The Doctor's Nanny

by Emerson Rose

  That’s it. I was going to let her slink away with her tail between her legs, but calling Holland out as a child snaps the thin thread of control I’m working with. I bolt out of bed and reach to turn on the light, but I end up grabbing it and throwing it against the wall when my fingers fail to find the switch. Crystal crawls backward to the opposite side of the bed, screaming.

  “I said get the fuck out of my house, Crystal. Don’t call me, don’t come to the club, and if I ever catch you in my bed again, you’re dead! Do you understand me? Dead.” I can’t see her, but I sense her scurrying around the room, probably grabbing her clothes and pulling on what she dares to before running down the hall. Another surge of adrenaline flows through my veins, and I find the remaining crystal letter K bookend that Crystal cleverly gifted me and hurl it down the hall, just missing her before it explodes into a thousand tiny fragments against a wall.

  “God damn it, King, what the fuck is wrong with you? I was just trying to . . .” she says, hopping up and down, trying to stuff her round ass into her tight jeans. Crystal dresses too young for her age. I always hated that.

  “Shut up and leave now, Crystal. Seriously, before you get hurt.” Her eyes widen and she stops dressing. With her shirt open and her jeans unbuttoned, she turns to stomp out of the penthouse, slamming the door in her wake on purpose. She’s been witness to several of my migraines, so she knows firsthand how miserable they make me. The slam was her last dig, and it served its purpose. My head is wrecked now, but nowhere as wrecked as my heart.

  Chapter 17

  Holland

  Practice is horrible. I can’t concentrate, my fingers are all over the place, and nothing’s flowing. For the first time in my life, music isn’t calming or soothing; it’s exasperating. I want to be at home in my bed with the covers pulled over my head so I can bawl my head off. If I can just be alone for a few hours, maybe I could purge him from my system and get my life back on track. Yeah right, Holland, you keep telling yourself that.

  Mama is sitting in the waiting room while I practice, as if I need another thing to worry about right now. If Shanna says anything about King being here yesterday, I’m dead meat. As if she were reading my mind, Mama opens the door to the practice room a crack.

  “Okay if I come in?”

  “Yeah, you may as well. I’m not having a great day,” I say laying my bow across my legs with a deep sigh.

  “I noticed.” She lowers her eyes to the floor, shaking her head. She’s disappointed. Oh my God. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mama disappointed in me.

  “You should have stayed home last night instead of staying up all night watching movies with Savannah. I knew better than to let you spend the night before a practice day.”

  As if there were any non-practice days. I can’t remember a day that I didn’t play for a minimum of three hours.

  “It’s one off day. Gosh, Mama can’t I ever just relax and have some fun?” As soon as the words tumble from my lips, I regret them. I sounded whiney and ungrateful. I’ve never complained about my lack of social life because I enjoy being at home, and I love practicing. It’s never been a chore. But now that I’ve had a taste of living on the edge a little, I’m interested.

  “Holland. What’s gotten into you?”

  I shrug one shoulder and pick up my bow, running it across the strings in a horrible screech just to annoy her. I don’t know who I am lately, and what’s worse is that I don’t think I want to go back to the person I used to be.

  “I’m going to ignore that and chalk it up to sleep deprivation. But I’ll tell ya what, there will be no more staying the night at Savannah’s if you have a practice room reserved the next day. We can’t afford to do this if you aren’t going to take it seriously and give it one hundred percent, Holland. This is your future—”

  “Mama, God, I get it. I’m off my game for one day and you think I’m throwing my future away.”

  I’m on my feet and packing my violin in its case before she’s able to process the fact that I have just raised my voice to her for the first time ever. I’m so emotionally tired that I just want to go home. Squeezing past her in the doorway, I mumble something about having to be perfect all the time and stomp down the hall and into the street.

  It’s so hot already, and the smell of tacos from the Mexican restaurant next door mixed with car exhaust is nauseating. Beads of sweat are forming on my forehead when Mama catches up with me.

  “Are you sick, honey?” She presses the back of her hand against my cheek and I brush her away.

  “I’m fine. It’s just hot out here. Can we please just go home?”

  Her arm drops to her side and she narrows her eyes to look at me . . . hard. She’s off balance. My attitude sucks right now, and for once I wish I hadn’t always been so damn good. If I had thrown in an occasional hissy fit or misbehaved a few times, this wouldn’t be so hard.

  “Yes, okay. Let's go.” She pinches her lips together and stalks down the hill to our car. I follow and watch her as she robotically gets into the driver’s seat while I put my violin in the back. She’s really pissed, but I’ve got too much on my plate right now to worry about out apologizing, and I sorta don’t want to anyway.

  At home, I trudge upstairs to my room and Mama goes in the opposite direction to the kitchen to start dinner. When I close the door and lean my back against it, the tears I’ve been holding back for hours fill my eyes. I wrap my arms around my waist, trying to hold myself together. The scene in the bathroom this morning with King engulfs my mind. His angry face and stern voice saying we need to talk, the pain in his eyes when he pulled back the shower curtain, and finally the way his body shook in my arms when he broke down and cried.

  It’s like a modern day Romeo and Juliet, except it’s not our families keeping us apart; it’s our age difference and drugs.

  I stumble across the room and climb in bed, burying my face in my pillow. The more I cry, the worse I feel. Isn’t crying supposed to help relieve the pain, heal the heart? Well if it is, I’m doing it wrong, because after a solid hour of sobbing like somebody just died, all I feel is exhausted. My head hurts, and my eyes are so swollen that I can hardly see when I roll onto my back and stare at my ceiling fan circling slowly overhead. I single out one blade and follow it around and around with my eyes and remember how cool I used to think that was. One blade can look so clear and obvious when it’s the only thing you’re looking at, but when you lose track of it, they all blend together again. I’ve taken my eyes off of my dream of becoming a professional violinist, and now it’s spinning out of control, lost like that damn blade.

  A soft knock on the door pulls me from my fan metaphor. Shit, Mama can’t see me like this. But she never knocks. Maybe it’s Savannah. I can’t risk it, so I very quietly slip from the bed and pad across the floor into the bathroom and close the door before saying ‘come in’.

  “Honey? I’ve got sweet tea and Lorna Doones.”

  Sweet tea and Lorna Doones cookies. She’s trying to make up. Time to pack my bags, because I’m going on a guilt trip.

  “I was just going to shower.” My face is pressed against the door, and I squeeze my swollen eyes shut and grit my teeth while I wait for her to decide if she’s going to let me have my space or be stubborn and stand her ground until I come out.

  “Okay . . . I’ll leave them right here. I have to run an errand. I’ll be home in a half hour. Are you okay?”

  Thank God, she chose space. I’m spent, and I don’t think I could handle guilt on top of heartbreak today.

  “Thanks, Mama. I’m just going to study for a while. Love you,” I call through the door. When I hear her leave, I slide down into a heap on the floor. I don’t want a shower. I may never shower again without having traumatic flashbacks. I’m too weak to get up, so I curl up into a ball on the floor and try to think about nothing, like a blank white wall, empty space, eternal nothingness.

  “Holland?” I feel the door gently nudge against my back, and I open my
eyes. When I blink and see the furry fibers of the rug from my bathroom floor up close and personal, my heart accelerates and I sit up. Mama. Shit.

  “You like never pass up sweet tea and Lorna Doones, woman. What are you doing in here?” I hear Savannah say and slump against the door.

  “Hey, you’re smashing me here.”

  “Sorry.” I scoot away so she can open the door. Her eyes pop when she sees me, but for once, she doesn’t comment on my lack of makeup, sad looking hair, and puffy eyes. Taking a seat on the toilet, she hands me the tepid glass of sweet tea, but I shake my head. I’m not sure it would stay down if I drank it.

  “Well I’m not wasting a perfectly good glass of sweet tea,” she says, taking a big gulp and setting it on the vanity.

  “I saw your mom leave and tried to call you. When you didn’t answer after like fifty calls and a hundred texts, I decided to come over here and make sure you were okay. So I guess you’re not okay, huh?” I shake my head again.

  “I was a bitch to my mama at practice today, you know . . . just to make sure I was completely miserable.”

  “Ah, hence the tea and cookies.” Savannah narrows her eyes at the tea.

  “Yep.”

  “Can I do anything?” She reaches out to put her hand on my shoulder, and the warmth of her hand brings the water works again. When a sob catches in my throat, she kneels down on the floor and wraps her arms around me, shushing and smoothing my crazy bird nest hair against my back.

  “Come on, let’s get you back to bed.” Savannah guides me to my feet and back to my room. When she tucks the blanket under my chin like a toddler, I make a twisted sort of laugh/cry sound and she giggles.

  “You’re such a baby.” She rolls her eyes, but I know she’s teasing. Anyone can see I’m suffering.

  “I know. Pathetic, huh?” I swipe the tears that are about to trickle into my ears off of my face and crack a smile. Only Savannah could make me smile right now. She knows what to say and how to say it like nobody else.

  “So we need to make a plan. Let’s make a list of things that will help you feel better and forget ol’ what’s his name.”

  “I think I’ve had just about enough of your lists, and King is pretty hard to forget.”

  Savannah sits on the bed, tucking her leg under her butt, and chews her thumbnail—a nasty habit I’ve tried to get her to quit forever. I look at her thumb with raised brows, and she shoves her hands into her lap. With one nervous habit under control, another surfaces, and her knee begins bouncing up and down.

  “You’re gonna make me sea sick,” I say. She jumps up with a huff and starts pacing back and forth at the foot of my bed.

  “I can’t help it. I feel responsible for this whole thing, and I can’t figure out how to fix it.”

  “It’s not your fault. I told you I had choices, and I made the wrong ones. There’s no fixing this, it’s over no matter what we feel. We’re six years apart in age, and more importantly, what he does for a living is incredibly illegal.” It sounds so logical when I say it out loud, so simple and straightforward, but inside my heart it’s anything but.

  “Okay, so what do we do?” she asks.

  “Homework.”

  “Homework?”

  “Yeah, normal old regular homework. Go home and get your computer and your backpack. We need to study for finals.”

  She stops pacing and scratches the top of her head with one finger.

  “Okay, I’ll be right back.”

  And the first of hopefully many normal, boring evenings begins when she returns. We spread out our binders and folders full of papers from our last year of high school. Savannah and I started kindergarten late. We have always been the oldest in our class, and we are the only two graduating at nineteen, going on twenty.

  Savannah starts off strong studying, but she ends up scrolling through Facebook and Pinterest, stopping every minute or so to laugh and show me a funny meme or quote. I roll my puffy eyes and try to cram a million facts and figures into my head in hopes that it will shove out the memories of King. As soon as she’s packed up and gone, he creeps back in like a thief, stealing the relief I was starting to feel, and the raw, open hole in my heart is exposed and bleeding again.

  Chapter 18

  King

  It’s been four long weeks without Holland. I’ve thrown myself back into the life of a drug lord full throttle. In two short days I discovered my light, my anchor, the person who made me want to be an upstanding, honorable man. But after the catastrophic ending of our abbreviated romance, that’s impossible. I’ve gone back into the dark. This is a world I’m familiar with, the one I’ve always known.

  One more drink and I’m out. I’m leaving Miami in the morning. I’ve been on a reckless binge for five long days. Candy keeps telling me I need to sleep, and she’s usually right. She’s been telling me to take it easy all week, but I’m not interested in taking it easy. I’m interested in all things self-destructive, and if she doesn’t like it she can just fuck off.

  “King . . .” Candy says, her voice laced with concern.

  “I know, Candy. That’s the hundredth time you’ve reminded me. Don’t say it again.” I reach out to set my drink down, but I’m seeing three of everything, and my hand bumps against the edge of the table, sloshing scotch whisky and ice cubes all over the floor.

  “Whoa there.” Candy thrusts her hand out, catching the glass before it completely slips out of my hand. Our fingers brush, and my bloodshot eyes meet her serious gaze. “You really should go back to the hotel, sir.”

  I flop back into the leather booth and wink at her despite how irritated I am right now.

  “I pay you to keep track of my schedule, not babysit me, so give it a rest.” Taking the hint, she turns away, and the pulsing crowd of club goers swallows her up.

  I know Candy, though. She’s out there somewhere watching over me, and deep down inside, I appreciate that. I’ll never tell her, but I do. My world is a dangerous world when someone is in his or her right mind, and I am so not in my right mind. I haven’t been since Sebastián told me the only person in my life who’s ever made sense is a minor. I’m navigating in the dark, completely off course, and I don’t even fucking care.

  “Melody, come here.” I close one eye and crook my finger at the sexy little kitten that’s been hovering around me all week. She’s never too close like some of the annoying, junkie sluts who have been throwing themselves at me, hoping for a free high or some prime cock. Those women make me want to vomit. Not Melody, though. She’s never out of my sight. Whenever I look around, no matter where I am, her forest green eyes are quietly watching, waiting, anticipating my needs.

  “You ready?” I ask. She doesn’t speak. She just nods. I like that—no strings, no complications, no feelings. She’s just there when I want her and gone when I don’t.

  I stand and sway, but Melody steadies me. I drape my heavy arm over her petite shoulders as we make our way to the doors and into a car that I’m positive Candy has had waiting on standby for hours.

  “I’ve got this, baby, slide on in,” I say, slurring my words, leaning heavily against the luxury SUV and watching her perfect, round ass disappear into the back seat. Melody’s not a working girl, not a stripper or a druggie, and she doesn’t drink. She’s more of a groupie. Most importantly, she is without a doubt twenty-three years old. Lord knows, I’ve had her checked out. There’s nothing I don’t know about her. When I fall in after her, she stays in her spot by the opposite window until I pat the space next to me, inviting her to come closer.

  “Do you need anything tonight?” she asks in her baby voice. That’s the worst thing about Melody, her shrill as nails on a chalkboard voice. No one’s perfect though . . . no one except Holland.

  “Just take me home and put me to bed, baby, that’s all.” She slides her hand from my knee along the inside of my thigh. When she’s gone far enough, I take her wrist and return her hand to her lap. Melody doesn’t complain. She simply laces her finger
s with mine and rests her head against my shoulder.

  We arrive in front of the Welch Hotel, and when the driver hustles around to open my door, I’m blasted by the humid, heavy wind blowing in off the ocean. I can taste the salt in the air—or maybe that’s the salt from tequila shots earlier. Who fucking knows?

  While walking through the grand lobby, as always, I’m practically accosted by George, the concierge.

  “Mr. Romero, sir! Is there anything I can send up for you this evening?” He’s obnoxious—good at his job, but what the fuck does he think I’m going to want at three thirty in the morning? Sure as hell wouldn’t be drugs. I’m the most famous non-drug using drug Lord in the world. And not women, obviously. I’ve got a beautiful one on my arm . . . well, more like under my arm, trying to keep all six foot five of me in an upright position.

  “No, I’m god . . . good . . .” Shit, I’m fucking plastered. I loll my head back and watch George’s brows lift before he goes back to shuffling papers around at his concierge podium.

  When we stumble into the room after a nauseating elevator ride, Melody helps me out of my clothes. She is patient with me, and after what seems like a long time of me weaving and swaying about, she undresses and slides into the California king bed next to me like a good girl. She knows the rules: no touching below the waist and no sex of any kind. She can plaster herself against me if she wants to—in fact, I rather like having her warm body next to me. I’ve taken to closing my eyes in my drunken stupor and imagining this quiet, obedient girl is my intelligent, talented, sexy Holland. I haven’t fucked anyone since Holland launched herself into my arms a month ago in Savannah’s bathroom, and I don’t plan to for a very long time . . . maybe never. I’ve had the best, and I’m not willing to settle for less. Maybe I’ll wait the two years until she’s legal and try again? Yeah, right, King. She’s sheer perfection. There’s no way she’s going to be single then, not to mention the fact that she knows what I do for a living. She doesn’t approve of my lifestyle, and I don’t blame her. I was going to change for her . . . I wanted to be different, better . . . but now she’s gone, and I’m trying to set a Guinness world record for consecutive days being drunk as fuck.