mayor was concerned.
“Oh, yeah?” I asked, unwilling to offer up any unnecessary information. “Been to the hospital lately?”
“That’s it!” she chirped, snapping her fingers right in my face. Here we go. “You’re that doctor that Harlow Paige wrote the article about.”
Okay. There were at least two things in that statement that weren’t at all what I was expecting.
Article? I was thinking TV show.
And who the hell was Harlow Paige?
“Huh?” I asked eloquently. Really, I was doing a stellar job executing my plan so far.
“Harlow Paige at Gossip. She just wrote an article about you. Dr. Erotic, right?”
“Yeah,” I admitted, not recognizing one word about the article, but I was completely familiar with the nickname.
“Did she say nice things?” I asked teasingly, trying to bring the conversation back around to something that would get me somewhere. Pam shook her head with a smile.
“Not really. Apparently, you’re a great flirt but terrible with commitment.”
Fuck. This was going somewhere, all right, but not at all where I wanted. Though, this article sounds pretty fucking accurate.
I racked my brain for the answer, for what I could say to change her mind about whatever she was convinced I was like, so I’d have enough time to win her over, to make her an ally, to—
“So, you want to get out of here?”
Wait…what?
I laughed to myself and nodded before I could think twice about it. “Yeah, Pam. Yeah, I do.”
God bless women wanting things that are bad for them.
What? I told you I always start out with the best of intentions.
But I was a single guy, and Pam was an attractive, willing woman who seemed pretty well informed on the score. Whoever this Harlow Paige was had given Pam the speech for me.
Who said a little work couldn’t lead to a lot of play?