“Gee, thanks,” she said sarcastically.
Waving at the waitress and bartender, who sat across the room at the bar watching, Stacey walked away from the table.
She was certain that the stranger was still watching her, still trying to figure out an angle. But she didn’t turn back. Instead, she kept her eyes on the door. Who was she kidding anyway? Anything that sounded too good to be true often was. Her father had one saying he had used repeatedly when she was a child that came to mind now: Caveat emptor for sure, baby.
***
The cool rainwater soaked Stacey as she gripped the sides of her green North Face backpack and hiked several blocks up the waterfront to her lonely loft.
With each step she took in the briny air, feeling it jet into her lungs and feed her body, her buzz began to wear off, but the thoughts of Hunter did not. She wondered if she had just made a huge mistake by turning him down or if she had saved herself from a ridiculous situation.
That was the strange thing about life. Sometimes, there was no clear answer. Right now, Hunter could be back at the bar using the same line on another woman, or he could have been seriously interested in only her and went home alone. One thing was for sure. She would never know.
As she hit the steps of her dark bricked building, she looked up to her front window two stories above to see her cat looking down at her. It never failed, and never ceased to amaze Stacey. She swore that Rapture could sense her a hundred miles away. Who said that dogs were more faithful?
Wiping the rainwater from her face, she stomped her brown hiking boots on the black, plastic welcome mat at the base of the lobby door and slipped her key in the lock. With a twist of her wrist, she was safely inside out of the elements and standing face-to-face with Clive Blackstone.
Stacey wasn’t sure if Blackstone was Clive’s real surname, but it definitely fit him. Stuck in the grudge-age and devoted to heavy metal, the part-time guitarist and full-time IT tech, was hopelessly pulled between two worlds.
If Stacey saw Clive from 8-5, Monday through Friday, he was in belted jeans, a button down and clean hair. However, after hours, he wore black eyeliner, a tattered, Matrix-like trench coat and gel-slicked hair that only further pronounced his receding hairline. She found his duality strange but refreshing. At least he had the balls to fly his freak colors.
“Hello, Clive,” she said, moving out of the doorway to let him pass with his arms full of equipment. “It’s raining out there. You may want to pull your car around first,” she suggested.
“It’s cool,” he said drably, already in character for tonight’s performance. “Thanks though.”
Stacey always wondered if he got into character to perform at the clubs or if he got into character to perform at work. Closing the door behind him, she decided not to give another moment of thought to Clive or his complex existence.
After a short trip up her elevator to the second floor, she exited out to her front door and stomped her feet again on her own welcome mat before she dashed inside. As she opened her doors, Rapture was right there to gracefully swirl in between her legs with his arched back offered to freely rub.
“Missed you too, cat,” she said, closing the door behind her. Dropping her backpack in the corner, she kneeled and picked up her friend, rubbing its fur against her face as she walked over to the table in her living room to listen to her missed messages.
Pushing down on the blinking red button, she heard the message that she had been dreading for days.
“Well, hello, hello,” the female, east coast caller said over the machine. “I expected to find you home working on that wonderful manuscript you promised me,” her agent, Valerie Morrow, said in a demanding tone. “Call me when you get home. I don’t care what time. I just need to know that you’re on schedule.”
Stacey looked at her cat and shook her head. “I’ve got to pull something out of my ass quickly, or I’m going to need to move into the litter box with you, Rapture,” she said, kissing her cat on the nose. A quick, warm lick from the cat was returned for her favor.
Stacey picked up her cordless phone and walked with her cat in her arms to the kitchen to make a cup of ginger tea. Her agent picked up on the first ring.
“How’s my favorite author?” Valerie asked with too much energy for so late at night.
“Not so well,” Stacey answered, putting her pewter-colored kettle on the stove. “I have writer’s block.”
There was a brief silence on the phone. “Well, what do you need to get you motivated? A trip? A new car?”
“A new man,” Stacey laughed. “I’ll figure it out,” she said, thinking involuntarily of Hunter. “Let me send you what I have tomorrow afternoon. I have an appointment in the morning with my new OBGYN.”
“It’s a date,” Valerie said, getting what she needed. “Well, I’ll talk to you then, doll. Call me if you need anything.”
“I will,” Stacey said, hanging up the phone.
Rapture ran his furry head against Stacey’s neck as she put the phone down. Smiling, Stacey purred like a cat. “I love you, too.”
Chapter Two
Commuting in Seattle could be very difficult if one didn’t use public transportation, drive a car or use cabs. In this case, the one in question was Stacey. So she tried to make sure that everything that she needed was in a twenty-mile radius of her home to ensure that she could either ride her bike or drive her plum-colored Vespa.
However, considering that it rained a lot, she often arrived to all of her engagements soaking wet and somewhat irritable. It was days like this one, sunny and clear, that she wished would last forever. If she could find a place that was perpetually tranquil, she’d move there forever.
Dr. H. C. Fourakis had come highly recommended on several accredited websites. Due for an annual checkup, she wondered why she even bothered to go considering she had not been sexually active since the Stone Age. The only thing that was pushing her was the knowledge of how real cervical cancer could be and her desire to be cleared of all possibilities. Her mother had died when she was very young of cervical cancer, and since then she had religiously gone to the doctor for checkups.
Pulling up to the small, bricked building on the corner lot of the busy intersection, she looked up gratefully at the skies that were blue and bright. At least the day had started off right. Maybe, just maybe, she could find a reason to write today. She knew that it was hardly possible; yet she clung to the prospect.
Taking her backpack inside with her, she walked up to the reception desk, checked in and had a seat in the half-full waiting room. It was a nice little practice, clean and modern with lots of abstract art and health pamphlets strategically placed around the well-lit space.
Grabbing the current issue of Vogue magazine on the table across from her, she flipped through the pages blankly until she heard her named call.
“That was fast,” Stacey said, standing up. Waving at the nurse, she quickly made her way back to a small, sterile white room and put her backpack on the floor in the corner.
The nurse was quick with her chores of checking her blood pressure, going through the questionnaire and taking her blood. When she was done, she informed Stacey that the doctor would be in to see her momentarily; so she would need to change out of her clothes and into the blue, paper examination gown on the table.
Taking her time after she was left alone, Stacey pulled off her favorite, distressed jeans and t-shirt, boots and socks, and made a neatly folded pile in the chair.
Sitting on the small bed, she looked around the room with her hands clasped as she listened to the people move about outside the door. She always got nervous at the doctor’s office, and the result was often itchy, sweaty underarms. Running her thumb under her wet arm pit, she took a deep breath and rested back on the examination table.
Knock. Knock. She sat up as the door opened. Showtime. The mysterious Dr. H. C. Fourakis walked in with a clipboard in-hand and closed the door behind him.
“Good afterno
on, Ms. Bryant,” he greeted, looking up from his paperwork.
“I don’t believe it,” Stacey said flabbergasted. “You are Dr. H. C. Fourakis? As in Hunter, the drink hustler?” She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Life could be so cruelly ironic at times. He would die if he knew that she actually went to bed thinking about him the night before.
Hunter put down his blue clipboard and tried to wipe the devious grin from his face. “In the flesh,” he said, leaning against the workstation across from her. “This is how I pay the bills. The drink hustling is my night gig.” His brows pinched down as he studied her.
“You’re an OB/GYN?” She shook her head in disbelief. Go figure.
“It’s a family practice actually. My dad was the first. My sister and I run it now. So, you see there is really no need for me to be too boisterous. I’m just playing copycat here.” He sat down on the white stool in the corner and pulled a sleek silver pen from his white smock. “So, what are we doing today?”
Stacey pulled her little paper gown around her, uncomfortable with being nude with a man who had tried to pick her up twelve hours before. “We are not doing anything. If your sister isn’t available, then I’ll change doctors with my insurance company and reschedule for a later date somewhere else with someone else. But there is no way in hell that I’m going to let you...” She didn’t bother to finish her statement, certain that he understood her concern.
Both of their eyes wondered to her covered vagina.
“Well, I don’t want to lose your business. I’ll see if Hanna is available,” he said, standing up. He walked over to the door and stopped. With a quick turn in his brown loafers, he faced her. “I hope you won’t let last night effect your impression of our practice. We’re very professional here and devoted to women’s healthcare.”
Stacey slumped down on the bed and shook her head. “I’ll give your sister a chance,” she said, feeling sorry for him. “Just hurry up before I change my mind.”
Hunter put up his hands and smiled. “Great,” he said, showing his dimples. “She’ll be right in, and I’m leaving right now.”
***
An hour later, after Dr. Hanna Fourakis, an equally attractive and young likeness of her brother, had seen her, Stacey emerged from the doctor’s office with a positive experience minus the encounter with Hunter, the drink hustling OB/GYN.
Slipping on her backpack, she mounted her Vespa and prepared to head home when a black Toyota 4runner pulled in front of her.
“Hey, did everything turn out cool?” Hunter asked, taking off his shades.
“Turn out cool?” Stacey smirked. “Are doctors supposed to talk like that?”
“Like what?” Hunter asked. Putting the car in park, he opened the door and stepped out in a pair of jeans and a gray polo.
His copper-colored, curly hair and deep-tanned skin made Stacey curious. He looked like a model. There was no way that he wasn’t a Casanova. “What kind of name is Fourakis?” she asked, slipping on her plum-colored helmet.
“Greek,” he said proudly, although she said it like a curse word. “What kind of name is Bryant?”
“Slave owner name, I suppose,” she said with an obnoxious growl. “Well, have a great day.” Her tone was less than harmonious.
“Wait,” Hunter said, putting his hand on her bike. He tilted his head and smiled. “Let me take you for lunch. It’s the least that I could do, considering that I’ve been such a pest.”
“I have to write a book or did you forget? And yes, you have been a total pest.” She kept her eyes on his hand.
“Why are you playing so hard to get? I just want to take you out, get to know you better. Is that so much to ask?” he pleaded. His grip was tighter on her handle bars.
“Look Hunter,” she said huffing. Flicking his fingers off her handles, she stood straddling her bike. “I’m not a young girl with plenty of time to waste. I don’t like games. Do I find you attractive? Like I told you last night, yes, I do. But I don’t have time for this…not now. I’m busy,” she hissed.
He moved closer to her, determined to change her mind. “I’m not playing games. I’m trying to take you to lunch.” He looked into her eyes and bit his lip again. His attraction to her was obvious. “I like you. I don’t know why. I saw you at the bar last night on your little computer, and you just seemed different, like a breath of fresh air. So, I figured that since you are single, and I’m single what would be the harm. You know me better now. You know where I work. You know what I do. We’re even. Right?”
Stacey smiled despite herself. Looking across the street at the seafood deli, she shook her head. “Yeah. Okay.”
He raised his brow. Did this little hard ass actually agree with something that he said? “Is that a yes?” he asked for more clarification.
“Yeah, okay. We can go across the street to lunch right now.” She pointed across the way. “Over there.” The smell of food wafted across the street to them. The place looked safe and harmless enough, and she had a taste for fish and chips. Essentially, she could kill two birds with one stone.
“Great. Hop in and I’ll drive you across.” His keys jingled in his hand.
“Oh, I don’t do cars,” she said, pushing her Vespa. “Go on. I’ll meet you across there.”
“You don’t do cars?” he asked confused. “Do you drive that thing everywhere?”
“Do you or do you not want this date, drink hustler?” she asked, refusing to explain.
“Alright. Alright. I’ll see you across there,” he said, getting back into his truck.
***
Sitting across from each other in a booth next to the window facing towards the breathtaking waterfront, Stacey and Hunter finally had a chance to talk. Fresh crab cakes, hot fish and chips, spaghetti, coleslaw and iced tea lined the small wooden table for two and gave her ample space to prevent the date from feeling too intimate.
As the waitress brought out extra condiments, Stacey sat back in her seat and pursed her lips together. “This doesn’t add up. Out of the blue last night, you walked up to my booth and tried to pick me up. And today could have very well been coincidental, if there is such a thing, but something tells me that it wasn’t. You care to explain?”
He laughed nervously, indicating that her suspicions were correct. Clearing his throat, he tried to give his side of the story. “Yesterday was the anniversary of my wife’s long journey to death. And it’s always very difficult for me. So, I try to go places that we used to hang out together in order to remember what my life used to be like.”
Stacey frowned. She wasn’t expecting something so morbid. Disarmed, she relaxed her protective body language and waited to understand what his wife’s death had to do with her.
Hunter looked down at his vacant ring finger. “First, let me catch you up to speed. My wife couldn’t pay for medical school outright like my parents did for me, so she joined the Army and ended up in Iraq shortly after graduation from medical school. The theatre hospital where she was working was hit under attack by insurgents, and she was transferred to Walter Reed in DC for treatment where she fought for her life for two months and six days before she passed away.”
Stacey didn’t blink but her face had definitely warmed with compassion. She loved the military as much as the next citizen and sympathized with anyone who had been killed trying to serve the country.
Hunter tried to smile, but the pain was evident on his face. “I never left her side when she was returned to the states. Day in and day out, I watched her tortured in pain, fighting to survive. She said that she didn’t want to leave me without a family of our own. So, the idea of healing and having a baby was what gave her hope and kept her alive for so long. Plus, the staff at the burn unit were amazing. But in the end, they couldn’t save her. No one could. Infection set in and she finally succumbed.”
Tears ran down Stacey’s face. For the first time, she realized that someone had been through more than she and Drew, and the reality of that fact was both over
whelming and refreshing. Because at that moment, she knew that she wasn’t alone. However, she was also very ashamed of how poorly she had handled her own misfortune.
Hunter continued in a deeper more solemn voice, “Anyway, her favorite pub was T.W. Milligan’s, and I go there every year on the day that she was sent to Walter Reed, and I normally don’t stop going there until the two months and six days are over. Needless to say, the bartender knows me well. That is why I was there last night.”
Stacey sighed, putting two and two together. Greg knew her story too. On many nights after Drew’s death, Greg had called her a cab when she had drunk herself into a mindless stupor.
Finding Opa! Page 2