Dr. Billionaire's Virgin

by Melinda Minx

We all nod. Leaving without getting a single net down will hurt us bad tomorrow. Marv heads back to the helm to move the boat, and Ashton goes to raise the anchor.

  “You good?” I ask Samuel.

  “Yeah,” he says. “I’m fine.”

  We start to pull the net out of the bucket by the floats, uncoiling it foot by foot. Samuel gets all the floats gathered, hands them to me, and I toss it overboard float by float as Marv chugs the boat along. As the boat moves, each bob I throw down spreads the net farther across the water.

  I look over toward Samuel—he’s supposed to be handing me more floats—but he’s nodding off.

  “Fucking shit, man,” I say, shoving him out of the way. “Just stay out of my way.”

  I start pulling the net out of the bucket, but Samuel shoves me back.

  “Don’t tell me how to do my job!” he shouts over the rising storm. “I’ve been doing this my whole life, man! Way longer than you.”

  He grabs the net again and starts to throw it over by himself. Some of the floats hit the edge and fall back on deck.

  “You’re fucking it all up,” I shout back at him. “You’re going to get us killed.”

  The first rain starts to hit the ship. We’ll be balls deep in the storm soon.

  “Fucking give me that,” I tear the net from his hands and tug. I throw the floats over, and I hear the engine roar. Marv has hit the throttle. Good, the net is almost all in the water anyway, and—

  I hear a scream.

  I turn around and see what looks like Samuel being lifted up by the ankle by God himself. But it’s not God, it’s the damn net.

  I sprint toward him, slip on the rain-soaked bow, and scramble on hands and knees toward him. But the weight of the fully extended net—over thousands of feet—pulls Samuel up, up, and over.

  I see him disappear over the edge.

  I grab my radio and shout for Marv to kill the engines.

  Moments later the boat stops. The rain is on us in full force now, and Samuel is drowning.

  I lean over the edge, but I don’t even see him struggling. He’s already been pulled under. He’s got just seconds left in this freezing water.

  “Fuck!” I hear from behind me. Ashton’s voice.

  “Get ready to pull us out,” I shout, without even looking back at him.

  I dive headfirst into the icy water.

  It hits me like a fucking wall. It saps all of my body heat away in one moment, and it sucks the air out of my lungs along with it.

  I ignore the pain, and I grab hold of the first float, then I pull myself along the net. My hands go instantly numb, but I don’t let that stop me. I pull along the net as the storm rages above me.

  I hear Ashton and Marv screaming above me. I look back for a moment and see the life preserver they’ve thrown behind me. It’s many feet away already. The normally bright orange floats are almost grey beneath the oppressive storm clouds, but I swim on, following their trail. Finally I see the rope disappear into the water. I take in a deep breath—maybe my last breath—and I dive under, following the rope.

  I pull myself down and down, foot by freezing foot, and just when I think I can’t swim down another inch, I grab hold of what can only be Samuel.

  I use every last ounce of strength to saw through the net with my fishing knife and free Samuel. The rest of the net drifts away as I sever the rope, and I grab hold of the rope on the side still attached to the boat, which I see Marv and Ashton have grabbed hold of.

  They tug us in, and when I reach the life preserver, I force it over Samuel’s shoulders, then give a thumbs up. I can barely get my thumb up, it feels like it’s going to shatter off.

  They tug, bringing Samuel up. As soon as he’s on deck, they throw the preserver back down for me.

  I pull my arms through it, clutch to it numbly, and feel them pulling me up. If the water was cold, the air hitting my soaked and frozen body is even fucking colder. I pass out as soon as it hits me.

  When I wake up, I’m wrapped in blankets, and there’s a vague sense of a toasty heat encircling me, but it’s only reaching the outside of my skin. Inside I am as cold as a glacier.

  “Marv,” I try to shout, but my voice comes out as a whisper.

  I see a radio above me. I realize I’m in the captain’s quarters. Marv’s room. I grab the radio and hiss into it in a ruined voice, “Tell me he’s okay, tell me Samuel made it.”

  I let go of the button. There is a long hissing sound. Maybe they didn’t hear me. Or maybe they are all looking at each other, deciding who has to pick up the radio and be the one to tell me.

  Fuck that. I press the button down again. “Fucking tell me he made it!”

  I let go, and I hear Marv’s voice. I don’t know what he’s saying, but I can tell from the tone of his voice that Samuel is gone. He died. I may as well have wrapped that net around his ankle myself.

  “Fuck!” I find the strength to shout now. I throw the blanket away, and in shivering rage, I slam the radio against the wall. Again and again until the case breaks open. I throw the ruined thing across the room and start to punch the wall with my numb fist.

  I could have told Marv he was drinking. I could have kept him away from the net. I could have checked before I started throwing the net out—when I heard the engine get louder. I could have been faster, I could have caught hold of him and cut the net before he got pulled over. I could have—

  I could have been a better man. The kind of man who didn’t let his own brother die. I was fucking fighting Samuel right before he died. I wasn’t even thinking about protecting him, I was just angry. How can I be with Sophie if this is the kind of man I am? What if I get mad at her like I did at Samuel, and what if that anger gets her hurt, or killed?

  I look down at my knuckles. The skin is so white it looks dead, and blood is everywhere. But I don’t feel a fucking thing.

  23

  Sophie

  Dad gets home just before I leave for work. When I woke up, he wasn’t there—his car was gone.

  “Hey, Dad, where were you?”

  “Just had to run an errand,” he says, panting.

  “It sounds like you went for a jog.”

  “Just a bit out of breath,” he says.

  “Weren’t you driving?”

  He furrows his brows at me and frowns. That means I’m supposed to stop asking him questions.

  “I made some extra food in case you came back,” I say, going to grab the plate I made for him out of the refrigerator. “Want me to microwave it?”

  He sits down on his chair at the table and leans forward, his elbows pressed onto his knees. His head is tilted forward, and he’s still panting.

  “Hey,” I say, crouching down to meet his face. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, Sophie,” he says, but his voice sounds strained.

  Even though my Ph.D. is in research, I’ve taken enough medical courses in my long years of study to know that this doesn’t look good.

  “Get back in the car,” I say, grabbing the keys. “We’re going to the ER.”

  “Ah!” he barks at me, swatting toward me. “I just need to catch my breath!”

  I take a deep breath myself. He’s being extra stubborn, but if I can just convince him to get into the car, I can get him to the ER as fast as possible. I’m close to just calling an ambulance. I’m not worried about the cost, but if I’m wrong, Dad will make it impossible for me to convince him something might be wrong in the future.

  “Here,” I say, taking his arm. “Stand up for me.”

  “I just got a headache,” he says. “It’s making me tishereedd. Tire. Tishhhuh.”

  Jesus.

  “Dad!” I squeeze his arm in raw fear. He looks up at me, and half of his face is dropping down. Both eyes are terrified, pleading.

  He keeps trying to speak as I dial 911, but only a slurred jumble comes out.

  “Can you get him safely to the ground or a couch?” the 911 operator asks.

  “He’s too h
eavy,” I say, tears streaming down my face. “He’s on a wooden chair.”

  “Keep him there,” she says. “Make sure he doesn’t lose balance and fall.”

  I hold his hand as he looks up at me in horrible confusion, but thankfully he never tries to move or fight, which could make him fall onto the tile.

  After an eternity, I hear the ambulance sirens. I shout through the door for them to open it—Dad didn’t lock it when he came in—as I don’t want to risk leaving his side.

  The EMTs come in with a stretcher, and they take over. As relieving as it is to know they are taking over and that he is now in good hands, an intense feeling of powerlessness overtakes me. There is nothing I can do. The stroke may already have caused permanent damage, and there’s not a fucking thing I can do to help him.

  I should have done more. I should have forced him to exercise more. I should have been more strict about his diet. I should have—

  “Sophia,” the EMT says.

  I look up and realize it’s someone I recognize from the Crab Shack. Jason Myers.

  “Yes,” I say. “You can’t ride in the ambulance, but you can follow us there. The valet will take the car and you can go right in behind him.”

  I nod, suddenly I have something to do, even if it’s as trivial as moving from point A to point B.

  I grab my keys, get in the car, and follow them to the hospital.

  I arrive in less than ten minutes, right behind the ambulance. I see them pull my dad out the back doors, and I nearly throw my keys at the valet. I stay right behind Dad as they wheel him through the hospital. It’s a small hospital, and I start to worry that it won’t have the right equipment or staff to give Dad the best chance of recovery.

  They wheel his stretcher into a room, and Jason stops me. “You can’t go in yet, Sophie.”

  I shove him. “Let me through!”

  “You want him to get through this?” Jason asks, grabbing my shoulders and staring me in the eyes.

  I nod, crying.

  “Then you have to stay out of the doctors’ way. Sit down here.” He grabs a chair and slides it right next to the door. “He’s just on the other side of the wall. You’re right there with him, and you’ll see him as soon as they’ve stabilized him. Do you need to call anyone else? Family, friends—”

  Mason. I need to call Mason.

  I grab my phone and dial. It rings out, and the default T-Mobile voicemail message comes on. Mason hasn’t even bothered to set his own message. Just like he never bothered to buy furniture. Is he really planning to stick around? Or is this all some kind of vacation to him? Why unpack your bags if you’re going to leave in a few days?

  I call him again. And again. He never answers.

  I’ve never tried to call him during work. It could be that he’s far enough out to sea that there’s no signal.

  I text him. “Dad had a stroke. I don’t know if he’s okay yet. Please call me when you see this. I’m in the hospital. I’m not okay.”

  I check the time. It’s 11:00 a.m. He should be docking for lunch soon. He’ll see it then.

  I sit in that chair, with my dad just on the other side of the wall, and my body never leaves fight or flight mode. I just tremble and cry and worry, and soon enough it all takes a toll on me. I start to feel cold, and tired. But I can’t sleep, I just feel more and more tired. More exhausted. I will not sleep.

  But then I jolt awake. There’s drool on my face and my head was tilted down. I slept. But I don’t feel at all refreshed. The exhaustion is even worse than before, and the back of my neck feels like there is a truck resting on top of it. It crunches as I move my head.

  “Dr. Sinclaire?” I look up. Oh, the doctor woke me up. “I’m Dr. Finnegan.”

  “Yes?”

  “He’s stabilized. Your father suffered a stroke. The episode is over now, but your father is unconscious.”

  I realize I’m standing up already. “You said he was stable!”

  “He is,” Dr. Finnegan says. “But his body needs to recover from the trauma.”

  “When will he wake up?”

  I hear a huge commotion down the hallway. People screaming and wailing. A man is shouting, saying the doctors didn’t try hard enough. I try to tune it all out. I focus only on Dr. Finnegan. On my father. I don’t have room in my head for other people’s grief.

  Dr. Finnegan purses his lips. “We don’t really know. It depends on...the extent of the damage.”

  “Permanent damage?” I ask.

  “You can go see him now,” Dr. Finnegan says. “But we are going to airlift him to Boston. We don’t have the necessary imaging and diagnostic equipment here to know your father’s current state.”

  I feel myself seething with anger. All of these stupid fucking euphemisms to try to stop me from freaking out. “My father’s current state,” also known as, “Whether or not he’s a vegetable.”

  “Please,” I say. “Tell me.”

  “I really don’t know, Sophie,” he says. “I can get a gut sense with other types of injuries or traumas, but strokes have too many variables. You’ll want to make preparations to go to Boston.” He looks toward the door. “After you go see your father.”

  “Can he hear me?” I ask.

  “There’s every possibility that he can.”

  I go into the room. Dad’s skin looks grey, and it tears my heart out to see him like that on a hospital bed. There are IVs hooked up to him, and an oxygen mask over his face.

  “Dad,” I say, taking his hand as gently as I can in mine. “You’re going to be okay. The doctors said you’re going to get through this. You have to fight, though. You can’t give up, okay?”

  I don’t care what the doctors said. If Dad is still in there, then he needs to fight, to start rebuilding connections between all his damaged synapses. He can start right now, just by hearing my voice and knowing he has a chance.

  “They’re going to take you to Boston,” I say. “I’m going there with you. I know I was going there anyway in a few days...to interview...but don’t worry about that, I’ll stay by your side—”

  His pulse increases. I look at the screen, seeing his BPM go up and up. He can understand me.

  “Doctor Finnegan!” I shout. “He can hear me!”

  There’s a commotion outside in the hallway again, but this time I recognize the voice. Mason.

  “Let him in,” I say, rushing to the door. I open it up. “He’s family.”

  The nurse nods to me and lets Mason through. It’s not the Mason I last saw, though. He looks almost like Dad does. His skin is pale, his hair is a complete mess, and there are deep bags under his eyes. He smells like the ocean. Like a fish that washed up on shore. His eyes don’t really stay focused anywhere, instead they dart back and forth like oil on water.

  “Mason?”

  “Is he okay?” he says, ignoring me.

  Could Mason really be this shaken by my father’s stroke? I know that my father and Mason had some kind of “men’s understanding” with each other, but I didn’t think he’d be this completely rattled over Dad’s stroke.

  “He can hear me,” I say. “Sit down with me.”

  I pull a chair up, but Mason doesn’t sit. I take his hand, and he looks over at my dad. He takes in deep breaths as he sees the state he’s in.

  “He’ll be okay,” Mason says.

  I look and see that his heart rate is back down again.

  “He heard me, Mason,” I say. “His heart rate went up when I told him I’d stay by his side.”

  “Of course you will,” Mason says. “We will.”

  I smile.

  “Um,” I say. “They are airlifting him to Boston. I’ll understand if you can’t—”

  “No,” he says. “I will go.”

  I sigh in relief. I’m so glad Mason will not just be there for Dad, but for me as well. I need him now. It’s hard to be strong for someone when you’re completely alone, but I’m not. I have Mason.

  “Jesus,” I say. “There�
�s so much I have to get done now, Mason, I can’t keep it all straight in my head.”

  “I’ll help you,” he says. “You can’t forget the interview. You’ll be in Boston, so it will be easy—”

  I scoff at him, jumping out of my chair to meet his eyes. “Are you serious? You’re worried about my fucking job interview when my dad is bedridden?”

  The heart monitor starts beeping as Dad’s heart rate spikes.

  “Look!” I say, realizing I’m raising my voice. I go back to an angry whisper. “Look, Mason, he’s upset now.”

  “He wants you to get that job, Sophie, that’s why.”

  “He also wanted to eat like five strips of bacon every morning,” I say, my nostrils flaring. “But he needs me now. Forget the interview, I can’t start a new job when he’s recovering from a stroke.”

  I pull out my phone.

  “What are you doing?” Mason asks.

  “Calling Pfizer. Cancelling the thing.”

  Mason tears the phone out of my hand and slams it on the ground. “Hank, she’s not cancelling. I’ll make sure she goes. I’ll keep my promise to—”

  I shove Mason into the wall. “Are you shitting me?” I whisper. “You can’t keep a promise to me, but you can keep one to my father? Get out of here.”

  “Sophie,” he says, “I…”

  “Out!” I hiss. “Now!”

  His eyes stare off into infinity, losing focus. They finally snap back into focus, and when he looks at me, I can tell some kind of weight has been lifted from him.

  “Yeah,” he says.

  “What?” I whisper back.

  “I’m out of here, yeah,” he mutters, and he turns his back to me and walks out of the room.

  As the door opens, I hear the most God awful screeching I’ve ever heard coming from the lobby. Are those people still doing that?

  When the door shuts, I can still hear them through the door. It sounds like they are right outside now. The last thing Dad needs is to hear that.

  “I’ll be right back,” I tell him.

  I open the door, shut it quickly behind me, and step into the hallway.

  I see an older couple that I vaguely recognize just outside the room. Two nurses are holding them back, and they are shouting and screaming.