Can't Always Get What You Want

by Chelsey Krause

  I nod, willing my tears backward. They aren’t cooperating. The security guard returns, stumbling and gasping for breath.

  “He’s a fast bugger. I called for backup, but we lost him.”

  Still in Brett’s embrace, I can feel his muscles tense up.

  “You. Lost. Him?”

  “Sir, I’m so sorry. We tried our best.”

  “I don’t care how sorry you are!” he spits out. “Have the police been notified?”

  “Yes. If you’ll come this way, we’ll need to take a statement from both of you.”

  I groan. “I just want to go home.”

  Brett nods in understanding, and leads me back toward the main entrance.

  —

  An hour later, we’ve given our statements, and we’re allowed to go. Brett ushers me into his truck, gently lifting me into the cab.

  “I won’t break,” I halfheartedly tease.

  He draws his mouth into a thin line and starts the truck up. I sag into the seat, relieved that that’s all over with.

  “I feel so stupid,” I choke out.

  “What for?”

  “For being in the wrong place at the wrong time. For not calling you or texting you first. I could have done things so differently.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up about it. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Brett grips the steering wheel so tightly that I can see his knuckles turn white.

  “I should’ve beat the piss out of him.”

  We sit in silence for a moment, our memories raw and open.

  “Listen, can we not talk about it anymore? At least not tonight? I just need to get my mind off of it,” I plead.

  “Of course.”

  We continue the drive home snuggled up against each other.

  And he passes my house.

  “Where are you going?”

  “My place.”

  “B-but,” I sputter, “I don’t have anything there.”

  “What do you need?”

  “Well, pajamas, for a start. I can’t sleep in my scrubs.”

  He chuckles. “Who said anything about pajamas?”

  Cathartic laughter bubbles out of my throat.

  “Don’t worry, I can lend you a shirt,” he says. “Anything else?”

  “Where’ll I sleep? Since we’re going with your no-sex rule.”

  “I’m sure I can handle it,” he replies dryly. “I’ll be thinking about you all night anyway. I need to know that you’re safe. And the safest place for you right now is with me.”

  I can’t disagree with him there.

  “Okay.”

  I can hear a smile in my voice. Our very first sleepover! This should be interesting.

  “Are you going to at least have underwear on?”

  I can feel his face, pressed against my hair, erupt into a massive grin.

  “I’m not making any promises.”

  Chapter 18

  Let’s Spend the Night Together

  Where am I?

  I’m lying in a strange bed, in a strange room. The mattress shifts underneath me; faint snoring echoes around the room.

  It’s Brett.

  What a relief! I mean, of course it’s Brett. It’s not like I’ve ever made of habit of waking up in strange people’s bedrooms. The curtains above his bed are partially drawn, and a sliver of light streams onto his face.

  His sleeping face is adorable. Long lashes fan across his closed eyelids, and his lips are slightly parted. Stubble lines his jaw and cheekbones. He breathes out, and smiles in his sleep. I can’t help but smile back. How did I ever find such a lovely man?

  And, perhaps more important, how did I end up in his bed? Did we sleep together last night? How does that work, given our “not-doing-it” arrangement?

  But perhaps the worst question of all is: what if we slept together, and I can’t even remember it?

  There are only three possible scenarios:

  1) I got rip-roaring drunk and my memories are fuzzy.

  2) The sex was so mediocre that it wasn’t even worth remembering.

  3) The sex was so bad that my mind catalogued it as a traumatic event, and locked it away as a repressed memory.

  None of those options are good.

  I cautiously shift to the edge of the bed, careful not to wake Brett, and slip outside the bedroom.

  What am I wearing?

  I’m in nothing but an oversized white T-shirt and a pair of pink boy short briefs.

  No!

  The shirt isn’t so bad, but why, WHY did I have to have on this exact pair of underwear today? Well, technically, yesterday, as I presumably didn’t go home last night.

  They were lovely underwear when I bought them. Now I call them my uglies.

  The fabric is pilling, there are a few holes around the seams, and the bright pink color has faded to a blah shade of gray. I should toss them in the garbage, but they’re so comfortable that I can’t throw them away.

  And he saw me in them.

  EWWW!

  What do I do?

  Okay, Sophie, calm down. He obviously saw you in your uglies and didn’t run for the hills. I’m sure it’s not a deal breaker.

  No! But the first time your boyfriend sees you in your skivvies, you should at least be wearing something cute, sexy, and colorful. Not something that looks like you’ve worn it every other day for the last two years.

  Hey, trust me. Every girl has a favorite pair of ugly underwear. Go on. Ask, if you don’t believe me.

  Well, I suppose I just have to wear them. It’s not like I have many options. Going commando is tempting, but probably not a good idea, given our celibacy agreement. That, and my pubes still look a bit wonky from the waxing mishap a month ago.

  Admitting defeat, I pad silently down the spiral staircase and head toward the kitchen. I’m in desperate need of coffee. Searching through his kitchen, I quickly locate the coffeemaker, but…where are the coffee grounds?

  I go through the cupboards next, and find everything but coffee. Glancing around the kitchen, searching for clues as to where to look next, I spot an empty wine bottle in the sink. My head is starting to pound.

  Well, that must explain the fuzzy memories.

  I remember driving here last night, and having a couple glasses of wine. Which, by the looks of it, turned into four or five.

  I do remember kissing. Lots and lots of kissing.

  And seeing what Brett looked like in just his underwear.

  Hello, Mr. Muscles.

  I wouldn’t be surprised if he caved last night. I was topless under my T-shirt. And, he’s been celibate for two years. I bet he’s horny as hell.

  Entering the pantry, I stand on tiptoe, pushing objects aside.

  The pantry door creaks behind me. I’m still a bit freaked out from what happened last night at work, and don’t like the idea of being snuck up on. I spin around in a clumsy pirouette.

  Brett is leaning against the pantry door frame, arms crossed over his naked chest. His hair is a disheveled mess, and his boxers sit low on his hips.

  “Don’t let me stop you,” he says, smirking. “I was rather enjoying the show.”

  I’m suddenly reminded of my gross underwear, and blush furiously.

  “Good morning,” I say.

  “What were you looking for?”

  “Coffee.”

  “Ah. Come this way.” He leads me by the hand out of the pantry, and stops in front of the fridge.

  “Shame we had to waste that moment,” he says wistfully.

  “What moment?”

  “In the pantry. You’re looking delicious this morning, Ms. Richards.”

  I clear my throat. “I apologize for the, umm, underwear. They’re not exactly what I would have wanted you to see me in, the first time.”

  He shakes his head, and lets his eyes travel down my body. “I like what I see.”

  “Well, you must really be the man for me.” I laugh. “You can accept me, warts and all.”

  �
��I don’t know about warts.”

  “A figure of speech,” I reply, rolling my eyes.

  “Hopefully.”

  He reaches into the freezer and grabs a bag of Starbucks coffee grounds.

  “You buy Starbucks? What about Tim Hortons?” I say. “And why is it in the freezer?”

  “I bought it a while ago, since I thought you’d like it. And, I store it in the freezer so the grounds stay fresh.”

  He offers me the ice-cold bag of coffee. I stifle a laugh.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. It just sounds like something Martha Stewart would do.”

  He drops his head to the side.

  “Ha. Actually, the cashier who sold me the coffee suggested it.”

  “Did this cashier happen to be female?”

  “Umm, yes. Why would that matter?”

  I roll my eyes. Typical. I’ve been buying Starbucks coffee for years, and I’ve never been told that tidbit. Mr. Hot and Gorgeous here goes in there once and is given all their beverage guru secrets. I swear, there seems to be a different set of manners reserved for beautiful people.

  We carry our coffees to the living room and settle onto the couch. Leaning my head back, I turn toward him and trace the contours of his face with my eyes. He leans his head back against the couch as well, imitating my move, and smiles at me.

  I love you, my thoughts instantly say.

  “Are you still going to work today?” he asks.

  “Argh! I completely forgot about that! I guess I’d better go home and get ready” I say, my voice deflated.

  “You’re still going?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Do you want to? After what happened last night?”

  No. Not at all. I’m nauseous just thinking about it.

  “It’s not about what I want,” I explain. “It’s about being responsible, and showing up for work when I’m supposed to. And anyway, they’re always so short-staffed that I’d feel bad about not going.”

  “Couldn’t you use a sick day?”

  “Suppose I could, but that wouldn’t be very honest.”

  He sighs in frustration.

  “I don’t think you should go to work tonight. You had a really traumatic evening, and I think you’re entitled to some time off.

  “Would you stay home for me?” Brett asks, his eyes pleading.

  “I guess so,” I say.

  Using Brett’s phone, I call my unit manager and explain that I won’t be coming in today. She’d heard about the “unfortunate incident” of last night, and was very understanding. Which was a first. It’s usually easier to pull teeth than to get time off.

  Thankfully, it was the last shift I have to work for a few days, so I only needed to ask for the one shift.

  Turning the phone off, I sag back into the couch.

  “You good?” Brett asks.

  “Yeah, I’m good. Just thinking about all the things I’ll miss this weekend,” I reply happily. “Wiping butts, short staffing, patients hitting me. Dealing with the charming Dr. St. Luke.”

  Brett raises an eyebrow, but says nothing.

  “You know. The usual,” I say.

  Brett turns his torso toward me.

  “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you’re taking the day off; I think you need it. But, you seem really negative about work. What’s that all about?”

  “I was just teasing.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I wasn’t being negative, just accurate. Nursing is a difficult job.”

  He folds his arms. “Why did you choose it then?”

  Sunken pale green eyes flash through my memory.

  “What’s it to you?” I snap. “Sam made it sound like a good career choice, and I wanted to do something meaningful with my life. End of story. Besides, what’s wrong with admitting that it’s not all roses? I’m sure you have days where you’d rather do anything than go to work.”

  “Of course. Everyone does. But, I sometimes worry about you.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because you never sound happy about it. You’ve brought up this St. Luke guy a few times now. Why don’t you confront him?”

  “Oh yeah, because that would go over so well,” I say.

  “Why not? Being assertive is a good thing. You don’t need to be rude or be a dick about it, but you also don’t have to take crap from people.”

  “It’s easy for you,” I reply. “You’re the boss at work. You don’t have to impress anyone, and you’re already so confident and easygoing that it just comes naturally. Anytime I try to stand up for myself, it feels forced.”

  “You’re doing fine right now,” he mutters.

  Irritation flashes through me.

  “And,” he continues, “it is not always easy for me. I have to be on top of my crew all the time. Watching for slackers, tactfully disagreeing with people when they have crap ideas, negotiating wages and contracts, firing people who don’t do good work. I have to be assertive, and it’s not always easy.”

  “Aren’t you being negative about your job right now too?”

  “Not at all. I love my job, and if something comes up that I don’t like, I handle it. I’m in control. And at the end of the day, I love what I do. Don’t you feel that way?”

  I laugh nervously. “I don’t know. Sometimes, maybe.”

  “Maybe you can get a new job?” he offers.

  “And do what, exactly? I’ve made my bed. I have to lie in it.”

  “You act like it’s a life sentence. Who says you couldn’t do something totally different? You’re young; you can make a new start.”

  “No, I can’t,” I nearly yell. “I’m up to my ears in debt: a student loan, a mortgage, bills. I’m lucky to have a job that pays me well. I don’t have the freedom to go back to school, or travel, or anything else I’d like to do right now,” I say. “I just need to make the best of it.”

  “So make the best of it!” he says. “Stand up to this doctor when he’s being an asshole. And, if you still hate it, look for another job. No one is saying that you need to work there specifically.”

  Angling himself closer to me, he cups my chin and turns my head toward him. He notices the few stray tears trickling down my cheeks.

  “Soph…” he whispers. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

  “No, it’s fine,” I say.

  Which is girl code for, “No, it’s NOT fine, and I expect you to treat me like a princess today and hand-feed me chocolates.”

  “It’s your life,” he says. “You might as well do something that you love, rather than just putting in time.”

  Aaron’s pained face is smiling up at me from his bed.

  “Okay,” I say to Brett, trying to head off a new crop of tears. “I’ll think about it.”

  A total lie, of course.

  I need to make this job work for me.

  “Maybe I’m just bored,” I say. “Maybe I should take a course or something. Shake things up a bit.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. The hospital offers a few courses on tropical diseases and vaccination that sound interesting.”

  I turn away from him and stare into my coffee cup. It’s stone cold.

  Brett playfully bumps his shoulder against mine.

  “Are we good?” he says.

  “Yes, we’re good,” I respond.

  His whole body seems to relax. Wow. I hadn’t realized how tense he was just now.

  Did we just have our first argument? And we came out unscathed? I think we deserve a medal or something.

  “Okay. On a positive note, we both have this sunny Saturday off. What should we do?” Brett asks.

  Flicking my eyes to his bare chest, I envision myself licking every square inch of him.

  “Oh, I can think of a few things we could do,” I say absently.

  Wait a minute! I still haven’t established what went on last night.

  Maybe I can bang his brains out!

  “So,” I begin, “
my memories of last night are a bit fuzzy.”

  “I bet. You killed that bottle of wine before we went to bed.”

  “I figured.”

  Okay. I need to ask him if we had sex. Plain and simple.

  This will be easy.

  “So, what exactly…”

  Oh goodness…I can’t say it.

  What if we did do it? Will me not remembering damage his ego? I mean, the guy hasn’t had sex in two years, finally does it with me, and I can’t remember? That’s going to kill him!

  Aha! I’ve got it!

  “What did you think of last night?”

  Take that. Throw the ball in his court.

  “I thought it was fun,” he says simply.

  Well, that clever plan backfired.

  Brett sits up and pulls me onto his lap.

  Oh my…I can feel his, umm, enthusiasm.

  His breath trails along my jaw. His lips reach my ear. I feel his tongue dart out on certain words.

  “I would say we pushed our limits,” he replies, “but we didn’t go too far.”

  I lean toward him. “Care to refresh my memory?”

  He lets out a genuine, hearty laugh, and gently pushes my lips away from his.

  “Not right now, with you looking like that. I managed to control myself last night, since you drank about six glasses of wine and passed out not long after we went to bed.”

  “Not into banging drunk chicks, eh?”

  “Not so much,” he says. “But now, on the other hand. It’s taking all of the self-control I have left to not ravish you right here, right now.”

  “Do it!” I challenge happily.

  He responds with a frustrated growling sound, which pleases me immensely. It’s nice to know that I’m not the only sexually frustrated person here.

  “Let’s go out. I can’t spend another minute here alone with you and keep it together.”

  —

  After I’ve gone home, showered, and changed into fresh clothes, we decide to run a few errands. Samira and Narayan have agreed to meet us for supper tonight, but we’ve got a few hours to kill between now and then.

  “Do you mind stopping at the hardware store?” Brett asks. “I have to pick up a few things.”

  “Sure, that’s fine,” I reply.

  This should be interesting. I imagine him skipping through the aisles of wood trim and power tools, like a kid in a candy store.

  Unfortunately, this kid loves his candy store. We’ve been standing in one aisle for about fifteen minutes, as Brett hems and haws over the merits of a particular piece of molding.