by Susan Fox
She opened the book and stared at the lined page. She should write something there. Some kind of title. Maybe “Me And My MS.” But she couldn’t bring herself to do it, so she turned to the next page and wrote, “Things To Do,” then drew a line under it.
“Number one,” she said. “Buy notebook. Yay, I can cross it off.”
He chuckled. “Great start.”
“Two. Uh . . .”
“Order the books?” he suggested.
“Right. Three is to talk to Ms. H.” She wrote it down. “That smells great, by the way.” To her surprise, the aroma was giving her an appetite. “What are you cooking?”
“Stir-fried beef and veggies with ginger and soy sauce, to serve over rice.”
“Mmm.” She gazed down at the lined page. “What’s four? I suppose, to read the information Dr. Young gave me on treatment options. And try to digest it.” She gazed at the brown envelope Dave had dropped on the table. Wading through the medical stuff would be tough, not to mention frightening. The doctor had said there was no one best treatment. Several had proven to be effective, but each had potential nasty side effects, and none offered a cure.
“A suggestion?” he said.
“Sure.” She tore her gaze away from the envelope.
“Dr. Young gave us two copies of the information. Tomorrow, let’s make another copy and you can share it with Ms. H.”
“The print’s really small. She’d have trouble reading it.”
“Too bad. That must be a pain for someone like her who’s such an intellectual.”
“It is. She loves her e-reader with the ability to pump up the font size. Even then, her eyes get tired. If she wants, I’ll read the material to her. It might help me digest it better.”
“Good idea. I’ll read it too. Maybe the three of us can get together in a few days and discuss it?”
“Decision by committee?” she asked warily. Ever since she was eighteen, she’d controlled her own life.
He turned from the stove, shaking his head. “The decisions are yours. We, along with Dr. Young and the neurologist, can help you make informed ones.”
Dr. Young had arranged for the neurologist in Williams Lake to Skype in for the next appointment. She’d said that Cassidy’s health care team needed a neurologist.
A team. Cassidy had worked with teams, like the staff at the Wild Rose, but now she’d have a health care team and a personal support team. So much for independence and spontaneity. Not to mention, the doctor wanted her to join a counseling group with other people who had chronic illnesses or disabilities. But that would mean admitting publicly that she had MS.
“Want to eat here or in the living room?” Dave asked, plating the food.
“Living room.” She closed the notebook, eased Merlin’s chin off her foot, and stood. “Dave, you’ll keep that medical stuff out of sight when Robin’s around, right?”
He handed her a plate. “You don’t want to tell her?”
She headed for the living room, where she took her usual seat on the couch. She didn’t want to tell anyone. She didn’t want the diagnosis to be true. The more people who knew, the more she’d be looked on with pity, treated like a leper, as Anita had said. “Not yet. It’s a lot for a kid to deal with. I know how much you want to protect her, so let’s hold off until . . .” Until when? She had no idea.
Dave sat down beside her. “Yeah, I’m protective, but this is different. It’s like her Grandpa Wade’s stroke and Anita’s cancer. A fact of life. My daughter’s a strong kid. Of course, I’d check with Jessie and Evan first.”
And two more people would be in the loop. “I know, but . . .”
“It’s a lot for you to deal with. I get it. For now, it’ll be just you, me, and Ms. H.”
“Thanks.” She slumped into the couch, closed her eyes, and sighed. “This feels good. Can we watch a movie? I’ll order those books tomorrow morning, and tomorrow night I’ll start reading the medical stuff to Ms. H. But now, I’d like to goof off for the evening.”
“You’ve earned it.” He handed her the remote. “Pick something.”
“Hmm . . .” What would be purely entertaining, a distraction from real life? She checked the menu and chose The Big Easy, with Dennis Quaid and Ellen Barkin. “This is set in New Orleans and it’s about . . . well, you’ll see.” It was fast-paced, intriguing, and sexy.
“I should’ve cooked Cajun,” he joked.
“This will do just fine.” She picked up her plate and dug in.
Because she moved so often, Cassidy had often found herself alone in a new place. Some nights she went out to explore, maybe look for company. Other nights, she stayed home and watched movies. This film, she’d seen a couple of times before. Glancing over, she saw that Dave seemed absorbed by her choice.
They ate and watched in companionable silence until he paused the movie to take their empty plates to the kitchen. Merlin trailed him.
Damn. Restless now, Cassidy rose. Without Dave by her side, without the distraction of the movie, it was hard not to think. She wandered around the room, checking out a horse drawing Robin had been working on, folding the crumpled afghan. The kitchen door closed and, relieved, she turned as Dave returned minus the dog but with the wine bottle. He refilled their glasses and she reclaimed her seat and restarted the movie.
When a shirtless Remy hiked Anne’s skirt up and caressed her leg, Cassidy snuggled into the curve of Dave’s arm and rested her hand on his thigh. She had missed this—missed him—so much when she’d been away. “Steamy, isn’t it?” she murmured.
“The movie, or you?” He moved her hand higher to cup his fly, where he was growing beneath the denim of his jeans.
“For now, the movie. But later . . .” Cassidy pressed firmly and he pulsed in response.
The couple on screen, caught up in foreplay, were interrupted by Remy’s pager. The cop had to go to a murder scene. Anne murmured that she’d never had much luck with sex anyway, and he said her luck was about to change. Later, when he got back from the investigation.
Remy and Anne might have to wait until later, but Cassidy was palming one very fine erection. And, unlike Anne, she was good at sex. While sex was a basic physical act, each time was unique. It was definitely a participatory sport, and the outcome depended on how well the partners played together. Dave Cousins brought great equipment to the table, and his skill, thoroughness, and attention to his partner made him something special.
Let’s face it, Dave was something special. In bed, out of bed. And he made her feel special. He cared enough to chase her to Cannon Beach and persuade her to come back. He found her sexy, despite—no, she wasn’t going to think about that. Not now.
With her free hand, she fumbled for the remote and pressed the PAUSE button. “You, Mr. Cousins,” she purred, “are about to get very lucky.” She swung over to straddle his lap.
“I’m liking this.”
She shimmied her crotch against his erection. “I can tell.” There were so many possibilities. Inspired by the movie, she chose sultry. Rather than rip open the row of snap buttons on Dave’s shirt, she undid them one at a time, caressing his chest as she went. His body was so strong and lean, so perfectly male, just touching it made her body hum with arousal.
She undid his belt buckle and the button at the waist of his jeans and tugged his shirttails free. Then she sat upright on his lap and raised her arms above her head, stretching and undulating. She undid the snaps at the cuffs of her own shirt and slid each sleeve up her arm in slow, sensual touches that caressed her bare skin, making her whole body tingle.
“Need any help?” he asked huskily.
She shook her head. “Leave it to me.”
Another thing she liked about Dave: unlike some guys, he didn’t need to always control the sex. If he sensed she wanted to take charge, he went with the flow.
With those same slow movements, she unsnapped the front of her own black shirt. Under it, she wore a turquoise bra. A couple of shrugs sent the shir
t sliding off her shoulders but, anchored by the sleeves shoved up her arms, it didn’t fall. Sometimes, like in the movie, it was sexier to have disheveled clothing than to be naked.
She brushed her fingers across her own chest, then the tops of her breasts, knowing that Dave was imagining his hands there. She undid the front clasp of her bra and eased the cups aside, freeing her breasts, the nipples puckered with her arousal. Clasping her hands at the back of her neck, she arched her back so her breasts thrust toward Dave.
“Definitely steamy,” he said. His cheeks were flushed; his eyes glittered.
There might be a horrible, incurable illness inside her, but there was no pity or sadness in his hazel eyes, only appreciation. And lust. Tonight she needed this. To be in control; to be the seductress; to be utterly desired as a woman.
And to stop thinking about MS, for God’s sake.
She rose and, with movements constricted by her shirt, managed to free herself from her jeans. Her panties stayed on, along with the loosely hanging shirt and bra. Kneeling in front of Dave, she unzipped his jeans and tugged them off, but left his tented boxers on.
Then she sat back down astride his lap. Shimmying her crotch against the bulge in his underwear, she enjoyed the sweet build of pressure between her thighs. Her hands at his waist, she arched back, increasing the pressure where their bodies joined.
He groaned and finally moved, his hands coming up under her shirt to firmly stroke her back and urge her toward him so he could suck her nipple into his mouth. He teased it with his tongue, lips, and the edge of his teeth until this time it was she who moaned.
She wanted to hold his head, weave her fingers through his hair, but her shirt trapped her arms. Instead, she pressed kisses to the top of his head. Undulating her hips, she pressed against his erection, keeping her movements slow and sultry to suit that New Orleans mood.
Dave did the same. The perfect partner in this sensual dance.
Easing back, she reached into the slit in his boxers, freed his thick erection, and slid her fingers up and down the shaft, pausing to circle the damp head with her thumb.
He moaned. Muttered, “Shit, you’re hot” against her breast. Then he raised his head, sitting back again, as she lifted up a little and reached her other hand between their bodies.
Her fingers trembling with need, she slid the moist crotch of her panties aside and opened her slick folds. Rising higher, she guided him to her center until he slid in, a tiny bit at a time as she slowly sank down to encompass him.
So sweet, feeling him fill her, skin to skin for the first time. She was on birth control, he’d had no other lover since Anita, and Cassidy’s blood work had included HIV tests. Today Dr. Young had confirmed—in the one bit of good news—that there was no need for a condom. This nakedness was new for Cassidy, and she loved the flesh-to-flesh intimacy, the heightening of sensation.
Gripping his waist for balance, she lifted up and down, setting a slow but intense pace.
“You feel so good, Cassidy.”
“I feel very good,” she purred throatily.
He caressed her bare shoulders. Ran his fingers up her neck, into her hair. And all the time he gazed into her eyes, maintaining the connection, not letting her drift away into a private world of pure sensation. Yes, she was having great sex, but he wasn’t for one moment letting her forget that she was having it with him. Not that she wanted to. The fact that this was Dave was what made the whole thing so perfect.
Pressure, pleasure, need. They built inexorably until, with a soft cry, she surrendered and climaxed in throbbing waves around him.
Now he took over, gripping her hips and holding her firmly as he thrust harder, faster, and she whimpered helplessly as a second orgasm echoed the first. Less intense, but perhaps even sweeter. He drove high and deep, his hoarse gasp and pumping hips signaling his own climax.
This moment. This man. Utter perfection. Pure happiness. If she could only stay in this moment forever.
Late Friday afternoon, Cassidy, at her desk in the lobby, saw Robin come down from Dave’s suite, her backpack on her back. The girl hung around while Cassidy, speaking Spanish, finished listing the town’s highlights to tourists from Mexico.
“Hey, Robin,” Cassidy said after the family had headed out. “I hear you’re having dinner and a sleepover with Kimiko.”
“Yup. Her grannie’s going to make doughnuts. She makes the best ones ever!”
“Have fun, and say hi to everyone from me.”
“You bet. See you tomorrow when we go riding.”
“You bet,” she echoed, trying to sound cheerful.
Tonight, she and Dave were going over to Ms. H’s for what Dave, the basketball coach, called a team meeting. They would discuss the various treatment options, so that the Monday appointment with Dr. Young and, by Skype, the neurologist, would be productive.
Shortly after Robin left, Dave came over. His hair was still damp from the shower he’d taken after basketball practice, and he carried two Wild Rose tote bags. “Three of Mitch’s chicken pot pies, three salads, and three servings of blueberry pie.”
“Sounds like a party,” she muttered, standing and stretching. “Okay, let’s go do this.” And get it over with. Then she could try to enjoy the weekend. Although the word “enjoy” wasn’t really in her vocabulary these days.
They walked the four blocks, stopping to buy homemade vanilla ice cream from The Soda Jerk.
Ms. H had the kitchen table set and, teetotaler that she was, glasses of iced tea poured. While Cassidy forced herself to eat Mitch’s delicious food, Dave and Ms. H talked about some of the people who’d been in his fourth-grade class. A number of them had left Caribou Crossing to pursue careers and relationships, but many still lived there—or, like Evan Kincaid, had returned after an absence. It seemed that people either loved or hated small-town Western life.
Personally, she couldn’t see a single thing to hate—but then big-city lights, exotic beaches, and all sorts of other locations had their advantages too. A year from now, she’d be exploring that world again. And why did that exciting prospect seem, for once, a little lonely?
After the kitchen was tidy, the three of them went to the living room. Cassidy upended the envelope containing treatment information so that the brochures and articles slid onto the coffee table. Although she’d rather be anywhere other than there, she forced herself to sit beside Dave on the couch. Ms. H had taken the reading chair.
“So,” Cassidy said, “we’ve all been through this information.”
“The good news,” Ms. H said, “is that since you haven’t suffered any symptoms lately, the only thing you need to worry about for the moment is deciding on a DMT.” DMT was short for disease-modifying therapy, a treatment that attempted to alter the course of the disease itself, not deal with specific symptoms.
Yeah, that was really great news. “None of those drugs sound like fun.”
“They can slow the course of the disease, reduce the number of lesions, and reduce attacks.” The older woman sounded exactly like a teacher lecturing, which was hardly a surprise.
“I know,” Cassidy said.
“You have to try one,” Dave said.
“I know! Of course I’m going to fight this. Just allow me a minute to whine, okay?” Was she sounding like a frustrated child? That had to be better than sounding like a furious adult, which was the truth. Her mind kept repeating, Why? Why me? What did I do to deserve this?
“All we’re doing tonight,” Dave said, “is talking about the options so you’re prepared on Monday.”
“I know.” One step at a time. She took a deep breath. “Okay. So basically there are the drugs that have been around for a while, and they’re either injected into a muscle or injected subcutaneously.” She shuddered. “I’ve never liked needles. Or there’s the newer drug, and it just means taking a capsule every day, which sounds much better.”
“But it seems to be more of a second-line choice if the other ones don’t work
for the individual,” Dave said.
“You also need to consider the possible side effects of the various drugs,” Ms. H said. “Flulike symptoms, injection site reactions, fatigue, depression.”
Depression. Hah. Was it possible to have MS and not be depressed? “Bad side effects can happen with any of the drugs,” she said gloomily. “There’s no obvious right answer, is there?”
“If there was, Dr. Young would have told you,” Dave said.
They discussed the various drugs in more detail, then Cassidy said, “With the injection therapies, sticking a prefilled syringe through my skin seems a little more doable than injecting one into my thigh muscle or upper arm.”
“If it turns out the best choice is the intramuscular one, I could do it for you,” Dave said. He swallowed. “I think I could. I mean, I’m sure I could learn.”
“I could do it,” Ms. H said briskly. “You two are too squeamish.”
Oh yeah. This whole thing made her nauseous: having to stick needles into her body to inject drugs that might make her feel worse, that wouldn’t even cure her disease anyhow because there was no freaking cure. Damn it, she hated this. She grabbed the scattered material and shoved it all back in the envelope. “Okay, I’m prepared to talk to Dr. Young and the neurologist. Now can we please, please talk about something else? Something normal?”
Dave glanced at her, then at Ms. H. Trying to read his mind, Cassidy figured he was thinking that MS was her new normal. Thank God Ms. H spoke before he said it. “I have an old friend coming to visit next week.”
Those words certainly distracted Cassidy. “Irene? Seriously?”
Something soft and vulnerable touched Ms. H’s face. “Irene. Seriously.”
“You’re recapturing your old friendship?” Dave asked. “That’ll be nice for both of you.”