My Brother's Billionaire Best Friend

He’s so proud of himself. The man who spends an insane amount of money just to park this fucking car in the city has driven it one day in the last two months to bring me to a discount surgeon, and he’s bragging about it.

Bruce pulls in front of the office, puts the car in park, and turns toward me before I can get out of the passenger seat to head toward my dismal fate of anesthesia and blood loss.

“Break a leg, Maybe!”

I groan. “Pretty sure that doesn’t apply in this scenario.”

“Knock their socks off!”

“Not that either.”

He grins. “Good luck, honey. I’ll be in the waiting room.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, climbing out of the relic that is his 2010 Hyundai Elantra, and head through the sliding glass doors at the entrance.

In no time at all, I’m standing in front of the receptionist’s desk giving a woman named Harriet my information.

She goes through her medical spiel, hands me a stack of forms to sign verifying my insurance information, and then gives me a look that, lack of caffeine or not, demands I dutifully listen to her instructions. I blink three times and steady myself by locking a clamp-like hand on to the counter.

“No cell phones, no headphones, no tablets, no food, no drinks, no loitering, no yelling, no nudity—”

No nudity? During oral surgery? What in the hell happened to make that one end up on the list?

She continues the insane list without even taking a breath. Clearly, she’s run through it hundreds of times. “No unauthorized medications, no drugs, no jewelry, no weapons, and absolutely no gum.”

It’s ironic that on a list with weapons, nudity, and drugs, chewing gum seems to be the biggest offender.

“The only other thing I need is the name and number of the person who will be taking you home from surgery.”

“Bruce Willis,” I answer, and her fingers stop suddenly on the keyboard. She looks above her wire-rimmed glasses and her eyes meet mine, and there is some serious annoyance behind them.

“And Frank Sinatra is coming back from the dead to take me to dinner after work,” she retorts sharply. “Who is picking you up today?”

“I’m actually serious,” I respond quickly, timidly offering a shrug and smile while silently cursing my dad for having the same name as a Hollywood action hero. “My dad’s name is Bruce Willis.”

She furrows her brow. “Your dad’s name is Bruce Willis?”

“It is.”

Harriet stares at me so hard, I actually consider breaking and telling her my dad’s name is something else. But, like…it is Bruce Willis. What am I supposed to do here?!

Sweat dots my brow, and the clock strikes noon and I put my hand to my pistol.

Okay, not really, but it does get really intense for a few seconds, and I start to feel a little steamy under my poorly planned polyester shirt.

But the showdown finally ends with a heavy sigh and a jerk of the chin from my opponent.

I scurry to a seat in the corner where I alternate between pretending to read a magazine and staring uncomfortably at my black Converse until a nurse calls me toward the back. I do not look in Harriet’s direction.

“Mabel Willis, we’re ready for you.”

I nod and set down the Cosmopolitan magazine in my hands on the communal coffee table and follow the blonde’s lead.

She looks to be close to my age, her name tag reads Sara, and her teeth are so white I start to have flashbacks of that Friends episode where Ross gets his teeth bleached.

“Once we get you settled in, the surgery itself shouldn’t take more than an hour.” The nurse smiles, and the room brightens. Literally brightens. The whiteness of her teeth defies logic, and they appear to emit their own light source.

“Well, that’s good news, I guess.”

“Go ahead and take a seat right there,” she says as she points to the dentist chair in the center of the room before heading to the counter and washing her hands at the sink.

The plastic leather of the chair squeaks and groans as I slide my yoga-pants-covered ass into place. Another blond, female nurse steps into the room to assist Sara.

The two women rummage around in the cabinets and drawers surrounding the sink until they’re content with their medical loot, and then move toward me.

For the second time since my arrival to this office, instructions fly at me like dicks in a dildo factory.

“First, we’re going to take your vitals.”

“Then, we’re going to start an IV.”

“We need the IV so we can sedate you for the surgery.”

“Do you have any allergies?” Sara asks, but it takes me too long to answer for her liking. So, she asks again. “Mabel, do you have any allergies?”

Holy hell. “Um…no.”

Her responding smile nearly blinds me. “Fabulous.”

Fabulous? That’s an odd word to come out of a medical professional’s mouth…