Club Prive: Sweet Escape (Kindle Worlds Novella) (6 page)

Maybe I should just go to the club again tonight, find someone else to distract me from this sudden obsession. Maybe a blonde or a redhead this time, someone very different.

My phone rings and I snatch it up, thinking Dan might have found out something already.

Nope. It’s my mother.

“Hello, darling.”

I can’t help but smile when I hear her voice. “Miss me already?” I tease.

“Oh stop it, or you’ll have me crying all over again.”

Grimacing, I remember very clearly how she’d bawled when I told her I was moving to New York and how she clung to me the morning I left. “I’ll fly out next month and spend the weekend with you,” I promise her again.

She sniffs. “I know. It’s just so terrible knowing I can’t drive ten minutes to see you, but anyway, enough of that.” I hear her take a deep breath and rally, forcing cheerfulness into her voice. “How’s your apartment? Did the decorator do a good job? Can you send me pictures? I can’t wait to see it.”

Smiling bigger, I sort through her questions. “The penthouse is fantastic, and the decorator did a brilliant job. I’ll send pictures of each room but also of the view. It is, after all, what sold me on the building.”

“Are you eating? Are you sure I can’t interview personal chefs for you? I can come out and—”

“Mom.” I feel like I’m thirteen again as I say the word. “I hired a cleaning service to come each week. And the building’s concierge service will take care of any other needs. There are so many restaurants in New York that I promise I’ll never miss a meal.”

“I don’t like you living out there alone.”

I shake my head. Mothers. But I know how lucky I am. Mine is the best, even though she worries too much and still sometimes treats me as if I’m a boy. I got lucky in the dad department too. I had a wonderful childhood with two supportive parents who pushed me to be my best, but also urged me to make my own choices and live my own life.

Although she would love to still have me under her wing, she supported my decision to try another coast just as she supported my siblings when they left the nest and began living their own lives. My parents never forced me into the business, taking over the billion-dollar company my great-great grandfather started long ago.

“How’s Dad?” I ask her, trying to get her attention off of me.

I roll my eyes when she sighs and uses that embarrassing I’m-so-in-love-with-my-husband tone. “He’s wonderful. He misses you too, of course.”

I chuckle. “Of course. Has he heard from the patent attorney yet?”

“For which patent?”

“The clotting bandage for field wounds.”

“Mmm … I don’t think so, but I’ll ask him when he comes home tonight. He’s doing that interview series for CNN.”

“Ah, yes. I’d forgotten about that.”

“They still want to interview you too, darling,” she cajoles lightly.

“And I’m still not interested, Mother,” I just as lightly reply.

“Oh, come on. Let’s get your handsome face out there, maybe find you a wife, give me some grandbabies to spoil.”

“Mom.”

She laughs. “Okay, I’ll stop and let you get back to your oh so important business that keeps you from producing me grandbabies.”

I ignore that last jab. “I love you, Mom.”

She sighs. “And I love you too. Send pictures.”

“I will. Bye.”

Disconnecting the call, I set the phone down and turn back to the view. What mom doesn’t know is that giving her grandbabies is on my bucket list too. One day. And only with the right woman, not the simpering plastics afraid of getting their hair mussed up during the baby making process.

I’ve been burned too many times, almost fallen for the lies and agendas of women with dollar signs in their eyes. Besides, I’m too busy for a relationship now, doing the technical reviews for Dad’s new projects and following my own pursuits. More than anything, I’ve spent my entire life watching the relationship between my parents grow only stronger each year. They’ve set the bar high, and I won’t settle for less in my own relationship. And I’ve not found one single woman who I connect with enough to even attempt bringing her that closely into my life.

Except last night.

I curse at how stupid I was to let her leave that room. I should have chased after her and gotten her number. But I’ll find her if I have to turn over every rock in the city. I’ll hire twenty private detectives if I have to.

I’m still staring down at the streets below me when a knock comes on my door.

“Come in.”

I turn to face my new assistant, an efficient looking woman with steel gray hair pulled back into a tight bun.

“Your staff meeting is in five minutes, sir.”

“Thank you, Pauline.”

She hands me a folder of the copies I’d requested earlier, along with a map with the path I should take to the conference room highlighted in yellow. Efficient indeed.

“You’re very welcome. Is there anything else you need?”

I flip through the folder and shake my head. “No, this is perfect.”

She smiles, and I like her right away. “Very well. I hope you have a good meeting. Once again, welcome to Manhattan Med Center, Dr. Atwood.”

Chapter Eight – Avery

I stare at the chart, blink, and stare at it again. Then I walk over to the computer and pull up the digital record to double check.

Syphilis?

I look over at the elderly man lying so still on the bed. Henry, the stud of the nursing home has syphilis. Exhaling loudly, I find the chart for the deceased Irene. Yep, syphilis too.

Dropping my face in my hands, I think of the four women I spoke to yesterday. How in the world can I tell that sweet little pink hair lady that she most likely has a sexually transmitted disease and needs to go on antibiotics as soon as possible? Or the one with the bun in her hair. Or the one with the walker. Dottie? The devil inside me grins just the tiniest grin when I think of the grumpy woman’s reaction. But it disappears quickly. There’s nothing funny about this.

What about all the other nursing home women that Henry has, uh, serviced? I’ve got to call the home and the Department of Health. I groan as I contemplate the red tape I’ll need to wade through. Infection control procedures.

“Oh, Henry,” I sigh as I look over at him again. “The cost of having a little fun.” Of course, in Henry’s case, a lot of fun.

Nursing homes can become a petri dish for this kind of thing, if you think about it long enough, even though most people cringe at the idea of their parents or grandparents getting down. After all, what else is there to do in those places except Bingo? Combine potent little blue pills with a bunch of post-menopausal women using progesterone and estrogen creams and it’s Woodstock all over again. With dentures.

Tabitha appears at the door to Henry’s room. “Staff meeting in thirty, and the nursing home hot mamas are wanting to know if they can visit.”

I look at my watch. “Already?” I really don’t want to begin my day like this.

“Yep. The van dropped them off a few minutes ago and will pick them up at two.”

Pushing myself up from the chair, I wince as all my muscles protest the movement. Especially the ones
there
.

“What’s wrong?” Tabitha asks, concern filling her grandmotherly face.

I was screwed so hard last night my legs wobble when I walk. By the most incredible looking man I’ve ever seen. A man I can’t seem to get off my mind.

“Pulled a muscle,” I semi-lie. I’m pretty sure my vagina needs physical therapy.

“You’re already too skinny, Avery. You’re gonna run every calorie I try to stuff in you off.”

“I’ll eat a big lunch, promise. And two smoothies. But first, I get to go break some news to the nursing home gals. Wish me luck.”

“What news?”

I say nothing, just hand her the chart. She opens it immediately. “Call Infection Control, will you?” I say over my shoulder.

“Oh Lord have mercy,” Tab murmurs and yells, “Good luck. Want me to call McGill and let him be the delivery boy?”

I stop. Oh, that’s so tempting. Then I think of their sweet little faces, minus Dottie, and don’t have the heart to sic anyone else, let alone a brash man on them. “No, I’ll do it.”

Gathering the ladies back into the conference room, I rip the band-aid off again. “There’s a good possibility that each of you may have contracted syphilis, and you need to be placed on antibiotics immediately.”

Nothing. Just eight big bespectacled eyes looking back at me.

Dottie reacts first, pushing her cannula farther up her nose, taking in deep, long breaths of blessed oxygen. Then it’s a chain reaction of movement. Pink-tipped lady covers her face with her hands while the woman with the walker begins to cry. The one with the bun works her mouth up and down a few times, only a soft little whine coming out.

“It’ll be okay,” I say quickly. “The antibiotics will treat the infection, although you’ll need to follow-up with your personal healthcare provider to make certain no secondary illnesses need to be treated as well.”

The one with the bun finally says something, “Can you write us a prescription? I can’t bear the idea of talking to my doctor about this. Why, he’s my granddaughter’s husband’s uncle. I’ll never be able to attend a family reunion again.”

She’s so clearly upset, I reach out and take her hand. “I’m so sorry, but you aren’t my patient, so no, I’m not able to do that.”

My heart breaks for her when a tear slides down her cheek.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of. You did nothing wrong by finding moments of joy with someone you trusted. You’ll just need to be more careful in the future. Use protection and get tested regularly.”

“I can’t do it,” bun lady says, “I just can’t let Gregory know I’ve got…” She shudders, unable to finish the sentence.

The other three are nodding along, and my heart sinks to my toes. Pink-tip says, “I agree. I’d rather die than have my family find out.”

Thinking quickly, I pull out my phone and look up the address for the nearest health clinic. “Okay, how about I pay for a taxi and you all four go to the clinic?” I tap on the ala carte price list the clinic offers. “The cost is sixty-five dollars for the visit. Pay with cash and it won’t go on your insurance record. The only other cost will be for the antibiotics, but there won’t be a diagnosis attached so it’s okay to let your insurance pay for it. Nobody will know what it’s for. There’s a pharmacy next door to the clinic.”

Pink-tip lady opens the little white purse sitting on her lap and begins to rummage through it. The other three do the same. Quarters, dollar bills, and a random twenty comes out on the table, and my heart breaks a little more.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell them and head to the staff locker room to grab my debit card from my bag. I don’t make doctor money, but I make enough to do this. Sticking my head in the ICU, I tell Tabitha that I’m running downstairs.

“Meeting in fifteen minutes,” she reminds me.

Back in the conference room, I scoop up their money and give it back to each of them before ushering them out of the room and to the elevator. It feels like I’m walking four snails.

In the lobby, I head to the ATM machine and withdraw four hundred dollars. “Please don’t let me get fired for this,” I mutter on my way back to them. Thankfully, catching a cab for them is relatively easy. Getting four elderly women in said cab, not so much. I’m sweating by the time it’s Dottie’s turn to get in.

Instead of climbing in the front, she takes my hand, the money still clutched between her fingers. “Dear, I’m very, very glad you aren’t a doctor. You’re so much more than that.”

Good grief. I think I’m going to burst into tears.

Before I embarrass myself, she slides into the taxi, and they’re gone. I look at my watch.

Crap.
I’m going to be late for the meeting.

I book it back into the hospital and hit the stairs, racing up two at a time. My legs are on fire, and I’m sweating like a pig by the time I reach the sixth floor and skid to a halt in front of the water fountain to slurp up a sip and rinse my hands, patting water on my face and neck.

Straightening my ponytail, I’m glad to see I’m not the last one going in and quickly join the few doctors and PAs milling in the hall. I pile a mountain of antibacterial foam in my palm from the pump just outside the door, not because I’m afraid of catching the ladies’ infection but because I can’t seem to walk by one without getting a squirt.

Taking a deep breath, I step inside and take a seat against the wall where the lowly physician assistants sit. The doctors pile around the table, and I’m surprised to see the hospital Chief of Staff standing at the front of the room.

Dr. Brown begins to speak, welcoming us all here and talking about the tremendous role hospitalists play in the quality of care our patients receive. I nod along, smiling when necessary, playing my part in the dog and pony show going on.

“As you know, we’ve been searching for a qualified candidate to fill the role of Chief of Staff of the hospitalist’s program. After an in-depth and exhaustive search, we’ve made our selection. It is my great pleasure to introduce you to Dr. Grayson Atwood.”

Bringing my hands together in the appropriately timed golf clap, I search around the room for an unfamiliar face. A man who had been sitting with his back to me stands up, and I admire the cut of his suit and what appears to be a very fit body underneath.

Great, another good looking doctor to lord around the place. Just what we need.

As he begins to walk though, there’s something familiar in the way he moves. As he rounds the table, the side of his face appears and I swallow the gasp that I’d almost let loose. A beard, neatly trimmed and sexy as hell. My mind has gone numb when he’s finally in front of the room and is shaking the medical staff chief’s hand.

He won’t recognize me.

It’s the first thought that comes to my mind. Last night, I was glammed up, fake eyelashes and all. I don’t have a speck of makeup on right now, and my hair is pulled back. I’m wearing clothes now, for heaven’s sake.

Oh God.

He turns to face the room, his eyes meeting each man and woman sitting at the table.