Playing Doctor

Savannah Sixx sits rigid in a plastic chair. Her knee won’t quit bouncing. Vanessa Sky, sprawled beside her, watches the tremble in her friend’s hands and doesn’t say a word. Dr. Kit Mercer steps through the frosted door. Savannah blurts her question—can Vanessa stay? The doctor nods once and walks ahead, heels ticking against linoleum. Inside the exam room Savannah peels everything off, skin prickling under fluorescent light. Vanessa stays glued to her plastic seat, pretending to scroll, but her eyes flick upward every time the doctor’s palms glide over Savannah’s chest, testing firmness, weight. Heat crawls up Vanessa’s neck. A stethoscope presses under Savannah’s left breast. Tap, shift, pause. Dr. Mercer frowns. Heart murmur, she calls it—common in athletes, nothing fatal—then leaves the room for print-outs. Savannah laughs once, sharp, scared. Vanessa grabs the forgotten stethoscope, fits the earpieces, listens to that erratic thump beneath warm skin. The rhythm hooks her. She sets the scope aside. “I’ve got something better.” Her fingertips circle Savannah’s nipple until Savannah’s breath snags. Vanessa pulls her close. Mouths meet hard. Clothes hit the floor, and Vanessa spreads Savannah across the paper-covered table, knees wide. Tongue and fingers work fast. Savannah arches. Door clicks—Dr. Mercer freezes. Both girls jerk upright, apologies tumbling. The doctor studies them, expression caught between authority and hunger. She closes the door, twists the lock, and shrugs off her coat. “I see enough bad news in here,” she says. “Go on. Let me watch something good for once.” She steps in behind Vanessa, hands finding skin. Savannah reaches up, and the three bodies shift closer, rules breaking faster than heartbeats.