Page 15 of Keeping Her Under (Deranged Highway, #1)

Fifteen

“Ms. Lila Reeds,” I say as I enter the private pre-op room. As soon as I lay eyes on our VIP, I know exactly who she is. America’s current obsession – singer, model, actor. A knock-out bombshell with wavy blonde hair and eyes as green as the envy of every woman around the globe.

Her heart-shaped face peers up at me as she sits up on the bed. A man about fifteen years younger than me stands in a suit beside her, his lips tight.

There’s tension in the air, already choking, and I know I’ve walked into the middle of something.

“You are way too hot to be a doctor,” she purrs at me.

“How old are you? Mid-late twenties?” She reaches up to twirl a strand of her hair.

“You know, I could talk to my agent and get you a scene in my latest movie. I’m playing a woman with a lot of lovers.

” She leans back on the bed, causing her hospital gown to strain across her breasts.

Her erect nipples push against the fabric.

The man, already standing at attention, seems to stiffen even more. His lips tighten, but he doesn’t look at her. His eyes are hardened on me.

“Give us some privacy, Carter,” she says sweetly. She runs her tongue around her bottom lip, then pushes it against her cheek, miming the thrust of a cock.

Her bodyguard looks like he wants to protest, but instead he moves over to me. He checks my ID, his jaw tight. Then he takes his leave.

As soon as the door shuts, I ask, “When is the last time you’ve eaten?”

Normally, I ease into the questions I need to approve the op, but my temper is short today, and I know her kind. Thinking the world should lay at her feet and worship the feel of her grinding heels.

She might have the body that society idolizes, but all she is, is a childish princess that doesn’t deserve her crown.

She blinks. “Didn’t you hear my offer?”

“Time, Ms. Reeds.”

“You can call me –”

“I am aware you missed most of your schooling to pursue acting,” I say coldly, “but I presume you have learned your numbers?”

Her mouth drops open.

Her eyes grow wide.

“I will take your silence as meaning you’ve eaten this morning and cancel –”

“How dare you speak to me like this! Don’t you know who I am? I want a different doctor.”

“By all means,” I say. “Hire a yes-man to put you under anesthesia despite the increased risks of you not waking up. You have anorexia nervosa –”

She huffs and crosses her arms. “They’re lying. Look at me. I’m –”

“– meaning you’re at higher risk of aspiration, hypokalaemia, arrhythmias, acute congestive heart failure, life-threatening cardiovascular dysfunction, and falling into a myxoedema coma.”

Her lips pinch tight as she glances away.

Despite what a lot of people think, anorexia isn’t about being thin; it’s a punishment for daring to enjoy something they believe they shouldn’t. It’s a crushing amount of guilt. A harsh, little, lying voice telling them they don’t deserve anything good.

If I was trying to help her, I would applaud her for eating and work on convincing her that she is worthy of being healthy and happy.

That that little voice she hears isn’t hers but rather a demon inside her.

I would not judge her when she relapsed.

I’d stand beside her as she recovered, a cheerleader without limit.

And right now, I’d try to help her understand that the weight she would gain after the surgery isn’t anything to be ashamed of. That she is worthy of being cared for.

But I don’t give a shit about her mental health. Ms. Reeds, with her movie star superiority, would walk all over Summer if they ever met, and for that, she can die on the operating table for all I care.

One less person in the world to hurt my girl.

But at the moment, I have need of her, so I turn on my bedside manners. “Tell me what’s giving you second thoughts about the surgery,” I say softly, now acting every inch the concerned father.

She looks at me, her face guarded, but with a bit more coaxing, she opens up.

We skirt around the illness she isn’t ready to admit she has, but we get to the bottom of her fears.

We touch on the edge of her shame – how she doesn’t feel like she deserves her success or a second chance with this surgery.

I gently talk her through her doubt and make her feel seen for the first time. And when she trusts me to have her best interests at heart, I get the answers I need from her as I take her vitals.

She claims she stuck to the eating plan we gave her and didn’t skip any of the meals. I press her on that but not too hard. I don’t want her to tell me the truth. I only want to cover my ass if a complication arises during her surgery or recovery.

“I swear,” she lies.

“Okay, let’s get you into the OR.”

I wheel her out into the hall. Her bodyguard moves towards us immediately, waves of emotion rolling off him.

He opens his mouth as he reaches her side, but she cuts him off.

“Don’t.” Her voice softens. “Whatever you’re going to tell me, do it after.”

“But –”

“Don’t freak me out, okay? Do it after.”

His lips tighten, but he nods, and I wheel her into the OR. The monitoring equipment goes on her. The face mask is placed over her mouth and nose. As she inhales the general anesthesia deep into her lungs, I calmly count her down.

Her eyelids slowly flutter.

Then she’s under.

And not once did she realize that the doctor she’s trusting with her life…

… is preparing to take it.