Doc

by S. A. Chakraborty

  “This story sucks. I don’t know why I asked you to continue,” I say, teasing. He side-eyes me, and I wink. “You don’t remember who it was?”

  “Brad something.”

  “Pitt?”

  He stops to pose and faux-primp, pretending to brush his hair away from his face. “Do I look anything like Brad Pitt?” His eyelashes bat furiously.

  “Shave the beard, and I’ll tell you,” I say, reaching up to scratch his chin beneath said hair.

  His expression stretches into one of horror, and I crack up.

  “You monster,” he gasps dramatically.

  “Oh, don’t be a baby. I would never tell you to shave your beard.”

  “Is this where you say I can never tell you to shave your legs?”

  I raise an eyebrow and lean forward. “As if you would try.”

  His grin is fuel for every filthy dream I’ll have for years to come. Heh, come. “So who was it then?” I ask quietly, brushing a soft kiss over his lips before turning away to continue walking.

  “Maybe it was Brendan?” he muses. “No, that wasn’t it either. Anyway, the picture didn’t have a major studio backing, so he wasn’t A-list or anything. But his name did start with a B.”

  I don’t notice that I’m walking ahead until his fingers close around my hand and tug me back. “What?”

  “Let’s take a seat,” he suggests, motioning for me to return to him. “Just for a few minutes.”

  I drop my sandals and skim through the warm sand, digging my toes in at each step. His arms wrap around me and press me close. The kiss is expected, but the sweetness of it isn’t. I almost feel flustered. I try to brush off the tickle of a surprise blush, but when he strokes my cheek with his thumb, I don’t mind anymore.

  He flashes his teeth at me before we finally sit. The warmth of the sand under my palms is grounding and feels so good; it echoes through my body. My eyes close in contentment.

  “Tell me more,” I say.

  I picture his body and posture as his slow intake of breath sounds over the waves and breeze. My muscles contract with little quakes of happy, and my stomach warms.

  “Well, not much to tell, really. I was on set for a week, mostly sitting around and reading magazines while I waited to actually do what I was there to do,” he says, the irritation of time-wasting evident in his voice even now. “It was pretty boring, but the last day I’d been hired, they were shooting one of the major stunts on the next lot over. I started bullshitting with one of the rig guys, and next thing I know, I’m in a fuckin’ harness.”

  I turn my head and open my eyes, catching his gaze—at least I think I do. He’s got his aviators on, and I’m wearing the last pair of sunglasses I have yet to lose.

  “And the rest, as they say…”

  As I trail off, the corner of his mouth rises. I imagine his eyes sparkling with mischief behind the mirrored glasses, and before I can protest, his fingers dig into my sides, pulling me in and tickling me at the same time. I squeal and giggle.

  As an aside, the reaction sounds twerpy and strange coming from me. Or maybe just happy and relaxed. It’s a toss-up.

  While I’m both annoyed and surprised that he seems to be the only person I’ve ever met to incite this response—as well as how goddamn involuntary it is—it’s an overpoweringly positive feeling. Enough that I’m not sure how to contain it.

  “Stunt work was an instant addiction for me,” he says as his lips brush the shell of my ear. Then his tongue, then I feel his teeth on my lobe. “Just. Like. You.”

  Jesus, this man and what he does to me.

  I turn my head. “Just like me, huh?”

  “Exactly like you.”

  “I never broke your arm.”

  Something washes over his face that erases the impish look that thrilled me.

  “What?” I think I know. The feeling he projected, whether he realized it or not, wasn’t a positive one. I feel the word broken thump over my chest as though typewriter keys are tapping on my breast plate. And then my heart mimics the rhythm.

  “Nothing.” He looks down and forces a happy shrug.

  Lies.

  “Doc,” I say, pleading though I’m not sure I want him to answer. Something in me doesn’t feel strong enough to face hearing what it was that maybe I did break.

  “No, really, Beauty. It’s nothing.” He turns to face the sea and pushes to get up. “Let’s head to the café, yeah? I could eat a shark, I’m so hungry. How about you?”

  “Famished,” I say, but my heart’s not in it. My heart’s not in it. Well, there’s a double-edged sword.

  I offer him my hand, and he pulls me to my feet. But I must let go too soon because I stumble backward, about to land right back on my ass save for Doc’s quick move.

  “I got you, baby,” he says, his voice low and gentle.

  I stare into his eyes until he sets me straight, not waiting for my response. He takes my hand and tows me behind him toward lunch—and hopefully no more hiccups into too-serious-for-me-right-now conversation.

  ***

  After we stuff ourselves on fried clams, French fries, and mercifully light and fun topics, I drag Doc to the end of the pier. Storm clouds have begun to bunch together maybe a mile out over the Pacific, darkening the day yet making the strands of white lights decorating the pier stand out like low-hanging stars. Subtle thunder rolls across the water and under our feet. I can feel it in my soles, barely rumbling the wood planks beneath us.

  “Mmm, I’ve always loved thunderstorms,” I tell him.

  Doc leans onto the rail and twists toward me. “The sounds of a storm are so powerful, aren’t they? Sometimes I feel like I can hear the lightning, too.”

  “Oh yeah,” I say, my voice scratchy and low. “It’s fucking sexy.”

  He stands tall and closer. “I agree. Is it the danger of it?”

  I move slowly, pushing my chest up against his. I’m sure he can feel that my nipples have tightened, pressed between us, harder when I inhale. “Maybe. Risk can be a turn-on, right?”

  “Absolutely. Adrenaline rush,” he says, even closer. “The fuck or flee response.”

  I chuckle. “Oh, is that what it’s called?”

  “What do you call it?”

  “I call it shut the fuck up and kiss me already.” I barely get the words out before his tongue replaces them in my mouth.

  I’m swept away—the gorgeous grays of the scenery, the soft breeze rushing and swirling before dissolving around us. It’s cool and would give me a chill, but I can’t feel it. I know nothing but Doc’s body against mine, his mouth, his beard softly scratching my skin, his hands pressing low into my back before slipping lower to grip my ass. I writhe, damn near yanking up my dress to mount him then and there.

  I really must figure out why I cannot resist this man.

  With that thought, I press against his chest and step back minutely. “Take me home?”

  Our breaths feel heavy between us, the humidity of the oncoming rainstorm only adding to it.

  “After you tell me a story,” he says, taking a few steps toward the bench facing the sea. “What did you do before PR?”

  My stomach drops unexpectedly. I blink and move slowly in his direction. “Well, um, I…” I begin like a preteen imbecile, swallowing hard before I can continue. “I was bartending for a few years while I got my master’s degree.”

  “Smartypants,” he says, nudging my side softly with his elbow. “What does Sophie call you?”

  “Mensa,” I say with a grunt of disapproval. “Don’t you start.”

  “I’ve already got a nickname for you.”

  I smirk and suddenly more comes bubbling over my lips. “But I’d always been a dancer. Through all of college and even while bartending. My dream as a girl was to be a ballerina.”

  The words are soft and with the coming rain, I’m not sure he heard me.

  “Beauty was a Tinker Bell?”

  I gasp and stare at him like a dying trout. “Did you s
ay—”

  “Tinker Bell? Yeah, why?”

  I sit next to him on the bench and shake my head, stunned. “My da calls me Tink or Tinker Bell,” I confess.

  No one knows this, except perhaps Sophie. The fact that he pulled that nickname out of nowhere shouldn’t be that surprising, but it’s got me flustered and warm inside.

  Doc smiles. “Would you dance for me?” he asks, and I study him, looking for the joke.

  “Lap dances are for customers only,” I say.

  He shakes his head and stretches his arm behind me, resting on the top of the bench. “I’m serious. You have a dancer’s body—”

  I scoff, certain that the years have softened my edges enough to hide my former career goals. He turns my face back to his with a single finger.

  “You’re not going to try to convince me you’re fat or some bullshit like that, are you?”

  I make a face. “I’m not an asshole, so no, I’m not saying that. It’s just been so long, I’m out of fighting shape.”

  It’s his turn to scoff. “Bull. Shit,” he says, amusement curling his mouth. “You’re always in shape to fight. That’s one of the things I love about you.”

  Butterflies whirr in my stomach. “Ha-ha,” I say and look away. Soon, I feel his kiss high on my neck as his nose nestles behind my ear. The butterflies faint from a sudden spike in body temperature. Sorry, butterflies.

  “I mean it,” he whispers. “I want to see you dance.”

  I pull back and eye him, questioning.

  “Nora,” he urges with a raised eyebrow. “I’m not asking you to perform the entirety of The Nutcracker.”

  That makes me laugh. “Oh yeah, I will Sugar Plum Fairy all up in this bitch.”

  “But I guess if you want to, maybe wait until Christmas.”

  “Piss off,” I say with a smile. “All right, I’ll dance for you. But not now. It’s going to rain any second. We should go.”

  He doesn’t move. I look behind us, and the pier is empty. The café seems just as barren.

  “You don’t want to dance in the rain?” Still with the teasing.

  “Pfft,” I laugh and lean into his side. “Wait, are you serious?”

  The thunder cracks so close, we startle and cover our ears.

  “Okay, stud, getting struck by lightning is not on my bucket list, so—” I move to stand, but Doc’s arm switches from the back of the bench to my shoulders. His fingers curl around my arm and encourage me to stay put.

  “Wait. Didn’t you ever want to just be in the rain? My mom always ran us inside no matter what. All I wanted to do was feel it soak through my clothes.” He inhales and releases a breath, deliberately and calmly. “I get the danger of it, but… Just for a minute?”

  His eyes shift off to the approaching raincloud and the beaded curtains of water sweeping beneath it. A tiny smirk plays on his lips, and I realize he’s been cooking this one up for longer than the last couple of minutes. I’m about to tell him I have no idea what the fuck he’s talking about when the open heavens reach the end of the pier, closing us within their embrace. I gasp first, followed by a squeal and a huge, embarrassingly loud peal of laughter.

  Doc’s bizarre request soaks in, and I focus on the thudding of raindrops against my skin, head, clothes, and the bench beneath me. Every sensation is elevated thanks to the surprise. I turn toward him to see his head tipped back, eyes closed, his free arm out to welcome the deluge. I continue to laugh before deciding I need to kiss him immediately.

  His surprise is palpable, and I devour it—it’s not often I catch him off guard—but he doesn’t waste the moment, kissing me back with fervor. He stutters a few pecks before whispering, “You really want me to take you home?”

  Lost in his eyes and nearness, it takes me a minute to respond. Finally, I shake my head. “I really like it here.”

  His smile is blinding.

  A man comes running out of the restaurant, offering us a golf umbrella. We pause a moment to stare, before laughing hysterically.

  “Thanks, mate,” Doc says eventually, panting. “We’re just havin’ a dance.”

  17

  THE NEW BOOBS SITUATION

  NORA

  WHEN CAMERON WALKS in to The Fly Trap with a rack built of falsies like I’ve never seen, I am legitimately without words.

  “Wow,” she says, propping her hands on her hips, which does not take my focus away from her stuffed bra. “Nora Bennett speechless. I was waiting for this day.”

  It takes me a minute to shake loose some kind of a response. “What the hell, Cam?”

  She looks down, adjusting her sculpted creations. “Oh, you know,” she says. “I just wanted to make sure I don’t want to go big. You know—”

  “Go big or go home, right?” I ask, smirking. “I’m pretty sure that wasn’t intended to be literal.”

  She chuckles. “Perhaps.”

  I notice her voice has gotten a little higher in pitch; her features are a bit more rounded and soft. I guess the hormone therapy is starting to kick in.

  “So, what do you think? Stay reasonable? Or pull out all the stops?” Cam shimmy-shakes her would-be boulders at me like an awkward stripper.

  “Are you fucking with me?” I ask. “I mean, are you changing careers? Porn may be lucrative, but I daresay it may not be the fulfilling path you seek.”

  All I get in response are hairy eyeballs.

  “Oh, so the Boobsie Twins are destined to become part of your stand-up set?”

  She takes on a pensive look. “Oh, well that is an idea now, isn’t it?”

  I can’t tell if she’s serious.

  “Cammy.”

  “What? Every comedian has their schtick.”

  “Or sch-tits, as it were,” I deadpan.

  Cameron’s face goes slack. “You have been hanging out with my sister for far too long. Don’t make up words.”

  “I—”

  “I’m pretty sure ‘sch-tits’ is not a legit part of the Yiddish language, or any other, for that matter,” she tells me, grinning.

  At least she finds the humor in it. If she didn’t, I’d have to report her to the comedy police.

  “Fair.”

  A couple of regulars come in, plopping themselves at the other end of the bar, so I excuse myself to tend to them. When I return, Cam is nibbling on a handful of maraschino cherries.

  “So,” she says, “dish.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t ‘what’ me, bitch. Dish.”

  “Don’t ‘bitch’ me, bitch,” I say. “I’m working. And anyway, I have no idea what you’re on about.”

  She smiles the knowing smile of someone who has the upper hand. “One, there are exactly three other people in here right now. I think you’ll survive this rush and still be able to spill the beans. Two? Bull. Shit. You know exactly what dirt I’m here for.”

  “Seriously, I don’t,” I insist.

  I shrug and spread my hands out. And because I claimed to be working and unable to focus on our conversation—she’s right; it’s bullshit—I pick up some glasses and start washing them.

  “Doc,” she says, loudly. “As if you didn’t know.”

  I did, but I feel protective of our… thing. Relationship? I mean, yes, we’re dating. Okay, I can woman up: Relationship. It strikes me suddenly that I’m afraid to talk about me and Doc as though I might jinx it. Again.

  “Hello?”

  Cam reminds me we’re currently having a conversation, and I blink.

  “I mean, you’re hitting that hotness on the reg, and I need deets. And then those flowers he sent? And the note? Sweet Christ, you bish, I’m dying here.”

  I stack the glasses I just washed and cock an eyebrow at her. “Did you grill Sophie like this about Fox?”

  She makes a face. “Honey. He’s nearly my brother—both in law and figuratively—from growing up together.”

  “Knowing him since she was a kid didn’t stop our darling Lollipop,” I say.

  “I do
question my sister’s taste sometimes,” Cam says.

  I laugh loud enough to startle the customers at the other end of the bar.

  “Anyway, Fox is not my type. Doc, however…”

  My mouth gapes open. “Really? How did I not realize this?”

  “It’s like we’re not even friends,” she says with eyes like slits, but quickly breaks into a chuckle and grin. “Now, start spilling. I need some juicy tidbits to distract from my own lack of love life.”

  I start to question, but she waves me off. “I’ve got too much going on with my transition to deal with dating at the moment. Hormones have my libido all out of whack, and frankly, I’ve been too busy to think about it. That doesn’t mean I don’t nail a one-nighter from time to time. It’s just sparse as of late.”

  I nod. “Can I mix you up a cocktail, then?”

  She smirks. “Sure, you know what I like. A cocktail to preface your cock tale.”

  I’m annoyed that I find her comment hilarious. “Fucking comedians.”

  Cameron stays for a while to interrogate me about Doc, and given that it isn’t an incredibly busy night, I end up talking a lot more about him than I planned to. Part of me wants to keep it as mine. Or at least mine and Doc’s.

  She stares at me, clearly dissatisfied with what she considers a measly offering thus far. “Details, my darling. I’m talking, what’s his stamina like? What kind of rod is he packing? Do you have to take Tylenol with codeine after sex? Or is he a minute man? Does he ask you to put your finger in his—”

  I turn away from mixing her a heavily poured cosmo and interrupt. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave, miss.”

  She guffaws like a balloon suddenly popped, echoing in a silent room. Paulie is the only one who doesn’t react, save to look at Cam like she woke him up from a nap. This is why he’s on security detail—can’t ruffle those feathers.

  “You know I’m teasing. I’ve heard you animals,” she says, eyeballing me. “I want deep stuff. Like, is he romantic? Does he smell good up close? How’s his morning breath? Does he have a twin who likes transgender women with perfectly sculpted new boobs? I’m thinking ahead here.”