In my dream, he pulled out a monstrous dick—monstrous as in huge, not ugly—and pushed me to my knees, murmuring,‘Suck it, Dr Honey Bea.’
As I’d opened my mouth to comply, he’d murmured what a good girl I was, and when I looked up, he’d turned into Kit.
And that’s some sick and confusing shit right there.
I fought my way out of a home full of testosterone; a house where women were home and baby makers. I want more than that—Ideservemore than that. I didn’t get to where I am today on the strength of my cock sucking skills.
To make matters worse, during Mr Becker’s rounds on Wednesday, I’d been totally off my game, remembering the elegance of his fingers on his zip and the feel of his pants against my cheek. It didn’t matter that I’d been invited to scrub in on a reconstructive surgery just days before—which was a bit of a coup for someone in my position of the food chain. Or that I’d earned my boss’s approval because I’d washed it all away by behaving like a stammering foundation year med student, a bloody F1, when he’d asked me a simple question at the bedside.
I both abhorred and enjoyed the sting of shame, the redness creeping up my neck and chest as he’d delivered his rebuke.
I don’t know what to blame more.
Jon for screwing someone else.
Jon for not screwing me properly for months.
Myself for not demanding more from him.
More for myself!
Or fucking Kit Tremaine for having his hands in my pants after dinner last week.
Maybe Kit morphed into Mr Becker in my dream because of the similarity between the two. The Saville Row suiting. The manner. The way it seems both men can see right through you as if they’ve pierced your skin.
‘You’ve been here eighteen hours. Go home, Zante.’ I look up from the chart I’m holding—the chart I’m looking at but not seeing—to Dr Burgess, the on-call consultant this morning, and her frown.
‘But—’
‘You’ve been staring at that obs chart like it insulted your parentage.’
‘No, I was just thinking.’
‘Far too hard,’ she says, taking my elbow and steering me farther away from the bedside and the nurses’ station with their inquisitive looks.
‘I was just trying to...’ What was I planning on doing? Ever speaking to Jon again? Propositioning my boss for kicks?‘I was about to speak to the nurse for—’
‘Not with that chart, you don’t,’ she says, snatching it out of my hands. ‘Don’t make me pull the wholeI’m superiorthing. I’m not sure what’s going on with you.’ I open my mouth to protest when she cuts my words off. ‘And frankly, I don’t really care. I’m sick of the sight of you. You’re frightening the patients.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I reply, straightening my spine and attempting to project a little professional calm.
‘Then my second suggestion is to go find a bloody mirror and look.Zombie chicdoesn’t suit you. A couple of the oldies think they’ve been visited by Death and gotten a reprieve. Go home. Go eat a sandwich or something.’ She waves her hand like it’ll make me disappear. ‘That’s an order. Come back when you’re supposed to and not an hour before.’
My shoulders slump, the fight draining out of me, because I realise there’s no response to that.
