Coworker Complications Pt 04

Wednesday.

The clock on Dr. Anil Johnson's desk blinked 8:12 a.m., its red digits casting a faint glow across the large, but cluttered office at Home Away From Home. The room filled with harsh sterile light, the blinds half-drawn to allow scenes of a bustling city to slice through the haze of cigarette smoke curling from an ashtray perched on the window sill--technically against policy, but Johnson didn't give a shit; he wrote the rules. At 45, the Indian doctor, intentionally Americanized with a home-grown sounding last name, carried the weight of his father's legacy as the aging owner of the Home Away From Home corporation, a dwindling network of nursing facilities that had been bleeding money and lawsuits since Anil took the helm. His dark hair was slicked back, thinning at the temples, and his white coat hung open over a rumpled dress shirt, the top button undone to reveal a patch of chest hair. He leaned back in his creaky chair, one leg propped on a filing cabinet, eyes fixed on the crystal clear security footage flickering across his monitor.

On screen, Megan knelt beside Marvin's tub, her blonde hair spilling loose, her scrub top long discarded, perfect C-cup tits bare and glistening with water as she worked his thick, nine-inch cock with both hands. The 72-year-old Black patient groaned, his 315-pound frame sloshing in the shallow bath, his meaty paw gripping the edge as lower her head to his crotch, suds inches from her face. The timestamp read Tuesday, March 18, 2025--yesterday morning--and the footage caught every second: her naive focus, his shuddering release, thick ropes of cum shooting into her wanting mouth, dripping down her chin as she started to twist from her own orgasm. Her hand increasing in speed between her partial clothed legs. Johnson's lips curled into a smirk, a low chuckle rumbling in his throat as he tapped the ash from his cigarette.

"Fuck me, look at this," he said, his accent clipping the words, his tone a mix of amusement and disbelief. "Dumb as a bag of hammers, this one. Topless, suckin' off a fat old bastard like Marvin--and she just takes it. Christ, Kevin, where'd you find her?"

Kevin, sprawled in the chair across the desk, grinned wide, his bearded face flushed with pride. At 45 and 300 pounds, the nurse shift manager filled the seat like a boulder, his faded polo straining over his gut, a coffee stain blooming on the collar. His rough hands rested on his knees, thick fingers drumming a lazy rhythm as he watched the screen, eyes glinting with a predator's glee. "She's been around, let's just say the incentives have really resonated with her," he rasped, voice gravelly from years of barking orders. "A nurse with a bleeding heart, too stupid to say no. Took a bit to break her in, but once she stopped whining about the gropes? She's opening up quick. Look at her--doesn't even blink when he unloads in her mouth, even getting off to it."

Johnson snorted, pausing the video on a frame of Megan's cum-streaked lips, her bra dangling uselessly in the tub's murky water. "Perfect little slut," he muttered, zooming in, the 4k image sharpening on her flushed cheeks. "Young--twenty-something?--and sexy as hell. Beats the shit outta those uptight bitches who lawyer up every time we don't boot the old geezer who grabs her ass. Smart ones sue us dry; this one? Too dumb to know she's got rights worth a damn."

Kevin nodded and leaned forward, elbows on his thighs. "That's the play, Doc. She's our lightning rod now--keeps the horny old fuckers focused. Marvin, Bart, John, Carl--all the hard-to-handle pervs, secure wing and regular. They're too busy drooling over her to bother the other girls. No more lawsuits from the 'smart' nurses crying harassment. She's a goddamn pressure valve--sucks 'em off, lets 'em cop a feel, and then peace returns to Home Away from Home."

Johnson flicked his cigarette into the ashtray, exhaling a plume of smoke that hung heavy in the dim light. "These new security cams are a fucking blessing with her," he said, tapping the screen. "She didn't even know we had 'em 'til what, last week? Now she's posing like it's porn. Look at that--probably texted her fiancé take pic she just took with Marvin's dick."

Kevin laughed, a sharp bark that echoed off the peeling walls. "Yeah, she even mentioned that her man is into it, she's clueless--told her it's all part of the gig now. 'Patient care,' I said. She ate it up--thinks she's climbing the ladder. Got her slated for the worst of 'em full-time now--sexed-up geezers who'd hump a doorknob if it smiled at 'em. Can't wait to see how far she takes it. And for what, $30k more a year? That's a tenth of a single one of the half a dozen lawsuits we have been pilling up each year."

Johnson's smirk faded, his eyes narrowing as he swiveled to face Kevin fully, the chair squeaking under his shift. "Speaking of climbing the ladder--tell me she signed that contract, Kev. She's already topless, blowing these bastards with your pep talk--she's in deep. I don't want this spiraling before we've got her locked down. Her signature waves her rights to lawsuits, gives us legal cover for her 'duties.' Hell--" he chuckled darkly, leaning back--"I'd love a crack at her myself. Legal blowjob, no disclosure bullshit, 'cause she can't squeal with that ink on paper."

Kevin's grin faltered, just for a beat, his thick fingers pausing mid-drum. "Uh, yeah, about that," he said, scratching his beard, his tone dipping into unease. "She hasn't signed yet. Took it with her--said she'd bring it back signed tomorrow night, her Thursday night shift."

Johnson froze, cigarette halfway to his lips, his dark eyes hardening into slits. "What the fuck did you just say?" His voice dropped, low and venomous, the room's air thickening with his sudden rage. "She took it? Are you fucking retarded, Kevin? What if someone with a brain reads that thing?"

Kevin shrank back slightly, palms up in defense, his bulk shifting awkwardly in the chair. "Whoa, Doc, chill--I fucked up, alright? She caught me off guard. I figured she'd sign right there, but she was all, 'Oh, I'll look it over tonight with my man, he's a lawyer,' and I didn't push 'cause I was too busy staring at her tits on the Carl footage. But, I did tell her she cannot let him peak at it, a conflict of interest, you know--she bought it. She's dumb as shit, trust me, it'll be fine. Worst case scenario, the guy gets a peek, and he's into it, she asks for the Crazy Carl video for him."

"Fine?" Johnson slammed his fist on the desk, the ashtray rattling, ash spilling onto a stack of patient files. "You let a contract--our contract, with all that 'testicular health' and 'exposure integral' bullshit--walk out the door with her? The guy is still a fucking lawyer, blood sucking like all the rest, you moron." Suddenly, his head cocked as a memory popped into his head, muttering loudly, "Oh fuck. Fuck. Fucking Christ. Kevin! You know what she fucking told me this past Christmas party? That scrawny little prick she introduced to me, he works at fucking Melvin Marvin Maxwell! You fucking idiot! The fucking law firm that's been up MY ass with this malpractice suit? I shelled out millions to our sniveling lawyers to get the key evidence tossed, and now you've handed them a goddamn golden ticket!"

Kevin's face paled, his jaw dropping as the dots connected too late. "Shit, Doc, I didn't know--I've never met the guy! She said he's a lawyer, yeah, but she really bought into the crap about conflict of interest, told her not to show him. She nodded like a bobblehead--swear she won't talk."

Johnson stood, towering over the desk, his cigarette crushed into the ashtray with a vicious twist. "You fucking idiot," he roared, veins bulging in his neck. "That firm walked away with their tail between their legs from the last depo--if they get this, we're fucked. Not just civil--criminal. They'll have my ass in cuffs. Fix this, Kevin--now. Get that contract back, signed, or I'll make sure you never work in healthcare again!"

Kevin scrambled to his feet, hands raised, sweat beading on his brow. "I'm sorry, Doc--I'll handle it, I swear. She's too stupid to spill, and I'll get it tomorrow night. Promise."

"Get it sooner! Now, get the fuck outta my office," Johnson snarled, pointing at the door. "Don't talk to me 'til you've got that signature in hand. Go!"

Kevin bolted, the door banging shut behind him, his heavy footsteps echoing down the hall. He slumped into his own office--a cramped box two doors down, cluttered with charts and half-dead plants--and dropped into his chair, muttering, "Fucking prick." Johnson was the real asshole here, he thought, rubbing his temples. The lawsuit? That was on Anil--prescribing Viagra to geezers with known heart conditions just to watch 'em paw at the nurses, pop boners in the tub, giggling like a perv while Kevin cleaned up the mess. That damn patient he almost killed--some 80-year-old with a weak heart--keeled over from a second heart attack last year after taking his meds, and the hospital docs flagged it as a glaring oversight. The guy's family lawyered up, and now Johnson acted like everyone else is the problem. "If they only knew the half of it," he grumbled, "Anil'd be fucked ten ways to Sunday."

The door creaked open, and Sarah, one of the managerial staff--a wiry woman in her thirties with a clipboard and a permanent frown--poked her head in. "Hey, Kev, got a new intake--hospital dumped him on us, no beds over there. Lowlife, no money, no family, government's footing it at least. It says here, concussion, minor brain swelling, some speech and cognitive glitches, probably temporary from a recent injury. Our care team stationed at the hospital heard from NYC Care that he qualifies for long-term stay here. Where we sticking him?"

Kevin sighed, snatching the chart from her hands, scanning the scribbled intake notes. "Name's Tyrone Williams, 58, male, Black, presumably homeless--found unconscious, head laceration, facial bruise. Likely assaulted, mild impairment for now, recovery likely." He smirked faintly--58, huh, just how Crazy Carl found his way here, fits the profile of one our typical pervs. "Stick him in secure wing, Room 12-B. Don't know what we're dealing with yet--street trash could be a loose cannon."

Sarah nodded, jotting it down. "Got it. Secure wing it is." She ducked out, leaving Kevin alone again. He pulled out his phone with settling nerves, thumbs hovering over the screen. He thought for a brief moment then started typing a text to Megan--first time she would receive such from him, "Hey Megan, need you for a night shift tonight--roster's thin." After a brief thought, he sent another, "Time and a half for you, plus tomorrow's shift. Dr. Johnson himself said you're a star, climbing fast, someone we can count on." Replaying the seriousness of the situation in his head, he fires of the final, and most important one, "Oh, and that contract wasn't supposed to leave--bring it back, please? Signed."

---

Megan trudged down the sidewalk toward her apartment, the late March breeze nipping at her bare legs, her warm skirt--fresh from the dryer--swishing against her thighs. The navy fabric hugged her hips, still toasty from the laundromat's heat, a stark contrast to the damp chill clinging to her blouse from the morning's drizzle. Her blonde waves spilled loose, catching the sunlight filtering through the gray city haze, and she hummed softly, replaying the bizarre scene she'd just left at Raj's rundown laundromat.

Ten Minutes Earlier: Megan had been down to her blouse and a skimpy black g-string--one of Carson's picks from last night--her skirt tossed in the wash after Raj pointed out a "mystery stain" on the back, yet again. She didn't know how it kept happening--grease, maybe? "Happens all the time, busy girl like you," he'd said, his thick Indian accent lilting as he hovered by her machine, his 300-pound frame sweating through a stained polo. She'd bought it, just like every time before, peeling the skirt off without a second thought. This time was special, Raj was able to guide the situation that culminated with Megan bent over the dryer in just her thong, ass high as she reached deep inside.

"Something's stuck back there," Raj had insisted, leaning over her, his gut pressing into her back, his breath hot on her neck. "See it? Way in the back--your sock or somethin'." She'd squinted into the drum, half her torso wedged inside, the metal cool against her skin, oblivious to the bulge in his pants grinding against her bare ass. His hands braced the machine's edge, "helping" her look, and she'd felt the hard nudge--innocent, she told herself, just a guy thing when a girl's bent over like that. "Don't see anything," she'd mumbled, wriggling out, Raj stepping back with a sheepish grin, admiring the string splitting the wrinkled circle of her asshole one last time while muttering, "Guess it's, I don't know, maybe I'm getting old." She'd shrugged, too trusting to clock the trick, and pulled her skirt on once the cycle beeped, the warmth a small comfort as she gathered her stuff.

Now, walking home, her phone buzzed--Kevin's texts lighting up the screen. Night shift tonight... time and a half... Dr. Johnson said you're a star... bring the contract. Her stomach sank--another shift, ugh--but the praise hit her like a shot of adrenaline. Dr. Johnson himself? She grinned, texting back fast: Count on me, Kevin! I'll be there tonight with the contract--promise! She tucked the phone away, buzzing with pride, already mentally signing that paper she hadn't even read.

As she reached her apartment's dull façade, a voice cut through her thoughts--"Hey, miss, got a sec?"--and she jolted, spinning to face a cop, mid-thirties, broad-shouldered in a crisp NYPD uniform, his badge glinting under the streetlamp. His dark hair was buzzed short, a faint smirk tugging his lips as his blue eyes flicked over her, lingering a beat too long on her curves. "You know a guy named Tyrone? Lives in this alley here?"

Megan's heart skipped, last night's drunken haze flashing up--Carson's punch, Tyrone's crumpled fall. "Oh, uh, yeah--I do," she said, her voice pitching up, nerves tingling. She'd heard horror stories from a nurse friend--disciplinary boards cracking down over dumb stuff--and her license was her lifeline. Lying crossed her mind, but her gullible streak won out; she couldn't think fast enough to dodge. "He's, like, always out there."

The cop--Officer Delaney, his tag read--nodded, pulling a notepad from his pocket, his tone casual, almost bored. "Yeah, figured. Found him this morning, 5 a.m., banged up in the alley--head cut, bruised jaw, looks like someone clocked him. You see anything last night?"

She shifted, skirt swishing, her cheeks warming as his flirty gaze held her. He didn't care much--another drunk homeless guy, a dime a dozen--but he had to ask. "Um, yeah, I did," she admitted, biting her lip. "I was coming home late with a friend, and Tyrone got... handsy. He's done it before, but last night he went too far, and my friend punched him."

Delaney's smirk widened, pen scratching the pad. "Friend, huh? Male or female?"

"Male," she said, nodding quick.

"Boyfriend? Husband?"

"Just a friend," she chirped, honest to a fault.

"Name?" he pressed, eyebrow cocked.

"Carson," she replied, then hesitated. "Uh, I don't remember his last name--sorry."

Delaney chuckled, jotting it down. "No biggie. So, Carson warns him, Tyrone gets grabby anyway, and bam--fist to the face?"

"Yeah, exactly," she said, relaxing a bit, his easy vibe calming her. "I was kinda drunk, having fun, and Tyrone just... overdid it."

He scribbled, muttering as he wrote, "Punched in defense of sexual assault--good enough." He flipped the pad shut, slipping it back into his pocket. "Thanks, doll--got what I need. Would've done the same for a pretty thing like you." His wink was lazy, playful, and she blushed, flattered despite herself.

"Um, what happens to him now?" she asked, worry creeping in, picturing Tyrone's wild grin. "Is he okay?"

Delaney shrugged, leaning against a lamppost, arms crossed. "He's banged up--fell hard, cracked his head on the concrete. Docs patched him up, but he's a mess--concussion, probably. DA won't bother charging him; he's just another lowlife. They'll ship him to a care home--government dime, soft bed, pretty nurses wiping his ass. Better than that piss-soaked alley, so don't sweat it. He'll be fine."

Megan nodded, relief washing over her, a small smile tugging her lips. "Okay, good--thanks, Officer." She turned, skirt flaring, and headed for the apartment, her mind already drifting to tonight's shift, the contract she'd promised to sign, and then back to Tyrone. "Oh, poor guy, all that time watching girls walk by, being so alone and finally getting some attention. I was putting on quite the show, well for Ryan, but still, a poor man like that doesn't have the restraint as someone like Ryan, I feel terrible for how this turned out. I hope he does find himself in a better place."

---

Carson's office stretched wide, a polished slab of real estate on the 14th floor of Melvin Marvin Maxwell's glass-and-steel tower, dwarfing Ryan's modest cubby two doors down. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a gray slice of Manhattan, the late March drizzle smearing the skyline into a watercolor blur. His desk gleamed--mahogany, not some particleboard shit--its surface bare save for a single legal pad, a Montblanc pen, and a steaming espresso in a white ceramic cup, no rings or stains to mar the finish. The HVAC purred softly, a whisper against the leather creak of his chair as he leaned back, legs propped on the edge, polished loafers catching the light. At 9:15 a.m., the clock's tick was a metronome to the chaos brewing outside, the hallway humming with the firm's quiet panic as the 10:00 a.m. meeting with Ken loomed--an hour until the senior partner would flay them alive over the Home Away From Home case's slow bleed-out. But Carson's lips curled into a smug half-smile, his calm a stark fuck-you to the storm JP and Cory were whipping up in his pristine space.

JP paced the hardwood, sweat blooming dark under his pits, his dress shirt untucked and wrinkled like he'd slept in it. His voice cracked, high and ragged, as he waved a hand at nothing. "We're fucked, Carson--fucked. Six months of busting our asses, and the judge spikes our key evidence over some procedural horseshit? Chain-of-custody error--our error, man! Junior associates' screw-up! Ken's gonna crucify us in there--I've been here two years, clawing for a shot, and now I'm back to ramen if this tanks. My lease is up next month--I can't eat another deposition transcript!"

Cory slumped against the window, his lanky frame twitching, thumbnail gnawed to a bloody stub. His reflection jittered in the glass as he muttered, half to himself, "It's not just you, JP--my loans are fucking me good. If this case implodes, Ken won't hesitate--he'll cut us loose and have us replaced with the next batch for the meat grinder. Two years of 80-hour weeks, and I'm toast 'cause we couldn't dot some goddamn i right."

Carson watched them, his hazel eyes glinting with cool amusement, fingers steepled under his chin. Their voices blurred into a drone as his mind drifted--Tuesday night, Megan's blonde hair tangled in his grip, her lips stretched around him in that changing room, cum streaking her new dress as she giggled, drunk and pliant. Then the jackpot: that contract she'd waved at him, bleary-eyed, spilling Home Away From Home's dirty laundry--"testicular health assessments," "exposure integral to duties," a legal wet dream of coercion and cover-up. It sat now in his desk's main drawer, locked tight under a brass key, a loaded gun he could aim at Dr. Johnson's head. JP and Cory's panic was white noise; he had the fix, and it felt like foreplay.