by Ash Harlow
She is drunk. “No, but I’m going to make sure you get into your apartment without breaking your ankle.”
“Sweet. But I’m fine. I can do that path blindfolded.”
“When sober, I don’t doubt it. Come on, show me the way.” I take her elbow because I like touching her. She’s steady enough on her feet, but there’s no harm making sure she gets to bed safely.
Her apartment’s great. It’s small, but decorated with an eclectic collection of armchairs and a sofa, from various vintages, modernized with some wildly colored rugs and cushions. One wall is completely covered with framed photos which I’d like a closer look at some other time. Right now, I have to get Steffi to bed.
She disappears into the bathroom and I pour her a large glass of water. When she reappears minutes later, she’s wearing a T-shirt and her Bad Girl socks. Even though I try not to look at her legs, I do, because they’re stunning. Toned, creamy skin. She probably could have been a dancer if adventure sports hadn’t called to her. My dick aches, oblivious to the fact that we’re here in a support role, not for sex. My eyes snap back to her face. She’s caught me watching and her smile is coy when I deserve a harsh word.
“Drink this glass of water. Have you got Tylenol, or something similar? Line them up on your bedside table for first thing in the morning.”
“Yeah, thanks, Doc.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m good. Go and get some sleep. You’re fully booked tomorrow.” She takes a long drink of water and places the glass on the table. Our eyes lock and I step towards her. I can smell the mint from her toothpaste, and I want to kiss her mouth until the mint has gone and it’s Steffi I’m tasting. But, there are all those reasons I shouldn’t, and she’s had too much to drink. So, I kiss the top of her head.
“Sweet dreams, Steffi. See you at breakfast.”
“You, too, Noah. Thanks for walking me home.”
I can still hear her giggling when I close her door.
Back in the house I clear away the wine bottle and glasses and get myself into bed. Compared to where I’ve lived for the past seven years I’m struck by how dark and quiet it is. There’s little light pollution from the small town below us, and no noise. No yelling, or sirens, car horns, car audio bass beats, or screeching tires. I consider playing some music to break the deafening silence because I don’t know if I can sleep when it’s this quiet.
If I close my eyes, all I can see is Steffi in her T-shirt and socks. I should be exhausted but I’ve gone beyond the point of sleep and I’m wide awake again. I’ve got to get Steffi out of my head so that my hard dick can stop begging for her attention.
My laptop’s on the bedside table so I grab that. If I’m awake, I might as well make use of my time and outline a new Doctor O story. One more, I think. I’ll publish one more, and then I’ll walk away from it.
I’m making rough notes when I recall there was something specific the ’gasm-girls had asked for, so I log in to O-Zone to access my saved posts. The first thing I notice is the little green spot beside Zer-O’s name which tells me she’s logged in, too.
6 ~ Noah
O-Zone Chat Room
Zer-O: You’re back, Dr! Good trip?
Dr. O: Yes. Great trip.
I let the group think I was going on vacation rather than moving permanently to the other side of the world. The less the ’gasm-girls know about the real me, the better.
Zer-O: I’ve made progress. I’ve met this guy…
Dr. O: That’s great. So, want to share the progress with me?
Zer-O: He makes me horny.
Dr. O: This is new?
Zer-O: Yeah. Like, so little action there are tumbleweeds between my legs. Well, there were, but — do you really want to hear this stuff, like, the juicy details?
Do I want to hear how she’s turned on by some guy in real life? Not exactly. Not when there’s a woman I’m very attracted to, but can’t have, sleeping one floor below me. But, that’s what I’m here for and if it was any other night I’d be happy to listen, so I forge on.
Dr. O: Sure. If you want to tell me, I’m listening. But there’s no pressure, @Zero-O. If you want to keep it to yourself, we can chat about other stuff.
Zer-O: No, dammit, I’m so excited I have to tell you. This guy’s not my boyfriend. But he’s so fucking hot. If I’m even in the same room as him I get turned on. You know? Like real throbbing wet pussy turned on. He only has to look at me and *stuff* happens. It’s never been like this with any other guy. I thought I was missing some special gland that meant my libido never kicked into action. But here I am, all wet and wild!
Fuck my life. Do I really want so much detail?
Dr. O: That’s great. I told you that you were normal. You just had to meet the right person, and it looks as though you have.
I feel as though I should have that advice printed on a little card to pass around. This is the second time tonight I’m having the same conversation. Zer-O continues telling me how wonderful this man is. He’s caring, and kind, and athletic, and has the body of a Greek statue, but with no bits lopped off, and no fig leaf. I’m typing short but encouraging responses, even if they’re totally banal. Fatigue is finally kicking in and I feel I could close my eyes and fall into a coma. I don’t want to shut down Zer-O on her momentous occasion, but I’m going to have to get out of this conversation if I want to function at all tomorrow.
Zer-O: I’m in bed, and I’m touching myself. You have no idea how good it feels, all slick and hot, and my clit’s swollen, and sensitive. I really think I could have an orgasm. Tell me one of your dirty stories.
No, no, no. This is not supposed to happen. I cannot deal with the finer details of Zer-O’s pussy right now.
Dr. O: Try Chapter 4 of Punishing Nurse Mandy. Everyone says that’s the sexiest thing I’ve written.
Zer-O: Are you blowing me off, hot Doctor?
Dr. O: Not at all. Keep doing what feels good for you.
Just don’t fucking tell me about it. Things have been known to turn X-rated in O-Zone at times, but I do not engage in chat sex with anyone. Not with the express purpose of getting them off. Or me. And right now I’m just one lurid thought away from wrapping my hand around my cock and jerking off, complete with images of Steffi’s legs over my shoulders.
Zer-O: Damn. It’s gone.
Dr. O: What!
Zer-O: It’s gone. That feeling. I’ve lost it. I have a busy day ahead and suddenly all I can think about is work.
Dr. O: Relax. It hasn’t gone anywhere. The fact that you were that turned on is a good sign. Next time, you probably need to stick with it yourself, rather than logging onto the internet. Too many distractions for you. Don’t be dismayed, you’ve made good progress. You’d probably make better progress if you had a little help from this guy who’s making you so horny.
Zer-O: I don’t want another failure. I want to make sure I can have an orgasm before I go any further with him. Women throw themselves at this guy. He’s not going to hang around with a Zer-O. Where’s the fun in that?
Dr. O: Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re putting too much importance on an orgasm. Listen to me. Log off. Close your eyes. Think of all the things about this guy that make you hot. Take yourself back there and see what happens. Most of all relax. Sometimes a glass of wine can help you relax.
Zer-O: I’ve had plenty tonight already. I’m half wasted, TBH. But, thanks. I’ll do that mind stuff.
Dr. O: I’m not blowing you off, but I’ve got to go now. Take care.
Zer-O: You too. Thanks Dr. O.
I log off. I’m too tired for a hard dick. I shove my laptop to one side, thinking I’ll close my eyes for a moment, but jetlag descends like a dense fog and the next thing I’m aware of is birdsong.
Outside my window, a tui sings the same three notes as if it’s been sent to another tree to practice until it gets them right. Every so often it falters on the middle note and there’s a pause before it starts again. Each note, though, is as pure and disti
nct as a Whitechapel handbell. It makes a change from Dallas where the two women in the apartment next to mine used to start their day with either an argument or a hip-hop workout, both at maximum volume.
I shower and dress, and find Steffi already in the kitchen when I get there. She’s got coffee brewing.
We take a moment too long eyeing each other. I’m used to seeing Steffi in the sort of clothing that won’t hold her back if she’s suddenly called on to climb a rock face. Today she’s wearing a pencil skirt with a provocative split up the back. Anyone else wearing that blouse would look staid, but on Steffi, it’s not. It’s fitting, slightly transparent, and I detect some rather spectacular lingerie beneath. Steve, the tomboy, is a lot easier to function around than Steffi, the professional practice manager.
“Nice suit,” she says, eyeing me from head to foot to head again.
“Likewise,” I say. “How are you feeling after last night?”
“Good. A bit furry over the tongue and delicate in the head, but otherwise fine. Eggs and coffee will help. Can I make you some?”
“Sure. That would be great.”
“You’re on toast-making duties. I like mine well done.” She slides a mug of coffee along the counter to me. I pop two slices of bread into the toaster, then take a swig of coffee. It’s strong, giving me exactly the jolt I need.
Steffi tries to hide a yawn.
“Did I keep you up past your bedtime last night?”
Her focus remains on the eggs in the pan. “I might have jumped onto the internet when I got into bed. I thought I was tired, then I was wide awake.”
“I might have done the same,” I say. “After that I slept like a puppy. I don’t think I even moved.” I wonder what Steffi would think if she knew about O-Zone. Given what she told me last night, I should encourage her to join.
What the fuck? No. I should not be encouraging her to join. I better get my head together before I start seeing patients this morning.
We chat while we eat breakfast but I sense something is troubling Steffi. She’s normally forthright. That’s one of the many things about her that I like. She doesn’t complicate things by playing games, or sulking in an attempt to get me to pry the lid off her can of troubles.
We’re clearing away the dishes when she picks up the dishcloth and starts rubbing at something non-existent on the bench. I grab her wrist, take the dishcloth from her and put it to one side.
“Out with it, Steffi.”
She takes a deep breath and addresses the view across the lake rather than me. “I’m embarrassed. I said stuff last night under the influence and you’re acting like everything’s normal which makes me feel worse because in the old days you’d have been teasing me, mercilessly.”
“I’ve forgotten what you said.”
She pushes at my chest. “Liar.”
“Okay. You told me something personal last night. You’d be surprised how often people do that, but I guess that’s what comes with being a doctor.” My attempt at a joke has no effect. “For the record, I don’t tease a person for sharing something personal.”
“Well, that’s your job.”
“Darn right it is. And I’m fucking good at it. You asked me to forget you’d told me, so that’s what I’m doing. Even though there’s a part of me that wants to help you.” There, I’ve said it, which means I own it. I do want to help her, but I can’t convince myself that’s a professional desire.
“I don’t need help. Apparently I just need to find someone compatible. I think it was you who set me that impossible task.” She shrugs, picks up the dishcloth and starts wiping the counter again. “I’m going to unlock the surgery. Staff will be arriving any minute. Your first appointment isn’t until ten, but it would be helpful if you could meet everyone before patients start rolling in.”
“Give me five minutes and I’m there.”
While brushing my teeth I realize this situation is a fucking minefield and the wisest thing I can do is step right around it, and carry on.
The thing about wisdom is it never sounds that great when it doesn’t marry up with that thing you really want to do.
7 ~ Steffi
I am embarrassed about last night for one very good reason which I can admit to right now. I’m ridiculously attracted to Noah. I thought once I saw him at the airport after all this time, I’d wonder what the hell it was I liked about him back when I was an awkward sixteen-year-old tomboy. Being attracted to him is a nightmare. He’s still edgy, but the underlying compassion he exudes, with an overdose of physical and mental strength, is potent.
It might have been the amount of wine I consumed, but last night when I stupidly—drunkenly—logged onto O-Zone, I actually felt as though I was chatting with Noah, rather than Doctor O. I think counselors call it transference.
I need to sort this shit out. Maybe I do need counseling after all. I’m hardly behaving in a professional manner. If anyone found out about O-Zone, I’d be a laughing stock. I also have to stop thinking about Doctor O as being a proper doctor. I doubt he’s nothing more than an opportunist. He’s hooked into something good, and O-Zone keeps his books selling. He has a hungry market there which he teases along until they’re begging for another story.
I’m sure if any doctor was caught writing stuff like that they’d be disciplined, or struck off. No doctor would risk his career that way. That stuff is filthy.
The medical rooms are alongside our house. Margaret, our head nurse who has been with the practice ever since I can remember, is already there and has opened up. The first patient is in the waiting room, reading a magazine. She looks up, her face full of hope until she realizes I’m not one of the doctors, then goes back to her magazine.
I find Margaret in her office, and she greets me with a warm smile. She’ll be difficult to replace when she finally retires because I think she knows this practice even better than my parents.
“Did Arch and Felicity actually leave the country, or are they hiding out in the house?”
I laugh. “They’ve gone. I watched them board the plane.”
“Astounding. Did Noah arrive?”
“He’ll be here in a couple of minutes.”
“This is too smooth,” Margaret says. “Things don’t go like clockwork around here. Be on your guard. There’s still no receptionist out there. I swear these young people don’t know the value of a good job.”
The receptionists are the bane of Margaret’s life, even though they’re not her responsibility. “Let me deal with the receptionists,” I tell her for the umpteenth time.
“You’re too nice to them, Steffi. You have to take a tougher line.”
“Yeah, well, unfortunately we’re somewhat hampered by strict employment regulations these days. We’re not allowed to whip the staff any more.”
“More’s the pity,” Margaret mutters.
“No whipping! When was that abolished?”
It was bad enough sitting next to Noah at breakfast, but hearing his sexy voice with the hint of a Texan drawl when I haven’t had the chance to brace myself for the onslaught of his overt maleness, causes a rush of heat through my body. This is worse than last night.
“Naughty Noah. Come here and give me a hug.”
Even Margaret looks a little flushed as she envelops Noah in her arms.
“Margaret, you look even more beautiful than I remember.”
She rolls her eyes at him. He’s added a narrow tie and his jacket is buttoned. He looks so good, my eyes hurt.
“Come with me and I’ll show you around. You’re in the first office, here...”
I leave Margaret to settle Noah in and head back to the reception area to man the front desk until one of the receptionists turns up. Janice is the first to arrive, looking flushed.
“Sorry I’m late, Steffi. Josh lost his Buzz Lightyear and the tantrum was spectacular. You could probably hear him. Then the traffic was jammed at the town center again, and it took twelve minutes to get through the—”
“I
t’s fine, Janice,” I tell her. She’s a solo mother, and her son has a number of behavioral issues that put him on the spectrum. If things don’t go right for Josh from the moment he gets out of bed, it usually means Janice will be late. Which is fine, so long as Kate, our other receptionist, is on time.
Kate’s never on time, but we keep her on because she is amazing at defusing difficult patients, and she can somehow schedule appointments with medical specialists in days when anyone else will be told they’re booked up for weeks. I try to tell Margaret that everyone has valuable skills, but she can’t see past tardiness.
Margaret normally mentions some quote about starting the day by making your bed, but I can’t really find the correlation, and Kate says that making her bed will make her even later for work.
Kate walks in and doesn’t apologize for being late. She claims that would be hypocritical. The phones are ringing non-stop and Kate answers one while she’s stuffing her handbag into a cupboard and slipping out of her coat. She might be late, but she’s a multi-tasker. She finishes the call just as Margaret and Noah appear in the reception area.
I watch Kate eye Noah from head to foot, and Janice looks, turns pink, and quickly looks away. Margaret does the introductions, and Kate shakes his hand for much longer than necessary. Janice looks completely flummoxed and returns the pen she’s holding into her mug of tea instead of the jar where all the other pens are.
It looks as if Noah’s going to be a disruption all round until we get used to him.
Mr. Battersby, an elderly patient, shuffles through the door with his cat in an old vinyl PanAm Airways bag, causing Noah to make a hasty retreat back down the hallway.
“This is the doctors’ office, Mr. Battersby,” Kate says in a firm voice.
“Miriam has thrown up three times since dinner last night,” he shouts back. As usual, he’s forgotten to wear his hearing aid.
“Yes, I’m sorry about that, but you’ve come to the doctors’ instead of the veterinarian.” Kate enunciates her words so that there can be no misunderstanding.
Mr. Battersby’s hand flies to his chest and he roars with laughter. “Did I make an appointment here?” he asks.