The Nurse's Not-So-Secret Scandal

by Wendy S. Marcus

  He appreciated her honesty. “I like who you are.”

  She smiled up at him. “Because you want me to wrap my legs around your head.”

  “Hey. Don’t knock it.” He matched her grin. “I’ll make sure you enjoy yourself as much as I do.” Turned out Fig had a real knack for pleasuring women. He may have hit the sex scene later than most, but according to several very reliable sources he’d surpassed the competition in the oral sex arena.

  Two positives to come out of months and months spent as a patient in the hospital:

  Patience. From waiting for the nurses to bring his medication, waiting to get strong enough to walk to the bathroom on his own, to get healthy enough to return home. Women seemed to like his unhurried approach to foreplay.

  Chivalry. From the hours and hours of black-and-white classic movies his mother watched at his bedside. When he’d pretended to be asleep so she’d stop fussing over him. When he’d vowed if he survived long enough, got big and strong and lucky enough to find a woman who didn’t think he was a sickly, hairless freak, he’d treat her like a princess. In his early twenties he’d learned as much as they touted equality, women liked to be treated special, to be protected, cared for and respected. As much as they wanted independence, they liked a man to take charge.

  With that thought in mind, Fig caught Roxie around the waist, pulled her close. “Dance with me.”

  Roxie settled her body flush with his and clasped her hands behind his neck. “Since you asked so nicely.”

  Fig rested his hands on her hips, his cheek to her mane of soft, lightly perfumed curls, and swayed in time with the slow beat, loving the closeness, the feel of her. But he needed Roxie to understand. “About our date.”

  She leaned back to look at him. “You mean the one I got all dressed up for? The one I’d been looking forward to all week? The one you didn’t bother to show up for?”

  “That’s the one.” He pulled her back against his body and held her there. “I had a family emergency and had to run home for the weekend. Can we leave it at that as long as you know I didn’t get a better offer, because there’s no place I would have rather been than with you that night? And if there was any way I could have gotten to you I would have? I should have called.” But he’d been enraged that his mother had manipulated him. Again. For the absolute last time. “I’m sorry.”

  “And…” Roxie said.

  “I’m sorry for what went down at the hospital. I had no idea the investigation was hospital wide. Victoria asked me to help prove your innocence, and that’s what I’d intended to do.”

  “A-a-and?”

  And what? Fig had no idea.

  “And you’re going to make it up to me.”

  “Yes.” Most definitely. “And I’m going to make it up to you.” Tonight. All night long. Fig slid his hands into her back pockets and eased her hips closer, putting her in contact with his growing arousal, making his intentions clear. They’d had quite a tempting flirtation going last weekend, and Fig was eager to back up his words with a little action.

  Roxie turned her head, her mouth on his ear, her breath warm and moist. “By taking off your cap so I can feel your head.”

  The head wearing the hat was not the head he wanted her hands on at the moment. He leaned back so he could face her. “You want to…”

  She nodded. “Feel your head,” she said, looking up at him. “It looks so soft.”

  What was it with women and a bald-headed men? Far from being the turn-off he’d once thought it to be, they loved it, asked to caress it and pet it. Holding Roxie in place with his left arm at her low back, Fig pulled off his cap. Holding it, his right hand joined his left and he said, “Feel away.”

  She slid both hands up the back of his neck to the top of his head. For as loud and in-your-face as Roxie could be, she had a gentle touch, skimming lightly across his flesh. Fig wanted to bury his face in her hair, close his eyes and enjoy every second of it.

  Total loser that he was, a simple caress from Roxie was capable of turning him to mush. Like on his twenty-first birthday, when he’d undressed Kyle’s gift—one of the always-looking-for-a-good-time Stavardi twins—and almost didn’t last long enough to lose his virginity. Luckily he’d had enough presence of mind to put his mentor’s sage advice into action: take control. Focus on the woman. Always satisfy your partner—multiple times when possible—before allowing yourself to come. That last one had taken some time to master. But he was nothing if not a good student, committed and willing to practice, often, until he’d gotten it right. After a few months his confidence grew and word got around and he’d never again needed Kyle’s help to attract women.

  Fig slid his hands back into the pockets covering Roxie’s nicely rounded butt. He’d already taken control. Now he’d focus on the woman. “Nice,” he said.

  “Yeah,” she muttered on a sigh, her hands still exploring. “Soooo, is the rest of you this enticingly smooth and hair-free?” she asked.

  He smiled. “If you’re a really good girl maybe you’ll get to find out,” he teased.

  “Oh, I’m good.”

  From the snippet of her video he’d watched in Victoria’s office, he’d lay odds she was much better than good. His cell phone vibrated in his front pocket.

  Roxie rubbed against it. “Me likey.”

  “You’re a kook,” he joked, ignoring the call. Less than a minute later, it vibrated again. His mother’s typical pattern. Call incessantly until he picked up. Call the local police if he didn’t answer within an hour.

  Tomorrow he’d get a new number.

  “You’d better answer that,” Roxie said when the phone buzzed a third time. “Not that I’m not enjoying all the activity down there, but it may be important.”

  He reached into his pocket to retrieve his phone and checked the caller. Sure enough. Still holding Roxie, he answered the call. “Hi, Mom. I’m fine. Goodbye,” he said. And put the phone away.

  It buzzed again.

  “Talk to your mom,” Roxie said, starting to pull away.

  “I’m not ready to let you go.” Fig held on. “We were in the middle of discussing how good you are.” A topic he’d like to address in detail as a prelude to the demonstration portion of the evening.

  “Our drinks are getting warm.” She pushed on his chest and he released her. “I promise to save you a dance for later.”

  Save him a dance? He intended to have all of her dances. Back at the bar an open bottle of beer and three shot glasses filled with a dark amber liquid awaited Roxie. A Shirley Temple with a long-stemmed maraschino cherry awaited him.

  Fig reached under the bar, squirted a dollop of hand sanitizer in his palm and cleaned his hands. That done, he removed the stem from the cherry—regretting having mentioned his unusual skill—and wiped it with his napkin. He lifted the glass, toasted the bartender, who smiled, and returned it to the bar without taking a sip. Last night they’d joked around for a couple of hours while Fig had waited to see if Roxie would show up. After serving Fig his third bottle of water—unopened—the bartender had offered him a shot of anything, on the house. Fig had refused and shared he no longer drank alcohol—thus the Shirley Temple.

  He’d tried living life under an alcoholic haze through which his situation passed as acceptable. As a result the abuse had gone on years longer than it should have. Because he wasn’t clearheaded enough to notice it. Because it took Kyle almost dying for him to figure it out.

  Roxie tossed back a shot.

  The bartender, who she called Triple B—for Big Burly Bartender—came over to tell her which man had purchased each shot for her. And to bring Fig a bottle of water—unopened.

  Roxie looked at it with disgust. “You want one?” She held up a shot glass.

  “No. I’m good.”

&nb
sp; She tossed back the second one.

  Fig recognized Roxie’s need to get drunk. Fast. More to escape and forget than embark on a little giddy, uninhibited fun. Been there, done that. “Did you drive tonight?”

  “Nah.” She followed the shot with a swig of beer. Then smiled. “I’m sure someone will be willing to give me a ride home.”

  When alcohol rendered her inhibitions ineffective. “I’ll drive you home,” he said. Even if he had to drag her out by her hair while swinging Triple B’s behind-the-bar baseball bat back and forth to hold off the predators.

  She lifted her third shot, smiled at some blond-haired schlub who blew her a kiss and finished that one off. “Don’t you dare ruin my fun, figlet. Go call your mother.”

  Figlet. His man-parts shriveled in response. Roxie turned to face the man sitting on the other side of her and began to chat, effectively dismissing him. He took the opportunity to dial his mom. When she picked up he said, “I’m fine, Mom. Now’s not a good time to talk. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  He caught Roxie watching him out of the corner of her eye. “I’m on a date,” he answered when his mom shot off a question about why it was so noisy.

  “Oh, you think this is a date?” Roxie asked, her head tilted to the side and both eyebrows raised.

  He smiled. “No. She’s not a nice Jewish girl,” he answered his mom.

  Roxie harrumphed and brought her bottle of beer to her lips.

  “She’s a nice Latina girl,” he clarified.

  She smiled around the opening.

  “Yes. They do have beautiful complexions.” He drew a figure eight on the warm, bare skin of Roxie’s upper back. She shivered.

  “Okay, Mom,” Fig said when she told him to be careful.

  “Always,” he agreed when she told him to use protection.

  “Never,” he denied when she reminded him not to kiss his date on the mouth—because the human mouth was the dirtiest part of the body and kissing transmitted disease.

  And, “I will,” he agreed when she told him to have fun (but not too much), get a good night’s sleep (after he got rid of the shiksa) and to call her tomorrow (so she’d know he’d survived the night). He disconnected the call without saying what needed to be said. That he was twenty-six years old and she needed to find a hobby or something else to occupy her time.

  To which she would have replied, “You can’t turn off being a mother, Ryan. Especially to a sick son who you’ve given up your own life to care for and homeschool.” Certain he would have given up his own life if not for his mom’s steadfast love and encouragement when he was young, Fig indulged her. He’d even forgiven her. But he’d reached his limit of guilt and manipulation. If they were going to have any type of relationship from here on, it’d be on his terms. Which he planned to lay out for her the next time they met face-to-face. Not in a bar, with Roxie listening in.

  “Your mom sounded disappointed that you’re hanging out with a shiksa. Good luck finding a nice Jewish girl here at O’Halloran’s. Don’t look so surprised.” Roxie shrugged and looked down into her third shot glass. “Mom and I used to clean for a Jewish family up on the hill. I heard what they said.”

  “Maybe I don’t want a nice Jewish girl,” Fig said, leaning in, trying to make eye contact.

  She bumped him with her shoulder. “You and me are like matzo balls and hot sauce. We don’t mix.”

  Fig disagreed. The potent chemistry he and Roxie shared was a perfect mix. “What do you know about matzo balls?”

  “Sometimes we helped Mrs. Klein prepare and serve at Rosh Hashanah and Passover. I’ll have you know I can make a chicken soup so tasty and a matzo ball so light and fluffy your mom would weep.”

  “Maybe I like my matzo balls as hot and spicy as I like my women.”

  This time Roxie laughed. “I’m out of your league.”

  “Maybe this will change your mind.” Fig lifted the cherry stem and held out his expensive watch. “Time me.”

  She counted him down. “Five. Four…”

  He placed the stem between his teeth.

  “One,” Roxie said and stared at his lips.

  Fig maneuvered the stem with his tongue. Twisted it, shoved it and…voilà! He spit the knotted stem into his palm.

  Roxie looked down at the watch. And swallowed. “Eight seconds.”

  He leaned in close. “Imagine what a few minutes of that would feel like.” Her expression softened. Ah, yes. He had her. Atta girl. Imagine him going down…

  The tall man with blond hair came up beside Roxie. “Come on, hot stuff,” he said, grabbing her arm. “They’re playing our song.”

  “Born to be Wild.”

  Roxie looked torn—for all of five seconds. “Go home,” she said. “I’ll tell Victoria you did your best.” Then she hopped off her stool and led scruffy surfer dude to the dance floor.

  As if Victoria’s concern was the only reason he’d come to the bar.

  “She’s headed for trouble with that one,” Triple B commented. “Even more than with the last loser she paired herself off with.”

  Fig stiffened. “The last loser.” The videographer. “You know him? What he did?”

  Triple B nodded as he picked up a glass and started drying it with a towel. “He started coming in a few weeks ago. Always after midnight.” He set down the glass and picked up another. “Him and a shifty-looking sidekick. They moved through the crowd. Zeroed in on a certain woman and started buying rounds of drinks until they practically had to carry her out.” He slammed the glass on the bar. “What could I do? The women didn’t protest. They didn’t ask for help. The next time they come in here…”

  “You call me,” Fig said. He removed his business card from his wallet and handed it to the bartender. “Anytime.”

  For the next hour Fig listened to an increasingly loud, slurring, laughing Roxie sing—if you could call it that—along with the jukebox. He watched the enticing gyration of her hips and the bounce of her pleasing breasts as she danced and stumbled from one groping partner to the next, only resting long enough to do a shot or chug down a constant supply of beer, a fresh drink purchased by her many admirers before she’d completely finished the one before it. He kept an eye on the time and waited for the right opportunity to claim the dance she’d promised him so he could entice her away from the bar. Before midnight.

  It happened in an instant. Roxie pushed the blond guy away. Fig made it to the dance floor just in time to hear him say, “Come on, baby. Double your pleasure,” as he threaded his right arm through Roxie’s, and another man, who could have passed for his twin, did the same on the other side. Their execution practiced. Effective. They led Roxie to the door.

  “I don’t do tag team, fellas,” Roxie said, looking at each. “If you don’t…”

  “A real man doesn’t need help to pleasure a woman,” Fig said, coming to a stop directly in front of Roxie. The men halted. Roxie didn’t.

  “Right on, figlet,” she said just before she collided with his chest.

  He caught her and held her upright as he leaned in close to her ear. “There are two of them and only one of me. It’d help if you talked me up, not down.”

  She stepped back. “I mean, Big Fig,” she corrected. “Big Bad Fig,” she emphasized. It would have been more effective if her tone had been less mocking.

  “How about that dance?” he asked, holding out his hand. Cautious. Not sure how the duo once again flanking Roxie would respond.

  “Ta ta.” She dismissed them with a flippant wave. “It’s been fun.”

  “I don’t think so,” one said at the same time the other said, “Not after all the money…”

  “Triple B,” Fig called out to the bartender. “Add their tab to mine.” He motioned between the two men. �
��If they make their way back to the bar in the next ten seconds, tack on whatever they drink for the rest of the night.” He turned to both men. “It’s the only offer on the table, gentlemen.” He pushed back his shoulders and widened his stance. “The lady’s with me.”

  “How absolutely caveman of you,” Roxie said with a grin. “I think I like it.”

  They all did.

  The scruffier of the two men looked Fig up and down. Fig had about six inches on him. With a curse he returned to the bar. After a brief hesitation, the other one followed.

  “Come on.” He held open his arms. “You promised me a dance.”

  The music playing had a raucous beat.

  “I’m tired,” Roxie admitted.

  “Too tired for a slow dance?”

  She swayed on her feet. “I’m all hot and sweaty,” she said.

  Fig closed the distance between them and pulled her close. “Next time I want to be the one to make you all hot and sweaty.”

  She rested her head on his shoulder and followed his lead, leaning heavily. “I like that idea,” she said as her hands snaked up his arms and the back of his neck, coming to rest on his head. “Nice,” she said on an exhalation as she caressed him.

  Nice indeed.

  After the second song Fig thought there was a distinct possibility Roxie had fallen asleep. “Hey,” he said, rubbing her back. “I’m going to take you home now.”

  “To your home.”

  Well, Kyle’s condo since it was where Fig was staying while in town since Kyle had all but moved in with Victoria. That’d been the plan, anyway. Before he’d seen Roxie consume enough alcohol to fell a lumberjack. The first time he hankied her panky he wanted her fully alert, capable of consent and of remembering their encounter—so she’d stop calling him figlet.

  Unlike his lesser male counterparts, Fig did not take advantage of intoxicated women.