Wanted: A Bad Boy Romance (23 page)

“How do I look?” I pop the collar of my white lab coat as
Lauryn
unloads brochures, pamphlets, and
logo’d
pens and stacks them neatly along the table at the
convention center that Monday morning. “Say it,
Lauryn
.
I look like a sexy doctor.”

She pauses for a moment, refusing to look anywhere other than into my
eyes, and chokes on her spit. “Get over yourself.”

Oh, how I’ve missed messing with her. “You need some help?”

She shakes her head, grabbing the last of the brochures and slamming
them on the table. “I’m good now. Fifteen minutes ago, I would’ve said yes.”

“I’ll get here earlier next time.”

The conference center’s main doors fling open and staff members secure
them as throngs of lab coat and scrub wearing medical professionals stampede
into the space. Everyone loves an excuse to leave
their
post, and everyone loves free stuff. Drug reps are notorious for giving out
gobs and gobs of free stuff. Oh, and there’s a free lunch catered by one of the
top Cuban restaurants in town that books out for weeks at a time. That must be
the draw.

“So basically, we just stand here and wait for people to come up and ask
us about
Arovag
,” she explains. She stands back, her
arms folded across her lower belly.

“You should uncross your arms,” I say. “Makes you appear more inviting.”

Lauryn
shoots daggers my way as her arms fall to her side. “I know
what I’m doing, Sutton.”

A lovely Latina doctor in a long white coat and candy apple red heels
floats up to our table. Her shiny lips curl into a seductive smile as her dark
eyes lock into mine. She’s a woman on a mission, like many before her. “Hello.”

“Hi,” I say, squinting to read her name take. “Dr. Ortega.”

“Yes,” she says, tracing her finger along the dip of tanned skin that
peeks through her jacket. “And you are?”

“Dr. Pierce,” I say. “And this is my esteemed colleague,
Lauryn
Hudson.
Lauryn
here-”

“Dr. Pierce,” she says, rolling the ‘r’. “Yes, yes. I’ve heard of you.
You’re a hospitalist who refuses to work at a clinic.” She says it as if she’s
amused, as if I’m the first OB-GYN in the history of the world to refuse to
work in a clinic setting. “I believe my boss tried to get you to come to
Women’s Health Group. We offered you a pretty penny.”

“It’s not about money, Dr. Ortega.” I offer a polite smile and lift a
brochure, spreading it wide and pointing to the words. “So this is a great new
drug for older women suffering from a minimized libido. They can be pre or post
menopausal, and the drug is even approved for women as young as twenty-five.”

She doesn’t seem interested in the drug. “Would you consider coming to
the clinic for a private luncheon? Perhaps you can give our staff a lecture on
the benefits of this new…drug?”

I turn to
Lauryn
who’s standing slack-jawed,
trying to fight a smile, and watching the entire exchange. If she could talk,
I’m sure she’d be saying, “Who’s the amateur now?”

My mind instantly imagines copious scenarios of
Lauryn
being hit on by doctors during her visits, and a twinge of jealousy heats my
body.

“
Lauryn
here is the representative for
Arovag
.” I grab her by the crook of her elbow and drag her
in closer. Dr. Ortega still won’t pay attention to her. She only has eyes for
me.

“Do you have a card, Dr. Pierce?” Dr. Ortega asks. She rubs her lips
together and smiles, tilting her head to the side. I think she’s trying to
flirt with me. I glance over her shoulder where a line of people begins to
form, mostly women, some looking much too young to be doctors. There are
nurses, physician’s assistants, and nurse practitioners here. The booth across
from us, which is touting estrogen patches and progesterone therapy, is empty.
The booths flanking our sides are also home to bored-looking drug reps waiting
for interested patrons. The party is clearly at our booth.

“Hi.” I watch
Lauryn
attempt to talk to the
second-in-line woman. “Can I help you? Were you interested in
Arovag
?”
Lauryn
lifts up a pen
covered in the teal and hot pink logo and hands it to the lady. She takes the
pen, but she’s still watching me.
Lauryn
leans into
me, placing her palm on my shoulder and leaning into my ear. “Please tell me
you’re not wearing some kind of pheromone cologne today.”

I shake my head.

“This is ridiculous,” she mutters out of the corner of her full mouth.
“It’s like a bunch of goddamned feral alley cats in heat.”

“Nice meeting you, Dr. Pierce,” I say, handing her my card. Only it’s
not
my
card, it’s a card to the
hospital with our general numbers printed on the back. She doesn’t notice. She
palms the card and presses it against her chest, staggering away backward as if
the sight of me makes her drunk with lust. “Next.”

A young nurse in pale pink scrubs walks up, staring up at me with a
goofy grin on her face as her fingers fidget with her long, brown hair. “So,
what’s this new drug?”

Lauryn
rolls her eyes and steps back, and I catch her checking her
watch. I want to tell her this thing ends in four hours. It’ll be over soon. I
want to tell her the attention gets old. I want to tell her that a line of
women all waiting to talk to me means absolutely nothing to me when the one I
want is sitting right beside me wanting nothing to do with me.

The young nurse saunters away with a stack of brochures and swag, and I
welcome the next patron.

Lather.

Rinse.

Repeat.

I never should’ve signed up for this gig, but when the lady at the
pharmaceutical company told me whom I’d be working with, I agreed without so
much as a single stipulation. I’d have done it for free had she asked.

The convention dies down in time for lunch, and
Lauryn
boxes up her things as if she has a plane to catch.

“Let me help you,” I say, handing her handfuls of what little swag
remains.

“I got it.”

“Let me carry this stuff to your car,” I offer.

She zips the rollaway suitcase and pulls up on the handle. “No need.”

“Can I walk you to your car?” I’m getting nowhere with her.

She turns to face me. “Why?”

“Because we barely had a chance to talk all morning.” That’s one excuse
of many, but I’ve got plenty more if she continues to play difficult.

“We’re not here to talk, Sutton. This is work. We’re working together,”
she reminds me. She wheels her suitcase out and around our table and heads to
the exit, her heels clicking on the tile in quick little ticks. I follow her,
taking wide strides until I catch up.

“Let’s get lunch. My treat.” I grab the handle of the rollaway from her
hand, our fingertips brushing, and pull it behind me. “You’ve got to be hungry.
We’ve been standing around for the last four hours sipping bottled water. I
mean, it was loud in there, but I swear I heard your stomach growling.”

“It’s probably not a good idea.”

At least she isn’t saying no. There’s hope.

“Do I need to run it by James real quick? Get his approval?” I snicker.
It’ll be a cold day in hell before James approves of me hanging out with his
girlfriend. But it’ll be an even colder day in hell when I give a shit about
anything James says, thinks, feels, or does.

Lauryn
snaps toward me, her lips curled in disgust. “Leave James
out of this.”

I toss a hand up to apologize, but I’m not really sorry.

“What happened with you two anyway?” Her tone has taken a softer pitch,
a sure sign she wants something, and in this case, it’s information she wants.
I’ll gladly give it to her, but I’ll have to feed it to her in bite-sized
pieces because if I dump it all on her at once, she’ll write me off as a
jealous asshole touting conspiracy theories in an attempt to destroy her
happiness.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I slip a hand in my pocket and slap a smug
smile on my face. Having the upper hand with
Lauryn
feels
good
for a change.

“Yeah. I would like to know.” She shrugs her shoulders. “He won’t tell
me a damn thing, but I know something went down with you two. I tried asking
him last-”

Lauryn
screams. The scrape of gravel against flesh mixes with the
symphony of traffic across the street. In an instant she’s out of my reach and
lying on the ground grabbing her ankle.

“Did you just fall?” I try not to laugh, but I’m only laughing because I
know she’s okay.

She clutches her right ankle, her face writhing and twisted. I release
the rollaway bag and crouch down. “This hurt? How about here?”

She nods, but she isn’t crying. She’s tough, and I know it pains her in
ways that are more than physical to look weak and vulnerable for a small sliver
of her life.

“Here,” I grab beneath her shoulders and hoist her up. “Can you walk on
it? How’s it feel to put pressure on it?”

She takes one hobbled step and lets out a tiny yelp before lifting up
her foot and balancing on her good leg. I hoist her up on the trunk of
someone’s white Audi and take her ankle in my hands once more. It’s swelling by
the second. I touch it with tenderness, but I don’t think it’s broken.

“It’s twisted that’s all,” I say. “How’d you fall anyway?”

She rolls her eyes and looks away, as if she’s ashamed. “I saw one of
those lizard things.” Her head hangs, and her wild curls fall in her face.

“An
anole
?”
 

“Yeah, a lizard,” she says, puffing hair from her eyes with a single
breath. “He climbed across my shoe. I thought he was going to climb up my
ankle.”

“Those things can’t hurt you,
Lauryn
.” I brush
the hair from her face, though she still won’t look at me. Across the parking
lot is a Seven Eleven. “You need to ice this. Wait here, okay? I’ll be right
back.”

I don’t give her time to protest. I run across the parking lot and
return with ice chunks in a Big Gulp cup and a box of sandwich
baggies
. I make her an ice pack and hold it against her
swelling ankle.

“It’s bigger now than it was five minutes ago,” I say, pressing into her
puffy flesh. “Still hurt?”

“Like a motherfucker.”

“I’m taking you home,” I declare. “You’re staying off this thing the
rest of the day. Doctor’s orders.”

“I’ll be fine.” She slides off the trunk of the Audi and pretends not to
wince when she lands. Slow, hobbled steps lead her to where her car is parked a
few cars down, though I follow her the entire time with my hand on her low
back.

“I’m driving you home.”

“No,” she grits.

“You can’t drive with a swollen right ankle.” I take the keys from her
clutches and unlock her car, opening the passenger door and lifting my brows.
“Get in.”

Lauryn
stares at me like she wants to sock me and then drags
herself inside the car one painfully slow inch at a time. I shut the door
behind her and head around, throwing her bag in the back before jumping in.

“Where do you live?” I start up the car, the black leather melting the thin
fabric of my blue scrubs. Cranking the AC, I turn to her and wait for her to
speak up. She seems annoyed that I’ve taken over, and looks at me as if I’m
invading her personal space. She hits a button on her NAV and a voice begins
directing us to Mosby
street
, which is two blocks
north of my place. “Just relax,
Lauryn
. You’re in
good hands. I’ll take care of you.”

11 years ago – senior year,
fall semester

“All right, class, we’re going to do something a little different
today.” Coach Wiggins, my gym teacher, paces the basketball court as we sit and
stretch out. Her fingers tug and toy the lime green lanyard attached to her
whistle as her sneakers squeak against the shiny floors. “We’re playing dodge
ball against Coach Mallory’s class.”

A boy behind me lets out a quiet, “
Yesss
…” and
a couple kids to my right bounce excitedly.

I fucking
hate dodge ball.

Tennis? Okay.

Swimming? Fine.

Whiffle ball? Whatever.

Dodge ball? No! Just…no! Nothing about dodge ball is remotely enjoyable.

“Everyone grab a mesh vest from the bin over there and meet me on our
half of the court.” Coach Wiggins blows her whistle, sending a sharp pain
through my left
ear drum
. She is obsessed with that
thing. It hangs out of her mouth for the duration of our gym period every day,
and she blows it every chance she gets. She should’ve been a damn traffic cop.

I pull a vest over top of my gym uniform and take my place strategically
sandwiched between layers of other classmates.

I fucking
hate dodge ball.

The shuffle of sneakers ushers in a stampede of our
opponents.
I
scan their faces in search of only one: Sutton’s. We haven’t spoken most of the
school year, but I know we have gym at the same time because I’ve seen him in
passing.

He spots me immediately, as if he’s looking for me too. I glance away,
hoping he didn’t see me watching him. As soon as it’s safe, I look his way once
again, watching as he grabs a ball and palms it. From across the gym, I see his
mouth moving, and my heart flutters for a second when I catch him smiling. He
speaks to a classmate who seems to be laughing at everything he says. He has
that effect on people. They think everything he says is hilarious. Everyone
wants to be his friend or his girlfriend or whatever. They’ll do whatever it
takes to spend a moment basking in the way he makes you feel like you’re the
most important person in the world.

The shrill chirp of Coach Wiggins’ whistle forces me back into the
moment. “All right, everyone. You know the rules. Balls are not to come into
contact with faces.”

A few students snicker.

“Opposing teams are not to cross the center line,” she continues. “Once
you’ve been hit, go sit on the bleachers. First team to hit all members of the
opposite team wins.
Best of three.
And…go.”

Coach Wiggins blows her whistle once again and heads to the sidelines to
chat up the other teacher. I stay back, hoping to blend in with some of the
other girls while the guys laugh and chuck balls as hard as they can at the
opposite side of the court.

I fucking
hate dodge ball.

I cross my arms, glancing up at the clock and mentally calculating how
many more minutes I’d be subjected to this medieval torture.

DOINK
.

That’s the sound the ball makes when it hits me in the face. Correction
– it hit me in the nose. Pain pulsates through the center of my mug like
a ring of fire, spreading to the rest of my face. The gym grows silent. All
activity ceases. Everyone stares in my direction, but I glance down at my shoes
where drips of blood are splattered between my white sneakers.

It’s my blood. I am bleeding. Coach Wiggins doesn’t blow her whistle,
instead she runs toward me as if I’m two seconds from dying and this is a life
or death emergency.

I lift my hand to my nose and pull it away along with a handful of
blood. I pray it’s my nose and only my nose. Noses heal. Noses can be fixed. I
run my tongue along the inside of my mouth, making sure all teeth are accounted
for, and thank God they are.

“Who did this?” Coach Wiggins screams. “I said NO balls to the FACE!”

The students across the gym separate, everyone distancing
themselves
from Sutton Pierce.

“Sutton,” the other teacher said. “Did you hit this student in the face
with your ball?”

The boys behind me snort.

“It was an accident,” he says. His face is somber, but I still don’t buy
it.

Yeah fucking right.

“Ms. Hudson, go see the nurse. Pierce, you’re in time out.” Wiggins
blows her whistle and the game continues while I hightail it out of there,
stomping down the empty halls toward the nurse’s office.

“Wait up.” A voice behind
me, that could only belong
to the biggest asshole on the face of the earth,
fills the empty hall.
The shuffling of his sneakers is a clear sign he’s running toward me.

I turn to face him, holding my bloody nose and furrowing my brows. If my
face
wasn’t
smeared in blood right then, he’d have
seen that I was glaring at him. “What do you want? Aren’t you supposed to be in
time out or whatever?”

“I snuck out,” he says, as if that was supposed to impress me. It kind
of did. “Wanted to check on you. Tell you I’m sorry. It was an honest mistake.
I was going for Clayton’s shoulders and someone bumped me and-”

“Save it.” I turn around and resume my trek, but he continues to follow
me.

“Honest,
Lauryn
, I’m sorry. God,” he huffs.
“Just stop. I need to talk to you.”

His hand grabs my shoulder, pulling me toward him. I glance up and down
the halls in search of a hall monitor, the principal, a lunch lady, anyone. We
are alone. I haven’t been alone with Sutton Pierce since the previous summer.
It was one of the greatest summers of my entire life, until it all went up in
flames.

“You don’t answer my texts anymore,” he says. “And obviously our
families don’t hang out anymore.”

No fucking shit they don’t hang out
anymore
. “No need
to state the obvious.”

My nose alternates between throbbing and numbness. I need an ice pack
right away.

“How is my dad, huh? You always said you wished he
was
yours. Looks like you got your wish.” I spit my words at him like poison darts.
I hope they hurt. He hurt me. I want him to hurt too.

“This is why we need to talk. I have so much more to tell you about-”

“Oh, now you want to talk?” Tears burn my eyes. “You couldn’t have said
anything over the last five years, but now you want to talk
?!
”

My mind flashes to the look on my mother’s face when she told me what
had happened. She’d stopped by Sandra’s to drop off a dress she’d borrowed,
opting to hang it in her closet for her, only she walked in on my dad and
Sandra naked and tangled in Sandra’s bed. She flew out of there, crying and
broken, and Sutton walked her to her car, apologizing like it was his fault.

He had good reason to feel guilty, too.

He knew. He could’ve stopped it. He could’ve spoken up at the very
least. He could’ve prevented my mother from finding out the way she did. It
wasn’t his fault that they cheated, but he stood back and did nothing about it.
And for that, I can’t forgive him.

“My mother tried to kill herself!” I yell through a whisper, as if there
are ears lined up and down the hall. Not many people know that my mother, five
time Emmy award winning actress, Diane Hudson, tried to take her own life after
her marriage crumbled. As her daughter, it’s my job to pick up the pieces,
arguably a burden much too heavy for a teenage girl. I do it though. I do it because
I love her, and all we have left is each other.

Sutton hangs his head, opening his mouth to speak until the shuffle of
scuffling sneakers against tile jerks our attention toward a red-faced Coach
Wiggins.

“Pierce! What the heck are you doing out in this hallway? I put you in
time out.” She pauses for a second, studying our faces with her hands on her
hip. “Come on, kid. Let’s go. NOW.
Lauryn
, you get
along. Go find the nurse.”

The blood is half dry before I make it to the nurse’s office, but the
pain is already subsiding.

“Oh, honey, let’s get you cleaned up,” the white-haired nurse says
sweetly as I walk in. “Coach Wiggins called ahead. Said you took a dodge ball
to the nose. Ouch.”

I nod, saying nothing because my mind was too busy thinking about Sutton.

“Do you want to file a report against the boy who did this to you? It
would go home with his parents and another copy would go to yours. If your nose
is broken and requires surgery, it’s a mandatory process.”

“No,” I say. “I don’t want to file a report against him. It was an
accident.”

Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t, but I don’t need any more excuses to have
anything to do with my dad and Sandra or with Sutton.