Perfectly Adequate - Page 59
Inching my chair to the side to face him straight on, I cock my head, eyes narrowed. “Thumbs-up for what exactly?”
“Tuesday night I’m taking her to dinner.”
What … the … fuck?
“You’re kidding.”
“No. I wouldn’t joke about this. That girl has been a brick wall for weeks. Then out of nowhere, cookie bouquet equals date for Dr. Warren. Booyah!”
I glance at my watch. “I’m going for coffee.”
“I can get you one.”
“No. I don’t want you having anything to do with my coffee.” I push through the door.
“Dude!” He laughs. “That’s a bit harsh.”
Harsh? Harsh will be when I beat the living shit out of him for not backing the fuck off Dorothy. Harsh will be losing my job for said beating. Harsh will be trying to keep custody of my son with an assault conviction on my record.
I message her.
Me: Where are you?
She doesn’t answer in a timely manner. And by timely, I mean within seconds. So … I call her.
No answer.
But my phone vibrates with a text.
Dorothy: Working. Not allowed to take calls on the clock. Not really supposed to be texting either. (shrugging emoji)
“Willa, how would I find Dorothy Mayhem?”
She glances up from the desk outside my lab. “The transporter?”
“Yes.”
“What do you need, Dr. Hawkins?”
“I need Dorothy Mayhem.”
“I have a few minutes. I can help you.”
“Great. Tell Dorothy Mayhem to come here.”
Her eyebrows snake together. “Um …”
“Two words, Willa. Dorothy. Mayhem. Can you do that for me?”
She nods slowly, pulling her phone from the pocket of her scrub top. “What do you want me to say to her?”
“I don’t know. Request something.”
“For who?”
I shrug, jaw clenched with irritation. “Doesn’t matter.”
“I think it does. You see, you order something like a scan, and she comes to transport the patient. Or equipment. Do you need an ultrasound or something?”
“Fine. A CAT scan.”
“For who?”
I grumble. “It. Doesn’t. Matter.”
“But it does. I have to enter the order into the system under a patient’s name.”
“Jesus …” I run my hands through my hair. “No one is getting an actual scan.”
“But you just said—”
“Never mind.” I stomp off. “I’ll find her myself.” It’s not easy tracking her down, but eventually I catch her returning a patient to their room on the second floor.
“What the—” She stumbles as I back her into the wall, hovering over her without actually touching her.
“I need a word with you.”
“I’m working.”
“I’m not asking. A word. Now. Or I make a scene. Do I need to make a scene?”
“I’d rather you not,” she says, eyes shifting from side to side.
“Move.” I nod toward the empty room several feet behind her.
Keeping her gaze on me, she backs into the room as I move toward her, a slow dance of distrust.
I shut the door and lock it behind us. She stares up at me with unblinking eyes.
“You have a date with Warren?”
She dips her brow in confusion and nods once.
“Why?” I partially yell because I don’t appreciate being blindsided like this.
“Um …” Her eyes shift side to side. “Because he asked me and bought me a cookie bouquet. And … I thought he might be a good way for me to get over us.”
“Over us? What does that mean?”
“Wow …” She clears her throat and swallows hard. “When you said you didn’t want to dwell, you really meant it. Well, you kinda ended whatever it was we had like…” she checks her watch “…an hour ago. So I figured I could spend weeks journaling and obsessing over what exactly went wrong, or I could move on quickly to distract my thoughts. So I chose to move on quickly.”
“What are you talking about? I didn’t end us.”
“You did. You called us a bad decision. I said mistake. You said, ‘Mistakes happen.’ And you said you didn’t want to dwell on it anymore.”
“I was talking about last night!”
She jumps. I don’t mean to scare her, but I hate feeling so out of control. I hate the idea of losing her. But she acts like everything is already lost.
This makes me so fucking angry with myself, with Warren, with Julie, with … the world. I’m pissed at the world for no other reason than it nearly brings me to my knees to think of Dorothy and Warren together.
People aren’t property—things to possess. But at this exact moment, my mind says, “Fuck that.” Dorothy Mayhem belongs to me. Period. I own her awkward moments, her goofy, loud laughs, her robotic seduction, and every single inch of her body, leading straight to her G-spot, which … Yes. That belongs to me as well.
“I was talking about last night,” I say with a little less desperation and aggression. “It was my mistake. I didn’t need a babysitter. I have a long list of eager family always ready and willing to watch Roman. I’ve never needed a babysitter. I just …” I scratch the back of my neck. “I just wanted to see you so badly. And I didn’t know if you’d say yes to me, so I took the chance that you’d say yes to Roman.”
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