Dr. Fake It - A Possessive Doctor Romance

I stepped into the hall. The hinges of the front door were hanging on by a thread. They were about to break it down, and I didn’t want to be around when they got through. I heard an angry grunt, followed by a shout, followed by another bang, and the door nearly toppled over. I staggered backwards toward my mother’s room then turned and ran as an enormous thump and wooden clatter followed me inside.

I heard their steps as I threw my mom’s door shut and locked it. “Oh, come on now, Erica,” the bastard said. I didn’t know his name and I didn’t want to know—he was just one of Cosimo’s assholes. “We know you’re here. You think you could walk away from the hospital without us realizing?”

My heart raced as I turned toward the far window. My mom’s room was a continuation of the main apartment—nature-themed with an emphasis on barnyard imagery. Her double bed was covered in a red checkered quilt and she had tulle window shades that made the space look twee. I unlatched the window that looked out into the alley next door and shoved it up.

“Erica, Erica, Erica,” the mobster said. “Come on, darling, open up. Don’t make me break another door down. It’s such a pain in the ass.”

I leaned out the window and spotted it— there, attached to the side of the building, was the fire escape. I reached out, missed it, thought I might fall, and steadied myself. I tried again and got it, then yanked it down. The metal creaked with a sickening shriek, but it fell downwards and dropped into position.

“You’re not getting away,” the mobster shouted and began kicking the bedroom door. It wasn’t as heavy or sturdy as the front door had been, and it instantly started to warp and crack. I was terrified, but I climbed out the window and managed to grab onto the metal fire escape. It creaked and groaned, and I realized it must’ve been fifty years old at least—most houses didn’t have anything like it. The wind blew across the nape of my neck as the bedroom door smashed open and the two men came inside.

The first guy was short, compact, and bald. He’d been the one that did most of the talking in the hospital. He showed me his teeth like an animal and came running to the window. I climbed down as fast as I could, and when he reached for me, I felt his fingers whiff the air above my hair.

“Stop right there, you bitch,” he growled. “Goddamn it, Justin, go around!”

The other guy disappeared and I heard him running.

I had to hurry. I jumped down two rungs and held on, the metal sliding along the palms of my hands. I kept going, faster, faster, and above me the bald mobster climbed out onto the ladder. I was tempted to try to knock him off, but I had a feeling I’d lose that battle.

I reached the bottom then hopped off the last few feet. I landed with a thud in the alley and ran as fast as I could toward the street.

“You can’t run from us, damn it,” the mobster yelled, still hanging on the ladder.

I sprinted around the corner, hit the sidewalk, and kept going. I didn’t turn to look back to see if that other guy was following. People stared at me as I whipped past them, my backpack thudding against my back, my hair streaming out behind me. I didn’t care if I looked like a crazy person. I wove my way between couples waking their dogs, turned down side streets, and kept going until I couldn’t move anymore, until my legs felt like lead and my lungs burned deep inside. I stopped on a random street I didn’t recognize and leaned against a tree, gasping for breath, my ribs aching like hell.

But nobody followed. I stood there for a while, waiting to get caught, but neither of them showed up. I must’ve gotten away, and a strange relief hit me—followed by the sudden realization that I had nowhere to go.

Once I caught my breath enough to think, I crouched down and checked my bag. I had enough clothes and fortunately threw my wallet in the bottom, which had some cash and my cards. I could figure out a place to stay, maybe pay for a hotel for a few nights, but I didn’t know how long that would last. I groaned, hating myself, hating my situation, and halfway wishing I’d stayed back at the hospital.

I stood up straight, put on my bag, and began to walk. As I chewed up the blocks, I came up with a plan: I’d book a room somewhere, the cheapest one I could find, and lay low for as long as my funds allowed. Hopefully in that time, I’d figure something out.