Cross Crease (On The Edge Book 3)

by Elizabeth Hartey

  Throbbing. Dear God. Did I just sigh out loud? I’m sure my mind has already broken every ethics rule in the book. I see a vision. It’s me, no longer in school. I’m living on the beach…as a bag lady. I shake my head and clear my thoughts. I will not get kicked out of school.

  I place the ice pack on the side counter. “Let’s slide your pants down. They’re pretty loose. You don’t have to move too much. Just lift up slightly so I can get them down past your…so I can get them down.”

  D grimaces while lifting his butt off the table and I slide his pants to his ankles. Oh. My Freaking. Word. He’s commando! Is he kidding me?

  I force myself to look away but not before noticing he’s definitely not a grower. Even in its inactive state, his penis is huge and lying across his injured thigh. I know I’m not supposed to be assessing his penis. But look at it. Have you ever…? Never mind. Not the time or place

  Taking the thin blanket from the foot of the table, I unfold it, drape it over him and pull it up to his waist. Thank goodness D’s arm is still covering his eyes. He doesn’t notice me noticing his…gifts.

  “There we go. This should keep you comfortable. It’s a little chilly in here,” I offer, as a sweat droplet slides down my back. I glance over at the digital thermostat. It’s 66º in here. So why am I sweating like I’m in a sauna?

  “Sorry about the commando thing. It was too painful to bend my knees to get my briefs on. Baggy sweats were all I could manage.” His apology sounds sincere. I don’t think he did it on purpose to shake me.

  I know how painful it can be to bend or raise your leg even slightly when you’ve had a groin strain. Besides, he didn’t know I would be the one treating him. On the other hand, maybe he thought it would be Sandy removing his pants. No. This is D. He doesn’t need to do anything raunchy to get a woman to notice him. He just needs to breathe, fully clothed, and heads turn in his direction—both male and female.

  “No problem. I know it can be very hard in this situation…uh…I mean…hard when you’re bending…I mean…I didn’t even notice.” Oh for god’s sake. I am definitely getting booted from this program. My parents will be so proud. “Sorry. Your daughter has been thrown out and can never practice in any health profession because she’s an inappropriate perv.” Sounds about right.

  D moves his arm off his face and gives me a little smile. Not a cocky grin but a sweet smile, like he sympathizes with the battle going on between my professional brain and my slutty vagina.

  “This will feel a little cold at first, but it will help alleviate the swelling…I…I mean…the inflammation and pain.”

  “No problem.” D chuckles. “I’m an expert at this. I grew up using ice packs.”

  “Really? You needed that much cooling off in the area, huh?” I laugh. Whatever. This is D. We’ve been teasing each other with sexual innuendos for years.

  “Very funny, smart ass. I meant I grew up using ice packs everywhere on my body. Hockey is a tough sport.”

  For a moment, it almost feels like old times, pre-wedding-from-hell-weekend. Until I slip the ice pack under the blanket and slide it up his thigh. It runs smack into his reposing penis and just like that we’re all less than relaxed. Me, D and his penis, jump. Really? Can a penis respond even when being confronted with an ice pack? Yes. Apparently, it can.

  D cringes. I pretend I don’t notice the unintended encounter and begin circling the ice over the injured adductor muscle. D’s eyes roll back in his head. He lets out a sigh as I continue the ice massage. And then, he begins moaning.

  “Mmm. Oh yeah. Right there. Like that. Feels so good. Mmm. Don’t stop.”

  For. The. Love. Of. God. What is this? A test? A test I’m failing miserably. Sweat droplets begin to form on my brow and don’t even get me started on what’s going on between my legs. And then, I see it. The blanket raising into a tent-like shape.

  “Okay. Times up.” I yank my ice pack filled hand out from under the blanket.

  “Already?” D groans. “I don’t think you did it long enough.”

  “Yes. It was long enough.” What is happening? All my words have become crude references to penises. “I have to check on another patient. I’ll send someone in to do your ultrasound treatment. I’ll come back when you’re done to go over recommendations for tonight and get you set up for another appointment tomorrow,” I rattle out in a rushed barrage.

  Scurrying out the door, I hear D call to me, “Wait. Pip. I’m sorry. I couldn’t…” But I don’t hear the rest. I run down the hall, fly into my office and slam the door behind me.

  “I’m a weak, powerless woman who craves Damon Wolfe like a junky craves Crack,” I sigh out in a whisper.

  Chapter Twenty

  Wolfe

  It’s said it took God seven days to create the world. Well, if he can create a whole universe in a week, I figure two weeks is enough time for me to get a woman to forgive me and go out with me.

  For almost two weeks I’ve been coming to EliteCare for rehab. I watch Pip as she moves around the clinic with confidence. Seeing her handle patients with proficiency and tender care, you would think she already has her doctorate.

  I’m feeling great. The crutches are gone. I’ll be in playing shape in no time. As I said, Pippa has the magic healing touch. Uh, not exactly touch. Not with me, anyway.

  She sets me up in the Cryo chambers, works with me in the pool, prescribes exercises, and then instructs me on how I should be doing them. Sadly, though, after my unintentional enthusiasm during my first visit, Pip never does any therapy which requires touching my body. Any massage or electro-therapy treatment is handed off to another doctor or assistant.

  Can I help it if God had a sense of humor when he was doing all that creating? Or maybe it was the last thing He created on the seventh exhausting day: penises. Maybe he was worn out when He created the overly sensitive, highly responsive appendage. It’s not my fault I get hard every time Pip touches me. I’m a guy, and she’s a beautiful woman I happen to be in love with.

  I decided I needed to do something to melt Pip’s clinical heart and get her to agree to go out with me. So yesterday, after I left Elite, I had a thank-you slash please-forgive-me-gift delivered to the clinic: five dozen white roses. It had a simple note included.

  Thank you for taking such good care of me. You’re going to be an amazing doctor. I’m sorry for everything. Please have dinner with me Saturday night. Love, D.

  I was going to put all my love, D but it seemed like too much.

  Today? As I look around the reception area? It’s like someone vomited roses all over the clinic. There are rose-filled vases all over the place: on the receptionist desk, on the tables in the waiting room. There’s even a bunch in the bathroom. I didn’t think about how small Pip’s shared office is. No one would be able to get in the door if they put five dozen roses in there.

  “Jesus. It smells like a funeral parlor in here. What the heck is going on?” Dr. Mac exclaims when she walks in the clinic’s front door. I wasn’t thinking about the overpowering scent this many roses would produce, either. I’m a virgin when it comes to this stuff. I’ve never given a woman a forgive me gift before.

  “Mr. Wolfe sent them as a thank-you to Heaven.” Nancy tips her head toward me and throws me right under the bus.

  Dr. Mac whips around and glares at me. “Sweet. But next time, Wolfe, a simple thank-you note will suffice. This is a clinic, not a bordello,” she says, and continues walking through the reception area. Geez. It’s like I’m being reprimanded by the principal. And who the hell uses the word bordello anymore?

  Mac stops and turns around. “Or better yet. We’d all love some tickets to a Winds game,” she suggests and then disappears into her office.

  See how it goes with women? Try to be a nice guy, and now I’m going to have to send an apology gift to Dr. Mac for my apology gift to Pippa. This forgiveness stuff is complicated.

  “Ready for you in the gym, D.” Pip comes down the hall to escort me from the wa
iting area. “By the way, thanks for the beautiful roses,” she says as I walk with her to the gym. “You didn’t have to do that.” She smiles and a faint blush warms her cheeks. Yes! She’s smiling and softening up toward me again. I told you. I’m no quitter. When I want something, I figure out a way to get it. Note to self; apology gifts are the bomb!

  She pushes open the gym door. “It’s my job to take care of you.” She reverts back to her curt tone and deflates my victory celebration. “To be clear,” she continues while holding the door open for me. “You could send me the entire contents of the Dubai Miracle Garden, and I would not go out with you. I am not having lunch or dinner with you at a park, at the beach, on a rooftop or on the moon. Nowhere. Not now. Not ever. So, save your money.”

  “Not in a box or with a fox or in a house or with a mouse,” I mumble my sarcastic remark.

  “That’s right, Dr. Seuss. Now you’ve got it.” She purses her lips and lifts a brow. “Get on the treadmill.”

  Okay. Time to pull out the big guns. Pip’s no ordinary girl. Flowers and candy won’t do the trick. I’m going to have to think outside the box. I need to do something really spectacular to get back in her good graces. Something no other guy would think to give her. And then it hits me, the thing most important to her, besides school and surfing and beating me in competitions.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Heaven

  Oh no he didn’t. He’s the devil. He knows just what to do to tempt me. Sitting on my desk when I get to the clinic the next afternoon, is a big manila envelope. Inside the envelope is a thank you letter from the Best Friends Animal Society thanking me for my twenty-thousand-dollar annual contribution. I would say it’s a mistake, but I know it’s not. It’s exactly the kind of thing D would do to soften me up—and it’s working. The big jerk.

  Best Friends runs the nation’s largest no-kill sanctuary, their focus being animal welfare. Their goal is to find homes for unwanted pets and to ensure there will never be another homeless pet. It’s an organization near and dear to my heart and the donation is much needed. I’m sure the generous donation will be put to good use.

  Next to the large envelope is a small white one. Inside is a simple folded note.

  Please have dinner with me. I’m so sorry for everything. Love, D.

  I brush a lone tear off my face.

  Love, D. Exactly the problem. I’ll admit, just considering his invitation sounds like a dumb move on my part. I will also admit, the first day Wolfe came to the clinic after his injury, I panicked and said I had to keep my distance because I still wanted him in ways I shouldn’t. I know I said I would only see him on a professional basis. And now, after this sweet, devilish gift in my name, I’m thinking about going to dinner with him.

  Let me explain, make my case, so to speak. Things have been going really well at the clinic. While I’ve been treating him, Wolfe has behaved like a perfect gentleman, no more inappropriate reactions. He sent me roses to apologize for the massage incident–albeit, enough to build a float at the Rose Bowl Parade. He’s been following my treatment recommendations to the letter, without complaint. And now this thoughtful contribution to Best Friends. He’s really trying. And since the infamous weekend, I’ve realized a few things

  I enjoy being with D. I miss him when he’s not around. We enjoy each other’s company. We make each other laugh. We have fun together. Most importantly, I’ve accepted the fact D is never going to be a relationship kind of guy and I am never going to be a one-night stand kind of girl. This eye-opening revelation may be the only good thing that came from our night together.

  Having come to these sensible, level-headed understandings, I’ve decided I shouldn’t throw away an important friendship just because we shared one night of really stupid mistakes—okay, two nights.

  I know what you’re thinking. You can’t go back to being just friends once you’ve been intimate. But I’ve chosen to look at that dreadful night as a two-pronged experience. The first prong was hell. But the second prong helped me understand our diverse views on relationships. I’ve also come to this realization: D not remembering the event is a good thing.

  If I can put it behind me—forget it ever happened—it will be like it didn’t happen. We can hold onto our friendship. As I said, no sense in losing my friend over a weekend of bad decisions.

  Sure, I won’t deny there’s still a teensy magnetic pull between me and D, especially after the masturbation incident which D does remember. But lots of friends dance the Sexual Attraction Tango with each other. It’s just typical playfulness. It doesn’t mean anything. It took some soul-searching heartbreak on my part to figure this all out. I get it now. I can handle it like a mature, professional woman: not some manic teenager.

  Sounds good, right? Or maybe…I’m totally fucked.

  ***

  Wolfe

  “The contribution in my name was too much, D. But it was very thoughtful.” She gives me the sweet smile I’ve been missing. “And I know Best Friends will certainly put it to good use. But…I don’t…”

  “C’mon, Pip.” I stop her before she can turn me down again. “Please, just have dinner with me. I’m sorry for everything: The drinking too much, the jacking off in front of you, the hooking up with what’s her name afterward. You have to forgive me.” Christ. I sound like a whiny little bitch. But she’s making me crazy. She still hasn’t said yes, and I’ll never be able to top the Best Friends contribution. I thought for sure it would be the offer she couldn’t refuse.

  “Will you shh? There are other patients here. They don’t need to know all the sordid details of my life,” she loud whispers.

  I glance around the gym. There’s only one other patient in here. Mr. George Gilbert, a cantankerous, retired, investment banker. He’s been here every day I’ve been here for rehab. He’s always on the treadmill. Although, if he walked any slower, he’d be going backward.

  I’ve tried talking to him several times, but the only thing I got from him was, “Aaie? What are you saying, boy? Speak up. Why does this whole damn generation mumble?” He’s like a hundred and fifty years old. I don’t think he could hear a meteor blasting through the roof and landing smack dab in the middle of the gym.

  “Mr. Gilbert can’t hear a word we’re saying.” I shake my head at Pip.

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Pip whispers like she’s plotting a crime. “Last week, Sandy was working with him in here and talking to another PTA telling her about her weekend and some guy she hooked up with. She was whispering so quietly the other PTA had to ask Sandy to repeat herself when she described the guy’s…um…shortcomings. Before Sandy could go into her reprise, Mr. Gilbert yells out, “Take a trip with me to Paris, honey. I’ll show you some equipment you’ll never forget.””

  “No fucking way.” My belly laughing causes me to stumble as I step up onto the elliptical. Pip reaches out to stop me from falling. But I get myself together before she touches me. I don’t want to have another unexpected incident with my equipment if I end up in her arms.

  “Yes way. I think Mr. Gilbert is holding out on us.” She chuckles.

  This is good. We’re laughing, joking. More relaxed. Almost like we were before. But she still hasn’t agreed to go to dinner with me.

  “I miss you, Pip. I miss us,” I grunt as I continue my climb to nowhere. “You’re being silly. Just have dinner with me.”

  Shit. Shit. Shit. I almost had her, and I blew it. Let’s take a brief pause for some advice to all you guys out there. If you’re trying to melt a woman’s heart, get back in her good graces, get her to like you again, never, ever, ever refer to her as silly.

  “What did you call me?” Pip’s not whispering now—or smiling. “You think I’m being silly? It’s silly to be upset about us…um…doing what we did and then you…sort of…hooking up with Al-i-son? Her name is Alison! You should at least remember the woman’s name you…you…did things with after we…did things.” She’s so angry it’s like she’s speaking in
Morse Code.

  “No. No.” I stop climbing long enough to think about how to answer her without getting my head bit off. “I don’t think you’re being silly.” I don’t understand what the hell you’re talking about, but I don’t think you’re being silly. “I just meant…”

  “You just said I was silly. So, which is it, D? Am I silly or not?” She’s got her hand on her hip and she’s tapping her foot, waiting for me to come up with the clever words which will dig me out from the hole I’ve created.

  Problem is—again for you guys out there—you can’t dig yourself out from a hole. Remember. The more you dig, the further you sink into the hole.

  “I…I…” The sweat is dripping down my neck, and it’s not from the exerting climb I was doing.

  “He’s an asshole. Dump him and fly away with me to Monaco. I don’t think you’re silly. I think you’re gorgeous and I have a private jet,” Mr. Gilbert yells across the room.

  Pip and I stare at each other in wide-eyed shock. After we’ve had a minute to process what the hell just happened, we simultaneously burst into laughter.

  “O…okay,” Pip sputters out while holding her side in pain from laughing. “As a thank you from all the homeless animals, I’ll have dinner with you. I suppose one dinner won’t hurt the doctor-patient relationship. But I get to pick the place.”

  “You got it. Anywhere. I mean, I don’t have a private jet, but maybe I can borrow Mr. Gilbert’s.” My big smile spreads across my face. And my next thank you gift is going straight to Mr. George ‘No-Filter’ Gilbert.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Heaven

  I picked the perfect place to have dinner with D. It will be like it was, pre-weekend from hell. Just two friends hanging out, having fun. I’m ready when D knocks on the door because I don’t want to invite him in. No sense in tempting fate…or my vagina.