by Max Monroe
Dr. ER
A St. Luke’s Docuseries Novel
Published by Max Monroe LLC © 2017, Max Monroe
All rights reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Editing by Silently Correcting Your Grammar
Formatting by Champagne Formats
Cover Design by Perfect Pear Creative
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
To Shakira.
Our “Hips Don’t Lie” either.
Well, unless they’ve gotten bigger. Then our hips are fucking liars. Those extra inches have nothing to do with the fact that we finished off an entire large pizza, garlic breadsticks, boneless wings, mozzarella sticks, French fries, and a chocolate chip pizza cookie in one night.
And to everyone who ever wonders if we’re writing about them.
We are.
Just kidding…?
The cool, wet ends of my hair tickled at my neck as I pulled on a fresh scrub shirt and tucked it into my pants.
I was working a double shift, and the last several hours had been some of the messiest I’d seen in a while. Blood, fluid, vomit—you name it, I’d been covered in it, and a shower in the locker room was the only thing that made me feel remotely human again.
Slamming my locker shut, I reclipped my ID badge onto the front pocket of my shirt, dropped my phone into my pocket, and made my way out the door.
Several coworkers smiled and nodded as I passed them in the hall, but both food and coffee were necessary for not only my health, but the health of those around me.
When it came to hunger and caffeine withdrawals, I didn’t get grumpy; I got punch-drunk. Fucking slaphappy. And sometimes, a little unnecessarily rude.
One of my very few flaws.
The cafeteria in sight, I picked up my pace and yanked open the door, dodging an exiting nurse as I stepped inside.
Normally, I would have perused, inspected, considered a plan of attack for winning her over with my charm and wit at such a close encounter with a cute female, but my priorities occasionally flip-flopped—though, it was rare—and this was one of those times.
Coffee and food then sex.
Speaking of coffee, a familiar body lurked in front of it. One that I found amusing despite any lack of caffeine or sustenance—the one and only Dr. Obscene.
He, along with me and one other head of department, had been chosen, approached, and optioned for a new reality medical show, The Doctor Is In, set to run for thirty-six weeks, with one weekly, hour-long episode airing every Tuesday night. While all of the episodes had been filmed at the same time, Will’s were the first to air, and fucking hell, he was having a time of it.
Nudity, borderline inappropriate bedside comments, and from what I’d heard through the rumor mill, an insurgence of new patients with desperate determination to have their chance at the good doctor. He was struggling, but to an outsider like me, the entertainment value was endless.
“Will Cummings!” I shouted, calling his attention across the seventy-five feet of space between us.
His head jerked up at the sound of my voice, and a genuine smile curved the line of his mouth up at the corners. I understood—I’d be happy to see me too.
I headed straight for him—he was right in front of the coffee, after all, and I stuck out my hand to greet him.
“Scott,” he said easily, taking my hand to return my shake.
A mental film reel of his most recent episode made my smile shift slightly. The poor schmuck had been far too liberal with his behavior in front of the cameras, and aside from how much I enjoyed watching all of the ways his normally golden intentions shone a little less brightly, I felt bad for him. Will Cummings was a truly good guy.
But no show these days was after a truthful portrayal of three men in their medical prime, saving lives and taking names and being stand-up citizens in the process.
Today’s world was about drama and flair and making the stars of “reality” television as entertaining as possible—much of the time to the detriment of their overall character and existence.
That’s why I’d taken my philandering ways off-camera and off-site from the hospital—and for a brief period of time, curtailed them entirely—while we were being filmed. While Will got caught with his pants down time and again, when my episodes aired, I knew they wouldn’t catch me at all.
I smiled slyly at the thought.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Will said with a groan, and I couldn’t hide my amusement. He was too fucking easy to rile sometimes.
“Touchy, touchy. Someone’s in a bad mood.”
“Just you wait,” Will grumbled, stirring his coffee violently enough that it almost sloshed out of the cup and onto the counter. “You will be too.”
I laughed. Oh, Will. He really was too naïve. “You’re assuming everyone is as good at looking like an asshole as you are.” I reached out to shake his shoulder teasingly. “You really are the best.”
“Oh no, Scott,” he disagreed, a new layer of acid in his voice. “I assure you, as much as the rest of us try, we’ll never top you in the asshole department. Just ask Mandy. And Sarah. And Monica.”
Well, fuck. That stung. I smiled through the discomfort, but hearing each of those names felt like salt in an open wound. I’d misjudged those situations; stuck around too long thinking they felt as casually about me as I did about them. They didn’t deserve the way I’d taken off, but I wasn’t a relationship guy. Not at all.
“I guess you really are in a bad mood,” I muttered, knowing I’d mostly brought this on myself. He was obviously sensitive about the public scrutiny from the show, and I couldn’t blame anyone but myself for the Mandy, Sarah, and Monica ammunition I
’d provided.
“Sorry, Scott. Just…with the show and everything…and I haven’t had my coffee.” He shrugged, his whole body a six-foot-something line of apology. “I guess you’re right. I am the biggest asshole.” I almost laughed. God, Will was a nice guy to a fault.
Still, I didn’t waste the opportunity his apology provided because, like he’d said earlier, I really was the bigger asshole. “Well, at least you recognize it now.”
I gave him a pat to the back and headed out while I was on top.
It was time to save lives, coffee consumed or not.
Twelve weeks later…
It’s official. I really am the luckiest son of a bitch in New York City. Amazing sex with three different women, three different nights this week with no hard feelings and the hottest show on reality television—I felt fucking unstoppable. On top of the world, like nothing could bring me down.
Dr. Erotic.
That’s what they’ve decided to call me. Just thinking about it makes me smile.
While Will had to bury his head in the sand, I’ve stretched mine toward the light. The glory, the fame, the good times.
The stint of celibacy I’d done during filming had been more than worth it, and now I was ready to use it to secure a life of the opposite.
I, Scott Shepard, was officially Dr. Erotic—and I’d take his power and recognition right to the streets of New York City and into the pants of willing women.
Are you ready for me?
Seven weeks later…
“So, what do you like to do in your free time, Harlow?” Barron asked after he took a hearty sip of his wine. He’d ordered us a third bottle of red—a Merlot, maybe?—to share with our meal, and he made a point to let me know every detail of its rare and vintage quality.
“Amazing,” my date said as he swirled his glass around and grinned. “I’m impressed by the legs on this one. Did you notice how the subtle tones of oak and chocolate liven your palate?”
Barron Alexander Conrad III—my date’s full, and let’s be real, very pretentious name—had been rambling on and on about the wine’s legs since the server left the bottle at the table. I literally knew nothing about wine. Tannic. Oaky. Full-bodied. Every word he spoke bled together into a single word in my mind: ostentatious.
When it came to wine, all I cared about was how many glasses it would take for me to get buzzed.
I fought the urge to roll my eyes and just nodded in fake agreement as I tilted the glass to my lips and finished off my first glass from this bottle.
First dates, man. I fucking hate them.
Hell, I loathed anything that could end up in a relationship in general. I wasn’t a commitment-phobe or anything like that. I just knew that long-term commitments weren’t my thing. I’d been burned once, and I’d learned my lesson. I’d spend the rest of my life keeping my hands away from the proverbial hot stove, thank you very much.
I forced a smile. At least, I hoped I was smiling. Do smiles taste like vinegar? If so, I’m definitely smiling. “Well…I stay pretty busy with work. And when I’m not working, I guess I enjoy going to dinner with my friends, reading, seeing movies, going to concerts…” Blah. Blah. Blah.
God, I sounded just as boring as Barron.
Why do I even agree to these things?
Because I needed sex.
I know. Believe me, I know.
But I really did need sex.
Short of swiping right on everything within a two-mile radius on Tinder, dates like these were the only option for a hookup, particularly the kind that ended in penetration, without donning clear heels and a belt as a skirt and hitting the street corner. Though, if this didn’t work out, that option was sounding more and more like it had merit.
It’s been too long, and I’ve reached the point where my daily masturbation sessions just aren’t cutting it.
I need a penis, guys.
“How long have you been with Gossip?”
I sighed internally. At both the sound of Barron’s too nasal voice and the ridiculous job I still called my own. “I guess it’s been about four years now.” Too fucking long.
Gossip was an online and print magazine, and I’d been on their payroll as a columnist for several years. The goal of the magazine revolved around digging, swindling, or bribing the firsthand scoop and juicy gossip from the rich and famous of the world, particularly the ones residing in New York City.
It was trashy and trope-y and just about everything you would expect from something titled Gossip.
Celebrities, as a rule, were all the same; they loved when we noticed them but hated us when we hung their dirty laundry out to dry.
Although, it should be noted, I wasn’t completely on the dark side like some of my fellow columnists in the industry. I only gave my readers mostly factual celeb news with very little embellishment. I followed the yellow-brick road to reality, even if I stepped off onto the grass every once in a while. Other conniving vipers ran around in the forest looking for the juiciest poison apple to plant in a celebrity’s hands.
With that said, I derived unmitigated pleasure from writing about some celebrity heartthrob who’d fucked his nanny while his wife was on a movie set thousands of miles away—his nanny having spilled the beans with proof—and I didn’t think that would ever change.
Of course, the same went for the cheating wives and the asshole celebs who treated their assistants and staff like shit.
To make a long story short, my job at Gossip had started out as a short-term plan after I’d graduated college and left an awful mess of a relationship, but somehow, it had turned into a career. Hell, at twenty-nine years old, when I looked back on my life, I wasn’t even sure why I was still working there.
Seriously? Why am I still there?
I stabbed my fork into the asparagus on my plate and wondered how I’d reached this place, making a career out of something I didn’t enjoy, and going on first dates with men like Barron just because I was that desperate for a penis. Good Lord, when I really thought about it, my life’s train had derailed off the motherfucking tracks.
As if on cue, Barron grinned from across the table and held his fork out toward me. “You need to try this,” he urged me, motioning the fork for emphasis, and I shook my head. “Just try it, Harlow. Their lobster is to die for,” he said and nodded toward the fork that was now two inches from my face as if I were somehow still questioning what he wanted me to do despite the step-by-step tutorial.
“Uh…” I grimaced once the fishy seafood smell hit my nostrils. “I’m not a big fan of fish.”
“But it’s lobster.”
“Yeah…fish…lobster…pretty much anything that swims in bodies of water… I’m not a fan.”
“C’mon,” he continued, and I had the urge to smack the fork away from my face. “No one can resist Daniel’s lobster.”
“Actually, I can.”
He stared at me and I stared at him; Mortal Kombat’s theme song played in my head.
For the love of God, move your fork away from my face.
Eventually, after what felt like an hour, he took the bite of lobster himself, moaning his delight out loud. “God, it’s good.”
If dinner was a preview for later, it was safe to assume I should just get the fuck out of here before the bill came. Fake some kind of emergency. Text one of my friends to save me from the inevitable disaster that would most likely occur before the evening was through.
Good plan, Harlow! Text Amanda.
Amanda was one of my oldest and closest friends from college, and this wouldn’t be the first time she’d helped me get out of a similar situation.
While Barron stayed mesmerized by his wine and lobster, I discreetly slid my cell phone out of my purse and texted my best friend with the hopes that she’d have the perfect fake emergency. And then, I’d beg her to help me execute it.
Me: Help. Me. I need an emergency.
Amanda: Nope. Not this time, Frances.
Me: What??? I’m dying
here! (And stop calling me Frances. You know I hate that.)
Frances Harlow Paige. My full name—almost as bad as Barron Alexander Conrad III—that I didn’t go by anymore and no one ever called me. Trust me, Harlow, as unconventional as it was, suited me much better.
But occasionally, my best friend liked to be a bit of a bitch and taunt me with the fact that I’d been named after my grandmother.
Fucking Frances. God, that name was the complete opposite of me.
Amanda: Considering it’s your actual first name *and* I think it’s adorable, I’m ignoring your request. And maybe you should give this one a shot, Harlow. He could be an amazing guy. He could be THE guy.
Me: Now is not the time to begin a career in motivational speaking! This guy keeps talking about his wine’s legs and shoving lobster in my face. I need help in the form of a fake emergency. Anything will do. Come pull the fire alarm. Call in an anonymous bomb threat.
I hit send and then thought better of it. Bomb threats and fake fire alarms sounded a little too dicey. I just wanted Amanda to help me out of the situation, not get arrested and questioned by the FBI. Though, maybe I should do it myself. It’d probably end in a cavity search…
No. NO. Thinking like that was a new all-time low for me.
Me: Wait…don’t do those! They could end badly… Oh! Call me and tell me someone has three hours to live, and I need to get there as soon as possible to say my last goodbyes. PLEASE. I’M BEGGING YOU.
Amanda: Nope. You start your dates, you finish them, missy.
Fucking hell.
Unless I could execute a fake emergency on my own, and obviously, with no thanks to Amanda, I was stuck. Which explained why I ended up staying through dinner. And the boring conversation. And the mundane cab ride to Barron’s place…
Fingers and toes crossed the sex is actually worth this hassle…
