Dr. Fake It: A Possessive Doctor Romance

by Hamel, B. B.

  “You’re not kidding.” I looked over at Erica as she lingered awkwardly in front of the table. I finished my beer then stood. “Should we head home?”

  “Uh, right, sure.” She cleared her throat. “You’re sure this is okay? I mean, I’m not an imposition.”

  I waved her off. “Come on. My place isn’t far.”

  “You live in this neighborhood?”

  I nodded as we left Revel and hit the sidewalk. “Perks of being a single doctor.”

  She laughed and drifted along behind me. I was tempted to take her hand and lean in close—but I didn’t know the girl, and I wasn’t about to risk Fiona’s wrath. Besides, I could tell she was delicate at the moment, even if that was wrapped up and buried under layers of murderous rage.

  At least she was trying to trust me and giving me the chance to step up. I still didn’t know where this would lead, but I had to try something, anything, to make sure I didn’t let someone else get swallowed by up violent bastards that thought they could do whatever they wanted—to whomever they wanted—whenever they wanted.

  6

  Erica

  I woke up in a strange bed the next morning and stretched my legs out. The sheets were soft, the mattress was like a pillow, and I’d slept better than expected. I sat up and ran a hand through my hair, looking at my surroundings—gray walls, tasteful black and white photographs in simple silver frames, a bureau with a candle and fake flowers, a nightstand with a clock, and a door that led into a small but modern bathroom.

  I got up and washed my face. I looked at myself in the mirror then lifted up my shirt and marveled at the bruises. I took it off and turned side to side, staring at the yellow and black that bloomed over my ribs. I wondered if they’d ever heal or if there’d always be a scar there, always some proof of what had happened, always there to remind me that I was never, ever safe.

  There was a knock at the door. I stooped to grab my shirt as it opened and Gavin poked his head inside. “Hey, I thought you’d want some—”

  He turned in my direction and spotted me bent over in only a bra. His eyes looked at my face, then down to my chest. I stood up straight, clutching my shirt. “You can’t just come into my room, you know,” I said, covering my chest.

  He looked at the floor. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I heard you were up and wanted to see if you were hungry.”

  “You still need to wait until I say it’s okay to come in.”

  “Right.” His eyes looked up again and I saw them drift down to my body—but not at my chest this time. “Would you mind if I took a look at those bruises?”

  I glared at him. “Yes, I would mind. Want me to tell Fiona about this?”

  He smiled a touch. “Go ahead. She’d be happy someone looked you over.” He stood up straight and stepped into my room, but turned his back on me. “Put your shirt on. I can examine you while you’re covered.”

  I hesitated, but he was right, the bruises did hurt. I pulled the shirt over my head. “Okay, fine, but don’t get any ideas.”

  He walked over to me and I stepped back until my ass pressed against the counter. He stood inches from me wearing a pair of dark jeans and a light t-shirt that showed off his defined chest and muscular arms. I felt my heart do a quick leap as he looked down at me and gently lifted my shirt. I sucked in a breath and thought he was about to looked at my chest again, but he stopped at the bruise along my right side.

  His fingers prodded me so softly I almost didn’t feel them. “Hurts?” he asked, almost as if to himself.

  “Yeah, a little bit, but— ouch! Shit!” He pressed hard and nodded to himself. “What the hell?”

  “I think you’ll be okay. It was broken, if I remember right?”

  “Cracked.” I pushed his hand away and tugged down my shirt.

  “I don’t like that bruise, but if you’re careful, it should be okay. If it gets worse, or if it spreads at all, you need to tell me.” His eyes met mine and I saw the doctor then.

  “Whatever you say, doc.”

  He smiled a little and lingered a second longer than necessary. I should’ve told him to step back, but I liked having him near.

  He turned and headed back to my door. “Anyway, I’m making breakfast. Eggs and pancakes?”

  “Uh, sure. Coffee too?”

  “Whatever you want. Remember, you’re the queen around here for a while.”

  I smiled a little bit. “Thanks. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  He nodded but didn’t leave. “We need to talk about your situation, just so you know.”

  I looked down at the tile floor, at my bare feet. My toes were painted pink but it was mostly chipped away. I remembered my mother doing it for me, smoking cigarettes, watching Mike & Molly reruns, cursing at the TV. She always managed to make me laugh more the show.

  “All right, just give me a minute.”

  He left without another look and shut the door behind him with a soft click.

  I turned back to the mirror and looked at myself. I wondered what he saw: some broken, bruised, and battered chick he could save. I hated that, hated being at the mercy of some arrogant doctor, but I knew I didn’t have much choice. I gripped the edge of the counter and wished he wasn’t so damn handsome—then this would probably be a lot easier.

  As I headed out to the kitchen, I decided to tell him the truth. Part of me wanted to lie, or at least to leave something out, but if this was going to work then he needed the full story—no matter how embarrassing or demeaning.

  His place was a new construction apartment building. Everything was fancy: soft close drawers, track lighting, dimming switches, polished chrome, smooth tile, marble floors, granite counters. I noticed he shared the same general minimalist style with me, and everything he owned seemed designed for a particular purpose in mind. Gray and black dominated, with a few splashes of color from his palette.

  The table was set and he sat at the far end sipping coffee and reading the Wall Street Journal. I’d never seen someone reading the physical paper like that before.

  “Take a seat,” he said, nodding at the place opposite him, the plate heaped with fluffy golden eggs and lightly browned pancakes. A steaming mug of coffee sat in front of it, deep and rich black.

  It was like a dream. My mother and I never had a breakfast like this in our lives. We made do with milk and cereal and instant coffee when we were on a budget. The apartment had always been clean and tidy, but old and crumbling, cracks in the plaster, peeling drywall and chipped paint. This place was the opposite, and stood for all the sort of upper-class wealth I never thought I’d experience.

  “I’m going to get this all out, okay?” He raised an eyebrow at me, but didn’t say anything. “When I’m done, you can decide if you want to keep helping me or not. I won’t blame you if you walk away.”

  He leaned back, put the paper down, and sipped his coffee. “Go ahead, I’m listening.”

  I paced into his living room, eyes roaming over his beautiful leather couch with its casual throw pillows and soft, velvety blanket draped over the back. “Growing up, my dad was an asshole.” I stopped, took a breath, and started again. “My dad was a real piece of shit. He was an addict, a criminal, and an abusive bastard, and I have no clue why my mom tolerated him. He drifted in and out of our lives, causing problems, taking money, stealing when we refused to give him what he wanted, then disappearing for weeks or months at a time. He always showed back up though, either washed up from a bender, or so deep into withdrawal that he’d lie in the bathtub and sweat for days until he disappeared again.”

  I took a deep breath and turned to him. I expected to see disgust in his eyes—I wouldn’t blame him. I felt disgusted every time I thought about how we let my father drift in and out of our lives, upending everything, fucking things up, being a piece of shit and a loser, but never cutting him off. Instead, Gavin looked back at me with a sad expression and gestured for me to continue.

  “This last time was different,” I said, my voice softer. “He never
came home. We started to worry after a few months, but it was my dad, you know? Disappearing for a while was what he did, and eventually it would get cold out so he’d have to stagger inside or freeze to death on the street.

  “Except that never happened. Then the spring came and we got a knock on the door. It was a man that called himself Cosimo, and he seemed so polite at first. He sat down at our table, accepted tea from my mother, and proceeded to tell us that my father promised to sell drugs for him. He was given a kilo of heroin, and told exactly how much to sell it for. But instead of dealing it all out, he shot half the shit into his veins, and now we owed him for my father’s mistakes.

  “We didn’t understand at first, but a couple days later, they found my father in the river. Apparently, he jumped from the Ben Franklin Bridge, although I wonder if someone threw him over instead. Cosimo came to my work and told me that there was another way I could pay off my debt to him—I could give him my hand in marriage.”

  I felt sick as I closed my eyes and forced away the tears. I never felt so useless, so gross and demeaned before in my life. Cosimo looked at me like I was some toy for him, some pretty prize he could put on his arm and parade around town. I cost money, and that was all I was worth—my life didn’t have intrinsic value because I wasn’t a person.

  “I told him no. He came back, again and again, every night for a few weeks, and I kept telling him no, until one day I was driving home with my mom and this black SUV ran us off the road. You overheard his guys come into my hospital room and tell me that I’d better marry him, and I guess that’s everything.”

  I stared at him, heart racing. His face betrayed nothing at first, then softened into something like sadness. He stood up and stepped toward me, but I flinched away.

  “I won’t let him take you like that,” he said, his voice soft. “How much do you owe him?”

  “Thirty thousand dollars.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “I can pay that off.”

  “No,” I said, and he must’ve been surprised by the sharp tone in my voice. He took a step back and raised his hands.

  “Okay, okay. I won’t do anything you don’t want to do.”

  “I just mean, I don’t want your money. I’m not for sale.”

  He took a deep breath and nodded. “Okay, you’re right. I’m not trying to buy you, only to pay down your debt. You can owe me instead—and I won’t charge you interest.”

  “No,” I said again through clenched teeth. He didn’t understand what it felt like for a man to think he could buy me and own me like I was nothing but a fuck doll for him to use and abuse. “I can’t let you do that.”

  He sank back down in his seat and sipped his coffee. I stood there, arms wrapped around my chest, feeling like an idiot. He gestured at the seat across from him.

  “Sit down. Maybe we can think up a better solution.”

  I hesitated, but sank down. I was starving, and I felt drained from telling that story. I took a bite of the pancakes, then sipped my coffee—then found myself shoveling the food into my mouth with a strange, ravenous hunger I’d never experienced before.

  He watched me the whole time but I pushed him out of my mind. I’d spilled my guts and now I felt like I needed a second to process everything I’d told him. I wasn’t even sure he’d believe me—the story was so outlandish, so crazy that I barely believed it myself, even though I’d lived it. My father dragged us down into hell and I was so sure that nobody would be there to help pull me out, but suddenly I felt this strange glimmer of possibility.

  I had to be careful. I couldn’t throw myself at this man, even if he seemed like my last chance at freedom. His offer to pay off my debt was tempting, but I still couldn’t take it, still couldn’t let myself be sold to him like that. I had to earn whatever solution I came up with, and couldn’t simply trade one master for another.

  When I finished my stack, I leaned back and drank some coffee. He smiled at me and let out a soft laugh. “I guess I’m a decent cook after all.”

  “It was pretty good,” I said, smiling back.

  “Are you sure you’re not going to take my money?”

  I glared at him. “I’m sure.”

  He held up his hands. “Thought I’d try one more time.” He took a deep breath and let it out. “How about we make a compromise.”

  “I’m listening.”

  His smile got bigger. “You’re making it really hard to help you, you know.”

  “I’m not really used to men trying to help me.” I took a breath and relaxed myself as much as I could.

  “Fair enough,” he said, his voice soft. “You’re going to have a bad reaction to what I’m about to suggest, but hear me out before you do, okay?”

  I nodded and gestured at him. “I’ll reserve judgment.”

  “I think you should marry me.”

  I took a sharp breath and my eyes widened. He was right—I was about to have a very bad reaction. That was exactly what I wanted to avoid with Cosimo, and now the asshole thought he could do the same thing to me? I pushed my chair back and stood up, knocking the table and nearly spilling what was left of my food on the floor. He smiled at me and leaned back like he hadn’t said something absolutely insane and terrifying.

  “What are you talking about?” I took a step away from the table.

  “It’ll be fake,” he said, “completely fake, but here’s the thing. You won’t take my money because you don’t want to owe me something, right? How about you earn that money instead?”

  I shook my head. “I’m not going to trade my body to you. I wouldn’t do it with that other asshole, and I’m not about to start now.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” He sighed and rubbed his face. “I’m fucking this up.”

  “Yeah, you really are.”

  “Look, I’m a single guy, okay? I’m one of the best doctors at Mercy, but I’m young and I don’t have a wife or kids. I want to move up in the ranks, get promotions, run my own team, but guys like me don’t get that sort of responsibility.”

  I hesitated. I knew I should run out of there right away. He wanted to take me exactly like Cosimo did—but something in his tone and his eyes made me hesitate. “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “I have sort of a bad reputation.” His smile was almost bashful. “There’s a reason Fiona didn’t want to leave you alone with me.”

  “Oh, god,” I groaned. “Do you sleep with patients? Are you going to human traffic me or something?”

  “Jesus, no, of course not. I don’t sleep with patients.” He paused and shrugged. “Nurses, though? I definitely sleep with nurses.”

  I rolled my eyes so hard I thought they might fall out the back of my head. “You’re a freaking cliché, you know that?”

  “Guilty as charged. But look, I need to clean my reputation up a little bit if I want any chance at a promotion, and there happens to be an opening right now in the Emergency Department. This could be a seriously big stepping stone for me if I land the job, except there’s no way they’ll consider me.”

  “You think getting married will help your chances?”

  “Absolutely.” He stood up, but he didn’t come near me. I felt tense, still on the edge of running—but what he was saying made a kind of sense. I could imagine how a guy like him might get passed up for promotions, especially if he was sleeping his way through the nursing staff. Based on how smart and handsome and charming he looked, I was pretty he was telling me the truth about that.

  “So what you’re saying is you and I will get married—just like that asshole Cosimo wanted—except with you, it’ll be temporary, and it’ll be fake.”

  “Right, temporary and fake. You’ll have to come with me to work functions and meet some colleagues, and you’ll have to pretend to actually, you know, be in love with me, but otherwise? We’ll live like strangers. I’ll pay off your debt to Cosimo and you’ll stay my wife until I get a promotion.”

  I chewed on my lip. “How long would that take?”

&nb
sp; “I don’t know. A year, maybe.”

  It wasn’t a horrible deal. Thirty thousand for one year of my life—I’d taken jobs for less. Except this wasn’t some normal job, this was marriage, and he wanted to take me as his token bride, just like Cosimo did.

  The difference was Gavin wasn’t a violent criminal that tried to kill me, and he was making it clear that there was an end date.

  Cosimo wanted to own me forever.

  “I’m not sure,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m not sure I can trust you. I mean, I just told you that mafia asshole wants to marry me, and then you say I should marry you, instead.”

  “I can see how that might be a little fucked up.” He shook his head and leaned up against the couch. “Thing is, if you’re married to me then Cosimo can’t push you into anything, right?”

  “He could always kill you then force me to marry him.”

  “True, but gangsters like him tend to know who they can murder and who they should avoid, and a young, highly talented and well-known doctor is probably the sort of person that would draw a whole lot of unwanted attention.”

  I tapped my foot, crossed my arms, and stared at him. I couldn’t tell if he was being for real or messing with me, but I felt myself starting to soften toward the idea, at least a little bit.

  “I want someone else to know,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “I want to tell Fiona.”

  He laughed. “She’ll flip shit.”

  “I know, but she’ll also make sure you don’t try to do something nasty.”

  “Like what?”

  “Blackmail me into staying? Hurt me? I don’t know.”

  He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Okay, I get it, you don’t trust men.”

  “That’s my condition. I’ll consider it—if we tell Fiona, and she agrees.”

  He clenched his jaw and I saw him mulling it over. “If she says no, how about you take a loan from me?”

  “If she says no, I’m out of here and you’re never seeing me again.”

  He sighed. “Fine. You’ve got a deal.” He walked over and extended his hand.