The V-Spot. Wendy S. Marcus

his over-muscled chest, and worn-out, faded blue jeans clung to his hips and thick thighs. He was too big, too handsome, too everything. At the thought of him witnessing her humiliation, of him telling his loud-mouthed friends how he’d found her alone at a voyeur motel, of the endless teasing and tormenting she would no doubt be forced to endure as a result, her heart started to pound and her armpits grew disturbingly wet.

      I’ll go to church every Sunday, she bargained with the Almighty. Just don’t let him notice me. Maybe she should have offered up a more realistic and achievable bargaining chip, because in that moment he spotted her and smiled his cocky I’m-so-handsome-you-gotta-love-me smile. And Emma got the distinct impression he wasn’t at all surprised to see her there, that he expected to see her. Which could only mean...

      Oh no, no, no, she shook her head and took a step back, trying to put more distance between them. One of her very specific criteria had been no one from the hospital. Okay, so technically she and Brody didn’t actually work together, but close enough.

      Emma glanced around the room looking for another exit, not finding one. Damn it.

      He’s totally into you, Sadie had said.

      Why would she lie? Why would she get Emma’s hopes up only to send them crashing down into a disappointed heap at the big blind date reveal?

      Guys like Brody, aka way too good-looking, popular athletes, didn’t pay attention to women like Emma. Unless their interest was forced as part of a bet, or they chose a dare over the truth, or they wanted something from her. In high school and college it’d been for help getting in good with one of her friends or for a tutor to help them maintain academic eligibility to play sports. Always in private, so no one would see them together, so worried about their precious reputations. Egocentric assholes.

      Which is why Emma made it a point to avoid guys like Brody. And when she couldn’t, like at work when she’d first been assigned to screening the wrestlers before they could circulate among the patients, it was why she remained aloof, all business, a total professional unsusceptible to their insincere charms.

      He stepped toward her and Emma’s heart started to race. Why was he here? Cruel prank came to mind. And Emma got mad. How dare he ruin her night? And ruin it he had. Because there was absolutely no way in hell she’d be shedding one stitch of clothing in front of The Bull. No way in hell she’d give him the opportunity to criticize her or poke fun at her or discuss her many physical imperfections with his wrestling buddies, like they discussed so many other women, as if Emma wasn’t even in the room.

      Best birthday ever? Over before it’d even begun.

      When he came to a stop in front of her, looking as if he had every right to be there, Emma wanted to hit him. If she could have done it without creating a scene she would have. Instead she pursed her lips to keep from screaming out and narrowed her eyes in warning.

      He held up his hands, seeming ready to fend off an attack—apparently he was smarter than he looked—and opened his mouth to say something. But his words got drowned out when Angie yelled, “Thank God. A doctor.”

       What?

      Emma jerked her head around to see the parted crowd and a clear path to Angie, who was kneeling next to a man who’d apparently collapsed to the floor. “Come.” She motioned with her hand to Brody. “We need you.”

      With a collective swivel of heads, everyone in the room turned in their direction.

      Brody glanced over his shoulder as if expecting a doctor to be standing there.

      If the situation hadn’t appeared so serious, Emma may have laughed at Brody’s horrified expression as he turned back to face Angie and pointed to his chest. “You mean me?” He shook his head. “No way. I’m not a doctor.”

      “Isn’t he your fiancé?” Angie asked Emma loudly, her voice approaching panic.

      Apparently Angie was not a fan of wrestling. All eyes shifted to Emma.

      “You have a fiancé?” Brody bellowed.

       Good Lord.

      He stood to his full height of a couple of inches over way too tall, crossed his beefy arms over his wide chest and stared down at her with angry brown eyes.

      As if he could bully an explanation out of her.

      The jerk.

      Emma looked away to find no escape in the dozens of questioning, some disapproving, eyes still locked on her. So she did the only thing she could and tried to divert their attention. “Man down, people.” She stormed toward the man sitting on the floor. “Let’s focus on what’s important.”

      Someone yelled, “That’s The Bull.”

      Another person, this one female, followed with, “What’s he doing here?”

      A third added, “He’s her date?”

      The third speaker just happened to be standing within elbow range when she’d uttered that unflattering remark. So Emma maybe nudged her aside a little harder than necessary while saying, “I’m a nurse. Back up and give me room,” so the woman wouldn’t feel in any way assaulted.

      Emma knelt beside the twenty-something blond-haired businessman who appeared to be experiencing moderate respiratory distress with impaired air exchange. “My name is Emma and I’m a nurse. Can you tell me what happened?”

      He mumbled.

      Emma called out, “I can’t hear.”

      No one seemed to care because The Bull had arrived.

      A booming male voice she recognized as Brody’s professional wrestler voice yelled, “Quiet.”

      The room went silent.

      She bent and put her ear close to the man’s mouth.

      “Allergic.” He wheezed. “Nuts. Shellfish.”

      She looked at Angie. “Call an ambulance.” Angie jumped to her feet and ran off.

      Emma turned her attention back to her patient. “Do you have an EpiPen with you?” She sent up a prayer that he did because they were in the middle of nowhere and he’d likely die from anaphylaxis before an ambulance could reach him.

      Thank goodness he nodded. “My...car. Center...console.”

      “Keys,” Emma said.

      He fumbled ineffectively to reach into his pocket.

      Emma moved his hands out of the way and dug into the front pocket of his dress pants. They didn’t have time to waste. “Who’s his date?” she asked, looking up at the people surrounding her.

      A young brunette who looked in shock raised a hand.

      “Do you know where his car is parked?” Or had she insisted on separate cars like Emma had?

      Eyes wide and tear-filled, the woman nodded.

      “Come on.” Brody grabbed the keys, took the woman by the arm and pulled her out toward the parking lot.

      The seconds passed like hours while Emma waited. The man’s breathing grew more labored, his wheezing more pronounced. His pulse increased, each beat pounding beneath her fingertips. Emma did all she could, loosening his tie, unbuttoning his shirt to reduce any exterior restrictions to his airway and in preparation to administer CPR if his condition worsened. She reassured him, did her best to keep him calm and watched helplessly as his lips turned an alarming shade of blue.

      Finally Brody crashed back into the room—did the man do anything quietly?—and thrust two EpiPens at her.

      Then he set to work herding the gawkers outside.

      Out of habit, Emma checked the packaging for signs of tampering and an expiration date. Not that it mattered because she would inject at least one regardless. Then she popped off the safety cap, flattened the material at