Page 95 of Darling Venom
“If it’s any consolation, I wish my first time was with Dr. Marchetti.” She winced, which conjured a thousand scenarios of how this could go wrong. Not to mention the fact that this was Tate we were talking about. “The doctor stuck the speculum in too deep. Scared me away for a year.”
You can do this.
Reagan will be impressed.
That promotion is yours.
“So, I’ll tell Sylvia you want the appointment?” Reagan asked.
I found myself nodding. “Thank you.”
My stomach churned.
“The appointment isn’t until Friday evening, but you look tired.” She scanned my body, pausing at my face. “Tell you what. Take the day off. Get some sleep.”
“Thanks,” I repeated, not feeling grateful in the slightest.
It’ll be twenty minutes, tops.
It’s no big deal.
You’ve got this.
Famous last words.
The good thing about being a virgin (and I supposed there was only one) was that I could fill out the sexually transmitted infections portion of this patient-intake form with absolute certainty.
In Bernard and Marchetti’s reception area, I scribbled down answers, waiting for the inevitable moment Tate and I made contact. A physician’s assistant collected the paper from me and led me to Tate’s office.
Empty, thankfully.
Once she left, I collapsed onto the seat farthest from the door.
“You can do this.”
I’d learned positive manifestation from a non-fiction submission I read last week. Safe to say it didn’t work.
But my words were true.
I’d overcome far scarier things.
Plus, I decided before I arrived that I wouldn’t chicken out. That I had no reason to.
“Reagan loves you.”
She does, and she loves you most when you listen.
“You’re a team player. Team players get promotions and are freed from generic slush-pile duty.”
A knock rattled the door.
Tate’s deep voice blasted through it. “Miss Richards? Are you ready?”
Oops.
Could you be any louder?
Way to come off as mentally stable.
