by Lili Zander
“Tie her down, Declan,” Blake says to me. “I don’t want her squirming away from me.”
A shiver runs through her body, as I hold up the leather straps in my hands so she can see them. Goosebumps rise on her skin, but her eyes shine with excitement, and she nods eagerly.
A smile curls on my lips.
Ms. Davey, we’re about to give you an afternoon you’re never going to forget.
CHAPTER ONE
Lana:
I’ve never felt the urge to throttle my boss. Until now.
“You promised I could go on vacation.” I stare at John Beene in exasperation.
For months, the managing editor of The Torch, Portland’s finest investigative weekly news magazine, has had me chasing one depressing story after another. I’ve done exposés of isolated religious sects in which the ‘leader’ marries every fifteen-year-old girl in the community. I’ve written articles about corruption in local governments. About water poisoning. About factories in the remote Northwest breaking environmental regulations without consequences.
I’m exhausted. “I’ve been living out of a suitcase for the last three months,” I continue, my voice rising in frustration. “You promised me that I could take a week off, and you promised,” I give my unrepentant boss a glare that bounces off him without impact, “that you’d give me a stint in the Lifestyle department. Three months, I believe you said.”
“That was before the Pulitzer nomination,” John says blandly. “Come on, Lana. You’re an amazing investigative journalist. I have a story for you to investigate. I don’t see what the problem is.”
Let’s see. When I got back to my apartment after chasing the latest story, my lone houseplant, a cactus, had died. Cacti survive in deserts. They’re supposedly indestructible, but even a cactus couldn’t survive my neglect. “John,” I try to appeal to my boss’s good sense, “I’m burned out. I need a week on a beach somewhere. I need margaritas and hot muscled pool boys offering to rub lotion on my back. What I do not need,” I pause for effect, “is to rush off to some remote middle-of-nowhere small town to investigate some kind of medical scam.”
John isn’t budging. He’s like a dog with a bone. I’m so tired that even my metaphors don’t make any sense. “Admit it, Lana. This is fascinating stuff. In the last year, dozens of single women have moved to the small town of Goat, Oregon, all because a pair of doctors are running some kind of sex clinic, with promises of ‘happy endings.’” He does air quotes when he says ‘happy endings’ and his eyebrows rise comically high. “Don’t tell me you’re not interested in figuring out what’s going on.”
“I’m not interested in figuring out what’s going on,” I reply flatly. “Insurance scams are a dime a dozen, and they’re boring. Come on, John. The Astoria Yacht club is celebrating its hundredth anniversary this weekend. Let me cover that.”
John rolls his eyes. “That’s a fluff piece,” he replies. “It’ll be a bunch of rich guys in their boats, sipping martinis and what not. Mindy can handle it.”
Lucky Mindy. “You ever stop to think I might want to find myself a rich guy in a boat?”
He snorts. “You’ll be bored in ten minutes being some guy’s arm candy. Besides, I’m watching out for you. You’ll need to infiltrate the community before you can set up a sting at the clinic. That’ll probably take a month or two. Think of it,” he adds persuasively, “as a vacation.”
It’s not a vacation, not if I know John. I’m pretty sure he’ll be expecting me to write an article a day while I’m hanging out in Goat.
You could always say no.
But then what? Investigative journalists are being laid off by the dozens. I’m lucky to have a job at The Torch. Several of my classmates are flipping burgers and writing freelance click-bait articles for ten bucks a pop.
Of course, click-bait sells, and that’s precisely why John’s so gung-ho about this story. It involves doctors, sex, and threesomes in a small town. I bet you anything that John’s fantasizing about exploding subscriber numbers. “Fine,” I sigh. “What’s my cover?”
Now that he’s ensured my cooperation, John’s all smiles. “You have a reservation at the Nanny Goat Bed and Breakfast for the next eight weeks,” he says cheerfully. “They’re expecting you tomorrow night. Your cover story is that you’re a writer working on your next novel.”
Goat, Oregon. Nanny Goat Bed and Breakfast. I’m sensing a theme here.
“Tomorrow is Saturday, John. You have got to be kidding me.”
He spreads his arms wide. “I don’t want to get scooped on this, Lana. This story is going to be big. I can feel it in my bones.”
Shaking my head, I get to my feet. If I’m supposed to leave tomorrow, I have laundry to do.
Later that evening, I head out to meet my friend Hailey for drinks at a bar in Concordia. We settle down in a booth, and the waiter appears to take our food orders. Once we’ve been assured of nachos and beer, Hailey looks at me with a raised eyebrow. “What’s with the long face, babe?”
“John wants me to check out a couple of love doctors in some crazy-ass small town,” I mutter gloomily. “So much for the Astoria yacht club feature I was hoping to do.”
She cocks her head to one side, looking remarkably like a parrot in her bright green t-shirt and crimson red pants. Hailey never met a color she didn’t love. “Love doctors?” she asks. “Crazy-ass small town. I’m intrigued. Tell me more.”
Our beers show up. I drain almost half my glass before answering. “According to John, there’s a pair of doctors in the town of Goat, Oregon that specializes in getting women off as part of their treatment. John called it a ‘happy ending.’”
She snorts into her beer. “Goat, Oregon?”
“Yup.” While my clothes were drying earlier, I had time to do some research on the remote community. “It was founded almost sixty years ago by a reclusive millionaire who wanted a secluded place where he could stash his mistress. His fifteen-year-old mistress.”
“That sounds lovely.” Unsurprisingly, Hailey’s voice is sarcastic. She’s the editor of a feminist magazine called Girl Power. Stuff like this outrages her.
“Don’t worry; the millionaire is long-dead. The mistress is still alive though. She’s in her early seventies. Her name is Elvira Grantham, and she lives in a mansion on the outskirts of town. I bet you anything that she’s a lot more interesting than a pair of doctors with a fondness for pussy.”
The waiter shows up at that moment with a platter of nachos, and judging by his scandalized look, he’s overheard my last sentence. Poor guy. I make a mental note to tip him well.
Once he sets our food down and makes a break for it, Hailey continues her cross-examination. “So how do the doctors know if a patient wants a little frisky on the side? Is there a form to check off?”
“You’re far more fascinated by this than I am.” I snag a cheese-coated chip. “According to the anonymous tipster who called The Torch, there’s a code phrase. ‘Make me feel good, Doctors.’”
Hailey starts to giggle. “This is awesome.”
A reluctant smile curls on my lips at my best friend’s mirth. “Okay, I guess it is kind of interesting, in a strange and demented way. You want to know what the absolute best thing is?”
She nods enthusiastically.
“The clinic is called Clinic of Love.”
She bursts out laughing. “Please tell me you’re going to become a patient at the Clinic of Love,” she begs me. “And you said there are two doctors? Do they both participate in the dirty-dirty? What are their names?”
“Not a clue about the dirty-dirty.” I pop a slice of jalapeno in my mouth. “And would you believe the Clinic of Love doesn’t have a website? I don’t know anything about the doctors.”
Hailey leans forward, her eyes shining with glee. “You should do them,” she says. She reaches into her bag and pulls out her ever-present notebook. Flipping to an empty page, she writes a big, bold heading.
Lana’s Sex Bucket List.<
br />
“What the hell?” I stare at my friend. “You’re nuts, you know that?”
“Am I?” she retorts. “When was the last time you had sex?”
The waiter had been approaching us to ask us if we were ready for our next round. As soon as he hears Hailey’s loudly-voiced question, his face heats up, and he scampers away. “You scared the kid,” I accuse Hailey. “He’s going to be scarred for life if you keep this up.”
“Please,” she scoffs. “I bet he hears a lot worse. You’re ducking my question.”
How long has it been? I can’t even remember. Too long. I’m never home long enough to date someone, and I’m not brave enough for Tindr.
“Exactly,” Hailey says smugly.
I roll my eyes. “Hailey, I’m not doing it with the two doctors. Who knows what I could catch?”
“It doesn’t have to be dick action,” she says encouragingly. “They could pet the kitty, couldn’t they?”
“Pet the kitty?” My lips twitch. “Is that what the cool kids call a handjob nowadays?” Before she answers, I cut her off. “Not. Doing. It.”
“Spoilsport.” She rolls her eyes and writes in her notebook.
1. Say Yes instead of No.
“Really? We’re doing this, are we?”
Her lips curl up in a grin. “Of course we are. You’re going to Goat. Live it up.” She adds a couple of items to her version of my sex bucket list.
2. Have a vacation fling.
3. And a threesome.
I snort. I’m definitely not brave enough for a threesome. Hailey, on the other hand, seems to act like it’s no big deal. “Have you been in one?” I ask her curiously. “A ménage, I mean?”
She’s unfazed by my question. “Twice,” she replies. “It was five years ago.”
Before we knew each other. That explains why I’ve never heard about her threesome experiences. I rarely talk about my sex life, mostly because I don’t have much of one, but Hailey’s seldom shy about sharing details.
“I even wrote an article about it in our magazine,” she continues. “I got a ton of complaint letters for it.”
“Your readers didn’t like the raunch?”
“No,” she says, with a roll of her eyes. “There was some dick-sucking going on, and readers wrote to me and told me that when I went down on a guy, I was supporting the patriarchy.”
It’s my turn to laugh. “Some people take the fun out of everything.”
“Indeed. But we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you and your quest to get laid.” Her pen is poised over the list. “What else?”
Flagging down our terrified waiter, I order a pitcher. If we’re going to do this, I need beer-induced courage. “Fine. I’ve never been picked up at a bar.”
“Really?” She shakes her head at me disapprovingly. “Lana, you work too hard.”
4. Kiss a stranger at a bar.
We drink our pitcher, our voices growing louder as the beer takes effect. I can’t stop giggling as we make my sex bucket list. At the end of the night, Hailey tears the sheet of paper and hands it to me. “Cross off every item, kiddo. Make me proud.”
I run my eyes down the list we’ve made.
Lana’s Sex Bucket List.
Say Yes instead of No.
Have a vacation fling.
And a threesome.
Kiss a stranger at a bar.
Get really good oral sex.
Have sex outside.
Have sex with someone who speaks a different language.
Anal.
Sex while blindfolded.
Threesome!!!!!
Even though I’ve had a ton to drink, I can see that a threesome appears twice on my list. When I point it out to Hailey, she grins wickedly. “Do it,” she says. “When you get back from Goat, I want to hear everything. And Lana? You better not chicken out, okay? You don’t know anyone in this town. It’s the perfect place to go a little crazy.”
Hailey’s right. I’ll do John’s stupid story, but I intend to get something out of the assignment that’s been forced on me.
Watch out, Goat. Ready or not, here I come.
CHAPTER TWO
Declan:
“Declan, you look like hell. What’s going on?”
Blake Thorpe was my roommate in medical school and is one of the few people I can count on to be brutally honest.
I pour myself a pint of beer from the pitcher on the table. If it were anyone else asking me the question, I’d lie and tell them nothing’s wrong, but Blake and I go back a long way, and even though we’re polar opposites, I value his judgment. “I’ve been having nightmares ever since I got back from the Congo,” I admit. “I’ve done rough stints before, but this time…” My voice trails off. “So many children.” I swallow hard. “No matter what I did, it wasn’t enough.”
That’s the problem. It’s never enough. There’s always a war going on somewhere. People always die in pain and agony, and sometimes, they’re just kids. Though I’ve been Stateside for two weeks, I can’t forget my patients.
Blake downs half his pint in one gulp, his expression concerned. “Declan, I love you as a brother, man, but you’ve got to stop. You’ve been going from epidemic to war zone. You’ve done six missions in the last three years. You were in the Congo, in Sierra Leone, Haiti, where else?”
“Everywhere.” I take a deep breath. “I can’t stop. I’ve applied for a job at the United Nations.” Blake starts shaking his head disapprovingly, but before he can say anything, I cut him off. “Lecture me later. Tell me what’s been going on with you.”
“Same old,” he replies with a shrug. “While you’re making the world a better place, I’m injecting Botox into Hollywood wannabes.”
I chuckle, my dark mood lifting somewhat. Hearing about Blake’s misadventures always has that effect. My buddy is a locum—the doctor that works in the place of the regular doctor when that doctor is on vacation. “You filled in for a plastic surgeon? Really? Why on earth?”
“I wanted somewhere warm to spend the winter,” he replies.
My lips lift up in an unwilling grin. That’s typical of Blake. He’s a brilliant physician, but he hates being tied down. He’s been bouncing from one temporary stint to another ever since residency, refusing to settle down in one place.
“Where’s next on the list?”
“For the moment, vacation,” he replies. “Thank heavens. I thought I’d enjoy the Hollywood job, but for six months, I didn’t see a pair of real tits. Not a single one.” His expression is disgruntled. “Fake tits only look good in porn.” He refills his pint and takes a sip before he continues. “I’m flying out tomorrow to Oregon to visit Aunt Elvira.”
Blake’s great-aunt is quite a character. She rarely talks about her youth, but I’ve pieced together enough to know it wasn’t entirely pleasant. It hasn’t affected her disposition though. She’s funny and endlessly entertaining, and she dotes on Blake. “How’s she doing?”
“She’s getting older.” Blake has an uncharacteristically serious expression on his face. “I’m staying for a month.”
The waitress comes up to us. She’s got dark hair, a great body, and a killer smile. “Can I get you another pitcher?” she asks.
Blake perks up. “You read my mind, Janie,” he says with a wink. “Have you met my friend Declan? He’s a doctor too.” He pats the seat next to him. “Sit down, honey. Let the two of us buy you a drink.”
Janie giggles. “I can’t,” she says reluctantly, “I just started my shift. If you guys stick around until I’m done though…” Her voice trails off suggestively, and she bends over to reach the pitcher, giving us a look at her ample cleavage. “I’m sure we could find something fun to do.”
Blake says something to her with a flirtatious smile. I watch him, feeling a little envious. Once upon a time, the two of us worked hard and partied harder. Now, my life has narrowed to the next mission. I can’t remember the last time I did something fun and impulsive.
W
hen she’s gone, Blake turns to me. “Here’s an idea,” he says. “Why don’t you come with me to Goat?” Before I can reply, he continues in a rush. “I know it isn’t the most exciting destination, but you need a vacation badly, and I need someone to hang out with so I don’t go out of my mind with boredom.”
My first response is to decline. I can’t go to the middle-of-nowhere Oregon for a month. What if the UN calls? What if Doctors Without Borders needs volunteers for a mission?
Then I reconsider. Once I take the UN job, if they even offer it to me, it’ll be a long time before I can take any time off. This might be my last hurrah.
“Okay.” My lips lift up in a grin. “I’m in.”
CHAPTER THREE
Lana:
It’s well after noon by the time I get on the road. Goat, Oregon is just a four-hour drive from Portland, but it feels like it’s in the middle of nowhere. The last two hours of my journey, I pass only a handful of cars. There are no gas stations or restaurants, just pine forests and fresh mountain air.
By the time I reach the outskirts of town and spot the ‘Welcome to Goat’ sign, I desperately need to pee.
The town slogan of Goat, Oregon is ‘Embrace your weird.’ How do I know this? It’s carved into the sign, of course.
This is going to be one hell of a place to spend the next two months.
Grinning, I continue my drive into the center of town. It doesn’t take me long to find the Nanny Goat. It’s a large Victorian mansion, yellow in color, on a corner lot. I pull up in front of it and get out of my car, ready to get into character. Remember, I tell myself. You’re not a journalist. You write novels.
I’ve worked out quite the cover story if anyone asks. I write cozy mysteries that feature a clever cat solving crimes. My first book did really well, and I’m writing the second while struggling against writer’s block.