by Knox, Abby
Doctor Dave
Abby Knox
Copyright © 2020 by Abby Knox
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Edited by Aquila Editing
Proofread by Red Pen Princess
Cover Designer: Mayhem Cover Creations
Dedicated to Mr. Abby, who accepted me exactly as I was. Thank you for pushing me without trying to fix me.
And to:
Dr. Drew Pinsky, my first audio crush.
And to:
Gaelforce Audios, and the Lovelies of Gaelandia. There are not enough emojis, memes, or gifs on the internet to express my appreciation for the “enerdree” you all add to my day. Thanks for making room in the blanket fort.
Doctor Dave
Working the graveyard shift at a local shopping mall isn’t as bad as you think, and 29 year old security guard Millie has plenty of hobbies to help her pass the lonely hours each night. Need a hand-knit animal hat? She’s got you covered.
But the best part of her late night job is tuning in to hear bad boy radio personality, Doctor Dave, give out unorthodox dating and sex advice on his live call-in show. With her 30th birthday fast approaching, she’s quickly giving up on finding true love for herself. Tonight, however, she’s giving it one more chance before taking extreme measures.
Will dialing up the sexy Doctor Dave finally provide the right prescription?
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue 1
Epilogue 2
About the Author
Also by Abby Knox
Chapter One
David
It would be reasonable to assume that a radio personality would think to listen to the weather and traffic at the top of the hour before riding his motorcycle to work in December.
But in my case, that would be a wrong assumption.
It’s not that I have a death wish. It’s that, number one, I love to ride. And number two, a bike makes escaping the local celebrity stalkers in this city a lot easier than an automobile does.
Don’t get me wrong; I love my fan base—the honest, non-delusional fan base. I never deny anyone a selfie or an autograph in a safe, public space. But sometimes I get a slightly unhinged super fan waiting around in the parking garage when I finish my show at 2 a.m.
And other times, people like that are waiting to sidle up next to me at one of my speaking gigs or book signings, thinking for some reason that I’d be OK with a stranger’s hand sliding into my jeans pocket, looking for…treasure, I guess? Yeah, that happened to me once.
I have in the past perhaps encouraged this kind of behavior by talking too much about my dick on the air. Not in any gross or rated R kind of way—Big Brother FCC is always listening, of course—but my size and girth seem to be popular topics on my show. I don’t recall how it started, but it somehow morphed into me having a playboy reputation. Callers lapped it up and advertisers tossed money at the show like nobody’s business.
So even though the station manager would prefer I take a taxi to work—a taxi I won’t get reimbursed for, by the way. I mean, have you met my station manager? The thrift is strong with this one—I prefer my bike. On my bike, I can maneuver quickly and I’m gone before anybody with bad intentions even notices I’ve passed by, my helmet adding another handy layer of anonymity.
Even though I’m a six-foot-three, 220 pound man who can bench press his own weight, and most of my super fans are women, I can’t be too careful. Never know who’s out there watching.
When the shimmers of light freezing rain appear on the sleeves of my leather jacket about a mile from the station tonight, I curse my luck. By the time I reach the underground parking garage, the dancing wisps of icy mist have changed to more of a drizzle. The freezing rain soaks through the thighs of my jeans in no time.
I lock up my bike and, as soon as I’m inside the elevator, I peel off my helmet and leather jacket. I’m soaked through, freezing and disheveled, but my appearance doesn’t matter. It’s radio, after all. And besides, it’s not like I’m going to work to try to impress the woman of my dreams.
No, The Doctor Dave Show does not serve to help me find the woman of my dreams. In fact, the opposite is true: it helps other people find their happily ever after.
The best I can hope for tonight would be a smooth pre-show planning meeting, followed by two hours of solving everyone’s relationship dilemmas, and an uneventful ride home to my empty luxury downtown loft.
Honestly, it’s all I need for now. After years of treating innumerable STDs at both my private practice and at the free clinic where I volunteer once a week—not to mention counseling thousands of patients and callers about their romantic and sexual drama—most days I feel too jaded to believe a healthy relationship is possible for me. The statistics I’ve run in my head are pretty bleak when it comes to happily ever afters.
Not that I would ever say that to my callers.
No, they want the snarky, sexy bad boy to empower them to tell their lovers what they want and stop being a pussy, so to speak. They want helpful big brother Dave to urge them to do the things they already know they need to do.
I’m happy to oblige and help them out, but to me the data says, don’t even think about that stuff for yourself, big guy. So I keep pumping that iron and then go home and pump my own rod. My right hand won’t ever give me relationship drama, or chlamydia.
Chapter Two
Millie
I arrive at work a little later than planned, thanks to the freezing rain. The thing is, I’m thankful for the terrible weather because, by being a few minutes late to work, I might narrowly miss seeing Pretzel Guy, as I call him. His actual name escapes me, but the heebie jeebies he gives off never do.
I breathe a sigh of relief when I park my car in the mostly deserted lot at the shopping mall. No sign of Pretzel Guy’s windowless van anywhere, thank goodness.
Nope, it’s just me arriving for work as the last of the mall’s cleaning crews are loading up their cars.
Mom calls just as it’s time for my shift to start. I’m not excited about stepping out into the freezing rain just yet; in this warmer climate I’m not used to ice. So I take her call as I watch the security lights catch the dance of the freezing rain as it falls and spreads like glitter on the wet asphalt. “Hi, Mom, what’s up?” I ask, though I know exactly what’s up. It’s the same thing that’s always up when she calls right before I go in to work my job as a security guard on the graveyard shift at Southfield Mall.
“Jay is going to call you. They need a new receptionist at the construction office. I just want you to know your brothers and I talked about it and we think this would be a good move for you.”
My mother raised me and my three very overprotective older brothers by herself since I was 12, and neither she nor my brothers are happy about my line of work. Jay, the oldest, runs his own con
struction company. The other two, twins Martin and Max, are both cops. My mom, in concert with my brothers, still likes to help me run my life, even though I’m just two years shy of 30.
“I have a job. Plus, Jay isn’t going to pay me nearly what I make here.”
“Well, it’d just be temporary, anyway, until you find a husband.”
“Mom, are you listening to yourself? Did you totally miss the sexual revolution or what?”
She ignores me and keeps going. I get out of my car, lock it up, and head to the security entrance of the mall. I pull up my collar and walk gingerly across the quickly icing-over asphalt so I don’t fall flat on my ass.
The controlled indoor climate and the mostly uneventful job waiting for me inside are all things I look forward to. The idea of spending the night alone in a dark shopping mall might scare some people, but I’m what they call an outlier. I like the dark, I like the quiet, and I much prefer them to a bustling mall during the day. I’m not much of a shopper. After all, alone is my general state of being, and sometimes I really like it.
“Who knows, you might meet a nice guy at the construction office,” Mom says.
I blurt out a laugh that’s a little louder than necessary. “I seriously doubt that,” I say, thinking of how many times I’ve walked past any given construction crew only to be the target of whistles and catcalls. Nice guy, my ass, if that experience is any indication.
“Hey, Millie,” drawls a man’s voice behind me. Spoke too soon, it seems. “Mom, I’m at work. Gotta go, OK?”
I hang up the phone and turn to Pretzel Guy. “Hey, nasty weather, huh? Anyway, have a good night!”
But despite tiny bits of wet ice catching in his hair, he just stands there, shivering as he stands too close to me while I key in my code for the steel security door. Pretzel Guy and I are semi hidden behind rows of landscaped cypress trees that are just beginning to glaze over with the wet, falling ice. I don’t like it when this dude stands so close to me in the dark, hidden from the lights of the parking lot meant to protect people like me.
It’s almost like he knows nobody will see us tucked away in this particular spot.
“Late night again?” I try to communicate my disinterest while being polite at the same time. But I swear to god, if he asks me out again, I might not be so polite.
I take solace in the fact that a security camera is trained on the door as I hurriedly work the latch. Meanwhile Pretzel Guy goes on trying to make small talk.
“Rough night for driving,” he says, dramatically shivering against the cold, obviously trying to look cute and helpless. Something about his attempts at charm really bother me, but I can’t quite put my finger on why.
I shrug and step inside the door, hoping he’ll take the hint and skedaddle. “Sure is. Be careful out there. Gotta go!”
I leave him out there in the cold and make sure the door locks behind me. A shiver runs down my back that has nothing to do with the temperature outside.
Soon, the raised hairs on the back of my neck calm down and are replaced by the butterflies in my stomach as I make my way down the hall to the security office where the bank of monitors await my unwavering attention. No, those aren’t butterflies in my stomach—more like baby bats.
Jack, the grandfatherly second shift security manager is waiting for me when I clock in. He jangles his keys, anxious to go sooner rather than later in this weather. We exchange pleasantries, then he gives me a heads up on one or two of the cameras that seem to be on the fritz and tells me that the second security guard, Paul, who usually handles the foot patrol and lock checks, won’t be coming in tonight.
“Kid is sick with the flu. I tried calling in reinforcements but nobody else wants to come in. Tried calling the maintenance company but nobody wants to come in in this weather. Want me to stay and try to fix the cameras myself? Or...”
He trails off while he continues to jangle his keys, and I know the answer he really wants to hear.
“Nah, go home. Jack. I’m good here. I don’t expect I’ll be seeing any action tonight. Drive safely, OK?”
He leaves, and I’m actually kind of glad he’s not going to be around. I don’t want him to witness what’s happening tonight.
I unpack my backpack and peel off my winter coat, my uniform already on underneath. Once seated at the bank of monitors, I click on the small radio I keep by the desk and listen to the last hour of the sports talk radio show. I have no idea what they’re babbling about but they’re funny guys and the voices are decent company. I settle in with the set of needles and luscious, stupid-expensive yarn I brought and resume knitting my current work in progress.
I’m not overly concerned about the wonky camera situation. The general wonkiness has increased lately, but nothing bad has ever happened to me at work because of it. Still, it is annoying. Just another sign that the mall has seen better days when little things fall into disuse and disrepair.
As the clock ticks closer to midnight, the flip-flopping in my stomach grows more intense. And so does a certain delicious anticipation. I can’t help but smile as I work through row after row of knitting. What is usually a meditative hobby does nothing to quell my excitement.
So why am I so full of nervous anticipation? Because tonight at midnight, I, Millie Hanson, the unassuming introvert virgin, will be a featured first-time caller on everyone’s favorite live romance advice show: The Doctor Dave Show.
Doctor Dave is a bit of a legend in my city, and I’ve been listening to him for years. That cocky bad boy voice oozes out of my little radio speakers every night at work while I sit at my desk, overseeing all the security monitors deep in the bowels of the mall offices.
A few months ago, I emailed the show’s producer to tell her my story in hopes of speaking to Doctor Dave on the show. And what do you know? They picked me. Turns out live radio is more orchestrated than I realized, and they scheduled me to call in tonight.
I only hope my mother and brothers don’t listen because this is potentially very embarrassing.
At five minutes to midnight, I make the call. My fingers shake as I punch in the number on the desk phone. I would use my personal cell phone to call in, but the producer said a landline, if available, is preferred for sound quality and reliability. So, if corporate spies are listening in on the mall’s phone lines, they are in for an earful tonight. But they probably aren’t listening. Hell, they can’t be bothered to fix a couple of cameras, so why would they be listening to phone conversations?
I take a sip of my tea to fight off dry mouth, and then set my knitting down in my lap. I’m not even going to attempt to continue knitting while I speak to the dashing hunk of manhood who will soon pick up on the other end of the line, but I feel the need to keep the soft yarn handy. Always good to have something soft and cozy to hang on to.
Once connected, Reagan, the show’s producer, instructs me to turn down my radio, and adds, “Don’t ask the doctor any personal questions. And don’t try to ask him out or give him your personal number.” She sounds a bit territorial, but I shake it off, realizing that with his bad boy reputation and his amazing voice, women probably throw themselves at him all the time. I’ve heard stories about female listeners sending him their panties in the mail. Hell, even on the show he and Reagan have joked about women actually showing up to the studio like groupies, trying to get alone time with him.
As I wait to be connected live on the air with Doctor Dave, I try to steady my breathing, but it’s a losing battle.
I text my best friend Jenny: Oh god, am I really doing this?
Her answer is an immediate: YES.
I type: Is he going to be able to tell I have the world’s most massive crush on him? I inhale deeply and exhale slowly to calm my galloping heart rate. I don’t imagine a caller having a cardiac episode on the air would be great for his ratings.
Jenny replies: Every caller has a crush on him. That’s kind of the deal. Just go with it.
When Jenny and I went out for drinks and de
cided to make a list of surmountable things that scare us, I should have said I wanted to learn how to ride a horse or surf.
When Jenny told me to do one thing every day that scares me, did she mean this? My memory is fuzzy from too much tequila that night. Did she mean a little scary? Or something that fills me with abject terror? Because that’s what I feel right now as I wait for Doctor Dave to come on the line.
I hear the click on the phone, and feel as though I’ve inhaled all the air out of the room.
“Millie. You’re on the air. Talk to me, baby.” Doctor Dave’s voice nuzzles my ear. I feel tingles everywhere.
My heart no longer gallops. I think it actually stops for a second.
I can’t breathe, I can’t speak.
Fuck. I’m going to fuck this up, live on the radio.
“Millie, sweetheart, are you there?”
Oh my god, did he just…? Get a hold of yourself, Millie. He calls every female caller sweetheart. He gives everyone pet names, irrespective of gender. That’s his shtick. He makes everyone feel special in order to put them at ease before delivering the advice that some people sometimes don’t want to hear.
I open my mouth but no words come out. I’m going to blow it. I expect him to give up and stop wasting precious airtime on me, and maybe that’s exactly what should happen. I’ve lost my nerve, I’ve lost my chance, and maybe I’ve dodged a bullet. Maybe my sudden muteness is a blessing from the universe, preventing me from suffering humiliation on a live radio show broadcast out to the entire city.