Forbidden Prescription 6: A Stepbrother Fake Girlfriend Medical Romance (Forbidden Medicine) Read online

  Forbidden Prescription 6

  A Stepbrother Fake Girlfriend Medical Romance

  Stephanie Brother

  Illustrated by

  Cosmic Letterz

  Edited by

  Elizabeth Lance

  Copyright © 2019 by Stephanie Brother

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Cosmic Letters

  Editing by Elizabeth A. Lance

  This was previously published as Faking It but has been re-written and re-edited extensively.

  All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental. The characters are all productions of the author's imagination.

  Please note that this work is intended only for adults over the age of 18 and all characters represented as 18 or over.

  Kindle Edition

  Please note that this work is intended only for adults over the age of 18 and all characters represented as 18 or over.

  Contents

  Mailing List

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Thank You

  Rest of Forbidden Prescription Series

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  Chapter 1

  Damon

  “Okay, okay, settle down,” I said, feeling irritated about working with the first year residents. I liked the prestige of being a teaching doctor with Columbia University Irving Medical Center in Manhattan, just years after receiving my diploma, but it was turning out to be more work than I originally anticipated. Now, I had to show up to class and answer questions while I really wanted to be working on my own career.

  When I was asked if I was interested in doing a round of teaching at CUIMC, I jumped to take it before it was offered to anyone else. I liked to be the best. I knew I would enjoy the attention it would bring, especially from young, educated women. How hard could teaching be, really?

  As it turned out, I had to prepare a lesson once a week, and I had to be engaging with the interns, all the interns. Originally, I’d figured I could just tell surgery stories for thirty minutes or so, then let them ask me questions. But, then there was the assignments and tests I had to give. So, I wrote a few easy quizzes, handed them out at the end of our morning session, and had one of the second-year residents grade them for me. I really didn’t want to talk to any of the interns about why they were failing, so I tried not to make the quizzes too difficult. I really didn’t want to make life harder for anyone, especially myself. I just wanted to receive my recognition. And, if I got a few phone numbers from the hotter female interns in the group at the end of the session, it would be worth it.

  Normally, this gig wasn’t much of a hassle. In fact, I enjoyed being able to spend time with the eager to learn interns. The hospital administration thought having a younger doctor teach the interns would allow me to reach them better than one of the older surgeons on staff. They even gave me extra time away from the operating theater to put together my lessons. However, for most of the extra time I was allotted, I used it to flip through dating apps for my weekend entertainment. I knew I should have been working harder, but I spent so much damn time working. I wanted to have fun, too.

  “Now, this morning, we’re going to go over speaking to grieving loved ones,” I said, clearing my throat. “If you can’t break bad news to someone with compassion, you’re not going to be a very successful and sought after surgeon. Word will get around that you are cold and unfeeling. I’m sure most of you already believe you have your bedside manner developed and you think you’re set. But, you would be wrong. All those simulations you’ve done are nothing compared to the real thing. So you can never be too prepared. And, some loved ones will take your news harder than others. If you haven’t started practicing your bedside manner, you’re already behind. And you damn well better be able to tell those grieving loved ones in layman’s terms what happened to their precious child, wife, husband, mother or father. The last thing they want to hear is a bunch of technical medical terms.” I grinned over the sea of concerned faces. I liked scaring the interns.

  They were all just a year or two younger than me, but then I finished my undergraduate degree in biology by the time I was nineteen. Then, I finished med school in two and a half years, and the next three years in residency and then chose my field and did another round of internship, though it didn’t last long. I’d been working full time as a surgeon with CUIMC for nearly three years, and I was at the top of my game. I was already being mentioned on “Thirty Under Thirty” lists. I was twenty-eight and now teaching my peers. I’d say things were going pretty well for me.

  “Now, don’t any of you think that you can ride my coattails, just because I spent a few hours with you,” I said. “If you’re good at what you do, I’ll consider putting a good word in for you. But, I’m not going to call the Dean of the Faculties of Health Sciences and Medicine and gush about how great you did on my little quizzes. My reputation matters a great deal to me. Remember that when you’re frantically searching medical texts for answers. Most of you are probably going to drop out because you can’t hack it. I’m sorry, but that’s the way things go.”

  “How do you suggest we improve our bedside manner, Dr. Rye?” a geeky-looking intern asked.

  “I’m glad you asked,” I replied. “First, read over the documented deaths during surgery at CUIMC, you will find them in the hospital archives and look for most common factors in the deaths from the past ten years. It will help you put together a sound and compassionate answer for those grieving loved ones. Next find a few friends or better yet, other interns, to practice on. You want to grieve with them, without being overly emotional and teary. If you’re the one crying, they may suspect you had something to do with the death. However, you don’t want to be cold and unsympathetic either. It’s a fine balance and it can take years to develop the right tone.”

  The interns looked at me as if I was a god. They ate up every word I said. Most of it was pretty accurate.

  “We’ll have an oral quiz over appropriate bedside manners in one week, and you better be prepared for whatever death I give you to break to the parents.”

  “Any suggestions on where to research those deaths, Dr. Rye?” another intern asked.

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “If you weren’t listen
ing before now, then I suggest you speak with some of the other interns. Maybe one of them will clue you in on where to find such information. I however will not repeat myself. I did not get to where I am by having to ask interns for information. I worked my ass off to become the youngest surgeon on staff here as well as the top requested in my field, not only here at CUIMC, but at all of the hospitals in the NYC area.”

  I looked around the room. The interns were in awe.

  “Okay, next up, doctors in training, I want to know the diagnosis of a patient exhibiting shortness of breath, chest pain, dizziness, and possible excessive sweat,” I said, getting bored as I stared out over the clueless interns. “Well?” I ask.

  Timidly a hand went up.

  “Yes?” I arch a brow.

  “Possible heart attack?”

  “No.” I frown as no other hands went up. “I would rather you all raised your hands and said, ‘I don’t know, Dr. Rye, I’ll go look that up’. Now, since none of you had the balls to do that, I want a four page paper on DVTs, what causes them, who is susceptible, how to prevent them and how to treat them!”

  “Yes, Dr. Rye,” they all answered.

  “Well? Don’t just stare at me, get started.” I looked at my Rolex. I still had a few minutes before they were to be sent off to do their rounds.

  While the interns all shifted in their seats, pulling out their laptops at the tables of the conference room we used for these morning sessions, I got out my phone and discreetly flipped through past conversations I’d had with women in the last few weeks. I was feeling a little frazzled because I wanted to show up to the cancer research fundraiser event with a lovely young woman in tow. A few other surgeons, doctors, and the CEO of CUIMC, Dr. Fineman would be there, and I wanted to make a lasting impression. Most people attended these things with a date. I don’t know why, but it was harder to navigate these situations alone.

  For some reason, it was easier to talk to people with a woman hanging on your arm or lingering nearby with a glass of champagne. You could introduce her to the other women and somehow, they’d feel more at ease with you, as if the simple act of keeping a female around spoke of one’s good character. Done correctly, the date would transform me from the genius kid surgeon to a well respected colleague.

  She had to fit a certain type, too. The chosen date had to be attractive. It seemed extremely shallow, but chemistry couldn’t be faked. I couldn’t place my hand in the small of her back and parade her through the ballroom floor if I wasn’t interested in getting physically close to her. But, at the same time, she had to be smart. Intelligent people could sniff out a total dimwit.

  She didn’t necessarily have to be brainy. I wasn’t against hanging around girls who matched, or even exceed my education level, but I wasn’t someone to get turned on by a brain surgeon, just because she’s smart. There had to be a balance.

  A good example of a prime date was the daughter of a socialite, who was working on her degree in Psychology. She was smart enough to make it into college, but it’s a common-enough field. She knew how to act around people with money because she’d grown up around it. She’d probably be hot because rich girls could buy their looks. And, if she’d grown up around society people, she’d probably be good for a roll in the hay at the end of the night. That was always an added bonus.

  But, just because I brought a date didn’t mean that I couldn’t play the field while I was at the event. I didn’t bring a chick because I wanted to take her home to my parents. She just had to seem like a girl I’d take home to my parents. I could ditch her at any moment and hook up with the gorgeous model who attended the event with her sugar daddy. An invitation to an event was not a marriage proposal— I could leave with whomever I wanted. I just wanted to look good when it counted.

  As I flipped through my phone, I couldn’t really find anyone who fit the situation. There were a lot of girls I wanted to see in the privacy of my own home, but none that I wanted to meet important doctors and surgeons. As a rule, I also didn’t see women more than once or twice. I was not meant for monogamy or long-term relationships. Girls seemed to get attached to me too easily. I tried to be upfront with them and let them know that we wouldn’t be taking things very far. I was not boyfriend material, and they were not going to be the one to change me.

  I looked back down at my watch. I had let them work about five minutes longer than I really should have, knowing they have rounds to attend. No one said anything about it yet, but I knew that I couldn’t keep them too long, or else I would get reamed by administration. I didn’t know if I’d be asked to teach again, but I wanted to do well enough that they would want me to teach another round of residents in the future.

  “Okay,” I said loudly. “I am sure that you’ve all had a good amount of time to figure out what a DVT is and get a good start on your research.”

  One of the interns raised their hand and before I even called on them, they began to speak, “A DVT is a deep vein thrombosis—”

  I stop them there. “As I said, a four page paper, Dr. Adams.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “The time to give me the answer orally has passed. And in the future, if none of you know the answer to a question I ask, you will be writing a hell of a lot more of these papers. I suggest you start studying more.”

  Before I could dismiss the class, a female intern in the front of the class raised her hand.

  “Yes, Dr.?” I asked, looking right at her.

  She sat up a little straighter once acknowledged. “You make it seem as though we learned nothing in medical school, Dr. Rye. But we have all attended med school and passed or we wouldn’t be here.”

  I arch a brow at her. “Your point?”

  “I am just wondering… if you have any faith in us at all.”

  I grinned. “Are you looking for reassurance?”

  She smiled bashfully. “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Sorry to break it to you, but you’re not going to get it from me. But, if you play your cards right, I might be able to help you all learn what you need to know to be great doctors.”

  I glanced at my watch. “Well, that’s all the time we have for this morning. You are dismissed to begin your rounds.”

  “What about our homework, Dr. Rye?” a brown-nosing intern asked.

  The other interns groaned and looked at him with daggers in their eyes.

  I pursed my lips, I’d completely forgotten that the DVT paper wasn’t actually homework.

  “Do you not think you have enough between the DVT paper and the bedside manner work I assigned? Very well,” I said off the top of my head, “I want a list of every type of cancer, and all the symptoms that go with each, as well as their mortality rate.”

  The interns groaned again and began to file out of the room, meaning that it was back to the daily grind for me. I started gathering my things when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I don’t know why, but the soft touch sent a shiver down my spine, in a completely unprofessional way.

  Chapter 2

  Olivia

  My heart pounding, I approached Dr. Rye, feeling stupidly star struck. I felt weird knowing who he was while the other interns just figured he was a whizz kid who made it through school and residency in the shortest amount of time possible. Only I knew where he came from and what he’d really accomplished in such a short amount of time. I’d been following his career ever since I was in high school.

  It sounded creepy, but my interest in Damon Rye was personal. He had basically accomplished everything I wanted to do, though I would be thrilled if it took me even triple the time it took him to get to his current place as a top surgeon.

  “Dr. Rye,” I said, tapping him on the back after we had been dismissed.

  He whipped around quickly, as if he were surprised to have someone approach him. I instantly felt a little embarrassed and wondered if it was really worth it to introduce myself. He was a big deal in NYC. I was not.

  “Oh, yes, what can I do for you?” he asked as he jammed a folder into his bag.


  “I— I just wanted to introduce myself,” I said. “My name is Olivia Hunter.”

  “Nice to meet you, Dr. Hunter,” he said smoothly. “You can call me Damon. We’re not in class now, and while I do love my title, it seems a bit formal for this small conversation.”

  I nodded. “I just wanted to say that you’re an inspiration to me. I hope that one day I can do what you’re doing.”

  The words came out so quickly, I wasn’t sure that he even registered what I said.

  He smiled politely. “Why don’t you check up on me in ten years or so? See if I’m still an inspiration, you know? That’s very nice of you to say. I never knew I had an admirer.”

  I blushed, and hoped that he didn’t notice. “I’m from Hazelwood,” I explained quickly. “Actually, we lived just a couple blocks away from your family.”

  His eyes lit up a little when I said this. He looked at me as if he were trying to place me. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “So we were never in school together?”