His Princess (A Royal Romance)(92)

I settle into the desk to find that Laura has left me a pile of claims to settle. It’s mostly tedious computer work, until the computer inevitably pops up with an exception.

The first claim I enter pops up with an exception. I can’t do anything else until it’s fixed. So I spend the next hour listening to crackly, barely intelligible hold music that sounds like the distant wailing of the damned.

Oh, joy.

By lunchtime I’ve cleared half of Laura’s backlog from the previous day. By midafternoon I’m partway into my own, fresh backlog.

That’s when Burt strolls up to me.

“How’s that going, getting it sorted?”

“Yes,” I say curtly. “I’m getting it done.”

“Good, good. I’m going to need you to stay late until they’re all cleared. You can lock up when you leave. Hope that isn’t too much trouble.”

It would be, if I was taking the bus. I’ll have Quentin hang out with me until it’s time to leave.

“No trouble,” I say wearily.

“Good. Hop to it, then.”

He retreats into the back and I hear the hygienist giggling. God, how can they stand to let him touch them?

Sighing, I turn back to my work. Thankfully most of my claims clear faster and it looks like I won’t be more than half an hour or so behind. Laura must have been slacking off for days. I can’t believe Burt didn’t do something about this before.

Wait, yes I can. Laura probably blew her way out of it and into my desk. I watch her in the mirror as she plays with her hair and types one-handed, oblivious to the scowl of the patient at the desk watching her.

Working here is like pulling out my own teeth.

About two in the afternoon, a new patient comes in. I can’t help but notice her. The countertop doesn’t even reach her chest. She must be six feet tall, but in a statuesque, model-ish way, with a full, voluptuous figure, perfect skin, and thick auburn hair so lush it looks like she’s been auditioning for one of those commercials about the orgasm shampoo.

Burt noticed her, too. He greets her in the hallway.

“Hello,” he says brightly. “I’m Dr. Simonson. What brings you in today?”

Miss Model smiles warmly. “I’m here for a cleaning. I just moved to town.”

“Huh,” he says. “Great to see you. We’ll be in soon.”

He walks past her as she heads down the hallway and cranes his head to look at her ass before he ducks into his private office.

I feel dirty, but it’s no worse than what he does half the time. He’s not sick or stupid enough to actually do something to a patient under his care, is he?

I sit back in my chair and start working on processing the next claim. My skin crawls. It feels like someone poured bugs down my back. I hate this place, and I hate Burt.

An hour later, the same patient comes out, scowling.

As she pays her bill up front, she tells Laura curtly, “I’m not coming back here.”

She slaps her credit card down on the counter and Laura runs it, glancing at me. I look up at the woman and she looks away, biting her lip in annoyance.

What did he do?

I turn back to the computer and the words on the screen fuzz. I scrub my hands over my eyes.

I’m not just working here. I’m helping this guy do things to people.

Except I need to feed my kids.

At last it’s quitting time. I’ve slowed down. It’s more like an extra hour of work now. Burt gathers up his harem and leaves, laughing.

“Lock up on your way out,” he says cheerily.

About five minutes later I hear tapping on the front door. Quentin stands outside with his hands in his pockets, smirking at me. I push the door open and he slips inside.

“Thank God, it’s hot as balls out there. So, this is the dentist’s office?”

“Yeah,” I sigh. “I have to stay after work if you don’t mind.”

“What happened, boss gave you detention? Were you a bad girl?”

“No, he moved me onto a shittier job and gave me more work.”

Quentin’s jaw clenches. “Is that the way of it, then.”

“Yeah, that’s the way of it. You want to hang out in the waiting room? It’s going to be like forty-five minutes. I mean, I can catch the bus…”

He steps closer and takes hold of my ponytail.

“You’re not taking the bus. I forbid it.”

I shake loose of him and then his hand cracks on my ass. I jump and squeak.

“Quentin!”

“Get to work. There a remote for this TV?”

“On the coffee table.”

Quentin sits there and watches Spongebob while leafing through a copy of Yachting Today and yawning. I work as fast as I can. At six, the insurance offices will close and I’ll have to put off going through the damned claims anyway.

The last one goes through without a hitch at 5:43. I push back from the computer and roll across the floor on my chair, spin around, and throw my hands up as I stand, and stretch until my back pops, my fingers laced over my head.

Quentin watches.

“Do that again,” he says, smirking.

I scowl at him and grab my tote bag.

He snaps to his feet, dropping the magazine on the table.

I start toward the door but he grabs my wrist.