Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 118309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
The event that will be forever referenced as the “shower incident” has kept my clit in a constant state of arousal all evening. It won’t stop buzzing—which is concerning to admit since I’ve yet to work out how the man in the shower is connected to Mrs. Ivanov.
When Alla peers at me with an arched brow, waiting for a reply, I say, “Why gossip about something that may not occur?”
She gives me with the same look everyone gives when I enter the cafeteria with a packed-from-home lunch.
It is the look of pity.
She knows as well as I do that I could never turn down the offer Dr. Sidorov handed me this morning. It is the only lifeline available and still below what I need.
For future reference, anything with “medical” attached to it is expensive—for both the patient and soon-to-be doctor.
“I’m not regretting anything…” Except not stepping into the bathroom thirty seconds earlier.
I hide the disgust attempting to cross my face by lugging a second bag of biowaste that cannot be incinerated onto the cart so it can be disposed of into a landfill that will be uninhabitable for years to come.
“Not even the dozen or so donut holes I gorged.”
Alla bumps me with her hip before locking her eyes with mine so I can see the truth in them when she says, “We could have survived without you tonight. It’s been quiet.”
“I know. I just…”
Since I’d rather look like an idiot than admit how desperate I am for this pay, I shrug. I’m burning the candle at both ends, and it is catching up to me. I’m one hour of overtime from burnout, but obligations don’t stop because you’re tired—or horny.
Once we have the cart loaded into the van hazardous waste is transported in, I peel off my gloves and hairnet, dump them into the trash, then turn to face Alla, who ditched the hazmat gear ten minutes ago. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Not if I can help it.” When my brows furrow, she explains, “When Mr. Bolderack heard you were leaving, he filled in the rest of your shifts with a person from the temp agency.” My heart falters for only a second. “You’ll still be paid as if you worked. You just don’t need to show up.”
This can’t be my life. How did it switch from chaotic to surreal in a matter of hours?
Although I’m dying to sleep in, just like my patients will always come first, so will my morals. “I should still come in. It won’t feel right to be paid and not work.”
When Alla twists her lips, I assume she is considering my objection. I learn otherwise when she says, “If you show up, I’ll tell Boris you said yes to his umpteenth request for a date.”
My mouth slackens as my eyes widen. “You would never be so cruel.”
Boris is lovely, but the name his mother chose for him matches his face.
He’s a human bulldog.
Realizing she has me at her mercy, Alla says, “Enjoy the time off.” She wheels a cart full of waste down the corridor. “And try to get some sun on those legs while you’re at it. They’re whiter than a hospital sheet and will look as red as the ones we collect from the OR if you don’t prepare them for the sun bonanza they’ll get hit with next month.”
Giddiness flutters low in my stomach while I recall the three-day getaway I have planned with one of my oldest friends, but it doesn’t alter the facts. “I’m not planning to spend the time sprawled on a pool lounge.”
“Why not?” Alla asks, clearly disgusted.
“It’s a hen party, not a vacation.”
She cocks a brow. “A destination hen party. That screams margaritas by the pool and heatstroke that will put your head more in a tizzy than any orgasm you’ve ever had.”
A groan rumbles in my chest when I fail to recall how giddy an orgasm should make me.
It’s been so long that the memories are as dusty as the cobwebs between my legs.
I take a mental note to learn how to school my expressions better when Alla says, “Or perhaps you should work on whatever is going on with you right now.” She leans in and takes a big whiff of my shirt. “Is that desperation I’m smelling?”
Yes, yes it is.
Since I can’t say that, I return her hip bump before mouthing my thanks for a reason to leave guilt-free. I’ll run from controversy before I will ever encourage it.
“I love you, girl, and don’t act like you’re about to become a stranger. Whenever you dump a clunky chest clamp on the OR floor and leave it there, you’ll think of me.”
“I will.” I laugh, aware she is joking. After working with the department responsible for cleaning up a surgeon’s mess, I will never leave any theater in disarray. “But if you think you’re getting out of Donut Holes Thursdays, you’re sadly mistaken.”