Dr. Fake It - A Possessive Doctor Romance

She turned, her eyes wide, and I saw rage flash into her expression.

“Listen to me—” I started, but she wrenched herself away.

“Don’t touch me,” she hissed. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

I held up my hands. “Erica, please. I know you’re in trouble. I heard some of what those guys said, and—”

Her eyes went wide. “You did what?”

“I overheard them. You’re in some trouble, and I know you need help.”

“Get the hell away from me.” She took a step backward, but didn’t judge her distance correctly. Her heel hit the edge of the step and she lost her balance.

I moved fast. I reached out and grabbed the front of her sweater, holding her before she could topple over backwards, then moved to the side of her and supported her weight, pulling her against me. She took a few gasping, shocked breaths as I steadied her and felt her body against mine. I smelled shampoo and menthol, and her lips parted as she looked into my eyes. I held her there, feeling her hips, her breasts, her breath against my neck—then let her go when she struggled and pushed me away. She leaned up against the door and crossed her arms, glaring at me.

I held my hands up and away. “I’m trying to help you,” I said, my voice gentle. “I don’t really know what you got yourself into—and I’m not sure I care. I just want to help if I can.”

“You can’t,” she said, but she didn’t sound as angry as before. “I appreciate your concern, but please, leave me the hell alone.”

I considered that, trying to keep my expression calm and neutral. She was like a feral cat cornered by a predator and I wanted to try to put her at ease as much as possible.

“Just so you know, I don’t want anything from you.”

Her eyes narrowed as her tongue ran along her bottom lip. I wondered what that tongue would taste like in my mouth—and pushed the thought away.

“You always want something from me,” she said, but I didn’t know who she meant—me in particular, or maybe men in general.

“Not right now. I really just want to help, if you’ll let me.”

For one brief second, I thought she considered it—but then she took a step back and moved down the steps, her hair bouncing as she descended downward. I watched her go but didn’t move to follow.

“Thanks anyway, doc,” she said when she reached the next landing. Her eyes looked sharp and I thought I saw her smile as she looked back up at me.

“Come see me if you change your mind,” I said, “and make sure you visit your mother.”

“Hey, I meant to ask you. Think she can hear me, when I’m in there?”

“Nobody knows.”

“I’m not asking what the experts think—what do you think?”

“I think that if she can’t, the worst you’ve done is talk to your mother. And if she can, then that might mean the difference between making it back at all.”

She seemed to chew on that for a second then nodded. She turned and skipped down the next set of stairs, disappearing from view.

I stood there and listened to her go until she pushed through the doorway at the bottom and was gone.

I took a few deep breaths and leaned up against the wall. The cinderblocks were cold against my neck and I took a few steadying breaths to try to keep myself calm. That girl was in trouble and she needed someone on her side, but it was clear she wasn’t interested in asking for help.

I’d have to figure out some other way to convince her then, because I’m not going to give up so easy.4EricaI grimaced with every single bump in the uneven Philly street as I rode the bus down south to my apartment. I still lived with my mom, which I wasn’t proud of—I planned on moving out soon since I had enough saved, but the accident pretty much made sure that wasn’t happening anymore.

I unlocked the front door and headed inside. The familiar smell of shampoo and detergent met me as I shut the door and closed the bolt. I had the strange sensation of being watched, but the apartment was empty as I dropped my keys in a small green tray and surveyed the tidy kitchen, the comfortable living room. A red blanket was tossed at one end of the couch and a People magazine sat unread on the coffee table.

My mother’s sense of style wasn’t exactly my own. She favored lots of small statues of chickens, cows, goats, and other barnyard animals. She had prints of bridges, forests, and lakes on the walls, and a few crystals hanging in the window that cast random rainbows across the walls. It was eclectic and weird—but it was my mother.