Dr. Daddy's Virgin

“I don't feel good, Daddy,” she murmured between sobs. “Make it stop, Daddy, make the bad feeling stop...”

I hurried over to the dresser in her room and got a thermometer out and took her temperature. She was at 105 degrees – this was an emergency.

“We have to go see a doctor now, sweet pea,” I said, my heart racing with panic. “Come on; Daddy's taking you to see a doctor.”

I didn't have time to get the drip out of my arm properly, so I simply yanked it out, forgetting that Jimmy was asleep in the guest room. Some blood dribbled out from where the needle had just come out, but I figured it would close up quickly enough. I was dressed only in boxer shorts, so I ran into my room, grabbed the first pair of jeans and the first t-shirt I saw, and pulled them on quickly. I slipped my feet into some flip flops – not ideal, but I didn't have the time to lace up actual shoes – and then raced back into Jane's room. I picked her up and bolted out to the garage, not even bothering to lock the house up or tell Jimmy what was going on.

I hurriedly strapped her into the car seat in my truck, then started it and roared out of the garage, screeching the tires as I careened out of my driveway.

I raced through the back roads, breaking all of the speed limits and blasting through red lights – I had to get my little girl to the hospital immediately.

We reached the hospital after a few minutes of frantic driving, and I raced straight into the ER with Jane in my arms. A nurse ran out to see what was wrong.

“She's running a really, really high fever,” I gasped. “We need help right now.”

“Alright, bring her through,” she said, hurrying ahead of me. “I'll get a doctor right away.”

Some more nurses came to assist, and they helped get Jane into a bed and gave her some medicine for the pain and fever, which calmed her somewhat.

“We'll take it from here, Mr.….?” said the head nurse.

“Everett James,” I replied.

“Okay, Mr. James. If you'll kindly see that nurse there to fill out the necessary papers, a doctor will be on his way. Now, has the child's mother been informed of the situation?”

At the mention of Jane's mother, a bitter taste arose in the back of my throat.

“She hasn't. I'll call her now, though.”

I stepped outside into the hallway and got my phone out, breathing in deeply to calm myself before I called

Susan – Jane's mother, my ex-wife. When I felt that I was ready, I called her. The phone rang for a while, but eventually she picked up.

“Everett, what the hell are you doing calling me at 2:15 in the morning?”

Her voice was slurred, and the sound of thumping music was loud in the background; I guessed that she was drunk. Well, that didn't matter – her child, our child, was seriously ill. I decided to simply cut straight to the chase.

“I'm in the ER. Jane is very, very ill.”

“Oh, uh... what's wrong with her?”

“Does it matter? You're her mother! Get over here now!” I growled, feeling anger rising quickly inside me.

“Jeez, alright, no need to get worked up about it. I'll be there later.”

“No, not later, now, damn it!”

“Fine. What hospital are you at?”

I told her and she hung up, and I felt like throwing the damn phone across the room and smashing it, but I kept my composure and forced myself to remain calm.

I filled out the papers and went to the waiting room and sat, feeling angry and impatient. The dull pain in my shoulder from the gunshot wound was also throbbing, but that I could handle – it was Jane's mother's indifference that was really getting to me.

After around half an hour, Susan and her boyfriend, Rick, showed up. Susan was as pretty as ever with her big, chestnut eyes and long, flowing brown hair, and she had a killer body too, which she was gratuitously showing off in a skimpy cocktail dress. This, along with her heavy makeup, told me that she had just come from a nightclub or bar or something. Rick looked pretty wasted. He too was dressed to the nines, but with his receding hairline and chubby belly, he just looked like someone who was refusing to accept that he was no longer a 21-year-old – which, as a 36-year-old, he definitely wasn't.

“Glad you could finally make it,” I said to Susan.

“Look, I don't feel like dealing with your bull crap right now,” she said. “Just tell me what's wrong with the kid and whether we have to stay here or not.”