Stirred Up #2

by Angela Graham

  Keep it casual. As though I can ignore that our worlds have been totally thrown off kilter.

  “Hey,” I offer a silly grin, “aren't you gonna be late for work?”

  “Aren't you?” His playful mood returns, lip curling up on one side with his smug retort.

  “Not going in today. Gonna veg with some girly flicks, tissues, and rocky road.”

  Pulling me back in with an arm around my shoulder, he nuzzles his nose at my temple. It’s a completely innocent and normal action, one he’s done a million times, one that soothes away my apprehension. “Sounds perfect. I'm in.”

  So we both call in to work and for the rest of the day and reenact a scene much like the time Eric Bishop called me the night before the 9th grade formal and explained that he asked someone else before me and forgot, dumping me flat.

  We wrap up in a big, comfy blanket and watch movies purposely designed to make me cry, while Brady laughs and hands me more tissues.

  But this time, it's not the same Brady who joins me. I'm not sure which version it is—friend Brady attractive and sweet when he wants to be, or dream Brady. Nor am I sure how I feel about the answer…or which one I’m rooting for.

  Chapter Two

  The next five days are perhaps the longest, most lackluster that I've ever endured. Brady's at a medical convention in California and besides a “landed safely” text, there hasn’t been a word from him. Not that we usually chat a lot while he’s away, but still, I notice the absence this time more than I’d like to admit.

  Dylan’s wrapped up in his new business, which I’m delighted by. I wouldn't dream of interrupting his newly formed work ethic, but it’s another void.

  And even Roscoe, the bloodhound who'd become the “Old man of the clinic,” went to doggie Heaven this week.

  On the afternoon of day two, it finally dawns on me—I don't have very many friends. None I’m eager to call over anyway, mostly just colleagues at the clinic. But really, aside from Brady and Dyl, I’m damn near the hermit cat lady.

  I snatched up the book I’d yet to make it past the first chapter of and skimmed through a few words before realizing readings only fun if you want to do it, not because you're a loser with nothing else to occupy your time.

  Annoyed that I had no life outside of work and the two knuckleheads, I tossed the thick paperback aside and grabbed my laptop. Scrolling through days’ worth of emails, I was lead straight into the world of online shopping.

  Amazing really. There is next to nothing you can't buy over the internet.

  After a brief shopping spree and nearly maxing out my Amex with the gazillion dollars extra for overnight delivery, my toy box arrived in a discreet, unmarked package the next morning. Marking the “cherry popping” occasion into the ownership of “equipment,” I'd gotten a variety. Red, blue, purple, innie, outie, both—you name it, I bought it.

  So night three was the best I’d experienced in a while. I learned my love lies with the blue outie flicker, and I finally got some full-fledged, definite crescendo, relief.

  Day four and five consisted of nothing but work, then straight home for some Addison and “new friend” time.

  Thank fuck Brady gets home tonight and I'm picking him up from the airport or I literally might cause permanent numbness to my hot spot. I could go again right now. As horny as I was before purchasing my corded companion, it’s only been feeding the beast, not fully satisfying it.

  All week I've done nothing but think of Dr. Reynolds; images of mussed chestnut hair, vibrant eyes, and that smile. Six feet of hard, masculine body with husky, baritone instructions, joined by an electrifying touch on constant mental reel.

  While the physical release has been nirvana, it hasn't filled a deeper, emotional and mental desire. I need the weight of a man on top of me, hard and pulsing inside me as he commands my body as his own.

  Once again I've lost myself in the vision of just that, head fallen back, eyes closed and panties soaked when a loud bang on the hood of my car startles me.

  My head rapidly flies up, wildly blinking eyes meeting familiar green ones through the windshield.

  Brady's home.

  My stomach somersaults, reminding me of that whole muddled head trip I've got going on. With a confused, overwhelmed sigh, I hit the door lock then reach beneath my seat and pop the trunk. It'd of course be nicer of me to jump out and greet my oldest friend with a “welcome back” hug, but I honestly don't trust my quivering legs to hold my weight at the moment.

  Just as well; he’s sitting in the passenger seat smiling at me by the time I finish the thought.

  “Mocifus.” He leans over and engulfs me in a tight hug and lands a kiss at my temple. “Boy, did I miss you. Thanks for picking me up.”

  “You smell like you.” What in the name of hell, Addison? Think before you mumble, Jesus! I'm so out of sorts these days, I simply can't be trusted to speak, ever.

  He chuckles and quirks a brow, thrown off, like myself, by my crazy. “Thank you? I'm sorry? No clue on this one, babe.”

  Babe? Babe is new...probably residual, or actually not even being said. First my speech, now my hearing.

  In need of a buffer, I turn the key, firing up the engine and rolling out of the loading lane. Focusing on the merging vehicles such as my own, I casually toss out, “You usually come home from those conventions wreaking of the last conquest is all. Lemme guess, somebody funked up the plane’s bathroom and ruined the final descent quickie this time?”

  When several seconds pass without his usual witty comeback, I steal a quick glance his direction, expecting to find him dozing off.

  I'm more than a bit shocked to find him silent, eyes adrift, pondering. Come on, the flight isn't that long—surely you remember whether or not you get laid during it!

  “Actually,” he mumbles, appearing dazed, “I didn't touch a single girl the entire trip. Didn’t even realize. Huh,” he wonders aloud.

  I’d call bullshit if not for the way his brow is tugged down low, lips twitching to the side. “Wow, must've been a busy convention,” I say instead.

  “Not at all.” Brady clears his throat and leans the seat back. He rests his head facing me with a relaxed, growing smile. “I got you something.”

  My head shoots his way, as does the wheel, and his hand flies up to correct it. I smack it away, my full attention back on the road.

  “Shit!” I sputter under my breath, ignoring the blare of the horn from the car beside me that I damn near sideswiped.

  He bought me a something? On one of his trips? That’s a first.

  “Damn, Moe, you okay?”

  Eyes straight, I weave into the turning lane and finally merge onto the interstate. “Yeah, sorry. So, uh, let me get this straight, you didn’t get laid all week, but you bought your best friend’s little sister a gift? You feeling okay over there?”

  He chuckles. “Never been better. I was just at the beach there and—”

  “Shut up! No way you went to the beach and didn’t take at least one surf bunny back to the hotel.” I laugh.

  Brady’s always been into sports and with that comes the flocks of swooning girls, especially when he’s at the beach. Not gonna lie, I’ve gawked at him on his board a few times myself over the years. It’s purely human nature, appreciating a beautiful creature out in the elements—it can’t be helped.

  “I stayed on land this time.” He digs around in his pocket. “Here.”

  I glance over and see the tiny wooden surfboard attached to a key chain. “Addison engraved down the front surprises me, he rarely uses my real name.

  He places it in my hand and my heart can’t help but swell.

  “Thank you.” The air shifts, his scrutiny set my way. “So did you grab it in the airport gift shop? My name’s getting easier to find on those racks.” I chuckle in a vain attempt to deflect the becoming familiar but still undefined intensity. I quickly remind myself it doesn’t mean anything; he’s bought me birthday and Christmas gifts before, no difference. />
  “No, Moe, I had it engraved for you.”

  I swallow. “Oh, well…um, I love it. Maybe one day you’ll get me on a real board.” I peek his way to find he’s still staring, a thoughtful smile in place.

  “One day.”

  Silence. That’s all there is for two and a half long drawn out minutes. Seriously, I’m watching the clock. I’ve never sat up so straight in my life, unsure of myself but intensely aware of every move he makes. His left hand slips down his thigh, resting on his knee. Fingers tap in an uneven beat. His other hand tucks under his head in a makeshift pillow. Then there’s his breathing that occasionally releases a slight “hmm.”

  I hear it all, feel it all, and it leaves me with nothing but scattered thoughts and a tight grip on the steering wheel.

  “So what'd you do while I was gone?”

  I flinch at his words slicing through the silence. DO. NOT. JUST. ANSWER. ADDISON. STOP. DROP. AND THINK BEFORE TALKING.

  “Read some,” I reply quickly. “Laundry.”

  “Rebel,” he mocks me with a snort. “How's Dyl?”

  “Good question. I haven't heard a peep. I'm hoping he's swamped with a flourishing new business.” I peek over my shoulder, making sure I'm clear to switch lanes. “Why don't you call him real quick, see if he's up for dinner. My treat. Unless you're too tired?”

  “Dillweed,” his boom cuts me off, already on the phone. Not too tired. “You work too hard brother. Awesome. Yeah can’t wait to see. Hey, so Moe and I are picking you up in thirty for

  dinner. My treat.”

  The next morning I'm slow to rise and spend most of it in my pajamas, puttering around. God bless Saturdays. I re-do my nails a cheerful bright pink, wash sheets, and water all my plants, feeling caught up and accomplished. Then, I tackle the dreaded mail pile. It's a “quirk” about me, one that Brady and Dylan both love to ridicule. I refuse to conform to online billing and automatic drafts. They take money out of your account? Bullshit! Yes, I realize it's on a set date, but who remembers all of them, every month? Not me. Nor do I want the agony of opening a new bill each day, so my system is stack all week, open everything all at once on the weekend.

  Brilliant, I say.

  Halfway through the pile, my plan's failing already, dismay settling in by the fifth invoice, when the bottom of my stomach drops, as well as my jaw.

  There's an envelope from Dr. Reynolds’ office. My test results.

  Even though he assured me it was most likely the douche that caused the initial inconclusive results, there’s still a chance of something else, something serious. My heart's racing, a throb building in my temple as unsteady hands struggle to open the letter.

  Blowing out a joyful squeal, my eyes read down the column of one “normal” after another. I leap to my feet, tossing the letter in the air as I jubilantly bust out a happy dance.

  Shaking my ass, arms above my head, I send up a silent “thank you” to Heaven followed by an air blown kiss. After a few more ridiculous moves, my body begins to slow, breathing heavily, but happily.

  I'm okay.

  And then...I'm so much more than okay. When I bend down to pick up the strewn papers from the floor, a small Post-it falls out.

  In masculine, but surprisingly legible handwriting, the words jump off the page and tug ruthlessly at the depths of me.

  Addison,

  Had these rushed. No more worries, you're perfect.

  Dr. R

  I'm pretty level headed, except lately, and somewhat of a realist, so I’ve already second guessed the double-entendres of the phrases he's used, the heavy breaths I thought I heard and every other “little something” my mind’s been telling me was there. Yes, I'm young and admittedly not well-seasoned on matters of the heart or to gyno visits and what they normally entail. But I am positive—heart fluttering, full-body tingles, panties sweating positive that the note currently crushed to my chest is special.

  Too anxious to worry or even recall the fact that it's Saturday, I grab my phone, fingers itching to dial, unsure yet of my guise or master plan... I just have to act, have to jump and see where I fall.

  Divinely, someone picks up on the second ring. “Dr. Reynolds' answering service.”

  Crap. I chomp down on my bottom lip. “Oh, yes hello. Um, so the office isn't open today?”

  “No ma'am, but we can help you. Is this an emergency?”

  “N-no, not an emergency,” I stammer, contemplating if my racing pulse can be declared an emergency.

  “Are you an expectant mother or in labor?”

  “No, I—” My words fall off. Think! What do I want? “I need to make an appointment,” I recite calmly. There we go—agenda set on its own.

  She proceeds to ask me a series of way too intrusive questions to ascertain if my appointment can indeed wait and be scheduled at a later date. I pass her test, insisting I need to get on the books as soon as possible. In her monotone rambling, she recites several days and times as choices, and I immediately cut in and choose the soonest—Monday at four.

  Excellent.

  Only two days away and merely an hour of work missed. The rest of the weekend, said no one, ever, drags by.

  Chapter Three

  Feeling good, fresh as a daisy and sexy as ever, I’m perched on the edge of the exam table, fully dressed and impossibly anxious, swinging my crossed ankles back and forth in anticipation. I'd opted not to don the robe, mildly confident that the brilliant excuse I've concocted doesn't call for it, but took care of all my pre-game prep, minus the douche, in case it does.

  Unlike before, when he knocks lightly and sticks his head in today, I'm not trying to make myself as small as possible with my head down. Rather, my chin and chest are up and proud, my eyes meeting his dead-on.

  “Hi, Dr. Reynolds,” I greet him first.

  “Addison,” he draws out my name in a low, tantalizing hum and steps fully inside, shutting the door behind him. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  My guess would be that smile, voice, body and sexual prowess. But just a guess.

  “The appointment sheet says you called over the weekend. Everything alright? Did you get your results? They were mailed the other day, all normal.” Eyes taking on concern, he steps closer.

  “I got them, yes and I saw, perfect. Thank you.” I suck in my bottom lip, allowing the words to linger and speak for themselves.

  With a hint of a blush, his unease disappears, replaced with a playful sparkle in his dazzling eyes. “You got my note then?”

  Still chewing my bottom lip flirtatiously, I answer with a nod.

  No mistaking it, he releases a low hiss, his eyes skating over me once. I uncross my legs and place my hands on each side of myself on the table, waiting for him to take the lead.

  He clears his throat and steps back as if escaping a trance. “What can I help you with today?”

  “I'd like to start some birth control.”

  I'd googled “top reasons women go to the gyno” and this was the least unpleasant topic and can't be disproven. Plus, if things in reality ever catch up to my dreams, I'll need it. The ideal ploy.

  “Oh?” Both his dark brows shoot to his matching hairline. “That was fast. You just adamantly declined needing it not too damn long ago.”

  Did he just cuss?

  He takes a seat on his stool. “What's changed?”

  I laugh and give him a questioning smirk of my own. You'd think the doctor in the room would understand precisely what change would make a woman suddenly need birth control, but I realize the hilarity could backfire and my laughter’s cut short. I don't want him to think I'm unavailable. Shit! Curse fake plans and their unforeseen potholes.

  “Nothing, yet. I just figured…” I shrug, glancing around the room with nonchalance. “Since I'm taking care of everything else, might as well be prepared there too.”

  He remains silent, regarding me with curious eyes a few moments before finally consulting the chart. “Did you have a particular method in mind?”<
br />
  “Nope. Can you tell me the options?”

  “The most common of course, is a daily birth control pill. Women your age, nonsmokers, have good results with it, and it's the most affordable up front.”

  “What if you forget to take it?” I question. “And don't a lot of women gain weight from it?”

  He nods, setting down the chart and making eye contact, apparently ready to have a natural conversation. “Those are both concerns I hear quite often. Another option is the Depo shot. It lasts for three months at a time, so you don't have to worry about forgetting anything.” He grins. “Except scheduling the next shot. I will warn you though, a lot of recipients experience months of bleeding initially, then none at all. And weight gain’s a common complaint with this one as well.”

  “They should hire you for PR,” I jest. “Lemme think.” I tap my chin. “A pill I’ll probably forget or a needle, with month-long periods and extra weight. Hmmm, tempting, but I'll pass, on both.”

  He chuckles and nods. “Okay, what about an IUD?”

  “Which is?”

  “Intrauterine Device. Let me show you one.” He stands and opens the door, asking a nurse to bring him a Mirena demo.

  Meanwhile, I'm breaking down word parts to figure out what we're talking about here.

  Intra-in.

  Uterine-my uterus.

  Device-technical, scary word, especially when preceded by IN.MY.UTERUS.

  My mouth's open, fully prepared to bark “next,” when he shuts the door and sits down in front of me again.

  “This is an IUD.” He holds up a small piece of T-shaped plastic. “It’s inserted into your uterus and you use the small threads to check its placement once a month. After inserted, neither you nor your partner should be able to feel it.” He gently takes my hand and places the device in my palm so I can familiarize myself.

  “It can last as long as five years, or five days, you choose. The effective rate is over 99% and is completely reversible at any time.”

  I eye the tiny possibility I'm holding. “Does it hurt?”