Chapter 2
Even though Danny kept threatening to "torture" me, he didn't pump my stomach in the end.
I let out a sigh of relief. I'd heard that having a tube shoved down your throat was way worse than getting your heart broken.
But I was celebrating way too soon.
I might've dodged a gastric lavage, but that didn't mean I was off the hook.
In the ER treatment room, the curtains were pulled tight, shutting out the noisy chaos outside and trapping me in a suffocating bubble.
"Lie flat. Spread your legs. Bend your knees," Danny ordered, his voice sharp and authoritative.
He stood by the bed, slipping on a pair of disposable rubber gloves as he barked out instructions.
The snap of the gloves against his wrist rang out in the silence, and for a moment, it felt almost seductive.
But then reality hit me. That was plain terrifying.
I moved my limbs awkwardly, like a puppet on strings.
"Um, Dr. Brennan," I swallowed hard, trying to ease the damn pressure in the room. "Could we get a female doctor instead?
"I'm kinda old school, you know."
Danny paused mid-glove adjustment.
He lifted his eyelids, giving me a chilly glance that swept over my body, finally settling on my waist, trembling from the pain.
"Old school?" He arched his brow. "Funny, you weren't so traditional when you pinned me against a tree behind the school and kissed me."
I was left speechless.
I hated myself.
I hated my reckless, hormone-crazed teenage years.
"Lift your shirt," he ordered, not even giving me a second to die of embarrassment.
With trembling hands, I pushed my shirt up, exposing my embarrassingly stomach.
Years of sitting at a desk had left me with a squishy little layer of office flab.
The room went quiet for a few seconds.
I could feel his eyes lingering on my squishy office belly, like he was analyzing some rare specimen.
Then, his cold hand landed on me.
"Oh, God!" I gasped, the cold shock making me flinch.
I drew in a sharp breath, instinctively trying to scoot away.
"Don't move," Danny said, his voice firm and leaving no room for argument.
His other hand pressed down hard on my hip, the grip so strong that I couldn't resist even if I wanted to.
"Relax," his voice dropped, flat and emotionless. "If your muscles are this tight, how am I supposed to examine you?"
"It's not something I can control." I bit my lip, feeling his hand slide across my stomach like a cold snake.
Suddenly, his fingers pressed down hard on my lower right abdomen.
I let out a scream, tears bursting out almost instantly.
I swore, "Damn it, Danny. It hurts like hell!"
Two family members passing by outside paused, throwing us a couple of knowing, curious glances through the curtain.
Danny didn't seem bothered by the attention outside.
He didn't loosen his grip. Instead, he pressed down harder, leaning in so close that his cold, clinical aura mixed with the scent of disinfectant enveloped me.
"Here?" he asked.
"No, not there." I shook my head, still crying.
"Here?" His fingers shifted, pressing down again.
"Oh, yeah, right here..." I couldn't stop myself from letting out a helpless whimper.
This exchange was way too awkward.
If people only listened to the sounds without seeing what was happening, it was the live recording of some dirty movies.
"No rebound tenderness," Danny finally pulled his hand away, peeled off his gloves and tossed them in the trash.
His tone was back to its usual clinical indifference. "Appendicitis is off the table.
"Looks like it's some stomach spasms from acute gastritis."
I flopped back on the bed, feeling like a battered fish out of water, gasping for air and drenched in cold sweat.
He turned and walked over to the desk, picked up a pen, and started writing in my chart.
"Observation tonight. IV fluids. Nothing by mouth," he said, his voice flat and clinical.
The pen scratched across the paper, each word feeling like a death sentence for my gluttony.
When he finished, he set the pen down and stood there with his back to me, silent for a few seconds.
He said, "Cherry."
"What is it?" I answered weakly.
"That eating contest," he turned around, his eyes unreadable. "How much was the prize money?"
I paused for a moment and answered honestly, "Seven, seven hundred."
He scoffed.
I heard him let out a dry, mocking laugh.
There was no humor in it, but a warning that sent chills down my spine.
He sneered, "For 700 dollars, you messed yourself up like this."
He walked over to the bed, suddenly bent down, and gently lifted my chin with his fingers.
His touch was so subtle, almost gentle.
I must be dreaming.
The next second, he leaned in close to my ear, his voice low and dangerously sexy, the kind that could make my heart skip a beat.
But what he said was the nastiest thing imaginable.
He whispered, "Cherry, if you donated your brain to medical school, they'd reject it, too smooth, not enough wrinkles. It looks more like a muscle than a brain."
The IV room was overflowing with people.
The air was a chaotic mess of smells, fast food, sweaty bodies, the unmistakable stink of kid pee, and that overwhelming disinfectant smell that screamed despair.