Dr. Stud

by Jess Bentley

  Thirty-eight seconds. That’s all it takes, and I know because I timed myself. Thirty-eight seconds! I guess I’m the only person here who has thirty-eight seconds to spare for fresh coffee.

  Which is extra weird, since people drink coffee all day long. That’s what diners are for, right? You get your regulars, who line up at the counter and just drink cup after cup all day long. It’s their daily habit, sitting on the vintage stools with their elbows propped up on the Formica, dirty plates pushed back so the busboy can scoop them up. They expect to be able to enjoy five or six hours of bottomless coffee and chitchat with the other old fogies.

  They expect their cups to be refilled when they’re down to about 25 percent. They don’t want to ask, and they don’t want to think about it. I’m sure they drink about a pot each while they are comparing war stories and bitching about lawn care or whatever.

  That’s all fine by me. The diner counter is an American institution, and a good one at that.

  And I like it when I have the counter as my station. All I have to do is sweep along, refilling cups as I go, smiling and winking at the old farts. It’s totally worth that seventy-three-cent tip they’re going to leave me at the end of the day, when they have to shuffle on home to watch Judge Judy. Totally worth it.

  In the rest of the dining room, we’re just about evenly split between ladies with their book clubs and people stopping in for lunch from local businesses. Once in a while, I’ll get a hipster or something, but somehow we are not that trendy. This is still very much the old-fashioned greasy spoon it’s always been, and while the doughnut shop two blocks down has a bunch of bearded weirdos hanging out all day, we still just have mostly old dudes. Mostly.

  Which is why I figure everybody knows the coffee pot needs to be constantly remade, and why I’m mystified that I’m the only person who does it. Seriously mystified!

  After a quick jog down the counter, refilling cups as I go and dazzling them with my smile, I go ahead and start the process all over again. After thumbing the orange button, the machine bangs and hums, heating the water up to flash boiling for yet another go-round.

  My manager sidles up to me, turning around to lean his ample butt against the stainless steel counter and crossing his arms. He squints at the dining room, nodding to himself.

  “Yeah,” he sighs, finishing the conversation that started in his head, “you could just go on home, Bunny. Take the afternoon off.”

  I take a quick breath and hold it, forcing myself to smile.

  “But, Nick? Are you sure? The fence guys usually come in for lunch in just a couple minutes…”

  I grab a towel out of the bucket of sanitizer and squeeze it, wiping the counter that I already cleaned.

  “Yeah," he says again. I watch his profile as he checks out the room, mentally calculating which waitresses he can cut to save money, and which ones he has to keep.

  “I think it’s actually Misty’s turn to go home early,” I offer helpfully. “Nick? She’s probably expecting it. Wouldn’t want to let her down.”

  I have no idea if it’s actually her turn to go home early. What I do know is that I just bought a new pair of Frye boots, and if I don’t make fifty-three more dollars by Saturday, my cell phone will magically transform itself into a mediocre paperweight.

  “Misty’s got kids,” he sniffs.

  Shit. Again with the kids? Can’t a single girl get a break? A single girl with really cool boots?

  “Come on, Nick,” I groan, taking a step backward and relishing the heavy sound of my boot heel against the ceramic tile floor. I pout and puff up my chest, noting the way his eyes dart down into my cleavage.

  He’s always checking me out when he thinks that I’m not looking. I noticed. Of course I noticed. I’ve even considered letting him slobber all on me the way that Tiffany says that he does when he manages to trap her in the deep-freeze. I mean, I don’t think I’m quite that desperate yet. But it’s good to know it’s out there, assuming I would ever really want to have to freeze my ass off and let him smell my hair or whatever his kink is.

  Not the worst thing to have done to you in a restaurant, is what I’m saying. There are all kinds of characters. And while I am usually up for sexy shenanigans of most sorts, Nick is… not my type. But could I make an exception for posh footwear? I could.

  He twists his lips to the side, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he tries to squint his way past the barrier of my waitress uniform. These are the old-fashioned type that zip up the front. They’re very cleavage-friendly, almost “sexy nurse” in their own way. Like Halloween costumes, but I have to wear it almost every day.

  “Yeah,” he says with an air of finality, as though he doesn’t want to say it again. “You’re on the schedule tomorrow anyway. Go ahead and clock out.”

  “Nick, that’s not fair!” I blurt out, unable to control myself. “It’s not my turn. I’m sure it’s not my turn. Can’t you just pick somebody else?”

  I feel the guys at the counter all go silent, swiveling on their counter stools to watch. The meaty parts of Nick’s seriously large ears go red, and I know that he can sense we are being watched too.

  “You know what your problem is, Bunny?” he growls, the threat clear in his voice. “You don’t know when to shut up. You don’t know when you got it good.”

  I cross my arms and just stare back at him, figuring I might as well go for it now. If I’m going to be in trouble, what’s a little more?

  “Oh, is that my problem?”

  He licks his teeth under his upper lip, inflating his mouth.

  “Yeah, among other things,” he continues. “A girl like you should be glad you got any job at all. Now go ahead and clock out.”

  “Well, you want to know what your problem is, Nick?” I challenge, raising my eyebrows at him. I feel everybody’s eyes on me for sure now, and it just sort of inspires me. What can I say?

  He narrows his eyes, pausing for two beats.

  “Just clock out, Bunny,” he says in an unnervingly polite way. I hear that he’s actually talking some sense, but somehow I can’t make myself listen.

  “Your problem,” I continue, building up even more steam, “is that you are nasty. Nasty food! Nasty attitude! You’re worse than the cockroaches in the kitchen!”

  Rocking back, he almost looks like he’s floating, like I just disturbed the surface of the water that he’s in or something. His eyes are wide and frantic, clearly shocked that I would talk to him like that.

  “Clock out!” he bellows. “And don’t come back! You’re out of here, Bunny! I’ve had enough of your smart mouth!”

  “And I have had enough of your shitty coffee, Nick!” I yell right back at him. I glance over at the old guys and see them nodding in agreement. See? They know. It really is shitty coffee. They’re on my side; I can feel it.

  “Out of here!” he says again.

  “Fine!” I yell right back, stabbing at the button of the time clock to punch out. Part of me knows this is a huge mistake. I should apologize. He’s kind of right about my big mouth, and I know it. But I can’t do it now. I’m just riding the wave.

  “And you gotta return that uniform!” he blurts out.

  I glance down at the uniform, somehow surprised at this new information. Return it? But, I kinda love it. I feel like a sort of vintage vixen in this thing. I do not want to return it.

  “Yeah… well... you gotta shave the inside of your ears, Nick!”

  There is some kind of sound behind me, a sort of choking noise that means I have got people laughing at him. While that feels exceptionally good, I also know that means that my opportunities for a future apology have just dwindled significantly.

  “Get out!”

  “I am getting out!”

  I make sure to give everybody a little smile on the way out, trying to make sure that they’re on my side, at least for now. I know as soon as the door closes behind me, their allegiance is going to shift, but for now I need this. I need to know that just fo
r a second, I’m the hero of the story, even if I’m the jerk that started it.

  Once I’m out on the sidewalk, I realize I’ve got another problem. I don’t have a ride home. My mother said she would pick me up after her shift, but that’s not for another four hours. My best friend, Dahlia, used to do it for me, but that was before she got all married up and knocked up and whatnot.

  Squinting down the street one way, then the other way, I check out the sparse traffic. There are a few people walking aimlessly under the elm trees in the tiny park. A post office worker rolls a cart from shop to shop in her cool safari hat and blue uniform.

  It’s early afternoon. A perfectly respectable time of day to be walking down the sidewalk in a waitress uniform, right? Sure.

  Perfectly normal. Nothing to see here.

  Even though it’s probably not my best idea, I head for the warehouse district by the railroad tracks. I don’t know where else to go. Dahlia and August’s place is within walking distance. I’m sure they’re up for a friendly visit from their old pal Bunny.

  Or I suppose I’ll find out if they’re up for a visit, after the half hour it will take me to walk there.

  Maybe was Nick was right. I really should learn to keep my mouth shut sometimes.

  Chapter 2

  Bunny

  Berner Security is in one of those brick warehouse buildings that looks like it might be a bomb shelter or secret lair or something. There are windows, but you can’t see them from the street. It’s a fortress.

  As I walk up the sidewalk, my feet absolutely fucking killing me in my kick-ass boots, I scan from side to side. Even though it’s the warehouse district, the cars that are parked here are all Mercedes and Hummers. Reinforced steel and probably bulletproof glass and everything. August has a flair for paramilitary shenanigans, you might say.

  I wonder how much of that is real sometimes, and how much of that is just him being an aggro, macho dude with a savior complex.

  That opinion, at least, I have been smart enough to keep to myself. He is pretty delicious to look at, so I understand why Dahlia was so gaga for him all those years. He was her dad’s BFF and so she got to crush on him up close since she was still in a training bra.

  Still, he’s got to be twice her age. In fact, I think he is exactly twice her age. Kind of gross, if you ask me. But I guess that’s none of my business.

  See, what Nick doesn’t understand is that I am mouthy for justice. I’m not judgmental. I’m not one to look down my nose at Dahlia’s dad-like husband playing GI Joe all the time. But I will speak up to defend people. I’m a good friend like that. That’s the kind of mouthy I am, and he would do better to accept it.

  But August is… well, he snatched my best friend away. So I can throw their relationship a little bit of side eye, right?

  Okay, I’m really going to make an effort to be less mouthy for the rest of the day. Haven’t I learned my lesson or anything?

  There is a simple steel panel next to what looks like an industrial freezer door. This is the entrance. It’s meant to be intimidating, not welcoming. I jam my thumb against the glowing green button at the bottom. A square screen flickers, and up pops a face all distorted and squinting back at me. The face tips from side to side, apparently trying to see behind me to check out if I’m alone.

  “Good afternoon, Berner Security. Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, I don’t have an appointment,” I huff impatiently. “Is Dahlia here? I’m here to see her.”

  “Is she expecting you?”

  “Is she expecting me?” I repeat, exasperated. “Yes. She’s always expecting me. At least she should be.”

  “Please stand by,” the face sniffs.

  “No, stop!” I blurt out, slapping my palm against the metal plate in frustration. “Just let me in, would you please? I’m Dahlia’s friend, Bunny.”

  “Please stand by,” he says again.

  The face glides off to the left, disappearing from view though the screen stays lit.

  “You think I’m armed or something? You think I pose some kind of threat?” I yell, not even sure the microphone is still on.

  I feel kind of stupid yelling at a square on the side of a brick cube, not entirely certain how many cameras are recording this. Are people listening in? Are people skulking around in doorways and armored vehicles?

  Christ. This is stupid.

  I’m all sticky and hot, irritated that I had to walk all the way here. Now this jerk wants to antagonize me? Maybe this was a stupid idea. I didn’t have to come here, right? I could have just continued on home. I’m sure I would’ve made it there eventually. Or a bus! Now would’ve been a great day to discover the wonders of public transit in our fine city. I know there is one. I’ve seen the bus before, chugging down the few main roads. It would’ve gotten me somewhere, at least.

  I stretch backward, raising my hands over my head. As I do, I get a whiff of myself. I’m all sweaty and gross, and I kinda smell bad. Great. Just great. If my cell phone wasn’t completely out of charge I could take a look at myself and see what kind of nightmare my mascara has turned into. I could feel it going all slimy as I walked. I probably look absolutely ridiculous.

  “Jesus, are you okay?” Dahlia exclaims as she slides into view. Her eyebrows twist together in the middle as she stares into the video screen from somewhere inside this building. “Were you attacked or something? Do you need me to call 911?”

  “Hi to you too,” I quip. “Um, do you think you could just go ahead and let me in?”

  I hear the clang of some kind of metal device inside the ginormous door and it pops open about three inches.

  “You’re alone?” she asks urgently, but I just ignore her and yank the door open the rest of the way.

  I’m probably being laser scanned as I stand here in the empty foyer area. It’s all white marble, almost like an executive’s idea of a surgical room. Dahlia once told me that everything in this place was engineered for some kind of psychological advantage. Everybody’s an enemy, apparently. August is always looking for ways to let everyone know that.

  It is a little over-the-top, if you ask me. I mean, I know he does real security stuff. He deals with real-life murder threats, gets celebrities away from stalkers or danger, and Dahlia has hinted that he still does secret government stuff from time to time. He’s a pretty well-connected guy. I know that’s all true.

  But still, does he think he’s Tom Cruise or something? Jason frickin’ Bourne? Does it all have to be this fucking dramatic?

  I just stand here and wait for a little while like a good girl. I know the drill. I’ve been here a few times since they rehabbed it, when they expanded for a bunch of new agents and their marital bliss at the same time. Which is cool, really. It was nice that August built the nursery and the master suite into the warehouse before little Knox was born. And I think it’s pretty cool that Dahlia gets to work from home. Living the dream, if you ask me.

  I hear footsteps that seem to be coming from a mile away and hold my arms out slightly from my sides, just in case the laser scan is a real thing. It is sort of like trying to get through security at the county courthouse. I found that out the hard way when I had to go for jury duty. I didn’t realize that the county courthouse was going to be all metal detectors and x-ray machines and angry-looking security guards with Batman-type utility belts.

  Why didn’t they tell me on the jury summons that I shouldn’t bring a switchblade in my purse? That could have saved me a lot of time, if you want to know the truth. That would’ve been a real public service, if you ask me.

  But no, I just stuffed my bag in that shoebox thing and put it on the conveyor belt to go through the x-ray machine. All of a sudden, lights started flashing and everybody sprang into action like I’d raised an Uzi over my head.

  Drama!

  The footsteps get closer and I see Dahlia in silhouette through the wobbly security glass of the interior door. She yanks a card from a lanyard around her neck toward a small s
ecurity screen. The bolt unlatches and she flings the door open, scanning me up and down with an expression of alarm.

  “So, you’re okay? Are you sure?”

  “It’s great to see you too,” I mumble as she inspects me, circling around me with her hands out like I might be covered in the blood of a homeless person or something.

  “Bunny, be serious! What’s wrong! Do you need help? Are you under duress?”

  She slides her hand on my back, like she’s feeling me for explosives. I twist away irritably.

  “Okay, can you drop the super secret spy act for just a second?” I huff. “I’m fine. I just had to… you know. Walk.”

  She blinks at me several times. “Walk?”

  Suddenly, I’m aware of just how much my feet hurt. I wonder if I will still be able to return these boots.

  “Yes, walking? You may have heard of it? Something people do when they get fired from their jobs at shitty diners and have to use foot power to get to their best friend’s house? The one who never calls or anything anymore? Like that? Sound familiar?”

  “There is no reason to be sarcastic,” she sighs through her nose. “I just wanted to know you’re okay. You got fired?”

  The room seems quite white. Glaringly white. Weirdly white.

  “Are you going to invite me in or something? I would really love to sit down, if that’s okay.”

  “Oh, sweetie, of course!” she smiles, briefly becoming my friend again. “Knox just went down for a nap, though, so keep it quiet, okay? He’s so difficult when he doesn’t get enough sleep.”

  And just like that, my old friend disappears. Poof. Replaced by this mom robot.

  She heads back to the security door, and I follow her quietly, sort of amazed how many doors there are in this place. It looks totally different than the first time I was here. Back then, it almost had that kind of loner bachelor rebel vibe to it. Now it’s full CIA.