Doctor-Patient Confidentiality Box Set

by Eme Strife

  A thought I almost wish hadn't.

  For a good five minutes, I stare at my phone as I contest with myself internally, looking at the screen as if it's the first time I'm laying eyes on it.

  I don't want to do it, but at the same time, I want to. I can't seem to convince myself to just put the phone away and go to sleep. I realize I'm fighting a losing battle, and I know I've lost when I end up doing what I wish I had the strength not to.

  I Google Dexter Frost.

  It's not the first time I'm seeing his public profile online, but it is the first time I'm seeking it out on purpose.

  The first time I learned of his existence, it had been by accident. I had just happened to stumble upon his name during my research on cancer when my mother had been sick all those years ago. I already know pretty much everything I need to know about him professionally.

  And yet somehow, even though I hate to admit it, I find myself wanting to know more; to know things about him that a search engine probably won't tell me.

  God, I really wish he didn't pique my curiosity so much. I wish he wasn't as handsome as he is.

  I wish he wasn't married…

  Woah, woah, woah! What am I thinking? Why in tarnation am I wishing he wasn't married? 'Cause I'd totally have a chance with him if he wasn't, right? Please. Give me a break.

  I realize I need to take a step back…perhaps several steps, actually. I need to not get ahead of myself. I might have honestly imagined the whole boner thing, too. It could have very well been something else in his pocket. I didn’t exactly look so I was only reacting based off what I felt.

  And I mean, even if it was a boner, it was obviously for his wife. I mean, if I were a guy and had pictures of a woman as gorgeous as that on my desk, I’d probably be sporting a boner all day, too.

  After I'm done scolding myself internally, a thumbnail of him catches the corner of my eye. I zoom in on the picture, and for a moment I think I forget how to breathe.

  The image of his eyes hit me hard, their intensity as raw and vivid as they had been when I saw them in real life. The sight of their frosty blue color brings back the memory of him and the way he'd been looking at me in his office on Monday. I feel myself getting a bit overwhelmed at thinking about it, and I have to shut my eyes for a moment in an attempt to re-collect myself.

  I open my eyes again and Dexter is still staring right at me, his gaze so intense it's almost as if he's prying; as if he's trying to look into my very soul. My breathing is becoming shallow and I abruptly feel something powerful slither down my spine. I'm not sure if it's from nervousness or excitement. Maybe a bit of both.

  Before I even realize what I'm doing, my free hand is travelling down my belly and sliding beneath the waistband of my pajama bottoms.

  I push past my panties as well, my hand slipping under the polka dotted cotton briefs. My eyes never leave my phone screen, never leave the piercing stare of Dexter Frost.

  An audible shudder leaves my body as my fingers lightly brush over my clit. Still looking into his eyes, I imagine it's his fingers touching me there. Before I know it, I'm pressing against my flesh insistently, rubbing circles around my now very slippery clit.

  The lewd motion creates a stream of sensations that feel unbelievably good, and I can't stop the gasps that are escaping my lips; gasps that I realize are quickly turning into moans.

  What I'm doing is wrong. I know that. But I can't bring myself to stop.

  I'm rubbing faster, my hand moving over my sensitive flesh in a frenzy without my permission. I push my knees further up to give myself more access to my core, and as I do so, I feel just how drenched my panties are now.

  The wet feeling only spurs me on, and I’m panting and moaning as I continue to imagine that the man on my phone screen is the one doing this to me.

  I'm getting close, the ticklish sensations quickly turning into hot, prickly ones as the delicious pressure builds in my lower belly.

  "Oh God," I moan, fighting the urge to throw my head back, clutching the phone tighter in my hand until my knuckles begin to hurt.

  I'm gasping loudly now, panting hard for breath and for a release that I know will knock my socks right off and end with my pajama bottoms drenched as well.

  "Oh yes," I cry, feeling the beginnings of my orgasm surface. "Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes—"

  All of a sudden, my phone buzzes loudly and vibrates in my hand, immediately stopping my chanting in its tracks and startling me beyond measure.

  "Shit," I curse, a frown slithering its way onto my lips as my impending orgasm is stolen from me.

  I look at the phone furiously and see that the screen has changed. The sexy image of Dexter has been replaced by a text message from Trixie.

  im ok. how’d the hsptl visit go? call u 2morow.

  I breathe out, partly in relief and partly in frustration.

  “You really know how to pick your timing, Trixie,” I mumble in slight disappointment.

  It's probably a good thing she texted when she did, though. I know I have absolutely no business whatsoever fantasizing and masturbating to the image of a married man.

  I don't even want to begin to imagine what my mother would think of me doing something like this.

  I sigh, sinking back into bed and pulling the blanket tighter around me. I force myself to finally put the phone away before I get tempted to finish what I had started before Trixie's interruption.

  I really need to not think about him in that way.

  I switch the lights off and will myself to sleep, and even in the darkness, I can clearly see icy blue eyes that won't stop staring back at me.

  ***

  I'm pacing around my apartment like a madwoman, tossing around piles of papers and clothes and everything else that's in my way.

  My keys. Oh God, where the hell are my keys?

  My movements are getting more and more frantic with each passing second that I can't find them.

  I don't understand. I just had them.

  Where the fuck did they disappear to?

  Ugh! Of all the fucking times for something like this to happen!

  I run my hand through messy hair, disheveling it even further as I try to remember where I last put them.

  I walked in, took of my shoes, came over to the kitchen for some water and then took my duffel bag out of the closet and then…

  Dammit, I can't remember!

  I groan in absolute frustration, standing in the middle of my mess of an apartment and looking around at the even bigger mess that I've created with this unplanned and anything-but-fun treasure hunt.

  I place my hands on my hips as I shift my weight onto my right leg, feeling like I'm about to just give up, when I feel a slight bulge on my right hip. I look down at it and see the bulge sticking out from within my pocket, and I want to kick myself in the head as both memory and realization set in. I reach into the pocket and pull out a slew of keys, and they jingle ceremoniously as they dangle and move against each other.

  I can only shake my head and sigh again as I look at the bundle of keys in my hand.

  I want to roll my eyes a million times at myself for being so spacey, and then at my stupid keys for conveniently hiding right under my nose even though I'm the one who put them there.

  I breathe out a deep sigh of relief, leaning against the kitchen counter with my shoulders slumped forward as my manic heart proceeds to apply its brakes.

  The week's finally over, and I feel absolutely burnt out. I can barely remember most of it, but my mind is obviously still reeling. And it hasn't let me forget about my visit to the surgical center and everything that went along with it. Especially Doctor Frost.

  I literally have to shake my head at myself. I think it's absolutely ridiculous that I actually have the time—or energy, for that matter—to keep thinking about how hot he is in spite of everything else going on in my life; including the very real possibility that I may be sick. Seriously sick.

  Maybe it's my subconscious' way of trying
to get me some comic relief so I don't fall into some bottomless depression. Lord knows I could use quite a bit of humor at this point, however unconventional it may be.

  I look at my watch, noting that it's almost six, but you'd think it's midnight with how dark it is outside already. God, I really hate winter, and I hate it even more in Wisconsin. If I leave now, I can get to La Crosse before yet another snowstorm hits the county tonight.

  I head back into my room, quickly digging through my closet to find something appropriate to wear for the memorial.

  I key in on a nude dress hanging way in the back. I run my hands down the length of it, loving how flowy and silky the fabric feels against my palm. It's a simple dress, yet elegant, and its conservative cut is perfect for the occasion.

  I can't even remember where I got it.

  I pull the dress off the hanger and fold it haphazardly, shoving the bundle of formal wear into my duffel bag. My toothbrush, some extra clothes and pajamas, and a few other essentials follow in after it. Ten minutes later and the bag is in the backseat of the car as I pull out of the apartment parking lot.

  I figure if I don't run into too much traffic, I should be at Gran's before ten. She's an early sleeper and I hate coming over late and waking her up. Especially on days like today.

  I'm only on the road for fifteen minutes before Trixie's calling my phone. I tap on the answer button and put the phone on speaker even as my eyes stay focused on the long stretch of snowy road ahead of me.

  "Hey, you," I say. "I was wondering when you'd finally call back."

  "Hey. Yeah, I just got back home so I could charge my damn phone," she says.

  My brows furrow at her statement. "What do you mean you just got back home? From where?"

  "Jordan's place," she says in a casual, matter-of-fact tone.

  My brows shoot up my forehead this time, my eyes widening at hearing Trixie mention Jordan's name and the obvious implication attached to it.

  "Get outta here, you're lying," I say, waving off her supposed, silent claim.

  "I'm serious," she counters.

  And her tone tells me she really is. I go still for a second, trying to fully register what my best friend is telling me right now. A second later, my mind goes bonkers.

  ***

  "Holy shiz-nit, Trix! Are you really telling me you…," I'm not even sure I can say it out loud. I can't bring myself to say that she fucked him. For crying out loud, I can't even picture both of them together! It just seems way too strange.

  Jordan is Drake's long-time best friend, for goodness sake, and is pretty much an older brother to Trixie by default.

  I guess she doesn't see it that way, at least not anymore, and from what she's telling me, apparently neither does he.

  Trixie assures me that it was strictly a one-time thing. She'd been pissed all week, and since she couldn't find Gina and "throw her through the window of a six-story building", she decided to work out her anger and frustration in Jordan's bed instead.

  She insists that it didn't mean anything and that neither of them have any intention of ever letting Drake—or anyone else, for that matter—find out about their little sexcapade.

  "I can keep a secret," I say with a cheeky smile on my face even though she can't see it.

  "You'd better," she chuckles.

  Knowing Trixie, she honestly can't care less if the whole world knows who's dick she's been sitting on, but Jordan is her brother's best friend, and has been since he and Drake were fourteen from what she'd told me. She doesn't want what she insists is a one-time only affair—and probably a short-sighted mistake—to come between their friendship.

  I can't argue with her there. If there's one thing I've learned in the last couple of years, it's that genuine friendships are indeed hard to come by, and you'd be a fool not to cherish one if you're lucky enough to have it.

  "How'd your visit to the hospital go? What'd they say?" she asks, switching the subject and drawing the attention from her to me.

  I really don't want to think about hospitals and my health right now, but I know she's asking because she cares, so I oblige her.

  "It was the surgical center I went to," I correct. "They said I'd need an endoscopy before they can figure out what's wrong."

  "If anything's wrong," she points.

  I can't help but smile in gratitude. She may be a handful with a potty mouth and an often exuberant personality, but she's a good friend and typically knows just what to say to make me feel less crappy.

  I vaguely tell her about the visit, noting that I don't have that much to tell.

  Or, more accurately, I don’t have that much I want to tell. I really don’t want to get into my financial issues with her. I know she always means well, but loading her with my problems when I know she can't really help is not my cup of tea.

  And I'm not sure why, but I decide against mentioning anything about Doctor Frost, as well. It doesn't seem right to be gushing over a married man with her, no matter how hot he is. Besides, I don't normally gush over guys, anyway. It would be strange and she'd pick up on it, so I keep the conversation very brief.

  Before she hangs up, she lets me know she'll call again tomorrow so she can speak with Gran and show her support since she can't be at the memorial in person. Gran adores her, and I know she'll appreciate the gesture.

  I stop for gas at the next gas station, picking up some bottled water and a few other beverages for tomorrow even though Gran insisted I don't bring anything. She can be a bit stubborn sometimes, but so can I.

  My stop at the station doesn't take any more than fifteen or so minutes, but by the time I'm outside again, I can already see the beginnings of snow flurries happily making their way down from the sky.

  Ugh. I seriously hate this stupid weather. I try to ignore the bleakness as best as I can, hauling my newly purchased items over to the car.

  In the silence of my old Polo and in nothing but my own company, my mind steers to places I don’t want it to, and I can’t help but think of Dexter and the way he had been looking at me—or at least the way I may have imagined him looking at me.

  I can’t understand why I can’t stop thinking about him. Every time I do, I end up chastising myself for it, but it still continues to happen anyway. And to make it worse, thinking of him always leads to thinking about my lack of medical insurance and how I’m going to afford a damn endoscopy and surgery if that’s what it comes down to. That’s something I also can’t stop thinking and worrying about.

  I can’t tell Gran about any of it, especially not now. She has more than enough going on and I don’t want to upset her or have her worry about anything else. I put on some music to distract me from thinking about my problems, and from any thoughts of Dexter Frost and his captivating, borderline scary eyes.

  Once the drinks are in the backseat and my tank is a little less empty than it was before, I hit the road again, plugging my MP3 into the radio slot as soon as the engine starts up again.

  I pick the playlist of songs that we'll be singing for the performance next week. I'd organized them in the sequence we're going to perform them in, and the first composition begins to stream into the car. Its graceful tune easily flows and fills both the car and my ears, making the drive in this shit weather so much more bearable.

  I begin to sing to it, practicing my segments as I continue to drive. I feel more and more anxious as the song continues to play. The pace increases and the bridge is quickly approaching, demanding a much higher pitch and longer note from me. I try to oblige as much as I can, doing my best to ignore the fear and anxiety stirring in my belly. I try to stay calm, to stay focused as I hit the highest note and hold it.

  And hold it.

  And hold it some more.

  Just as I start to come down, my stomach ambushes me from out of nowhere, my abdominal muscles clenching to the point of pain as I feel my body lurch forward in my seat. The seat belt holds me back, fighting the sudden inertia and my skin burns from its thick straps across my
chest digging into it.

  My foot accidentally hits the gas pedal from the force of my sudden movement, revving the engine further and forcing the car to go much faster than I intend. It all happens too fast, and for several seconds, I'm just one big bundle of panic.

  I feel the sudden jolt of the car swerving, and in spite of the music still playing around me, all I can hear is the sound of screeching tires and that of my heart beating loudly in my ears, threatening to leap out of my chest this very instant.

  By some miracle, my leg juts out and hits the brake before I completely lose control and the car finally screeches to a halt on the side of the road. My hands grip the wheel tightly, refusing to let go as my knuckles and fingers scream in agony at the torture I'm putting them through.