Love Doctor

by Logan Chance

  “Wait,” she gulps her martini down, “I’m not done drinking.”

  I grab her arm, moving her along the seat. “Great thing about this town is there’s plenty of places to drink.”

  4

  Declan

  A study performed in the United States found that doctors who played video games on a regular basis made 37% less errors and were 27% faster than their non-gaming coworkers.

  This is depressing. Why I let Jonah, my brother-in-law, bring me to this miserable club, I’ll never know. This is not my scene. A band plays a fast, upbeat song. Maybe I’m too tense. Maybe I should just go home and read, because this place isn’t doing it for me. I can’t relax.

  Two women, wearing next to nothing, saunter up, batting their spider lashes in our direction.

  Without being downright rude, Jonah flashes his wedding ring, tells them we’re not interested, and they vanish with disappointment clear in their heavily made up faces.

  “You weren’t interested, right?” Jonah asks, his brown eyes shining with a hint of laughter.

  I shake my head, smiling slightly. “Guess not.” The truth is, I’m only interested in the splash of red catching my attention in the corner by the band. It almost looks like Rose. Almost.

  This is becoming a real problem. I need to fuck Rose out of my system with someone else. When she beheaded my muffin, my first instinct was to bend her over my desk and spank her. That would probably cost me my license.

  Jonah and I grab a beer and weave through the throng of people to a quieter room with pool tables.

  I stare at his t-shirt with the words ‘I eat cake because it’s somebody’s birthday somewhere’ sprawled along the front, and laugh. “When are you going to grow up and get a real wardrobe?”

  “Hey, don’t knock the shirt. What’s crawled up your ass?” Jonah asks, racking the balls.

  “Got a lot on my mind.” Like Rose. And how infuriating she is.

  “Chelsea comes back into town on Friday, we should get some video game time in before she comes home.”

  Still feels weird that my sister is married to my best friend. When they fell in love, I wasn’t too happy at first, but now, seeing how much he loves her, how he handles her movie star fame and keeps her grounded, I couldn’t ask for a better husband for Chelsea.

  “Sure, I’m always up for gaming,” I agree. “Feels like forever since I spanked your ass in Call of Duty. Maybe Thursday. I’d have to check my schedule at the clinic.”

  “Are they paying you yet?” he asks about the clinic, leaning over the table to break.

  “Nope. Still volunteer work.” And I like it that way. The job at the low-income clinic downtown, where I volunteer a few weekends a month, isn’t about money. It’s probably the one thing that isn’t.

  He moves around the table. “How’s the day job?”

  “What are you writing a book?”

  He knocks a solid ball into the corner pocket and shrugs. “Just asking.”

  “It would be better if I had an assistant who didn’t drive me insane.”

  He looks up. “I thought you said she was working out great? The redhead, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  He sinks another ball, then continues wiping the table clean with each shot. Ball after ball falls into each pocket around the table. Fuck.

  “Looks like you won’t be playing tonight,” he smirks, leaning over the table and lining up his next shot.

  “Lack of sex makes for a better pool player.”

  My remark does its job and the seven ball scoots around the corner pocket and stops. “Fuck you,” he says, with a grin.

  I laugh—even though I know all too well about lack of sex—taking my first shot and sinking lucky number thirteen. I haven’t gotten laid in ages, which is probably why I’m hyper aware of the red-haired beauty who works for me.

  Actually, I can’t remember the last time I even dated anyone. Oh wait, I once went out with my sister’s best friend, Gidget, which didn’t work out. We had nothing in common. And besides, that was a long time ago.

  We shoot pool for a few hours and then call it a night. On our way out of the club, Jonah turns to me. “Booker’s been wanting us all to come up to Ferndale.”

  “That so?” I’ve been best friends with Jonah, Ethan, and Booker since we were kids, and we always manage to hang out whenever we can. But more often that not, lately, it seems I can’t. I always feel like I’m so busy. So busy working. “Speak of the devil.” I show my ringing phone with Booker’s name to Jonah, and he laughs.

  “Tell him I’ll be coming up this weekend,” Jonah says as I answer the phone.

  “Hey, man.” I step outside.

  “Declan,” Booker says, “we need a guy’s weekend. You free?”

  “It’s your lucky day, I am.” I’ll have to double check my schedule, but I need to make time for this. I’m stressed beyond belief and could use some time away with the guys.

  “Awesome.”

  “How’s Ferndale?”

  “Great. You haven’t been here since the wedding. I was starting to get offended.”

  “I’ve just been busy. Things good with Cat and Cooper?”

  “They’re both great. I actually just got done with the process of adopting Coop.”

  He fills me in on his wedded bliss. I can feel the love permeating through the phone for Cat and her son, defrosting my cold black heart just a tad. Maybe one ventricle. “It’s late, what are you doing up?”

  “Oh, that’s a story for when I see you in person this weekend, my friend.”

  “I’ll be there.” I can already feel some of this tension slipping away.

  A few days away from the siren in my office is exactly what I need.

  Booker always says running is the best way to clear your head, and right now I need a clear fucking head. Summer sunlight pours through the wood blinds in my living room, shining along the hardwood floors as I lace my sneakers. I stand and roll my neck to the side, raising an arm above my head, letting the muscles stretch completely. This is out of routine for me. I always start my mornings the same way—coffee, shower, work. I’ve become a mundane creature of habit who is accustomed to having things the way I like them. Georgia, my housekeeper, says I need a woman in this big house. I like not having to worry about anyone touching my collection of old medical journals—and yes, it’s an extensive collection, sprawling from the bookshelves in my office into the shelves in my living room—or planning my day with nonsense.

  I like the sanctity of my own home, of my own personal space, but this place almost feels hollow to me. Like, I need a change, and a drastic one.

  When I took the sex therapist job, it was always thought of as a temporary fix. Something to tide me over until I landed the dream job.

  But then, time passed and I stayed stuck in the job I never really wanted, making money I barely have time to spend.

  I walk into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water before my run. I’ve never liked running, and here’s why—running sucks ass.

  Putting one foot in front of the other, exerting all of your energy, using every muscle, having nothing to focus on but the road...it’s exhausting and horrible.

  But, I need a clear head. So, today is the day I will try this running business to see if it’s for me.

  I take a deep breath, open my front door, and step out into the fresh air of Cali. (there’s a little smog, sure.)

  In my driveway, I stretch my legs, bouncing around a little to warm up, and then start off in a slow jog. I try to let the peace and quiet of the early morning drown out the loud thoughts circulating in my mind. Like a ghost haunting me, Rose refuses to let that happen. What was that angry sex note all about? Does she have a boyfriend? Was that note meant for some type of what’s to come between them?

  I pick up the pace, my sneakers pounding the pavement, as I try desperately not to think about angry sex with Rose and her long red hair twisted around my fist, me thrusting into her at a thundering speed
, her moans loud enough for the whole world to hear them.

  Running with a semi is never a good thing, so I come to a dead stop on the corner of my neighborhood, and bend over to deal with my hyperpnea. Basically, I’m gasping for air.

  Sure, I’ve had a sort of thing for my assistant for way too long, but seeing the angry note made it a million times worse. It made the purely innocent thoughts I was having about her turn into naughty X-rated versions of the porn variety type thoughts.

  And what makes it worse, I still have no idea why that note was even written.

  When I can breathe, I start up my jog again, wondering why anyone on this earth would ever do this for fun. I scan the neighborhood, and I’ve barely even gone a block. So, I pick up the pace once more, letting thoughts of saving lives, curing diseases, and actually helping people enter my head instead.

  The pavement blurs as my slow jog turns into a full-on sprint and I try desperately to release the tension building between my shoulder blades.

  I read a study once in a medical journal that says running releases endorphins which make you happy. It said they’re structurally the same as morphine, so it’s nature’s painkiller, causing euphoria and an overall sense of general well-being. Yeah, that’s bullshit. My receptors must be broken.

  Because as I slow down and walk the rest of the way back to my house, I am not happy. Nor do I have a clear head. I guess one could say I was trying to metaphorically run away from my problems. That problem being Rose. And they’d be right.

  5

  Rose

  “And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.”

  ― Sylvia Plath

  “Those muffins are no longer the same,” my father’s deep voice booms across the packed auditorium. “You have to follow His recipe.”

  I squirm a bit in my padded black seat, tugging at the hemline of my chaste navy dress while he glides across the oval stage as if he’s walking on water, going on about not tainting your muffin. The adoring camera zooms in on his charismatic suited figure, and he smiles for the viewers watching from the comfort of their living rooms, driving whatever message he’s preaching about home. It works, because I feel like a little girl again being chastised for not cleaning my room. Not that I was a rebellious child, quite the opposite. Dutiful, I guess would be a good word.

  “Keep the muffin pure,” Dad sort of whisper advises for full effect.

  I never should’ve agreed to come today. I should’ve stayed home and reassessed my life goals. Guilt is a powerful thing, though. Powerful enough for me to wake at six am on a Sunday and file into this auditorium filled with hundreds of people just to make my father happy. It’s not powerful enough, however, to keep me from zoning out and missing whatever this muffin talk was about. There’s no way he could know what I did, but ironic my father chose to speak to his flock about muffins after my incident with Dr. Sincock. I shake my head, trying my best to erase the naughty, sinful thoughts I’m having about Sincock. Ugh, just his name. Sin-cock.

  And what a beautifully sinful cock it probably is.

  Oh God. Stop taking the Lord’s name in vein. Vain.

  I snap my head up to the front of the church.

  I will not have impure thoughts about my boss while listening to my father’s sermon. My father’s always had that ability to make me think he knows what I’m doing, which in turn, ensured I didn’t do anything. I mean, for Christ’s sake—forgive me, Jesus—I’m a grown woman hiding my true passion. My writing about cocks would most definitely be frowned upon by Gregory and Molly Thorne. Well Gregory, anyway. Mom always did the best she could in the situation, giving me just enough leash to experience life without fully experiencing it. Well, today just might be the day I confess and everyone can just deal.

  All that courage dissipates the moment the sermon is over and I sit down to brunch with my parents and don’t tell them about my novel.

  “How’s work, Rose?” my dad asks, slicing through his Eggs Benedict. “Remind me what type of doctor you’re working for now?”

  I chew my bacon until there’s nothing left to swallow. I’m sure that’s another thing that would be frowned upon, my working for a sex therapist. This is why I don’t do sit downs very often. Even though I’m an adult, free to make my own choices, I’m conditioned to not make them without their approval.

  “A therapist,” I answer.

  “That sounds interesting,” Mom adds. “You like him?”

  “It’s just temporary,” I answer, avoiding the question.

  Dad’s face pulls down into a frown. “If you need a job, my offer still stands.”

  “I’m good, Dad.” He’s never been happy with my decision to not work in his empire. Grace with Gregory pulls in big numbers—viewers and dollars. But that’s his dream, not mine. My dream is never going to happen, if I don’t make it happen.

  Mom intercedes and gracefully changes the subject like a pro.

  After we finish, I head back to my apartment with new resolve to publish my novel. Once inside, I change into cotton shorts and a baggy T-shirt and sit down at my desk to write.

  For inspiration, I pull up the cover Julie designed and sit in silence, listening to the clock tick on the bookshelf in my living room. This is part of my relationship with writing. This is how I operate. Some people listen to music, I need quiet. It’s tricky straddling the line between fiction and reality. Men like this don’t exist in real life. Like the alpha male who will go to Hell and back to protect his woman and makes her orgasm by just a simple command.

  Thoughts spin their way through my mind, weaving words together, and my fingers fly over the keyboard. My inner thoughts pour out of me. After a long while, I lose my mojo and my sleep-deprived eyes can’t focus any longer. There’s so much more about Annette I want to get out onto the pages.

  Many people say you write what you know, that your characters wear a few of your qualities in their souls. That’s true; Annette is a lot like me. She’s also a lot of the things I wish I could be.

  I read through what I’ve written, making sure to save everything, and then head off to bed, trying not to think about whether what I just wrote is too tame. I need a neutral party to read it. An idea forms in my overtired brain, when I slide under the covers. It may be a lousy one, or it could be the most brilliant idea I’ve ever had. Maybe it isn’t the advice of other writers I need to be seeking, but an actual expert in the field. Someone like Dr. Sincock. If anyone knows sex, it’s him.

  When I enter Declan’s office the next morning with his coffee, he doesn’t look up from whatever he’s wrapped up in on his phone. I slide the mug on his desk, peeking under my lashes at the deep in thought look on his handsome face.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  He looks a little startled by my question. Normally we don’t speak at the coffee drop off, so this is highly unusual. “Sure,” he finally answers.

  I slide my phone out of my pocket. “Can you read this? My friend needs advice and well, you’re the expert.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a little sex scene.” He doesn’t blink. “My friend wrote it.” I feel like he’s not believing my lie, so I add, “Her name is Julie and she sometimes writes.”

  He raises a brow before looking down at my phone, reading aloud, “‘He’s the type of man who wants what he wants with no thought to the ripple effects of his actions. He’s delicious but so is cake.’”

  The sound of my words from Love Doctor coming out of his mouth sets my heart slamming against the shield of my chest. This was a dumb idea. I hope he remembers his medical training, because I’m going to need CPR. Everything in the room blurs, closing in on me. Annette had a moment like I’m experiencing, and I realize I did a horrible job with the visual.

  He goes silent as he continues reading the sensual scene. At least, I hope it’s sensual. His green eyes impale me, when
he’s done reading.

  Composing myself, I slip my sweaty palms into the pockets of my slacks. “Is it hot?” I lick my suddenly parched lips and reach down for his untouched coffee and take a sip before my throat closes. He’s going to have to do one of those pen stab things to my neck to let some air in.

  “Are you ok?” His eyes track the movement of my hand as I set his mug back down.

  “Yes. So, what do you think?” And then I give in to my basic instincts and ask what I shouldn’t. “Too tame?”

  “Eh, yeah, it’s a little on the tame side. Very mild.”

  “Thanks, I’ll let her know.” What the hell are people doing that I’m not aware of? “Is there anything else you need?”

  “Yes, actually,” he answers, switching back to employer mode. “I’m visiting a friend in Ferndale and need you to schedule a flight and a rental car. I’ll send you the days.”

  “Perfect.” My smile I give him before I turn to leave belies the fact I’m actually a little bit hurt. I don’t like this feeling. Logically, I know I need armadillo skin if I’m going to survive, but right now, it’s tissue paper. And he just unknowingly shredded it.

  6

  Declan

  Doctors have a short temper. This is fiction not fact.

  I’m not a patient man. Nor am I the size of an elf. I stare at the matchbox-sized white Scion waiting for me at the airport. It looks like someone rammed it against a concrete wall—front and back—it’s ridiculous. I send a text to Rose: Where is the rest of my car?

  A few minutes later she replies: Too tame for you? Think of all the environment you’re saving. It gets great gas mileage.

  She’s always doing these types of things to get under my skin, which is another reason I’m positive she must hate me. I’m sure with all that pent up anger, it would be an epic hate fuck.