The Other C-Word

by Schiller, MK

  He enveloped me in his strong arms. I felt both our heartbeats and it was like the most beautiful love song in the world. I fell asleep that way. I knew I had a night terror that night because he had a bloody nose the next day. I looked at him with shock, but he just smirked at me and said “love hurts.” That’s when I told him how much I loved him and I never wanted to be without him again, either.

  My mother came out of the coma. She was still weak, but we saw progress in her condition on a daily basis. We knew she would kick it when she insisted we four girls have a dish session right there in the hospital as soon as she could eat solid foods. We all shared Zesty bars. It turned out they’re vegan! I dished the most that night. I told them I was happy and in love, and they could all stop worrying about me.

  The doctor came in and reported my mother’s prognosis was good. We all shed tears of relief. My mom shook her head at all of us. “You think getting hit by a car is going to put me out of commission? I toured with the Dead, you know!”

  * * * *

  Rick moved in with us. I know, it sounds crazy to have your boyfriend move in with you and your mother, but hey, I never said we were a traditional family. We were all still worried about my mother’s needs and making sure someone was there for her between our schedules. It turned out that person ended up being Rick. He took care of my mother. They actually bonded and had secret jokes of their own.

  In return, she took care of him, too. He became another son to her. I think their relationship helped him as much as he helped her. He missed his mother so much, and in a way, my mother filled some of that void.

  Rick was able to keep up his work schedule eventually, but he found ways to telecommute and make day trips, so we could be together most nights. I told him he didn’t have to, but he insisted he couldn’t sleep at all if I wasn’t next to him.

  After my mother was able to be on her own, we travelled. It turned out Rick had found some doctors doing innovative work on my infliction. Unfortunately, they didn’t accept insurance. Rick paid for my treatment and the places we stayed. We had to stay in secluded spots in case I had a terror, so it was very expensive. I vehemently opposed the idea, but he insisted, saying it would benefit both of us. We tried several clinics until we met Dr Sheena Sharma. She believed in the combined healing power of eastern and western medications. A recipe of meditation, yoga, foods and new medication turned out to be powerful healers. I’m not saying I never had another night terror—I did—but they became more manageable and less dangerous.

  When you rotate through life, you’re really just spinning in circles. I learnt that my past didn’t have to dictate my present. Rick appreciated my brand of crazy, but I had to accept it first. Everyone is a little crazy and, it’s important to share the crazy, along with the good. I’m not saying to announce it everywhere you go or anything. They’ll probably put you in an institution if you do that, but don’t be afraid to let others in, otherwise you’ll never set yourself free.

  Epilogue

  We all sat around, the normal cast of characters, enjoying Sunday supper. It had been six months since the accident. Billie was home from Columbia for the weekend and my mother was now able to go back to work. We had so much to celebrate. We were all in good spirits enjoying German Chocolate cake, my favourite dessert.

  Dillon started, “Dish…I’ve given my two weeks’ notice and have decided to become a personal organiser. It’s about time this illness worked in my favour!”

  We all cheered and congratulated him.

  “I’d be happy to show you how to file the necessary forms for self-employment, Dillon,” Rick offered. I squeezed his hand because this is how generous the man I loved is.

  “Thanks, Rick, I’ll take you up on that.”

  Billie followed Dillon, “Dish…I’ve decided to be a vegan.”

  My mother slapped the fork out of her hand. “Don’t eat that, then. I’m not a vegan anymore.”

  “What? Why?” Billie said as if she was outraged. I happened to know this girl had a serious doughnut addiction so this Vegan thing would never last.

  “Sorry, sweetie, I really missed cheese,” my mom replied, contritely.

  Stevie went next. “Dish…we had the ultrasound. We’re having a boy!”

  We all hooped, hollered and congratulated them like crazy.

  “Have you thought of a name yet?” my mom asked.

  Stevie winked at her. “We thought we’d keep up your tradition and go with Robert.”

  “For Bob Marley?” I asked her, touched she was using my namesake.

  “No, for Robert Plant, silly,” Stevie replied. We all voiced our approval at her name selection.

  Rick went next. “Dish…I asked Marley if she would do me the honour of becoming my wife.”

  Everyone became silent and stared at me. A tear trickled down my mother’s face. She wasn’t surprised though, because Rick had done the right thing and had asked her permission first. Of course, she’d given it to him. The woman probably loved him more than me at this point.

  I cleared my throat. “Dish…I said yes.”

  Everyone rushed over to me. I showed off the ring that I’d hidden in my pocket. It was his mother’s ring.

  If you’ve ever wondered what it felt like to be hugged by half a dozen people at once, it was amazing. It made me feel the best C-word of them all…cherished.

  “Dillon, I thought you’d be the next to get married,” Billie said when we’d all settled down.

  “Why?” Dillon asked her.

  “You caught the bouquet.”

  Dillon grinned widely. “No, I actually picked it off the floor after Marley side-stepped it. Either way though, she has it so it only makes sense she’s getting married.”

  I look at him confused. “Huh? What does that mean?”

  He ran his fingers through his perfectly groomed curls. “Those sachets I brought over when we cleaned your room. I made them from Stevie’s bouquet, so it was always meant to be this way.”

  The sentiment of Dillon’s actions touched me deeply. Dillon and I shared a special smile and I knew why he was my best friend. More than that, he was family.

  “We should go gown shopping tomorrow, Marley. You cannot procrastinate on this.” Stevie announced.

  I shot her an annoyed glance. “I have plenty of time. I’m not worried about it.”

  Stevie gave Rick a pleading look. “Rick, help me out here.”

  Rick shook his head, holding his hands up. “This is totally Marley’s call. I know she’ll look beautiful no matter what she wears.”

  “Yeah, well if you are fine with your bride wearing combat boots and a toga down the aisle then I’ll leave it alone.”

  Rick turned to me with his nervous smile. “Baby, your sister makes a good point.”

  I stood up and glared at Stevie. She mimicked my movements. We bent over the dining table towards each other with our fists clenched.

  “Sometimes I think you’re not a girl,” she wailed at me.

  “Sometimes I think you’re too much of a girl,” I wailed back.

  We were joking of course, like we always did. I glanced around the table and I knew what everyone was thinking. Rick wanted to pull me into his lap. Adam was trying to come up with a smartass comment to make. Dillon was contemplating why the forks didn’t all match. Billie was readying to stand up and add her two cents. My mother was the one who was going to break us up.

  This was my family and I knew them like the back of my hand.

  In the end, Van Morrison surprised all of us by jumping on the table, and nibbling my cake.

  “Damn, Stevie, your pussy’s eating my German Chocolate cake.”

  Rick encircled my waist and pulled me down to his lap. “That’s my job.”

  I think the groans and moans and complaining that followed could be heard throughout the whole neighbourhood.

  “What! I’m saying it because Marley and I always share desserts. What were you perverts thinking?”

  Ye
p, I love that man.

  Also available from Total-E-Bound Publishing:

  Samantha Lytton: The Dimple of Doom

  Lucy Woodhull

  Excerpt

  Chapter One

  It’s a Not-So-Wonderful Life

  Accountants should not be so sexy.

  It all started at the office Christmas party, as many terrible hangovers do.

  My palms began to sweat at the sight of The Accountant walking in my direction. His shining eyes said, I wanna spread your sheet, his masterful gait said, Damn, I’m masterful, and his tantalising smirk said, I’ve read the Kama Sutra—all the way through.

  I swallowed the lump of lust in my throat and twiddled with the tablecloth of the catered buffet table. My usual party plan involved making winsome eyes at the food, but tonight I salivated over more than just the pigs in a blanket.

  “Potato ball?” he asked. Sam Turner, aka The Accountant, held the fried offering palm up on a festive red and green paper plate.

  I had the hots for a dude named Sam. My name is Samantha. Samantha ‘n’ Sam. It was the stuff of obnoxious wedding invitations.

  What colour were his hazel eyes today? Glancing up, I slid into hormone heaven. He stood, eyes mossy green pools of sensual seductiveness, and offered me the Garden of Eden apple. Except it was a potato ball.

  Cocking my head, I posed in an alluring manner that I hoped brought Marilyn Monroe to mind. I should say something. Something not stupid.

  “I love balls.” Oh, damn. “And potatoes!” Did I just tell him I loved to eat balls? “I mean I love to eat food! In ball form. You know. Because it’s easy. To eat. Except when it rolls. Then it can be hard to catch.”

  Stop.

  Talking.

  “Okay.” Sam’s lips turned upward in mockery on his almost handsome, totally charming face, topped in curling, floppy, please-run-your-hands-through-me brown hair.

  Yes, I absolutely had told him I loved to eat balls. I decided I should smile through this faux pas. Everyone knew a bright grin made unpleasant things go away. Ask Judy Garland.

  “I like food in stick or chip form myself,” he said, munching a piece of celery in stick form.

  I couldn’t come up with anything to say about sticks that wasn’t dirty. “Chips are good.” Really, I impressed even myself with the brilliance of my witty banter. At any moment my clothes would be ripped off my quivering body by Sam, my same-named accounting crush.

  I hated the office Christmas party.

  Sam blinked and appraised me in what I chose to interpret as a captivated manner. A girl could dream. Instead he said, “So, Scott told me you entertained the employees at last year’s party.”

  “Yes. I fell down the steps.” My cheeks burned like the carpet at the end of two flights of stairs. I wasn’t clumsy too often, but when I made the effort, I really won at it. “You can still see the splotch on the floor from the blood. I lost a tooth, but gained a reputation.”

  “That’s gross.” He grinned. One wouldn’t call him drop-dead gorgeous or anything. At first, you might consider him kinda ordinary-looking. Then the naughty glimmer in his eye caught your breath. The smile appeared, emphasising the lickable curve of his bottom lip. Charm emanated from his very pores.

  And, of course, he possessed the nuclear weapon of facial features. The dimple. Only one—on the left side of his face—deep enough to bury yourself in. One flicker and panties fell at thirty paces.

  My body temperature had suddenly shot upward to somewhere near surface of the sun levels. I’d disconnected completely from the conversation and reverted to teenage-girl-like gawking.

  I took a steadying breath and jumped back into the fray. “So, accounting? Is that as glamorous as it sounds?” I had, apparently, decided that deriding his profession was the way to go, flirt-wise. Plays like this were risky, but desperation had sunk in. His temp job in the finance department ended today—I would have no more chances to bend and snap at the water cooler for his benefit.

  The corners of his sometimes green, sometimes brown, always dreamy eyes crinkled. “Of course. Usually I have eight models in my accounting entourage, but I gave them the night off.”

  Uh-oh. He was funny, too. It just wasn’t fair. “How kind of you. You could say you’re a model boss! Ha ha!” Yes, I laughed at my own joke, which was a behaviour shared by the most sophisticated of ladies. Then I remembered I turned a horrid shade of blotchy red when I got too excited. I choked off my laughter and forced down some potato.

  “I could say that, but I won’t.”

  “No, you really shouldn’t.”

  The dimple chose that moment to come out and play. Oh, Sam—let’s retire to the supply room and hump. It had been so long since I had humped anyone. Or anywhere. I shoved more mmmmm-yummy potato ball into my mouth and almost didn’t get it on my festive sweater, the beautiful red one I’d spent way too much money on in the hopes of getting Sam to notice me.

  He noticed now. “You have a blob of—”

  Then he grabbed my boob.

  “Jesus, I’m sorry!” His eyes became saucers, and he jerked his hand back, leaving my skin scorched and feverish. “There’s a bunch of potato on your…sweater. Let’s, um, let’s go to the kitchen. There’s a sink.”

  My stomach dropped three storeys—I’d just accidentally got to second base in public. He grabbed my arm, and we hurried past a maze of monochrome cubes draped in twinkle lights to the break room. This was the most exciting event in the office since they had switched the carpeting from taupe to tan.

  Sam stood there while I applied a paper towel to my tit. Actually, he didn’t merely stand there—he stared, turned away, blinked and stared again. I couldn’t blame the guy. The girls were rather ravishing—perky from the cold water, encased in a formidable push-up bra, eager for more inappropriate fondling.

  “I’m sorry about…that.” He slumped and shoved his hands in his pockets.

  “It’s okay. It happens.” I smiled, brimming with reassurance.

  The tension finally broke when he snickered. “It does? How often does it happen? You should avoid potato balls.”

  “And accountants.”

  We laughed at each other. For once I wasn’t laughing by myself.

  My ears pricked at the silence surrounding us. The back office echoed, and we were alone. The whirring hum of the old refrigerator sounded like a Lionel Ritchie love song to me in my hyper-aroused state. Hello? Is it me you want to do on the floor?

  I stared at him, knowing I resembled an enraptured puppy, but unable to help it. Unbelievably, he gazed right back. Soft green eyes mesmerised me. After what felt like ten minutes, I found my voice again. “I think I’ll wait here until my boo—sweater dries.”

  “I understand.” His focus never left my face. “We don’t want to start any lactating rumours.”

  “No. It takes a long time for those to go away—I know from experience.”

  Sam chuckled, flashing the dimple again.

  What happened next was one hundred per cent the dimple’s fault—the evil dent winked in his cheek like a boozy lounge singer, urging me to bad behaviour.

  I reached up his five-nine or so height and pulled the collar of his green shirt down to my five-foot lip level to kiss him.

  He smelt divine—shaving cream and man skin. An enticing combination. His lips were soft and surprised at first, but soon parted to allow my exploration. Sweet. He tasted sweet, warm, delicious. Oh, God.

  My fantasies about kissing him were pale, pathetic compared to the real thing. Sparks flew from my lips through my veins to my toes, singeing various important parts in between. The sudden heat emanating from his talented mouth made me dizzy. Blood pounding, I clutched him harder to remain upright. This was not an ordinary kiss. This was a masterpiece painted by the two of us.

  I let his shirt go before his lips.

  His hazy gaze melted into mine. “I should be inappropriate more often.”

  “I wrinkled your nice green shirt.�
� I smoothed the cloth over his chest—his solid, inviting, muscled, taut… What on earth is going on? Oh, yes, I’ve messed up his shirt.

  “I don’t care. Do you like it?” His eyebrows hovered upward, as if he really cared about me liking his clothes.

  I dared a glance into his eyes again. I should learn not to do that. Warmth pooled in my stomach when he leaned in, desire writ large in the purse of his lips, the falling of his eyelashes. I gripped his shirt. I didn’t have to pull very hard—this time his arms locked around my waist and lifted me until I stood on his feet. On my tiptoes, I flicked my tongue across his bottom lip. Marvellous. With an approving grunt, he sucked on mine, and I heard myself moan into his open mouth. Accountants shouldn’t have such nice bodies, but I felt firm, delicious muscle when my belly pressed against his.

  “Ahem.” We froze.

  In slow motion, I turned around to find Scott, the company scumbag, leering. Scott made office irritation an art form by eavesdropping, rumour-mongering, licking his fingers and leaving messes in the communal microwave. He gave his best smarmy laugh before leaving.

  Sam closed his eyes. “Crap.”

  “Crap,” I agreed. “I should have taken you home, and then kissed you.”

  Grinning, he said, “Samantha, I like you.”

  He did? I held my breath. There was no candid camera. No pointing and/or laughing. A hot, normal guy liked me.

  I did not believe that women should derive their self-worth from the approval of male persons. However, the dating scene in Los Angeles was…unique. It was riddled with loser actors, and loser producers, and loser losers and more tall, tanned silicone than you could shake a jiggling arm at. Let’s just say that pale, short girls who don’t speak Dipshit did not enjoy as robust a dating life as they might have desired. In other words, there were slim fucking pickings. Therefore, it was cause for real celebration when he continued—

  “I have to ask you out now. For the office’s sake. To ensure a legacy of rakishness.”