Page 10 of Exposed
The assistant steps back, returning to his clipboard. His face remains blank, as if forcefully stripping someone’s clothes is a normal part of his job. Maybe it is.
I take off my bra. A metallic clang echoes, startling me.
The assistant arranges a tray of medical equipment with so many tools, I’m not even sure what they are.
“Follow orders,” he barks. “Undress. Then sit.”
I undress cautiously. Once his back is to me again, I take off my socks and shoes, then quickly hide the vial under the exam table. My hip bumps into the table and shifts it. The assistant flips around.
“What are you doing?” he snaps.
I cross my arms over my bare chest. “Waiting for you to get on with it.”
He huffs. I sit my bare ass on the paper lining. The leather’s chill seeps through the barrier. He narrows his eyes, then glances from me to the tray to the exam table.
He’s already back to being disinterested in me. I let out a breath.
He takes my clothes and shoes off of the floor, then stuffs them inside of a biohazard bag. I straighten and blink at my reflection. My skin prickles. Is Dr. Ambrose watching me? Did he see me hide the vial?
Does he want me?
My cheeks redden. I don’t know why that crossed my mind. If Dr. Ambrose is my father, then he made it pretty damn clear he wanted nothing to do with me. And I can’t think about anything sexual like that. Not right now. Not when I’m here because of my murdered mother.
The assistant removes two stirrups from the exam table’s far edge. My stomach churns, my temperature rising.
“Those are for a gynecological exam,” I say. “Why would?—”
“This is about your sexual behavior, Miss Ward,” he says. “Obviously, we’ll need to inspect your holes.”
My stomach flutters.Inspect my holes?
Like I’m an object they can examine.
A specimen under a microscope.
A toy to use.
I grit my teeth and scrunch my eyes, forcing those thoughts away. I can’t think like that. I need to focus.
The filing cabinet catches my attention. The top drawer is partially open, files are pooling out of the seconddrawer, and rust speckles the bottom of the cabinet. It’s reflective of everything in the asylum. Used. Abandoned. Forgotten.
But I’m here. And Dr. Ambrose will be here soon.
I’m not here for myself,I repeat inwardly.I’m definitely not here because of some messed-up fantasies I may or may not actually have. I’m here for my mother. I’m here because I’m going to kill him.
Metal twists in the lock. The door flies open. My throat constricts. Nerves drip down to my stomach.
Dr. Ambrose enters and towers over me. He beams down his curved nose, amusement pursing his lips. His jaw ticks. A clinical and acidic aroma fills the room, as if his mere presence can swallow everything it comes into contact with.
And his full attention is on me.
He rolls the stool over to the exam table and sits in front of me.
“Feet in the stirrups,” he commands.
I put my feet in the metal footrests and angle my knees inward.I have to do this,I remind myself.This is part of getting his guard down. Just because you’re doing what he says, doesn’t mean you’ve given in.
“Move your hips down so we can see you, Miss Ward,” Dr. Ambrose adds. “Your boyfriend told me about your exhibitionist tendencies. Don’t hide when you know you want to be seen.”
