Cynda and the City Doctor: 50 Loving States, Missouri (QUARANTALES Book 1)

by Theodora Taylor

  His back stiffens like someone caught in the act.

  But to his credit, he doesn’t try to act like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.

  “My plan is to spend the next two weeks getting you out of my system. This time safely, with protection,” he answers. “I don’t like how mental you make me.”

  I nod in total agreement. Quiet as I keep it, I don’t like how he makes me feel either.

  But then I find myself once again saying, “Rhys?”

  “Yes?” His expression is wary. Like I’ve got a knife in my hand.

  “I choose TV.”

  He nods, “Fine, yes, whatever you want.”

  “What I want is for you to watch TV with me.”

  He falters, his whole body visibly stiffening. “What does that mean?”

  “It’s cool if you spend the next two weeks fucking me out of your system. And you don’t have to give me back my job if it’s too hard to work with me. But…” I let out a heavy sigh “Can you stop hating me? Treating me like dirt? Can we be nice to each other? Like we were back in St. Louis? At least until we’re done with this mini-quarantine?”

  He stares blankly at me. Then suddenly lunges forward.

  One moment, I’m sitting up in bed and the next I’m on my stomach with one of Rhys’s hands at my core and the other kneading my breast.

  “Do you know what I gave up to be with you?” he asks, rubbing at my clit with one hand while the other pinches and rolls my nipple. “How it fucked with my mind when you not only dumped me like an afterthought but refused to answer any of my calls or texts?”

  His hand on my breast hurts but the one rubbing at my most sensitive spot feels so good. A sweet ache rekindles inside of me, and it’s hard to distinguish between the pleasure and the pain.

  “You keep telling me it was only six months. But that six months turned me into the kind of nutter who moves to a small town in Missouri just to get back at the woman who broke his heart.”

  Before I can even process that confession, he pushes into me from behind, rough and hard. Like he doesn’t care if he hurts me.

  He doesn’t hurt me though. Just the opposite. I’m shamefully slick with desire. And his fingers at my clit while he pumps into me from behind makes it even worse.

  I don’t care what he’s saying or how cruel his voice sounds in my ear. Soon I’m little more than a desperate animal caged inside his tight hold.

  My legs spread out underneath him. Wanting this. Wanting more. Whatever he’s willing to give.

  There’s no smooth roll this time. He moves inside me in wild, unhinged jerks. Rough, and so hard, it’s difficult to believe he came just a few minutes ago. But whatever happened before, there’s no denying it now. He’s completely out of control as he takes me hard and fast.

  Another orgasm begins to build, and I claw at the covers, fighting the pleasure.

  But there’s no fighting this. I’m helpless against the rising tide. And just a few moments later a climax overtakes me, so big, it leaves me choked and gasping for air.

  Rhys’s pumps into me even faster, then comes with a coarse yell just a few moments after me. I find out then that Rhys did put on a condom before taking me a second time. And my whole body heats with shame because I didn’t check.

  For a little while, we lay there. Him covering me like a very heavy blanket. Me, trying to figure out what just happened.

  Then he growls low in my ear, “No…no, I can’t stop hating you.”

  And with that, he pushes himself up from the bed.

  I watch as he grabs his clothes and disappears into the bathroom without another word. Leaving me alone, naked and trembling.

  By the time he comes back out, I can’t look him in the eye.

  Which is why the shirt he tosses me seems to drop down into my eye line, like a gift from God. It’s another tee shirt.

  I’m about to tell him I don’t need to borrow his clothes since there’s plenty of things for me to wear in the suitcase E left outside the back house door yesterday. But I stop when I see that it’s his old Death Buddha shirt. I remember it well. He used to wear it to afternoon brunch after we passed Sunday mornings making lazy love in his bed.

  He told me once that he loved the band so much, that he’d actually taken time off and bought tickets back to London to attend all three of their shows in England the last time they toured Europe.

  That had been three years ago. And I remember teasing him about being a stan, not a fan. Then having to explain to him what a stan was.

  We’d laughed at that brunch.

  But neither of us was laughing now. Was he serious about moving here just for me?

  And how should I feel about it?

  Instead of trying to answer that question, I disappear into the bathroom with his t-shirt and turn on the water. I make it hot to the point of scalding, but even that’s not enough to shake me out of my daze.

  It’s raining outside when I come out of the bathroom. And to my surprise, Rhys isn’t sitting at my Grandma’s little desk with his laptop when I come out. He’s on the couch typing in front of the TV.

  I glance at the TV. There’s a Vox Mind Explained episode about the history and evolution of cricket in India.

  “Put on whatever you want,” he tells me, nodding toward the remote, sitting on the couch beside him. “I’m just doing paperwork.”

  After a moment of hesitation, I gingerly sit down at the opposite end of the couch. But I don’t take the remote. I watch old black and white footage of proper Indians playing cricket instead, while the narrator explains how long games used to take.

  “Cynda…” he says after a few moments.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m granting your request to watch television with you. I expect you to sit closer.”

  I inwardly jolt…then move a little closer.

  He shuts his laptop with a very deliberate motion and sets it aside. “Closer…”

  I pick up the remote, the last barrier between us. And this time I move close enough to touch.

  Then I tentatively place my head on his shoulder like I used to when it was just the two of us watching TV after those afternoon brunches—usually some crime show or talent competition.

  A strange peace washes over me when I lay my head on his shoulder. But I can’t fully relax until I see how he responds.

  Several seconds tick by with the narrator relaying how cricket morphed from a fussy, all-day event in India to a raucous 90-minute event sport with cheerleaders and rabid fans.

  Then he places his hand on my knee.

  Just liked he used to.

  It’s still raining outside. But suddenly my heart is flooded with sunshine.

  No, I still don’t fully understand what just happened. Or if trying to be friends with Rhys is a good idea.

  But whatever this new peace between us feels good.

  And right.

  At least in this moment.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Hey, Cynda, how are you?” Billie says, her voice a little too bright when she answers my call. “Is everything okay?”

  About a week into my quarantine, I scrunch my face at the phone. Billie looks…not like herself. Her sisterlocks are down and flowing as opposed to pulled back into the tight bun she started wearing them in after becoming an accountant. Also, she’s wearing a very un-Billie like sundress instead of the usual blouse and skinny jeans she refers to as her after work look. And, she’s smiling as if she just finished laughing at something.

  I can barely hear her over a sound I can’t quite identify in the background.

  “Are you okay?” I ask her. “I’m returning your call from earlier. Also, why’s it so noisy.”

  “Oh, sorry, it’s the ocean. Here, let me step inside.”

  The phone switches to a view of what looks like light brown balcony slats, as she says to someone I can’t see, “I have to go inside to take this. It’s my friend and she can’t hear me.”

  “Your frie
nd? Same friend who got you in trouble. Perhaps it is time for introduction.”

  Perhaps indeed. I can’t see whoever wants to meet me, but his voice is deep and resonates enough to cut through all the ocean noise. It also sounds like he has an accent. Russian maybe?

  But Billie says something I can’t quite hear and a few moments later the noisy sound of waves crashing instantly disappears. There’s the sound of her flip-flops lightly thwacking against more hardwood floors.

  And the next time I see Billie, she’s sitting in front of one of those white cabinets people install over toilets. She must have closed herself up in the bathroom.

  “Hey, what’s up?” I ask. I’d thought I would have the most explaining to do before going outside to return Billie’s call. But now I’m asking my friend, “Who was that? And why are you at the ocean?”

  “Long story,” she answers. “And that’s not why I called. Tommy came by my condo a few days ago. He was demanding to know where Gina was like I was hiding her from him or something. The conversation got weird and threatening.”

  “What?” Suddenly all thoughts of the mysterious Russian disappear. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Don’t worry,” Billie says with a dismissive shake of her head.

  As if not worrying about her after Gina’s boyfriend threatened her was even possible.

  “Is that why you’re staying near the ocean now?” I ask. Suddenly her switch from city to oceanside living makes sense.

  “Yeah, sort of. Like I said, it’s a long story. But I’m safe. I’m just worried about Gina.”

  I narrow my eyes. Gina had been with Tommy for a while. He’d even moved her into his house in Jonesboro after she’d finished college, which meant she no longer had to strip to pay her bills.

  But Billie and I weren’t big fans. As the years went by, she’d stopped complaining about him or telling us about their arguments. Technically that was a good thing, but the less she told us, the quieter she got. And though she had gotten her college degree in art and design, she never did put it to use.

  The friend who had dreamed of becoming an interior designer when we met had morphed into a permanent future bride who was supposedly too busy planning her wedding to look for work.

  She also claimed that she and Tommy were going to start trying for a baby just as soon as they got married. But I’d been sending her birth control pills ever since she lost her insurance. She’d never asked me to stop mailing them. In fact, she’d sent me a private email after she announced her move asking me to send them to her hairdresser instead of her new address at Tommy’s house.

  Speaking of emails….

  “You didn’t tell him about the email, did you?” I ask.

  Gina had missed the last two monthly calls with us and then failed to return any of our texts. But just when Billie was fixing to drive from South Carolina to Georgia to go see about her, she’d sent us a rushed email.

  Sorry, guys, went to visit my aunt in Canada for a while. Didn’t mean to worry you. Will check in again when I have a chance.

  “No, of course, I didn’t tell him she went to Canada. Even with the border closed, he might go looking for her there. But Cynda…” Billie frets her lip. “Do you think that’s where she really is?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit. There’s a heavy stone in my stomach now. “I mean she hasn’t gotten in contact again like she said she would. Also, I didn’t know she had an aunt in Canada. Did you?”

  Billie shakes her head, her eyes big and worried. “I think we need to try to find her. Make sure she’s safe.”

  “Me too,” I say. “But how? Like hire a detective?”

  A new idea occurs to me then. “Wait, could you ask your mysterious Russian with the beach house right on the ocean to help us?”

  “How did you know he’s Russian? And has a beach house on the ocean?”

  “Girl, I am from small town Missouri. We don’t even have to sip the tea. We get all of it with just a whiff. Now, are you going to tell me this long story or what?”

  Billie averts her eyes. “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “You are so obviously lying!” I shoot back before the words are hardly out of her mouth.

  “Okay, I’m getting off the phone now.” Billie shakes her head with a bitter laugh.

  “But wait, I want to hear more about the sexy Russian? Is he mafia or a hockey player? I mean why else would a Russian be in South Caroli—”

  “Bye, Cynda!”

  This time Billie doesn’t give me a chance to protest again before hanging up.

  “Whatever,” I grumble at the “Call Ended” notification.

  But at least I didn’t have to explain to my best friend why I was currently living with my ex-lover in our back house.

  A new text arrives just as I’m walking in through the back house’s kitchen door. It’s from E. “Laundry done and waiting outside your door along with the mail.”

  The twins had been weirdly wonderful during the days I’d been gone. A hadn’t texted me again to intervene in any arguments. And I guess the severity of this virus finally sunk in with E after I had to isolate myself away from them. No more requests to visit friends or go to parties, only offers of help.

  My heart cheers as I walk past Rhys, who’s at Grandma’s desk. For somebody who has two weeks off, he always seems to be working. I should ask him about that after I’m done folding the laundry.

  But both that question and my joy fade when I open the door.

  There’s a letter on top of the mail pile. From R. Smith.

  Those movies where someone’s talking about nothing as they walk into the street, then get hit by a car… seeing the letter from the biological mother I’d placed in a hidden away box a few weeks ago—that’s what it felt like. Like getting hit by a car out of the blue.

  Why would she be writing me? Again?

  I bend down and pick the letter up.

  “Who’s R. Smith?”

  I don’t know how long I’d been staring at the front of that envelope before Rhys came along and asked me about the person I hadn’t told anyone about. Not even Billie or the twins.

  Damn his height. He could easily read the address over my shoulder.

  “No one,” I answer and decide at the same time. I shove the letter into my back pocket and making my smile dazzling in a way that’s meant to distract. “Laundry’s here! Those sibs of mine might be useful after all.”

  That was actually an understatement. The twins had taken over grocery shopping and all the laundry since I’d been in quarantine. And from what I could tell, they were keeping the house clean and themselves alive with minimum squabbling. They’d even made us pancakes yesterday and left them covered on the back house’s front step.

  They’d been so great about everything, I hadn’t been left with much to do, save cooking and cleaning and looking for jobs in Pittsburgh. But I was only cooking for two now—a man with a normal appetite—not two vacuums disguised as teens. The back house was much smaller than the one I’d been cleaning since coming back to Guadalajara. And as for looking for jobs, well that wasn’t going so well. Surprisingly, not many Pittsburgh hospitals were interested in interviewing an ED nurse in April who didn’t actually plan to move to the city until September.

  So that’s left me with a lot of time on my hands. Most of which I spend with Rhys.

  Rhys’s eyes darken. “Is No One another man?”

  I smile a little at that question.

  And he glares. “You think my question is funny?”

  “Yes,” I answer, voice frank as I take the laundry over to the bed to fold. “But I’m not making fun of you. My dad called you Mr. I Don’t Know.”

  Rhys follows me. “You told your father about me?”

  The hard accusatory tone from before is gone, replaced with something softer. And he starts folding laundry too.

  “Told is a strong word. It was more like he guessed,” I answer. “He was a good doctor like that. He could al
ways tell when something was going on with me, even when I didn’t volunteer the information. He just knew me, I guess.”

  But did I know him? My eyes blur with tears. Not as well as I thought.

  “Cynda?”

  I look up to find Rhys regarding me with a somber expression from the other side of the bed. “Yes?”

  “What’s going on with you?”

  The question, simple as it is, nearly caves me. For a few moments, all I can do is wipe away tears and breathe. I feel like I’ve got a dam inside of me, trying not to burst.

  But Rhys waits patiently until I get ahold of myself. Then he says, “You don’t have to tell me what this is all about if you don’t want to.”

  I don’t want to. I don’t want to talk about this to anyone. But the dam suddenly breaks and the words come rushing out. “I guess…I guess my parents weren’t really my parents. I guess this R. Smith is. She’s my mom’s baby sister, and she basically abandoned me. But now she’s writing me to tell me the truth. She says it’s so that I don’t feel all alone. But now I feel more alone. A month ago I had parents. They were both dead, but I had them. Now all I have is this…this soap opera twist.”

  I thought I was done, but I guess not yet. The world blurs again, and then my head is being pressed into Rhys’s chest.

  And I can’t keep myself from basking in his comfort. “I’m sorry. It’s the coronavirus. Finding this out on top of being quarantined. It’s too much.”

  “I think it would be too much under any circumstance,” he says, kissing the top of my head. “Do you want to open the letter?”

  “No,” I answer. “I opened the first one and I want to be strong and brave, but this is…”

  “Too much,” he finishes for me.

  “Yeah,” I whisper against his chest.

  “How about if I hold it for you, and when you’re ready, we’ll read it together.”

  His offer makes me feel warm and grateful inside. But… “I think we’ve already established we shouldn’t mistake this mini-quarantine for more than it is. I don’t need any more hand holding. In fact, I’m not going to open this one.”

  I remove the letter from my back pocket and toss it in the suitcase I left open beside the bed. As soon as I get back to the big house I’ll put it in the box with the other letter and all of the things I’d rather forget.