Dr. ER (St. Luke's Docuseries #2)

By: Max Monroe


To Shakira.

Our “Hips Don’t Lie” either.

Well, unless they’ve gotten bigger. Then our hips are fucking liars. Those extra inches have nothing to do with the fact that we finished off an entire large pizza, garlic breadsticks, boneless wings, mozzarella sticks, French fries, and a chocolate chip pizza cookie in one night.

And to everyone who ever wonders if we’re writing about them.

We are.

Just kidding…?

The cool, wet ends of my hair tickled at my neck as I pulled on a fresh scrub shirt and tucked it into my pants.

I was working a double shift, and the last several hours had been some of the messiest I’d seen in a while. Blood, fluid, vomit—you name it, I’d been covered in it, and a shower in the locker room was the only thing that made me feel remotely human again.

Slamming my locker shut, I reclipped my ID badge onto the front pocket of my shirt, dropped my phone into my pocket, and made my way out the door.

Several coworkers smiled and nodded as I passed them in the hall, but both food and coffee were necessary for not only my health, but the health of those around me.

When it came to hunger and caffeine withdrawals, I didn’t get grumpy; I got punch-drunk. Fucking slaphappy. And sometimes, a little unnecessarily rude.

One of my very few flaws.

The cafeteria in sight, I picked up my pace and yanked open the door, dodging an exiting nurse as I stepped inside.

Normally, I would have perused, inspected, considered a plan of attack for winning her over with my charm and wit at such a close encounter with a cute female, but my priorities occasionally flip-flopped—though, it was rare—and this was one of those times.

Coffee and food then sex.

Speaking of coffee, a familiar body lurked in front of it. One that I found amusing despite any lack of caffeine or sustenance—the one and only Dr. Obscene.

He, along with me and one other head of department, had been chosen, approached, and optioned for a new reality medical show, The Doctor Is In, set to run for thirty-six weeks, with one weekly, hour-long episode airing every Tuesday night. While all of the episodes had been filmed at the same time, Will’s were the first to air, and fucking hell, he was having a time of it.

Nudity, borderline inappropriate bedside comments, and from what I’d heard through the rumor mill, an insurgence of new patients with desperate determination to have their chance at the good doctor. He was struggling, but to an outsider like me, the entertainment value was endless.

“Will Cummings!” I shouted, calling his attention across the seventy-five feet of space between us.

His head jerked up at the sound of my voice, and a genuine smile curved the line of his mouth up at the corners. I understood—I’d be happy to see me too.

I headed straight for him—he was right in front of the coffee, after all, and I stuck out my hand to greet him.

“Scott,” he said easily, taking my hand to return my shake.

A mental film reel of his most recent episode made my smile shift slightly. The poor schmuck had been far too liberal with his behavior in front of the cameras, and aside from how much I enjoyed watching all of the ways his normally golden intentions shone a little less brightly, I felt bad for him. Will Cummings was a truly good guy.

But no show these days was after a truthful portrayal of three men in their medical prime, saving lives and taking names and being stand-up citizens in the process.

Today’s world was about drama and flair and making the stars of “reality” television as entertaining as possible—much of the time to the detriment of their overall character and existence.

That’s why I’d taken my philandering ways off-camera and off-site from the hospital—and for a brief period of time, curtailed them entirely—while we were being filmed. While Will got caught with his pants down time and again, when my episodes aired, I knew they wouldn’t catch me at all.

I smiled slyly at the thought.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Will said with a groan, and I couldn’t hide my amusement. He was too fucking easy to rile sometimes.

“Touchy, touchy. Someone’s in a bad mood.”

“Just you wait,” Will grumbled, stirring his coffee violently enough that it almost sloshed out of the cup and onto the counter. “You will be too.”