Love Doctor

by Mari Freeman

He smiled. “That does not surprise me.”

  She tucked her phone in her pocket. “I need to get a look at those big cocks. Wanna come?”

  “There’s an invitation I never imagined I’d get. How can I refuse?”

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  Liza joined them by the closest windmill. “I have extra security coming, but I figure we’re done with the extracurricular activities for the night,” she said, snapping her phone shut.

  Becky walked around the shaft of the pinwheels. She wiggled the crudely painted cardboard circles that completed the phallic look of the sculpture then tugged at them.

  “Just a bit of glue but it’s holding strong. Had to be some kind of instant glue. Fastdrying.” She signaled to one of the crew helping to repair the damage. He handed her his pocketknife. Carefully she cut the cardboard, leaving two quarter-sized pieces of the blue board stuck to the fabric.

  She looked at the crewman, whose long, unkempt hair looked greasy. “Are they all this easy to deal with?”

  “Yep. These guys didn’t know what they were doing.” He gestured to one of the signs hanging on a booth. “That cardboard is even thinner. They’re coming down without leavin’ a mark.”

  “Is that so?” She handed him back the knife. “Thanks.”

  The crewman nodded to her. “Don’t worry, we’ll put it as right as we can. I mean, they still are what they are, but the balls’ll be gone.” Craig watched the guy head off to the next windmill.

  Becky stood with her arms crossed and looked over the Sheep Meadow. “What are you thinking, young lady?” Liza asked.

  She wrinkled her forehead in the cutest way and shook her head with a sigh. Her hair was even wilder than it had been this afternoon.

  He needed to get a little more time with Becky Cooper. If she would get to know him a little better, she’d realize he wasn’t in need of her peculiar doctoring. He suspected she was the one who needed healing. She looked over to see him eyeing her. They stood there a few seconds just looking at each other. Craig wondered if she had the slightest idea how much he wanted her.

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  She looked at her watch. “Where’s the closest open coffee shop?”

  * * * * *

  In her mind’s eye, it all happened in slow motion.

  The cup dropping in a perfect upright position, hitting the floor with a muffled thud. She even had time to think of Newton’s Law. Here comes my equal and opposite reaction. Shit. The impact blasted the lid off. And sure enough, it sent steaming-hot liquid back in the opposite direction with equal slow-mo speed. Up. She had no way of stopping it. No time to get out of the way. The coffee had a will of its own. It showered her shirt and drenched the front of her pants. She stood like a Wall Street scarecrow, arms out to the sides, one now-empty hand and one hand struggling not to drop her briefcase.

  “Dude!” This from a kid in a green shirt and khaki pants three sizes too big. He must have been cleaning up after someone else’s spill because he already had a mop in hand. How convenient. He looked to the barista behind the register and back to her. “We rank spills, lady. And I must say that was the most awesome spill ever. Exploding redeye. That rocked.”

  Becky spat out a laugh at the situation. “Thanks. I do my best.” Hot, wet and sticky. Nice. She needed the caffeine more than ever now. “Can you make me another?”

  “Nice look. But I think the silk does better if you don’t pour coffee all over it. I’m no fashion plate, but…” Craig’s smile was intoxicating as he returned from the restroom. She shoved her briefcase into his chest. “Make yourself useful.”

  “Oh, I can be very useful, Becky.” He took her bag and ushered her to a table. The barista handed them a towel.

  “Not funny, Ebenezer,” she quipped.

  “Ouch.” He bent over as if he’d been punched in the gut. “To the body.”

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  He helped her finish dabbing the excess coffee off her clothes. There was no saving the silk blouse. At least it was right side out this time. The shirt had gone off and on several times today. She wanted to peel off the wet thing right now. She wanted to peel his shirt off too. This whole blue-balls mess had interrupted her night of sex and truffles. Damn shame.

  Craig set her briefcase on the table. She gave her libido a mental rain check and cracked open her laptop. She clicked her nails on the table as she waited to get connected to the Internet. “I need to check my email and make sure there are no more disasters out there waiting for me.”

  Craig grabbed a rumpled newspaper from the next table. “Sure.”

  The barista replaced her red-eye. “Sorry about the commentary.” He tilted his head toward the guy mopping on the other side of the room. The kid’s pants had slid down far enough that Becky could see his red boxers. His head was bobbing to music only he heard. No sign of earbuds.

  “When I make a mess, I make a good one. No problem.”

  The barista walked away and she glanced through her emails. Nothing else needed her attention. She took a sip, the coffee still very hot, as she pulled up Samuel’s website. Something is not adding up here.

  His site had lots of splashy color, revolving images of his work and pictures of himself. One whole page was dedicated to the pug and another referred links to other artists and gay and lesbian organizations. She looked up as Craig folded the paper so he could read a specific story. There, on the backside of the paper, was an article about the festival and Samuel.

  Becky leaned in to read it. It would have been really great publicity if they had stuck to the festival and Samuel’s art, instead of going off on a tangent about his

  “lifestyle”. Shame. She glanced up to the date. Three days ago. She pulled out a small pad.

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  Craig looked at her around the paper. “What’s with all the brain churn?” He reached over and rubbed his thumb between her eyes and up her forehead. “You’re all wrinkled.”

  She scribbled as she spoke. “First, this had to be an inside job.” She was sure of it.

  “Because?” He pushed the newspaper aside.

  “In order for someone to know the pinwheels would look even more like penises with blue balls, they would first need to know ahead of time that they’d look like penises.”

  “All right, Nancy Drew. What else you got?”

  “The sketches of the pinwheels were not pre-released anywhere. We didn’t know they had turned out that way until after the meeting this morning. Samuel told me some of his parts came in misshapen at the last minute. I’m not sure I buy it anymore. The only person who knew what the final product would look like was Samuel. He had help putting all of them together, so maybe there were some others involved.”

  He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms in serious contemplation of the situation. “You’re saying Samuel Saltz, the famous artist, fashion plate extraordinaire, butchered his own art exhibit?”

  “Yes.” She mimicked his actions, but her blouse sticking to her wet belly made her shift a little, taking away from the effect.

  His face made an exaggerated frown. “Your evidence is circumstantial. What motive would he have to do that? He’s not getting any money out of it. There’s not even enough damage to make an insurance claim.”

  “Motive?” She pouted. “I don’t know. But the vandalism was bad enough that we called the police, and yet, it was done in a way that was very easy to fix. Too easy, if you ask me.” She took another sip to increase the caffeine she already felt coursing through her body. “You work with some extremist groups. If they wanted to make a statement about something, would it be so easily remedied?”

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  She tapped the notepad and glanced back to the laptop. Not really giving him time to answer before continuing. “No. When people throw paint on rich ladies’ fur coats, it’s not washable paint. The act of vandalism is a very clear, very permanent sta
tement. Our homophobic slurs weren’t directly painted on the booths. They were posters that were neatly glued. Posters that could be easily removed.” She pointed at him. “I submit, sir, this was all an intentional ploy by the artist himself.”

  Becky noticed his hair was in no better shape than hers. His shirt was unbuttoned and had lost its starch. They both looked like they’d spent the day in the back of a pickup truck roaring down Highway 80 on a hot Dallas day. Windblown, wrinkled and worn out. And still, he was adorable. His chin dipped in slight acceptance. She slammed her hand on the table. All other occupants of the coffee shop turned and looked at them. “Ha! You agree. Don’t you?”

  “In theory, counselor. But it’s a big accusation to make on a theory. Any evidence of this self-inflicted balling?”

  She was already packing her laptop away. “Nope. But, we’re gonna go get some.”

  “We are?” He stood when she did. “That’s for the police, Becky. This is not a TV

  show.” He reached and pulled her close. “How about we go get some much-needed sleep?”

  Becky looked into his eyes. He was flirting and it was working. She needed a little more time to think about what she was feeling for Ebenezer Craigsen Hill. “Sure.” She grabbed what was left of her coffee. “After I figure out what Samuel Saltz is up to here.”

  He let his shoulders fall in embellished defeat. “All right, Nancy Drew, lead the way.” Grabbing the briefcase, he winked and got out of her way. It was late. And she was tired too. Craig had been her constant companion for the last twenty-four hours. She looked at him as they waited to cross the street, finally admitting to herself this guy was obviously not in need of her Love Doctor services. Love Doctor. Pffft. More like Life Avoider. Liza’s zinging comment came back to her. She’d been avoiding that little realization too.

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  All she was missing was the stupid wedding dresses.

  She glanced over at Craig again. He was looking at her, smiling. He still wanted her even after she’d treated him like a weekend gigolo. The problem here was, Craig was exactly her kind of man. There was no reason she couldn’t try for something real with him. Well, other than he was a New Yorker, but she figured they could work around that.

  He bumped against her as they stood waiting for the light. “Don’t overthink it.”

  Is he talking about Samuel…or us?

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  Chapter Eight

  “Oh my. He came back.” Becky stood looking at Samuel talking to the last of the reporters. The rest must have gotten their fill and moved on.

  “Interesting,” Craig said as they walked past the interview in progress and over to one of the sculptures that had been vandalized.

  “Not really. The fact he went home, changed and came all the way back over here from SoHo tells me something too.” She paced around the big dick-shaped sculpture, not really knowing what she was looking for.

  Craig stood leaning against a nearby booth with his arms crossed and her briefcase at his feet. “What? That he’d rather be interviewed in a thousand-dollar designer jacket then puppy PJs?” He shook his head. “Not much evidence there, Beck.”

  Becky looked up at him. Only a few close friends called her Beck. It sounded natural coming from him as well. Crap. Crap. Crap.

  “No, smarty. I mean the fact that he showed up in the puppy PJs and in hysterics to begin with. Now, an hour later, he’s back here acting all businesslike. A tad off the chart—even for him, isn’t it?”

  Craig wrinkled his brow. “Yes. I believe you’re correct.” He straightened, grabbed her bag and reached for her hand.

  “I haven’t found anything,” she meekly protested.

  “We’re not getting anywhere this way and at the rate you’re going, it’ll be dawn before I can get you into my bed. Come with me.”

  Becky gave him a sly little grin. “Are you going to go all lawyerly on him? Maybe put him under the bright light?”

  “Cops use bright lights. Attorneys outwit people.”

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  “Ah.” The heat of his hand in hers reminded her how those particular hands felt all over her body. Maybe she should reconsider figuring this out tonight…

  Nope. She needed to know if Samuel had done this. More importantly, she needed to know why. There was so much riding on it for the kids this event was supporting. They reached the reporter and Samuel. The artist gave her an eyebrow wiggle at the sight of their clasped hands as he spoke to the local news team.

  “I would imagine this was nothing more than some kids trying to impress their friends.” He gestured over to Becky with the tilt of his head. “This is Becky Cooper. She’s in charge of putting this whole shindig on. And she assured me,” he put his hand to his chest as if there were an emotional bond between them, “my work would be preserved and everything would be fine in time for the gates to open.”

  The woman turned to Becky, looked her up and down and then gave her a cross frown. “Stay on her face,” the highly made-up reporter said over her shoulder to her cameraman. Becky looked down at what once was a nice white silk blouse. Shout couldn’t even blast those stains out. “Is that right, Ms. Cooper? Will the show go on?”

  How cliché. “ Yes, ma’am. The damage has already been repaired. The gates will open at eight as planned.”

  “That’s a wrap,” she barked to the cameraman, who immediately turned to start packing his gear. She handed him the microphone, gave Samuel a fake grin and headed off without a word.

  “Parasites,” Samuel grumbled when they were out of earshot. Craig set the briefcase at Becky’s feet and crossed his arms. He tilted his head slightly. Becky fought the urge to reach out and touch him. “But you came back to talk to them. Why?”

  “The publicity, of course. The public needs to know the earlier hype made of the damage—and of me—was misleading. They needed to know everything was going to be fine tomorrow. I wanted to put a good image on the late news so those parents worried about bringing their little kiddies out tomorrow would be reassured.”

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  “That was very honorable of you.” Craig’s voice was lowering slightly every time he spoke. “So you’re okay with the repairs?”

  “Of course. Becky was right. The permanent damage was teensy-weensy.” Farrah barked and wriggled in his arms at the baby-talk tone.

  “But earlier you were hysterical, threatening to move to the west coast to get away from the horror and emotional strain of having your work so…violated.”

  Samuel’s mouth opened to respond but he snapped it shut.

  “Why would you change your tune so quickly, Samuel?” Craig inquired. Farrah wriggled again so Samuel let her down. She circled his feet and sat next to him, looking up as if waiting for an answer to the question herself. “Uh. Craig Hill, what are you insinuating here?” He propped his hands on his hips and tapped his foot. Back to flamboyant-boy again. Becky rolled her eyes. Craig shook his head. “No insinuations, just a question.”

  “If you must. I had a drink. I calmed down and I—”

  Craig busted in. “Decided you’d better come back out here and make sure things wrapped up as planned.”

  Farrah started sniffing at Becky’s coffee-covered shoes. Becky noticed something on her collar and picked her up.

  “Planned? I have no idea what you mean.” He reached for his pug. Becky stepped back.

  “This is blue paint on Farrah’s collar, Samuel.” She was genuinely disappointed, even though she had suspected. She looked at him. “Why?”

  “I have no clue what you…” He let out a huge, huffing sigh. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  In a nanosecond, the flamboyant Samuel Saltz morphed into a wilted flower. His shoulders dropped, his face fell and his eyes suddenly looked as if he’d not slept in a month.

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  Becky pointed at the bench. “Sit
. Talk.”

  Craig touched her shoulder. “Any paper in your bag?”

  “Notepad in the main part by the laptop.” She sat next to Samuel, putting the dog between them while Craig grabbed the pad.

  She repeated, “Why?”

  Samuel shook his head and let out a long breath. “Things get out of hand, Becky.”

  Craig remained unobtrusively off to the side to take his notes.

  “Tell me,” she whispered.

  “I had no idea what to do for this show. I was in a rut, lost my muse, artist block, whatever you want to call it. So much of my work has been for the gay community, I didn’t know if I could pull off a kids’ exhibit.” He rubbed his eyes. “When I was about to run out of time to get you the first drawings, a friend of mine suggested the pinwheels. I felt they were uninspired at best. I worried… No—I knew you and Tenfold would hate them.

  “As it turns out, you didn’t. But in my nervous state, I jokingly made a set of penispinwheel drawings with that same friend. When the time came to order the structural pieces, I sent the wrong set of drawings to the metallurgist and, well—there you have it. Giant cocks.” He rested his elbows on his knees and let his head fall into his hands.

  “I still don’t understand why you had them vandalized to look even more phallic.”

  Becky patted his back for support.

  “You know. Things get out of hand.” He looked back at her. “Last week, I did an interview for the paper. We talked about the festival for a long time. I worried my reputation in the gay community would keep people away. So I specifically kept to the kids, the hospital and the festival.”

  He looked up at her. “In the last few minutes we were together, the reporter asked me about my work in the gay community. I barely mentioned anything, intentionally trying to keep the content off my flaming-faggot persona.”

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  “Ah,” Becky said. “I read that article. It was way more about you and the life of a gay New York artist than the festival.”

  “Exactly.” He stood. “I wanted to be taken seriously as an artist—not a gay man, not a gay artist. I just got mad!” He paced away and Farrah plopped off the bench with a grunt to follow. “I figured if it was a gay artist they wanted, that’s what they’d get. In spades. So I let the mistake in the pinwheels go and put them up as they were. And I had some friends add the accoutrements to make it just that much more…”