by Piper James
Playing with the Doctor
Milestone Mischief #1
Piper James
Copyright © 2021 by Piper James
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
For everyone who’s afraid of love. There’s nothing to fear. Except for maybe a bra clasp to the eye…
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Epilogue
Faking with the Enemy
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Piper James
1
Jessa
Who was it that said bartending was the greatest job ever? Oh wait, that was me. And usually, it was. But tonight? Tonight, this shit sucked major ass.
“Thanks for the awesome tip, buddy.”
I mumbled the words under my breath, not that he would’ve heard them if I shouted them at his retreating back with all the noise in this place. I shoved the two dollars into the pocket of my black apron, shaking my head as I turned to greet my next customer.
“What can I get you?” I asked, hoping my smile didn’t look as fake as it felt as I placed napkins on the bar in front of him and his date.
I was bone-tired. My shift didn’t end until the bar was closed—four hours from now—and until the whole place was spotless. Just thinking about it made my shoulders droop.
“I’ll have a blowjob, and the lady will have a sex on the beach,” the guy said, waggling his bushy eyebrows at his date, who was at least twenty years younger than him.
“You got it,” I said neutrally, all the while cringing on the inside.
Why did these old assholes think ordering sex-themed drinks were going to get them laid? And a blowjob? Seriously dude, nineteen ninety-eight called, and it wants its drink back.
As I carefully layered amaretto, coffee liqueur, and Irish cream into a shot glass, my eyes darted back to the couple. The girl was about my age, somewhere in her mid-twenties, and the man looked like he was pushing fifty, with gray streaks in his hair and saggy skin hanging off his double chin. He wore an expensive suit, complete with diamond-studded cufflinks and a silk tie that was too short as it draped over the considerable girth of his potbelly.
She cooed and laughed at something he was saying, but even from across the bar, I could see the humor didn’t quite reach her eyes. No, those sky blue orbs were gleaming with cold calculation. She was after something, and it wasn’t his dick. But she’d take it, too, if it got her what she really wanted.
Reminding myself it was none of my business, I made her fruity cocktail, sprayed whip cream on top of his shot, and set the drinks in front of them.
“That’ll be fourteen-fifty,” I said.
Without taking his eyes off his date’s cleavage, the man handed me fifteen dollars, saying, “Keep the change, sweet cheeks.”
Seriously? Fifty cents? What an asshole.
“Hey,” I said as his pudgy fingers reached for the shot glass, “that’s not how you take a blowjob. I can teach you, if you want.”
His beady, bloodshot eyes turned in my direction, moving over my face as if he’d just noticed me for the first time. I swung my long brown hair over my shoulder, giving him a flirtatious wink just before his gaze dipped down to devour the swell of boobs over the top of my tightly cinched, corseted vest.
My boss, Bernie, insisted all the girls wear the ridiculous contraptions, and I had to admit, showing some cleavage usually helped with the tips. Tonight was definitely an exception, and I was fed up with working my ass off in this thing, showing off my goodies, for nothing but chump change.
And this pervy tightwad was about to feel the force of my shitty mood.
“So,” I said, ignoring the girl’s huff of annoyance as I leaned over and propped my elbows on the bar, giving him a better view of my tits, “you put your hands behind your back, pick up the glass with your mouth, and tilt your head back to drink it. Every good whore knows you never use your hands during a blowjob. It’s cheating. Isn’t that right, honey?”
My eyes darted to his gold-digger of a date, and she leapt to her feet. I pushed myself upright, crossing my arms over my chest and giving her my best smirk.
I wasn’t usually such a bitch, especially to my customers, but after the night I’d had, I couldn’t stomach watching some greedy hussy fawn all over someone she was obviously not attracted to because he had money. It reminded me of—
No, I refused to even think of her.
“Jessa!” my boss shouted from my right, scaring the shit out of me.
Did he know I was being rude to his customers? The man had a sixth sense about this kind of shit, and I knew better than to be bitchy to anyone during my shift, whether they were assholes, or not.
Bernie held up the bar’s cordless phone, wagging it from side to side. Oh, thank God, it was just a phone call. I did not need to lose my job at the end of this trash heap of a day. I had bills to pay, and my Jeep needed new tires.
Wait. Who would be calling me? Besides the fact that I was at work and anyone who knew me would know I didn’t have time to chat on a Saturday night, no one called me. Ever.
Well, no one except—
I rushed away from whatever the girl was about to say to me, my shoes sticking to the spilled booze and soda on the floor as I imagined all kinds of dire reasons for the call.
“Dad,” I breathed as I held the phone to my ear, “what’s wrong?”
“Hey, sugar pie. How’d you know it was me?”
“Dad,” I repeated in a warning tone. “Tell me.”
“Everything is fine, Jessa.”
Alarm bells went off inside me, my whole body beginning to shake. Dad never used the word “fine.” It was kind of a running joke between us, because when I was a teenager, I overused the word…and it usually meant I was anything but fine.
“Dad.”
“It’s no big deal,” he said after a quiet sigh. “I caught a case of the sniffles.”
My dread eased a little at his words. He had a cold? Why would he call me at work to tell me he had a cold? Before I could ask him, a buzz followed by the sound of a voice through an intercom system came through the phone’s speaker, and my heart jumped up into my throat.
“Dad, where are you?”
“Now, Jessa, honey, I don’t want you to worry—”
“Dad!”
“I’m
at the hospital,” he admitted, his voice suddenly meek. “I was having trouble breathing, and Janice made me come in to the emergency room to get checked out.”
Janice was Dad’s longest-lasting employee and one of his best friends. If she was worried enough about Dad to take him to the E.R., she should’ve called me.
“Now don’t blame Janice,” Dad said as if he could read my mind. “I told her I’d fire her if she called you about something as silly as a little cold.”
“What is it, Dad?” I asked, my dread coming back in full force. He wouldn’t have called me if it wasn’t serious.
“I have pneumonia. I’m fine, really. The doctors will give me some meds, and I’ll be right as rain in a few days.”
There was that word again—fine.
“I’m coming down there,” I said. I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and checked the time. “I can be there…”
My words trailed off as I stared at my phone. There were no text messages. No missed calls.
“Dad, why did you call me at the bar? Why didn’t you try my cell?”
“I left my phone at The Bullpen, and I don’t have your number memorized.”
Bullshit. I’d had the same cell number for ten years.
“Were you hoping I’d be too busy to take the call, and you could leave a message with Bernie?”
“I know you, sugar pie,” he said, not even denying my accusation. “You’d hop in that deathtrap you call a car and drive down here, straightaway. But visiting hours are over, and the doctor said I could go home in the morning. There’s no reason to lose your job over this.”
“You’re more important than any job, Dad.”
“If you feel the need to see your old dad alive and kicking, come in the morning. I’ll be at home. Love you, Jessa.”
The line went dead before I could respond, and I pulled the phone away from my ear to look at it. Shaking my head, I pressed the off button and placed it back in its charging cradle on Bernie’s desk. My boss pushed through the swinging door, giving me an assessing look.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, “my dad is in this hospital. I need to go.”
“What?” he barked. “I have a bar full of patrons, and you’re my only mixologist tonight, Jessa. You can’t leave.”
“I’m a bartender, Bernie. Calling me a mixologist is pretentious and makes you sound like a douchebag.” Oh, shit. Did I just say that out loud to my boss? “Sorry,” I quickly added. “I have to go.”
“If you leave right now, you’re fired,” he called out to my retreating back.
“My dad is in the hospital,” I hissed between clenched teeth as I whirled back to face him.
“So?”
“Wow. You really are a douchebag.”
Without another word, I swung through the door, grabbed my bag from beneath the bar, and stalked out. I really couldn’t afford to lose this job, but I’d worry about that later.
Dad needed me.
I pulled myself out of bed the next morning, my muscles dragging from hours of tension and zero sleep. I’d called the only hospital in Milestone after leaving the bar and confirmed that my father had been admitted, he was stable, and visiting hours were, indeed, over, so there was no point in making the three and a half hour drive down from Atlanta.
So, I’d driven home to my tiny apartment, packed a suitcase, and went to bed, hoping to get some sleep before making the trip the next morning. After tossing and turning for three hours, I’d gone to the kitchen for a shot of tequila, hoping it would help. It didn’t, but I refused to drink more and end up hungover for the drive.
“Come on, Butthead,” I called out to my cat once I’d showered and felt a little more like a human being. “Here, kitty, kitty.”
I snorted at my own idiocy. There was no way that demon was going to come running, even if he hadn’t taken one look at the travel crate I’d placed on the table last night and skittered from the room for parts unknown.
“Come on, buddy,” I cooed, walking to the couch and dropping to my knees to peer underneath. “I can’t leave you here. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”
“Winchell!” I tried, knowing that would be even less effective than calling him kitty.
I’d originally given him the dignified name to match his appearance—bright orange fur with white paws and a perfect, white mustache—but he quickly proven himself to be a stereotypical asshole cat, so I’d taken to calling him Butthead instead. It stuck.
“We’re not going to the vet. I promise,” I sang out as I walked into the bedroom and checked the closet.
A low growl met my ears, and I pushed some hanging clothes aside to find him curled in the corner. His fur bristled as his green eyes followed my hand when I reached out for him. I made soft, calming noises as another growl vibrated from his chest.
“You better not scratch me, buddy,” I whispered as my hand moved within striking distance.
With a yowl, his paw struck out before he darted past me out of the closet.
“Son of a bitch,” I howled, shaking my hand and bouncing from foot to foot as if it would ease the pain. Looking down, I watched blood start to well from a long, thin line that stretched the length of my hand from wrist to knuckles.
“Dammit, Butthead, we have to go. I don’t have time for this shit!”
I briefly considered leaving his little ingrate ass here to fend for himself, but I really had no idea how long I’d have to stay in Milestone to help Dad.
And I didn’t have any friends I could depend on to come feed him and clean his litterbox.
No, he needed to get into his damn box. Now.
Twenty minutes and three burning scratches later, I managed to get the little jerk stuffed into his crate. I used the seatbelt to secure it on the passenger’s seat of my Jeep, threw my suitcase into the back, and got on the road.
I turned up the radio to drown out Butthead’s constant meowing and tore open the bag of potato chips I’d brought for breakfast. As the salty, cheesy flavor burst on my tongue, I started to feel a little more like myself.
“I’m coming, Dad,” I murmured to myself as I pulled onto the interstate. “I’ll be there soon.”
2
Rafe
“Your temperature is almost back to normal. The antibiotics are working, but you have to make sure you finish the prescription, Mr. Maddox.”
“Please, call me Greg. Mr. Maddox makes me feel like an old man.”
I gave him a firm nod, somehow managing to restrain my smile. At least, I thought I did.
“Don’t look at me like that, Dr. Walton. I know I’m sixty-five years old, but I’m as healthy as a horse.”
I arched a brow as a coughing fit punctuated his words. Grabbing the plastic cup of water from his bedside table, I held the straw to his mouth. He snatched the cup from my hand, taking a sip. He set it back on the table before settling against his pillows.
He was a spunky old codger, and I found myself liking him more with every minute that passed.
“Are you comfortable? Do you need anything before I leave?”
“No, I’m fi—” He cut the word off and chuckled before saying, “I’ll be okay. My daughter will be here any minute to hover all over me like some mother hen.”
“Good,” I said, packing up my bag.
“Hey, Doc,” he called out as I turned to go. “Thanks for coming by to make sure I got settled in okay. I thought the days of house calls were long gone. Most doctors wouldn’t go so far as to check on a patient at home.”
“They are,” I said, grinning. “And I’m not most doctors.”
“Yeah, it seems these days, they barely take the time to examine you before they rush out to see the next patient. You know the last time I went in for a check-up, the doctor wasn’t even there? After the nurse took my vitals, he put me in a room with a computer, and the doctor talked to me through something called skeep.”
“You mean Skype?” I asked, chuckling despite the streak o
f disappointment that coursed through me.
That was no way to be handling patients. I’ve always worked in the E.R., but if I ever decided to open my own practice, I sure as hell wouldn’t conduct my examinations through video chat. What an asshole.
“Yeah, that was it. Skype. Have you ever heard of such a thing? I might as well have used the Google and saved myself the copay.”
“Well, I wouldn’t recommend using the Google,” I said, chuckling for real this time as I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my contacts. I grabbed a notepad and pen from my bag and scribbled out a name and number. “This is the number for Dr. Jameson’s office. He’s a good doctor, and I’ll guarantee he’ll never Skype your appointment.”
“Thanks, Doc,” Greg said, cocking his head as a car door banged shut outside. “Oh, that’ll be Jessa.”
“Okay, I guess I’m leaving you in good hands, then. I’ll check in with you tomorrow, okay?”
“You know where I’ll be,” he said, patting the bed. “Do me a favor, Doc. Tell Jessa I’m taking a nap and not to bother me for a couple of hours. I want to watch the game in peace before she starts fussing all over me.”
He nodded his head at the television. A baseball game was on, and the Braves were up by two in the bottom of the third inning.
Not being one to come between a man and his ball game, I nodded and grabbed my bag. Walking out, I closed the door quietly behind me and headed for the front of the house. I needed to give his daughter a rundown of Greg’s condition before I left, since she would be his primary caregiver while he recovered.
