The Procedure (2 page)

TWO WEEKS LATER
, and after a ton of research on the topic, I was sitting in the waiting room of Miami’s best plastic surgeon, looking at before-and-after photos. It was amazing the changes a doctor could make, and I was looking forward to changing myself for the better.

The waiting room was empty. The sounds of the large, saltwater fish tank filled the space. My eyes lingered on the tropical coral reef and the exotic fish that moved languidly through the water. Oh, to be a fish and glide carelessly through life.

The door opened, taking my attention away from the tank, and a slim brunette walked in and went to the counter. She stood with her back to me—her curvy figure accentuated by the tight pants and stylish shirt she was wearing.

Girls like her were the reason I was there in the first place. She was perfect, and I wanted that kind of perfection. I had dreams of slimmer hips and a gap between my thighs. I envisioned a flatter stomach and perky breasts. Running my fingers down my face, I thought how much smaller my nose could be and how much brighter my eyes might look once I’d had a face-lift. I wanted the works.

“Mrs. Aldridge, the doctor will see you now,” the nurse said, waking me from my daydream.

Collecting my expensive purse, I stood on shaking knees and followed the nurse to the back. She was my age. An auburn ponytail bounced with her step, occasionally showing off her tiny diamond earrings. Her teal scrubs were cute and baggy, but still showed off her short stature and small frame.

She opened a door for me, and held it open, allowing me to enter before her. The room was just like any other room at the doctor’s office. Pastel-green covered the walls, and the sterile smells of a germ-free environment tickled my nose. Along the walls were posters of the female and male body. Colorful pictures depicted muscles in red and bone in white. Examples of how changes could easily be made showed in step-by-step processes made my skin crawl.

Reaching under the cabinet, the nurse pulled out a white, paper gown and handed it to me. “You can leave on your panties.”

The nurse looked up me sympathetically as my shaky fingers brushed hers, and I took the gown from her hands. She gave me her best ‘don’t worry’ look and patted my arm.

“Don’t worry, honey,” she said. “Dr. Blake is the best. He’s done wonders for every one of his patients. Whatever it is, I’m confident he’ll fix it.” She gave me an encouraging smile and turned to leave me in the room alone.

Guilt and nerves rolled in my stomach, and I was worried I might lose my breakfast. I hadn’t exactly lied about my reasoning for my appointment with the plastic surgeon, but I’d spent the last two weeks stalking him and I knew his rules.

Reconstructive only.

I shivered as I thought about the horror stories and images I could never un-see. Picture after picture of all the botched plastic surgeries some women had endured. I refused to let some fresh-out-of-school doctor use me as his first Frankenstein project.

I didn’t have many friends, close or acquaintances, but I knew a few of the women at the country club Michael and I attended flaunted their plastic surgeries like they did a new pair of Manolos. I’d seen those women before and after and I had to admit, they were better afterward.

As embarrassed as I was, I worked up the nerve to strike up a conversation with Molly Douglas and gushed over her pretty, pink lipstick and how fabulous it looked on her. That was all the encouragement she needed to tell me all about the plastic surgeon who did a “little” work on her lips.

Dr. Marcus Stein was apparently the surgeon every Miami housewife was turning to when they needed a little pick-me-up. I listened carefully as she explained her experience and when another woman joined and then another, I realized how much I missed conversation with other people.

When two other women joined us thirty minutes later, I took it as more than a coincidence and counted my blessings when she introduced herself as the one and only Mrs. Stein. The other women praised over her husband’s work and giggled like teenage girls when they asked what it was like to have those hands on her every night.

As the conversation grew and the mimosas filled everyone’s system, the conversation turned to Dr. Stein’s partner, Dr. Roman Blake. I wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol talking, but Mrs. Stein was all too willing to admit that as good as her husband was, the one and only Dr. Blake was better.

I listened intently, hanging on to her every word of the infamous Roman Blake before excusing myself to run home and Google him. The whole drive home I wondered why, if Dr. Blake was so much better, they hadn’t gotten him to do their surgeries. Maybe if I had stayed just a little longer, I would have found out and I wouldn’t have set my hopes so high on the one and only Dr. Roman Blake.

Swallowing hard, I set my purse on the chair to my side and slowly began to undress. The gown was gaping in the back, letting cool air skim my back and ass. Tucking it around me, I carefully sat on the paper-protected bed in a way that would keep me covered. Wiggling my ass until I felt a semblance of comfort, I sat and swung my legs from the bed like a child as I waited for the doctor to come in.

I heard the rattle of the clipboard on the back of the door, and then there was a soft knock before the door slowly opened. As I held my breath, the ball of nerves in my stomach exploded.

I wasn’t sure what I expected. When I thought of a top plastic surgeon, I pictured an older man with lots of experience and knowledge. A man that had lived a long life and had the wrinkles to show it.

That was not who walked into the room. No. This man wasn’t much older than I was, and he was tall and big. Not in the way that he’d had too many cheeseburgers and fries over the last few years, but so muscled that his scrubs, which should have hung loosely from his frame, rubbed his thick thighs like they were a second skin. He adjusted the long, white coat he was wearing and shut the door behind him. The room instantly felt ten times smaller when he fully entered.

“Mrs. Aldridge, how are you?”

Dear God in heaven, the man was British. My thigh muscles clenched with the sweet tilt of each of his words. His voice was deep and musical. I felt each clipped word in places that hadn’t had feeling in over a year.

As he flipped up a page on the clipboard and looked over my file, his sleeves were pushed up and I couldn’t help but notice how thick his forearms were. Solid. Tan. Perfection. His long fingers worked a black pen as he made notes on my file. He lacked a wedding band. Not that I usually checked for things like that, but I made a mental note that he wasn’t married.

“I’m…” I finally managed to wedge out, but I didn’t know how to finish the sentence.
Fine
was what I normally would’ve said, but when I hesitated, he looked away from his note taking and waited for me to respond.

His eyes clashed with mine, and I was instantly reminded of a shot glass full of whiskey. The caramel brown of his eyes glittered under the florescent lights above us.

A tiny smile tilted his full lips and plunged a sweet dimple into his cheek. The air was literally sucked from my lungs, and I felt the heat of a few glasses of whiskey on my cheeks.

“I’m actually really nervous,” I confessed honestly. Honesty would be the death of me one day.

He laughed and tucked away the clipboard. “I assure you that’s quite normal. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever had a patient who
wasn’t
nervous at some point during this whole experience. A lot of my patients have a hard time wrapping their mind around the fact that everything will change for them.”

I knew I had to tell him now, but fear choked me and I couldn’t breathe, let alone explain to him I wasn’t like most of his patients. I desperately didn’t want him to turn me away. Reject me. I wanted this more than I wanted anything in my entire life.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, snapping me from my inner fears. “I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Dr. Blake, but you can call me Dr. Roman if you’d like. My father is Dr. Blake as far as I’m concerned.” He smiled innocently.

He reached out his hand for mine, and a few seconds passed before I realized he wanted to shake my hand. My arm felt like fifty pound weights were attached to it as I lifted it and placed my hand in his large, warm one. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Aldridge.”

And then, bless my poor heart, he smiled down at me, both dimples popping. I momentarily forgot why I was there, who I was, and who he was. Time froze for a few seconds and in that moment, something totally amazing happened. I got turned on. Just like that. No touching or sweet whispers. No sexual promises. Just a smile that almost shattered my reason for being there and an accent I’d swim the Atlantic Ocean to feel spoken against my skin.

I gave him the limpest handshake imaginable and then embarrassed, I pulled my hand from his and shifted on the table, suddenly realizing I was wearing a thin paper gown and nothing else but my panties.

“You too,” I croaked.

Folding his large frame, he took a seat in the rolling chair across from me and then used his strong legs to pull himself toward me. I knew what was coming. I knew he was going to ask me the dreaded question. The urge to scream and run from the room, arms flailing, was almost tempting.

“So, tell me your story, Ms. Aldridge. How can I help you?” His eyes dropped briefly to my chart again. “Your file says you wanted to talk to me in person about your condition…” His sentence faded as he waited for me to fill in the blanks.

I watched patience settle into the curves of his face, making me want to pour my heart out to him.

My condition… and there it was. I knew the question was going to be asked. I expected it. My answer was on the tip of my tongue, yet I couldn’t let the words loose.

After two hours of intense research on Miami’s number-one reconstructive surgeon, Dr. Roman Blake, my dreams felt crushed. I knew, now, why the women from the country club hadn’t used him to work on them.

As I read article after article on Dr. Blake, my despair grew as they all said the same thing. Roman Blake had started out as a plastic surgeon—his reasoning a personal choice he’d always kept to himself. However, his first year at a private practice, he suddenly changed his field from plastics to reconstruction
only.

There were speculations and rumors for his decision, but without any confirmation from Roman Blake himself, that was all it was. From then on, he had refused any and all plastic surgery patients, leaving that to his business partner, Stein.

I didn’t know why I thought I would be the one to change his mind after all this time, but that didn’t seem to matter because here I was.

I should be feeling a good amount of confidence over my decision. I had talked myself through the whole appointment with the understanding that no matter how much it cost, or under what terms he requested, I was going to have Dr. Blake as my surgeon.

I wanted to hold my head up high, sit straighter, and tell him exactly what I wanted… even if confessing what I wanted right now in this moment wasn’t a new body, but to feel alive in my old one.

Instead, I lowered my head with embarrassment filling my cheeks, picturing him as the older man I had envisioned before I entered the office.

“I want everything done,” I stated, in a matter-of-fact tone. Apparently, I was going to feign ignorance.

He frowned and shifted in his chair. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Aldridge, I don’t think I understand. What is it you’re asking me to do?”

I squirmed under his gaze. “Cosmetic surgery.”

Something shifted, and gone was his patience and sensitivity for my “condition”. His jaw hardened, making a vein in his neck tick and his eyes become cold.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Aldridge, but I don’t do cosmetic surgery. That’s Dr. Stein’s area. I’m strictly reconstructive, but I think you knew that, considering you pretended to have a condition that required reconstructive surgery in order to see me.”

I flushed under his accusation. “Dr. Blake, please let me explain.”

“I’m sorry,” he said firmly, cutting me off, “but you’ve wasted not only your time, Ms. Aldridge, but mine, as well.”

“Please,” I begged, grabbing his forearm. It was warm and hard under my hand. The muscles shifted beneath my fingers, relaying the raw strength in his arm. “Please let me explain.”

“You have five minutes, Ms. Aldridge, but you should know I have no intention of changing my mind.”

I took a deep breath and tried not to do the one thing I wanted to do in that moment. Throw up.

“I’m sorry that I deceived my way into a meeting with you, but I didn’t know what else to do. I knew you wouldn’t see me if I was upfront and honest about what I wanted.”

He surprised me by snapping, “Damn right.”

“I know I’m not like your other patients, Dr. Roman.”

“Real,” he said, confusing me.

“I’m sorry?”

“My
real
patients. You know, people with
real
issues? The ones born with deformities or who were in terrible accidents that left them scarred and changed forever,” he corrected. “Tell me, Ms. Aldridge, why did you come to
me,
knowing Dr. Stein would have been more than willing to do whatever you wanted done?”