Читать книгу The Nurse's Not-So-Secret Scandal - Wendy S. Marcus - Страница 8

ROXIE withdrew her hand from her pocket and held out what Fig assumed were the other two missing doses of Demerol in her palm. He admired her calm.

“I was planning to tell you today. I asked Fig to relay the message I needed to talk to you.” She looked over at him.

He nodded.

Apparently Victoria didn’t care. She looked up at Roxie. “You altered the narcotic count,” she accused.

“Yes.” Roxie hung her head. “But I can explain.”

“You altered the narcotic count,” Victoria said again. A bit louder this time. “There is no explanation to justify what you did. This is grounds for termination, you know. And there’s not a thing I can do to help you. This will follow you around, Roxie. You could lose your nursing license. What were you thinking?”

“Whoa.” Panic flashed in Roxie’s eyes. “Can’t we keep this between us?”

“No, we can’t keep this between us,” Victoria snapped. “Because someone or a group of someones have been tampering with the narcotic-distribution system in the hospital. A pharmacist identified the inaccurate count as part of a hospital-wide investigation.”

That was a pretty important chunk of information she’d neglected to share.

Roxie looked ready to collapse.

Fig stood. “Here.” He motioned to his chair. “Sit.”

“Why, thank you,” she said sarcastically, looking ready to show her appreciation by slamming him into the wall and jamming her knee into his groin. “If you’d have come to me,” she hissed under her breath as she moved past him, “instead of tattling to the boss I could have fixed this.”

“No, you couldn’t have,” Victoria said. “And don’t be mad at Fig. He only did what I asked him to do.”

“A rare thing, a man who does what you ask him to,” Roxie said to Victoria. “Lucky me you found one.”

Fig felt like the low-life informant who’d deceived a friend. Because, in essence, he had.

“Tell me what happened,” Victoria said.

“Does he need to be here?” Roxie asked.

No he didn’t. Fig stepped toward the door, welcoming the chance to escape.

“Yes,” Victoria said. He stopped. “As an impartial witness to our conversation.”

Great. There was that word impartial again. The more he heard it, the more he realized he wasn’t impartial at all. He wanted to help Roxie, wanted to erase the anger, frustration and sadness he’d noticed in her expression since early that morning, and bring back the fun-loving woman with the beautiful smile and infectious laugh from the night they’d first met.

“Fine,” Roxie said, not looking at him. “The attending suspects my patient in 508B is a malingerer probably addicted to his pain meds. He reports intractable back pain yet all his diagnostic testing since admission has been negative or within normal limits. Every time the doctor tries to change over from IM Demerol to oral pain meds, the patient balks and is on the call bell every five minutes. Mention detox and he turns irate and verbally abusive.”

“I’m aware of the situation,” Victoria said.

“Late Friday night the doctor ordered the patient’s doses of IM Demerol to be alternated with a placebo of IM sterile normal saline. The next morning—when I came on duty—it didn’t take the patient long to figure it out and demand to see the syringe before I injected him. So I kept a Demerol cartridge in my pocket to show him. Then, each time he was scheduled to receive the placebo, I switched it out at the last second. It was not easy to do, I tell you.”

“And you forgot to put the Demerol back,” Victoria said.

Roxie nodded. “Luckily—” she looked between him and Victoria with sad eyes “—or unluckily, as it turns out, I was assigned to narcotic count Saturday night.”

“But incoming shift is supposed to count and outgoing shift records.”

“I can be very persuasive when I want to be.” Her lips twitched into a tiny hint of a smile. “Anyway, I knew the Demerol was in my scrub jacket, which was out at the desk at the time. I increased the number in the box of Demerol by one, planning to return it before I left. Then my mother called.” Roxie let out a breath. “And I had to rush home. Sunday morning I was running late, and I bolted out of the house, leaving it safely tucked away in my dresser.”

“So you altered the count again.”

“What else could I do?”

“How about talk to me?” Victoria asked, her anger evident. “Warn me the count was off so I wasn’t completely blindsided.”

“I’m sorry. I screwed up.”

“How did you wind up with the other two?” Victoria asked without acknowledging Roxie’s apology.

“More of the same. I was rushing. Then they got misplaced.”

“You misplaced three doses of Demerol?”

“No.” Roxie shook her head. “Only two.” Like that made it okay. “The third,” she went on, “was my mistake. I’d thought it was a normal saline in my pocket, but it turned out to be a Demerol.”

“What is going on with you?” Victoria yelled.

Roxie shrugged and looked down at her lap.

Both women sat in silence until Roxie asked, “What happens now? Should I finish my shift or clean out my locker and head home?”

“Let me talk to the director and explain what happened. You returned the missing meds. Maybe …”

Fig interrupted. “Just to play devil’s advocate for a second.” He moved out of Roxie’s reach, which was no small feat in the tiny office. “How do we know there’s actual Demerol in those things and she didn’t refill them with water?”

Rage flared in Roxie’s eyes. She jumped up from her chair, whipped a plastic contraption from her pocket and grabbed the fluid-filled cartridges from Victoria’s desk. “How about I inject all three of them into your lily-white gluteus maximus and you can vouch for their potency right before you lapse into a coma?” She inserted one of the cylinders into the injection device and took a step toward him.

“Stop it, Roxie.” Tiny Victoria launched herself between them. “This isn’t helping.”

“But maybe it will make me feel better,” she said. Then she looked at Fig. Challenging him. “You want to know for sure what’s in this syringe?” She held it up, speaking slow and calm. “Drop your pants.”

“The hospital is investigating medication tampering.” Fig held Roxie’s arms to keep her away from him. “Those cartridges left the hospital. I’m just posing the potential for substitution that any good investigator would acknowledge,” he defended his question.

“He’s right,” Victoria agreed.

Roxie backed down and surprised him by starting to laugh. Not a happy laugh. Rather the kind of laugh that happens when things are so bad if you don’t laugh you’ll cry. He knew it well.

Roxie collapsed into the chair, tears streaming down her cheeks. “The irony is too much.” She could barely get the words out. “I tell that idiot no.” She took a deep breath, blotted her eyes with a tissue Victoria handed her and started to laugh some more. “I get blackmailed. I still say no, so he posts the video on some porn site.” She laughed even harder. “And I’m accused of tampering with narcotics, and I’m getting fired, anyway.” The laughing was so loud people up and down the hallway outside had to be wondering what was going on.

“Wait a minute,” Fig said, remembering Roxie’s phone conversation from earlier that morning. I told you no. My answer won’t change. Fine. Do what you have to do. “Someone’s blackmailing you?”

“Not anymore.” The thought seemed to sober her. She inhaled deeply then exhaled as if trying to blow out any lingering giggles. “And it’s all your fault.” She gave him the stink eye.

What? “My fault?”

“If you’d have taken me out on Friday night like you were supposed to, I wouldn’t have gone home with Johnny-the-jerk, who, come to find out, had his bedroom outfitted with cameras so he could videotape our little interlude.”

“Who is Johnny-the-jerk?” Victoria asked.

“I’m guessing he’s somehow involved with the hospital’s drug tampering problem because after the deed was done—” she looked at Fig and emphasized “—twice, he used his tape to try to coerce me into substituting his bootlegged pills for real narcotics. He said the packaging was almost identical and no one would know. I told him I would know and I wouldn’t do it.”

“You mean you can identify him?” Victoria asked.

“I’m guessing you can, too, if you check out our video.”

Victoria recoiled.

At least Fig could help with that. Computers were his thing. Audio. Video. Programing. Networking. Hacking. You name it. If there’s a way to track this guy, to catch him and make him pay, Fig could do it. “Do you have the link?” he asked Roxie.

“On my cell phone, wherever that is.”

Fig reached into his pocket and handed it to her. She pressed a few buttons and held up the screen to him. “May I use your computer?” he asked Victoria.

“To go to a pornography website?” She paled. “Use my laptop.” She took it out of her briefcase, placed it on her desk and booted it up. Then she stood so Fig could take her chair.

He typed in the link. A few seconds later Roxie’s voice called out through the speakers. “Harder,” she demanded. Fig fumbled to find the volume. “Yeah, baby. That’s how I like it.”

Just as he’d thought, Roxie was as take-charge in the bedroom as she appeared to be in every other aspect of her life. It’d take a strong man to stay in control. Anticipation of the challenge excited him.

Until the slam of Victoria’s office door reminded him where he was.

“Do you have to be so loud?” Victoria chastised Roxie.

Fig didn’t mind loud as long as the volume was attached to moans and screams of delight.

“Did you honestly think I’d be quiet in the bedroom?” she asked with a hint of a playful smile.

Fig muted the computer. “Twenty-seven minutes,” he commented about the length of the video, giving a nod of approval.

“Not my best night,” Roxie joked.

Fig relaxed a bit.

“Almost eighty thousand views in the six hours your video’s been up on this site.”

“Delinquents, all of them,” Roxie said, standing up and walking over to stand beside him. “What are all those people doing home during the day? Shouldn’t they be working?”

“Degenerates is more like it,” Victoria said, looking uncomfortable. “Can you make out the man’s face?” she asked Fig.

“Five stars,” he noted instead, impressed.

“I bet you’re regretting standing me up on Friday night.” Roxie nudged his shoulder with her hip.

More than he regretted just about anything else.

“Standing her up? You didn’t tell her what happened?” Victoria asked.

“No.” And Victoria had better not say anything, either.

“Tell me what?” Roxie asked.

The last thing he wanted her thinking was he was some sort of pansy mama’s boy, running home every time she called. “Nothing,” Fig said and flashed Victoria a “keep quiet” look.

“But …”

“Woo wee,” Roxie cut Victoria off. She leaned in close to the laptop. “I look good on screen.”

Yes, she did. And since she didn’t seem at all upset about the video, Fig commented, too. “You have an amazing ass.”

Victoria sucked in an affronted breath.

“It’s one of my best features,” Roxie replied proudly. She had quite a few other mighty-fine features. Fig tilted his head to get a better look at one, watched her lift her long, smooth leg. No way. She couldn’t possibly … She did.

“You liking what you see?” Roxie’s voice turned sexy. Alluring.

Heck yeah! But Fig thought it best not to mention how much.

As if Roxie knew, she bent close to his ear and whispered, “Then I suggest you download my video so you can watch it over and over. Because that’s as close as you’ll ever get to sampling my goodies, you creep.”

Shut. Down.

“For heaven’s sake, Roxie,” Victoria said. “A man taped you having sex and loaded it onto the internet. Without your consent. And you’re standing there, watching yourself as if you’re okay with it. You should be outraged. Shut it off, Fig.”

“And what good would my outrage do?” Roxie asked. “The video is out there. And from the number of messages I’ve received today, people around town have seen it. There’s nothing I can do. Heck, if I can’t get another nursing job, maybe I’ll use it as an audition tape.” She turned to Fig. “Can you make me a copy?”

“You can’t be serious,” Victoria said.

“I’m totally serious,” Roxie said, turning somber. “You may think you know me but all you know is the part of me I allow you to see. So let me share this. At the age of fourteen I gave my virginity to the owner of the superette down the street from our home to pay off our account when my mother had no money. That may have been the first time I used my body to barter, but it certainly wasn’t the last. I’m a survivor. I do what I have to do.”

Based on Victoria’s look of complete and utter shock, she’d had no idea. Just how close were they? Roxie’s defiant stance made Fig wonder if she shared her deepest, darkest secrets with anyone.

He couldn’t stand the thought of lecherous men using a young Roxie who was desperate for food. He felt sick. Yet despite her experiences she still managed to enjoy life, with a wonderful sense of humor and a vivacious spirit he envied. “The man’s face is blurred out,” Fig said, to change the subject.

“Trust me,” Roxie said. “I know who he is. And as soon as I find him you’ll know who he is, too. Tell the E.R. to be on the lookout for a white male, around five feet ten inches tall, two hundred and twenty pounds, who will be arriving most likely after midnight, sometime in the next week. If things go as planned he’ll be unconscious with severe facial trauma and both testicles rammed so far up into his pelvic cavity he’ll require the skilled hands of surgeon to set him back to rights.”

“You need to stay away from him,” Victoria urged. “He’s probably dangerous.”

“No more dangerous than a pissed-off Puerto Rican with a grudge. So what’s your call, Vic?” Roxie stood tall. Proud. “If you’re going to fire me, do it now. Otherwise I need to get back to my patients.”

“Let me talk to the director,” Victoria replied. “Finish out your shift. You’re out on vacation for the next week due to return on Wednesday. Hopefully I’ll have everything worked out by then.”

“Thanks,” Roxie said to Victoria. “I really am sorry about all this.”

“Me, too.”

After Roxie left, Victoria asked Fig, “Can you take down the video?”

“I’ll need to use my own computer, but yeah. I’m sure I can.”

“Do you think it’s up on more than one site?”

“If it is, I’ll find it.”

“She’s going to go after that man,” Victoria said.

“I’ll keep an eye on her.” Fig stood. He owed her that much. “I need to get back to work, too.”

“Now that we know what happened you don’t have to stay on here,” Victoria said.

“I know. But I’ll finish out my shift.”

Roxie pulled her red Scion onto the short, bumpy, part-gravel, part-concrete patch that served as her driveway, turned off the engine and leaned back in her leather seat. The tiny house she shared with Mami held not one good memory, and yet, rather than filling her with excitement, the prospect of being forced to live somewhere else filled her with dread—mostly because Mami would not handle the change well. Dull blue paint, faded, chipped black shutters—one hanging askew—and overgrown, half-dead landscaping told the world this was not a happy place. The moss growing on the roof, the saggy porch and the collection of other people’s discarded stuff that overflowed into the side yard added to the dilapidated appearance.

Oh, to have her own home to return to after a hard day’s work. To live a stress-free, clutter-free, mother-free existence where the only person she was responsible for was herself. To be able to open a beer, actually sit down on the living room sofa and watch some mind-numbing television.

Her cell phone rang. She dug into her huge purse on the seat beside her and looked at the screen. The hospital. She let out a breath. What did she forget? Or was it Victoria calling to tell Roxie her fate? “Hello.”

“Hey,” Fig said. “You ran out of here before I could give you the message from your brother.”

No need to ask which one. Only Ernesto, the one closest to her in age, took the time for an occasional phone call. But, “He called the hospital?”

“No. Your cell phone. While I had it. I thought it might be your mom so I answered it.”

Well, surprise, surprise. A nice gesture.

“He, uh—” Fig hesitated “—sounded angry.”

What did he have to be angry about? She was the one desperately trying to reach him for over a week with no response.

“I think—” Fig hesitated again.

“Just spit it out already,” Roxie said.

“I think he may have seen your video.”

Not Ernesto. He’d be the last one she’d expect to …

“I’m sorry, Rox. I got tied up. I’m on my way home now, and I’ll take it down as soon as I get there.”

Help. From an unexpected source. “Thanks.”

“You doing anything tonight?” he asked. “I thought maybe we could …”

“If I decide I need sex you’re unlucky number thirteen on my list.”

“I’m not calling for sex. Just dinner. I want to explain …”

Roxie noticed the bags on the front porch. “No.” She sat up. “She didn’t.”

“What?” Fig asked.

“I’ve got to go.” Roxie ended the call then pushed open the car door, lunged out and slammed it shut. “Not again.” She stormed across the patchy grass and packed dirt of the small front yard, whipped out her key and tried to open the door. Met resistance. Shouldered it open just wide enough to squeeze through. “I told you we need to keep the doorway clear,” she yelled in frustration.

Behind the door her mother had stowed five white garbage bags filled with clothes. Roxie picked each up and hurled them, one at a time, into the depths of what used to be the family room, bringing the junk piled in the far corner up to chest level.

“This is crazy!” Roxie screamed. “Why are the bags back on the porch?” Two huge black garbage bags, filled to capacity, put out at the curb for the sanitation service to pick up that morning. Two bags of trash that were no longer adding to the safety hazards of their home. A mere speck of progress in cleaning out the house. Derailed. “And I told you to stop accepting used clothing from the church.” A total of five bags that she saw. But who knew if her mother had more stashed somewhere?

“Deja de gritar. Stop yelling,” Mami said, shuffling slowly, carefully along the narrow pathway from the back of the house to the kitchen, the clutter on either side of her hip-high.

“Do you understand what happens if the fire marshal doesn’t see a noticeable improvement in our living conditions? He’ll condemn this house as unfit for human habitation. If we don’t sort through this junk—like I’ve been trying to get you to do for years—he’s going to do it. We’ll be forced to leave. I can’t afford a mortgage payment and a rent payment. We have one lousy week left. One week.” An impossible time frame to sort through years of accumulation. The two bags she’d managed to drag to the curb had taken at least a dozen hours of encouragement and convincing to get her mother to part with her treasured possessions. And now, not only were they back, but she’d accepted five more.

“I won’t leave my house.” Her mother stood tall despite her slightly hunched shoulders, looked vaguely formidable despite her frailty and washed-out floral housedress. “These are my things. Tus hermanos vendrán. Your brothers will come. You’ll see.”

Not one of her four brothers had visited “the den of crazy” in the fifteen years since the last one had moved out, leaving Roxie—her mother’s unsuccessful attempt to save her failing marriage—to care for her mother, the house and herself, on her own, since the age of ten.

“If they think it’s unsafe for you to go on living here—” and what normal person wouldn’t? “—they will make you leave.” The interior looked like a huge refuse heap, with only the tops of long-standing, partially collapsed piles available to view. Children’s clothes, toys, magazines and books—for the grandchildren her mother had never met. Housewares—for the daughters-in-law who shunned her. Newspapers—to wrap the castaway finds for safe transport when her sons returned home to finally accept their mami’s gifts of love.

Too little. Too late.

And while the brothers, who’d never had time for their way-younger sister, continued to rebel against the past and focus on their futures, Roxie lived an ant-farm existence, maneuvering along paths she maintained daily, leading from the front door to the kitchen, two of the three bedrooms and the bathroom. Seven years ago she’d closed the door to the third bedroom—so cluttered with junk it was unsafe to enter—and to her knowledge, the door hadn’t been opened since.

“They’ll physically remove you, Mami.” When she refused and fought, like Roxie knew she would, what then? Would she get hurt? Have a heart attack? Get a free trip to the psych ward over at Madrin Memorial?

Maybe that’s what she needed. Maybe the firemen alerting the fire marshal and health department to the state of their home was exactly what Mami needed to finally deal with her hoarding and allow Roxie to clean more than the bathroom and kitchen counters.

“Lo siento,” Mami said, wringing her hands. “I’m sorry. But I couldn’t find the stuffed frog for little Daniel. I thought maybe it was in one of the trash bags.”

“It’s in the dryer,” Roxie said. “It needed to be washed. Remember?”

Mami looked down at her hands.

No. She didn’t remember. Which was another reason Roxie needed to clean out the house. If Mami’s health continued to deteriorate, soon she’d need someone to supervise her while Roxie was at work. Whereever she happened to be working. If she was working.

She had to work. And she’d need a good job to continue to support the two of them and pay for the house and an attendant and the cleaning crew she’d put off hiring, worried the stress of strangers in their home would be too much for Mami.

But they were running out of time. “Mami. We need help. We can’t do this on our own,” she broached the topic. “There’s a …”

“No.”

“Please. Be reasonable.” It was the same argument every time. “We can’t continue to live like this.” Existing was more like it. Mami had no friends except for some women from the church, a bunch of enablers who inventoried the donated items and contacted her to see what she “needed.”

Roxie couldn’t entertain, spent the hours at home confined to her bedroom—the only clean, orderly room in the house because she dead-bolted the door whenever she left—unless she was supervising her mom’s shower, cajoling her to sort and clean or cooking the meals they ate on wooden TV trays surrounded by Roxie’s hepa filters which just barely neutralized the odor of decay, and God knew what else, that lingered outside her door.

“Lo siento,” Mami said again, this time with a sniffle. “I’m sorry.”

Great. Roxie felt like a big bully. She’d made her mother cry. She stepped over a small stack of magazines and skirted around a laundry basket that held dozens of her mom’s favorite frogs to reach her. “I’m sorry, too.” For yelling, for forgetting, albeit momentarily, that hoarding was a mental illness and not laziness or purposeful behavior meant to upset Roxie. She pulled the only family member who really mattered to her into a hug. “It’ll all work out, Mami.” Although how it would, she had no idea.

“I’ll do better,” Mami said. “After dinner. We can try again.”

It was always later or tomorrow. Any time but right now.

“We can do it. We don’t need a bunch of strangers in here.” Mami scanned the devastation that had once been a large eat-in kitchen, family room and dining room, and sighed. “It’s overwhelming.”

“One area at a time,” Roxie said, taking Mami’s hand and leading her along the path through the kitchen. “You decide, like on the television show. We’ll continue with our piles. One for each of the boys and their families. And one for…Papi.” She nearly choked on the word. “But you’ll have to let me box it all up and mail it.”

“No. They need to come. I want to see them to show them.”

They weren’t going to come. Mami’s ex-husband—who Roxie referred to as such because he refused to accept she was his daughter—had remarried years ago. As for her brothers, the only one she had any semblance of a relationship with was Ernesto—if you considered an annual birthday telephone call and occasional requests for money a relationship—and he hadn’t come home any of the other times she’d asked him to, so she didn’t hold out much hope he’d suddenly developed a conscience.

“Let’s eat,” Roxie said, changing the subject. She’d had about all the confrontation she could handle for one day.

Despite her moratorium on men, by Thursday night, forced by the frustration of Mami refusing to clean and annoyance at the number and tone of the messages piling up on her cell phone in relation to her video, the neon-pink and fluorescent-orange walls of Roxie’s bedroom seemed to squeeze in on her. And under the weight of worry about where they’d go when forced to leave their home and what would happen if she lost her job, her bright sunshine-yellow ceiling seemed to sag until she felt it just might smother her. Roxie needed to get out, to mingle and occupy her mind so she’d stop obsessing about things outside of her control.

“Shake it off.” Roxie shook out her arms and legs then rotated her neck. “Nothing you can do about it.” Play it cool. She slid each foot into a flat gold-colored sandal that showed off her bright pink self-manicured toenails to perfection. “Nothing bothers Roxie Morano.” She walked over to the dresser and inserted a large gold hoop earring into each earlobe. Then she stood tall and evaluated her reflection in the full-length mirror angled high on her wall.

Denim mini hugging tight to her curves. She swiveled to get a look at her butt. Check.

Legs smooth and lotioned to an enticing sheen. Check.

Hair a mass of loose, wild curls lending a carefree, untamed appearance. Check.

Tube top—in an attention-getting hot-pink—accentuating each of her womanly assets. Check and check.

Roxie was ready to go. A quick peek to make sure her mother was sleeping, and she went outside to wait for the cab, antsy to get find-the-humor-in-anything drunk, psyched to lose herself in some make-me-forget-how-much-my-life-sucks-at-the-moment sex. Preferably of the un-videotaped variety.

Outside the heavy wooden doors to O’Halloran’s Bar, one of three bars in town, and the preferred drinking and bar food eating establishment for the majority of Madrin Memorial employees, Roxie hesitated. While the music from the jukebox beckoned her, she sought fortification in the vibration of the bass and swayed her hips to the slow rhythmic beat.

She could do this. So what if the people inside had watched her video, had seen her naked and wild with passion? At least they hadn’t seen the worst of it. She let out a breath, determined to enjoy this night. Tomorrow she’d deal with Johnny’s new threat.

“You don’t have to go in there,” a male voice said from behind her.

For a split second she stiffened, until she recognized it as Fig’s voice.

“We can go someplace else. Maybe talk a bit more about what we’re going to do to each other when we get naked.”

Like they’d passed the time at the employee recognition dinner last week. “You see that’s where we differ.” She turned and gave him the once-over, noting his loose-fitting, expensive-looking jeans, long-sleeve white tee, black leather vest and black ascot cap. Damn it if he didn’t smell even better than he looked. “I like the doing more than I like the talking.” She reached for the handle on the door. “And I’m not one to hide out because of a little controversy.”

“Then allow me.” He pushed one hand past hers and opened the door. The other he set at her low back and, applying a gentle pressure, eased her inside.

Just as the song on the jukebox ended. The bar went quiet. All eyes turned on her. Roxie hesitated.

Fig leaned in close, his chest pressed to her back, his palm flat on her belly. “Time to muster up some moxie, Roxie,” he whispered. “Every woman in this bar is wishing she had a body as gorgeous as yours, and every man is wishing he had your long, beautiful legs clamped around his butt.”

Roxie relaxed. Smiled even. “Does that include you?” She allowed herself to be led to the large wooden bar.

“Nah.” He assisted her up onto a stool, even though she didn’t need assistance then slid onto the stool beside her. He looked up, locked a pair of dreamy green eyes with hers and added, “My wish involves them wrapped around my head.”

Hell-o! An excited tingle started—there—and flared out to her periphery. Roxie came dangerously close to grabbing him by the arm and dragging him off to someplace more private. So she could grant a little wish fulfillment. Because with men there was a Polly Pocket–size window of opportunity between “I want to make you feel so good” and “me, me, me.” But, “So that’s why you’re here? Sex?” Making him no better than the rest of her post-pornographic-video fan club. Too busy to bother with an official date, too cheap to shell out some bucks on dinner and a movie, but ready to get naked at the first opportunity. The slug.

“I’m here because Victoria’s worried you’re heading down a dangerous path.”

“Ah. How sweet.” Not. “And she sent her does-what-he’s-asked-to-do lackey to stop me?” Roxie stood. “Well, thanks anyway, but I don’t need a keeper.” She didn’t need anyone.

“I beg to differ.” He caught her by a belt loop on her skirt as she tried to walk away. “Sit down,” he said quietly, but it was an order all the same.

Not likely. “Who do you think …?”

“I can tie a cherry stem in a knot using only my tongue and teeth,” he said, calm as can be. The randomness of his comment caught her off guard. Intrigued, Roxie stopped.

“In eight seconds,” he added with a slow, confident smile.

He was too cocky for his own good. “Triple B,” she called the bartender. “The usual for me. My friend would like something with a cherry in it.”

“I guess that leaves you out,” Raunchy Rob from Radiology called from the other side of the bar. The guy next to him laughed.

“Ha-ha,” Roxie said. Idiot.

Fig stood, looking ready to do some damage. “Apologize to the lady,” he demanded.

“What?” Rob asked. “I was only having some fun. You know I love you, Roxie.” He snickered. “Even more so on my computer screen.” He elbowed the loser next to him. They both chuckled.

Fig took off.

Now it was Roxie holding him by the belt loop in a futile attempt to slow him down. “Don’t.” The man was a plow horse. She was the plow, her sandals absolutely no help in the traction department. “Oh, look,” she tried. “Our drinks. Time to prove your oral dexterity.” Fig kept on going. “For heaven’s sake, apologize, Rob. Or I’ll tell everyone …” about his stubby little pecker. What a miserable night that’d been.

“I’m sorry.” Rob hopped off his stool and backed across the dance floor. “I’m sorry. Hell, Roxie. Call him off.”