“Is that all?”
“No,” he said, looking into my eyes. “I also needed to personally interview each of the CEOs myself. Needed to make sure each one was a good fit for you, and that whoever you worked for next was already married.”
I opened my mouth to ask him if he was being serious, but he beat me to it.
“Yes,” he said, smirking. “Yes, I ‘seriously’ did need to do that.”
“What does the CEO being married have to do with anything, Michael? What if I have no interest in seeing you after I quit?”
“You do, so we’re not even going to entertain that line of conversation.” He rolled his eyes. “If the CEO is already married, I won’t have to worry about ‘this’ happening at your next place of employment, and I can be somewhat less jealous.”
“How selfish of you.” I couldn’t believe him, but for some reason, I couldn’t help the smile that was forming on my face.
“I’m pretty sure when you listen to Amazon, Microsoft, and the other companies’ voicemails, that they’ll be offering you one hell of a deal.” He cupped my face in his hands. “At least, that’s what they all told me yesterday.”
“This still doesn’t excuse you from interfering with my job search and insisting that you be my reference over Brad.”
“I’m pretty sure it does.” He kissed me. “And now that there’s no chance in hell of you signing my long-term extension contract, and you’ve hopefully realized that I’m not sabotaging you, how about dating me long-term instead?”
“I’ll have to think about it.” I kissed him back. “It depends on what you’re offering....”
THE EMAILS
(Well, “The End”)
Mya
One year later...
Subject: My Boss.
Have I told you that I love my boss today?
One hundred percent brilliant and super kind to everyone, she doesn’t make me get her dry cleaning, get her coffee, or do anything that my former bosses (Yes, plural) used to do....
I have two meetings this morning and I can honestly say I’m looking forward to them because they both involve things I really enjoy.
I’m pretty sure I can get used to this.
Your girlfriend,
Mya
Subject: Re: My Boss.
No, you haven’t told me that you love your boss today, but seeing as though you’re technically your own boss, I hope this will always be the case.
Your boss at Microsoft was far worse than I ever was. (I’m actually proud of you for quitting that place after three months.)
If one of the meetings you’re referring to is the one in my office where we’ll be fucking, good to know you enjoy it.
I’m not sure if I’ll ever get used to this.
(When do you plan on changing your closing signature?)
Michael Leighton,
CEO, Leighton Publishing
Subject: Re: Re: My Boss.
Now.
See you in five minutes.
Mya London,
CEO, London Publishing
**THE END**
DIRTY
DOCTOR
DIRTY DOCTOR
SYNOPSIS
"Lean back on the table and spread your legs for me ..."
Being a doctor in New York City has never been easy. Especially for someone like me, who has a private practice and an incompetent staff who insists on leaving me to fill in for them.
Over the past six months, I've performed one too many pap smears, three too many "breast exams," and scrubbed in on several reconstructive surgeries. (This would be acceptable, if I was still interested in general medicine, but I'm not. I'm supposed to be a goddamn therapist ...)
When my team finally came to their senses and decided to bring someone more competent into the practice last month, I was actually elated.
Until I realized that our new "doctor" was none other than the woman I was supposed to meet for dinner two weeks ago. The same woman who stood me up with nothing more than an "I can't meet you anymore, sorry," after we agreed to move our online talks into reality.
I haven't forgotten any of the filthy fantasies she told me about, and I never deleted our dirty messages. And if she thinks that I'm going to act like a "professional" and pretend like that shit never happened, she has another thing coming ...
THE DOCTOR
New York, New York
Garrett
If a private practice was voted number one in the state and top five in the country for the umpteenth year in a row, the prize for that needed to be a complete elimination of mornings like today. This was the third morning this week that I’d found myself face to face with a female patient who was wasting my time. Face to face with a patient who wanted me to “personally” examine her pussy.
“For the umpteenth time, Miss Aberdeen ...” I clicked my pen. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with you. Your urine and blood tests are one hundred percent clear, and you’re currently wasting both of our mornings. I have patients who actually need me for something serious today.”
“I know, and I’m one of them.” She smiled and playfully pulled the hem of her paper gown up past her thighs. “I feel like something strange is going on down there.”
“Down there? Surely you’re capable of saying the words ‘in my vagina,’ if that’s what you’re referring to.”
“Okay. Something’s going on ... in my vagina.” She bit her lip and smiled again.
I’m not dealing with this shit today...
I set down her chart and started writing my ‘nothing is wrong with this patient’ note. This was her fourth pap smear appointment in four months, the very definition of the word ‘unnecessary.’
“Like I said, Miss Aberdeen,” I said, shaking my head. “You’re free to go home, and you need to go home.”
“I’m not convinced.” She crossed her arms. “Can’t you just check?”
“No.”
“No? You can’t say ‘no’ to me.”
Would you prefer ‘fuck no’? “I didn’t stutter, Miss Aberdeen. No.”
“Didn’t you take the Hippocratic Oath?” She wagged her finger in my face. “Isn’t there a line in there about treating people with ‘warmth’ and ‘sympathy’? I’m fairly certain that means that you have to take care of your patients, i.e. me, and you have to believe them when they say they’re in pain.”
“First of all, you are not my patient, and this is not my specialty. Second of all, you know damn well that your primary doctor, Dr. Laurel, is always off on Thursdays, so you shouldn’t even be here right now.”
“I also know that you’ve performed several other pap smears in her absence before. I’ve tried to book an appointment with you in your specialty, but your assistant always says you’re booked.”
“Anyway.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “I would like you to kindly place your head between my legs and examine my vagina, Dr. Ashton. Do it now, or else I’ll leave you a really mean and negative, two-star review.”
“Why not just make it a one-star review?”
“I’m not joking with you. My daughter works for the local section of The New York Times and I will bash you and your practice so badly, that it’ll take years for you to rebuild your reputation.”
I rolled my eyes and put on a pair of gloves. “Lean back on the paper, please.”
She smiled and leaned back, looking as if this was the highlight of her life. I paged a nurse and waited for her to enter the room, making sure there was someone here to bear witness to this bullshit.
The nurse blushed as she stocked the prep cart and pushed it closer to me. When I realized that she was literally going to turn red and giggle each time I muttered a single word, I accepted that today was just not my day.
“Place your feet in the stirrups and spread your legs for me, Miss Aberdeen.”
“Gladly.” She followed my instructions, opening her legs far wider than necessary.
I took a seat on the stool between her l
egs, turned on the exam light, and picked up the speculum. I made sure this was the quickest, most efficient exam ever. I’d done far too many of these over the past few months, and I was certain I could do it blindfolded.
Sighing, I swabbed her cervix for the necessary cells — noticing a small irregularity, but it wasn’t enough to warrant this exam.
“Okay, Miss Aberdeen,” I said, taking off my gloves and tossing them into the trash can. “You can sit up now.”
“What? That’s it?” She didn’t move. “You haven’t caressed my pelvis yet. And what about my breasts? Aren’t you supposed to massage them and check for lumps?”
Jesus Christ ... “You had a breast exam with Dr. Laurel five weeks ago, so I’m pretty sure the results from that still stand. But if you’d like, I can have Nurse Johnson here remain in the room with you and complete a new test for you. I’ll even have her log it into the system as pro bono.”
“I will totally do whatever you need me to do, Dr. Ashton.” Nurse Johnson blushed and let out a nervous giggle.
“I’ll pass.” Miss Aberdeen sat up and crossed her arms.
“I thought so.” I picked up her chart and wrote a few notes. “As I said before we started, nothing is alarmingly wrong with you ‘down there’, although it looks like you might be developing a minor yeast infection.”
“I told you it was something serious. It even sounds serious, so serious that I bet there’s not a cure for it.”
“They sell the cure for this at Wal-Mart,” I said. “Most women can actually diagnose a yeast infection for themselves.”
“Well, I prefer having a more personal touch.” She leaned forward and placed her hand on my shoulder. “Are you sure you don’t want to use your long, thick fingers to go a little deeper and make sure you don’t feel anything else inside of me?”
I immediately stood up and tore off her prescription sheet from my pad. “You should be cleared up within forty-eight hours, if you get this filled today and follow the instructions.”
“And in the case that I don’t follow the instructions? Do I get to see you for a follow-up?”
I gave her a blank stare. “Have a great day, Miss Aberdeen. Thank you for your assistance, Nurse Johnson.” I left the room before either of them could say another word, and headed straight for my assistant Emily’s desk.
“May I help you with something, Dr. Ashton?” She looked up at me as I approached.
“Yes. I could’ve sworn we agreed that I needed to be the absolute, last resort for Dr. Laurel’s walk-in patients on her off days.”
“You are the ultimate, last resort. Everyone else was booked with an eight o’clock appointment.”
Perfect ... “Do I have any updates so far today?”
“Plenty.” She picked up a box and handed it to me. “The award for being the number one private practice in the state came in the mail yesterday evening. Your ten o’clock rescheduled for four o’clock, your one o’clock wants to switch from an in-person session to a phone call, and I’ve replenished all of the vases in your office with a fresh supply of Twizzlers.”
“Thank you, Emily. Is that all?”
“Actually, one last thing. Dr. Ryan is back from Hawaii and in your office waiting for you. She says it’s important.”
“I’m sure it isn’t.” I carried the trophy box down the hall and into my office.
Sure enough, Dr. Ryan — a.k.a. Dr. “I’m never here,” was sitting on my custom-made chaise for patients and talking on the phone.
I was actually shocked to see her here this early since she’d recently become a bit of a celebrity. She was the third member of my staff I’d nearly lost to the world of “TV medicine.” Every time I turned around, she was signing a new book deal, appearing on a television show, or hosting an expensive conference. Everything except practicing medicine.
“You don’t look happy to see me today, Dr. Ashton.” She ended her phone call as I took a seat at my desk. “What did I do now?”
“Nothing. Literally.”
She laughed. “You know, I really have no idea why my husband likes you so much.”
“You came into my office to talk about your personal life? I’ll have to charge you for that.”
“Never.” She pulled a thick document from her purse and slid it to me. “I need you to sign off on the joint statement for our new, special residency program. You’re the only doctor who hasn’t signed it.”
“Residency program? I could’ve sworn we have three of those already and that we agreed to bring aboard a new doctor.”
“A resident is a doctor.”
“It’s a doctor who needs a babysitter.” I flipped through the pages. “I agreed to use the new funding for a certified, licensed, and useful doctor. I’m not signing this.”
“Everyone else has already agreed, and we’ve already selected a very talented candidate, so I’m not going to argue with you. And if I recall, it was a twelve to one vote and the vote against was from you, so you technically never agreed to anything and you have to concede to the rest of us.”
I sighed and scribbled my signature on the first and last page of the document.
“Just so you know,” she said, “the nurses are whispering about you a lot more lately. You’re doing that thing again.”
I raised my eyebrow, waiting for an explanation.
“Being closed off, getting annoyed quicker than normal, and well ... just being a more enhanced version of yourself, I guess.” She smiled. “I know this practice is your family’s legacy, but you really need a life outside of these walls.”
“No, I need the doctors inside of these walls to actually show up and do their damn jobs.”
“See? See how irritable you just got over me trying to be nice to you?”
“Get out of my office, Dr. Ryan.”
“I’m going.” She grabbed the document and stood to her feet. “By the way, what happened to that nice and sweet woman I set you up with a few weeks ago?”
“It didn’t work out.”
“It didn’t work out or you didn’t ‘allow’ it to work out?”
“Both.” The woman in question had been a childhood friend of hers and she was indeed “nice and sweet,” but the second she started babbling about wanting marriage and “at least four kids” within the first hour of the date, I quickly lost all interest.
“Well, do me a favor,” Dr. Ryan said, as she walked toward the door. “Give online dating a try or find a hobby for your rare off days. I’ll never repeat this or admit to saying it, but ... You’re too damn attractive to spend the rest of your life alone.”
“Thank you, very much, Dr. Ryan. Will I need to pay you for that unwanted psychoanalysis, or is your bad advice free?”
She flipped up her middle finger and left my office, shutting the door behind her.
Unbeknownst to her and my staff, I did have a hobby: Sex. I just hadn’t had time to revel in it for the past six months, due to an overload of work, thanks to them. And I was definitely a fan of online dating. Well, I was, until I met one too many deep-relationship seekers in a row.
Now, I simply browsed the few sites where I kept casual accounts and kept up with the one pseudo-friend I’d made: JerseyGirl7.
I’d met her on NewYorkMinute, the more exclusive and private site for the city’s elite professionals. A site that was built around the idea that a meet-up needed to happen within the first three conversations. Every profile was nameless and picture-less, with a simple series of telling paragraphs and a percentage of “match-ability” based on questions answered.
For whatever reason, JerseyGirl7 was a one-hundred percent match for me, but I never asked to meet her in person because I didn’t trust the results. For one, I thought she had to have answered as a joke to be that high of a match with me sexually, and for two, I didn’t have the energy or the time to waste on another potential disappointment.
Not only that, but I actually enjoyed having her as a pseudo-friend, even if she did have a smart-ass se
nse of humor and a tendency to reveal way too much about her deepest, filthiest fantasies.
With her fresh on my mind, I logged into NewYorkMinute and saw a message from her that was dated from a couple of hours ago.
Subject: I have a date this weekend and I need your advice ...
So...I think this Friday is the day I’ll finally get laid after all these dry months.
Email me when you get a chance or when you get done with your so-called “patients.” (You don’t have to keep lying about being a doctor, you know? We’re never going to meet, so what’s the point in constantly pretending to be something you’re not? Just tell me what you really do for a living, and I’ll tell you what I do, too. :-) )
PS — You were right about my last date. It didn’t end well and he was an asshole like you predicted, but you’re cocky enough as is and I’m not stroking your ego for another second.
**JerseyGirl7
I reread the last line of her email a few more times and smiled before closing the app.
I’ll deal with her when I get off ...
THE DOCTOR
New York, New York
Garrett
By the time I left work, it was nine o’clock at night and my tolerance for incompetence had reached a new low. I’d had to berate the interns in my department for being careless with their patient reports, sit through a two-hour session with a miserable married couple who was better off divorced, and force myself to finish reading a forty-page report on a new therapy technique.
Somewhere in between all of the stress, I’d depleted my newest supply of Twizzlers, and the last thing I wanted to do tonight was join my staff for the celebratory “Number One Practice in New York, again” dinner. Instead, I found myself polishing the trophy in my living room, placing it right next to the previous years’ awards on my shelf.
I stared at them all for a long time, knowing my father was somewhere above saying, “I fucking told you so, son.”
Hitting the lights, I headed into my kitchen and poured myself a glass of bourbon — quickly tossing it back before pouring another. Then I pulled out my phone and logged into the NewYorkMinute app, noticing that JerseyGirl7 had sent me a second message for the day.