All Jacked Up: Romantic Comedy (Beach Pointe romance Book 3)

by Mysti Parker

  She looks up from the autoclave, where she’d just put freshly washed surgical instruments inside. “What is it?”

  “Can you help with X-rays, please?”

  “I thought Penny was –”

  All it takes is the look, the one Jo recognizes as immediate intervention needed.

  “I’m on it.”

  Jo Meriwether is Leigh’s mother and the best veterinary assistant we’ve ever had. She's a tall, British black woman, married to a local white man. I don't even want to imagine the shit show that must have caused around here. Marriage is hard enough without that kind of hassle. She was here before Doctor Bradshaw took me on as a partner. He wanted to focus on the large animal side of things, while I handled the small and exotic side, which suits me just fine. That left him with Tony, an assistant who has the brawn and obedience to help him with livestock while I got to keep Jo. What she lacks in brawn, she makes up for with intelligence and intuition. Her experience as a mother of a chronically sick kid probably did that more than any vet tech training ever could.

  She turns on the autoclave and heads toward me.

  I go back to the X-ray table. “Penny, get back to the desk please.”

  “But, Sandy is –”

  “I don’t care who’s handling what at the moment, as long as I can get some decent help around here.”

  “Okay, okay.” Penny breezes by me, giving Jo the bitchy eye and her lead apron as she passes.

  Jo puts on the lead apron, goes right to the dog, and gently turns him to his side. He wiggles and whines a little. She makes shushing noises and strokes his neck until he settles back into sedated sleep.

  “What’s got her knickers in a wad?” Jo asks in her heavy British accent, grinning up at me.

  “The usual.” Returning to the helm of the X-ray machine, I line it up exactly where it needs to be, then take the X-ray.

  “Turned her down again, eh? What’s the price this time?”

  “Her car payments.” I remove the film, half thankful that my best assistant hasn’t bailed on me, and half dreading the Jo talk that’s coming.

  “You’re an enabler. You know this, right?” She rolls the dog to the left side, shushing him when he whines again.

  I replace the film. “I know. I’m just not in the mood to argue with her today.”

  “You could just fire her,” Jo whispers, glancing at the door as though Penny might be listening.

  “Yes, but then she’d be homeless or latch on to some other woman’s husband.” I line up the crosshairs over the dog’s left hip and take the X-Ray.

  “You are entirely too nice, Dr. Maddox.”

  “Nice I am not.” I huff a laugh and remove the last film. “Marriages fail all the time. They don’t need any help from me.”

  Jo picks up the dog, cradles him gently, and coos at him like she would a baby. “I know you think you’re immune to love, but one of these days, someone’s going to steal your heart, like it or not.”

  “Stop with the mushy already.” I smile and shake my head as she carries the dog to the door.

  “Well, I’m in a mushy mood today, so you can’t dull my glow.”

  “I know. I heard.”

  “Did Jesse tell you?”

  “Yeah, I’m going to be best man.”

  “One step closer, at least. Crossing my fingers that you’ll catch the garter.” Jo laughs softly and carries the dog out.

  If she knows Avery and I had gone on a date, she hasn’t said anything about it, but she has a peculiar gleam in her eyes. Since her daughter is Avery’s best friend, it will be a challenge keeping anything from Jo.

  ∞∞∞

  Somewhere between the unnecessarily difficult dog X-ray and lancing a cocker spaniel’s impacted anal gland, I’m filling out paperwork in the back office when Doctor Bradshaw breezes through the back entrance of the clinic. He and Tony have to gather supplies for castrating and ear tagging a dozen head of calves at a farm on the county line. Bradshaw’s a late forties, tall, lanky man with a severely receding hairline and Popeye-like bulky arms from years of wrestling livestock. He always moves at an urgent pace, even when the situation doesn’t call for it, which used to make me anxious until I realized that’s just his natural speed. That, and he drinks about a gallon of coffee a day.

  “Mornin’, Jack. You sick?” he asks in an amused tone, another of his odd quirks that takes a while to get used to.

  “No, why?”

  “You look a little peaked, that’s all. Want to leave early this afternoon? This is my last call. I can take over for you here.”

  “Thanks, but I’m okay. I’d rather stay busy if you don’t mind.”

  “Suit yourself. I’ll head out early, then. Emma’s got a soccer game at six, and Lisa doesn’t get off until four thirty. It’s hard for her to get Lexie from the sitter and Bryce from band practice and still make it to the soccer field on time.”

  The dark circles under his eyes are testament to an overworked husband and father of four kids. I do not envy him. Rumor has it that he only got married because Lisa was pregnant. Though I don’t take gossip that seriously, he rarely has time to do anything for himself anymore, which sounds like torture to me.

  “Sure, go ahead. I’ll be fine here.”

  He fills up his travel mug from the carafe at the tiny kitchenette in the back office. “Thanks. Hey, were you out with Avery Price yesterday?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Lisa – she was at a birthday party at Two Sisters Cupcakes with Lexie and saw you and Avery leaving the coffee shop together.”

  Sighing, I drop the pen and gulp down the rest of my coffee. It’s still a little too hot and burns my throat. I cough and follow it with a drink of cool water from the water cooler.

  He cups my shoulder, gives it a firm squeeze. “Hey, don’t worry about it. You know how everything spreads like wildfire in this town. I think it’s all good-natured though. Folks are hoping our most eligible bachelor will finally settle down.”

  “Well, they’re going to be disappointed.”

  “Shame. Avery’s a good gal. Lucky to be alive, if you ask me.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “Bad car accident a while back. Severe head injury.”

  “Oh. She never mentioned that.”

  “I doubt she wants to talk about it. She’s a hard worker though. Went out of her way to get Brianna an expensive prom gown from some big designer a couple years ago and then sold it to us for cost. She even took the prom photos and didn’t charge us anything for them since she was just getting started with a photography business, but I gave her five hundred anyway and told her to think of it as a Kickstarter fund.”

  “I bet she was happy for that.”

  He laughs. “She didn’t want to take it. Argued with me for ten minutes and finally took the money. That’s Avery though. She’d rather struggle along until she gets things done herself than ask for help.”

  “What happened with the wreck?”

  Tony sticks his head through the door. “Got all the stuff, Doc. Ready?” He’s built like a linebacker with dusty blond hair that flips out from under his Merck Pharmaceuticals ball cap. Good kid. Short a few crayons in the box, but he gets the job done.

  Bradshaw looks at his watch. “Oh, yeah, we better get going. See ya’, Jack. We’ll talk later.” He breezes out just as quickly as he breezed in.

  I look at the clock and realize my next appointment is a minute from now. Grabbing the patient file, I try to focus on the vitals and reported symptoms, but all that stuff he said about Avery… Did it have anything to do with last night’s failed date? Was she afraid she’d be asking too much of me? That doesn’t make sense; I didn’t promise her anything but sex. Maybe her head injury affected her judgement.

  No time to ruminate over that. I apply my friendly neighborhood vet smile and enter the exam room, scanning the patient file. “How long has your cat been vomiting?”

  “Dog.”

  “Huh
?” I look up from the file into Mrs. Donner’s frowning face. She’s the preacher’s wife, a short, sturdy woman who has an unexplainable love for her dog, Barkley. The poor thing is half Chinese crested, half bulldog, with a serious underbite, bulging eyes, and a chronic drool problem. They’re regulars, unfortunately.

  “Oh, right. How long has Barkley been vomiting?”

  “Twice last night.”

  “Twice?” I pet Barkley and get a slobbery lick on my wrist, which I wipe discreetly on my scrubs.

  “Yes, twice.”

  Jo comes in then and holds Barkley still, her arm around his neck, hugging him firmly to her chest. “Hello, Mrs. Donner. Hope you are well.”

  “I am, thank you. Hope your darling daughter is well. And Jesse, too, of course.”

  “They are.” Jo glances at me and grins. The upcoming nuptials apparently aren’t public knowledge yet.

  “Tell me about the vomit,” I say, drawing the conversation back to the necessary evils. “Was there blood or anything odd about it?” Pulling his jaws open, I peer into his mouth. My stomach churns at the smell. It’s like rotten fish and sweaty ass.

  “There were some plastic pieces,” Mrs. Donner mumbles.

  “From what?” I have a strong suspicion about just what it might be.

  “A plastic banana.”

  “And did it look like it was all there?” Barkley grunts like a warthog as I palpate his abdomen, feeling for any impactions, lumps, or painful spots.

  “Yes, pretty much.”

  “Okay, I don’t think there’s anything left in there, and if so, it will probably pass, but I’ll give him a stool softener to help just in case. Jo, can you get me a couple of Docusates?”

  “Sure.” She lets Barkley go and gives him a nice scratch behind the ears.

  “Oh, my poor Barkley-Warkley.” Mrs. Donner hugs the dog’s neck and lets him lick her right on the mouth.

  As Jo passes by me, she whispers, “Does the preacher know where her mouth’s been?”

  I squeeze my lips together to hold in a laugh. Mrs. Donner is overprotective of her pets to the point of insanity. Little does she know that I saved Barkley’s life (and Jesse’s ass) last summer after the dog choked on a plastic lime while Jesse was pet-sitting him.

  Jo brings back the stool softener. After I administer the medication, and wipe the drool from my hands, Mrs. Donner puts Barkley back on the leash and puts him on the floor.

  “Mrs. Donner?”

  “Yes?”

  “You really should throw that bowl of fake fruit away and invest in some good, safe dog toys.”

  “Oh.” She blinks rapidly then slowly nods. “Okay, thank you, Doctor Maddox.”

  As soon as they’re out of the room, I laugh quietly and wash my hands. Next up is a tortoise from the local petting zoo that needs X-rays after a burro stomped on his shell.

  Penny comes out of the office and meets me in the corridor. “Want me to help with the X-rays?”

  “No, I do not.” The last thing I need is to buy her a freaking condo or trip to the Bahamas just to keep her hands off me. There’s only one pair of hands I’m interested in at the moment, more so now that those hands are proving hard to get.

  Chapter Five

  Avery

  The problem with bridal shops isn’t usually the brides. It isn’t even their mothers. It's their grandmothers. One of whom now sits on the bench outside the changing area, shaking her head, the wrinkles around her pursed lips like spokes on a wheel.

  “What’s wrong with this one?” Melanie, the bride-to-be asks, her shoulders slumping in weary surrender.

  “It makes you look fat.”

  “Nana!”

  “Well, it does.” The older lady crosses her arms and gives a firm nod to make her point.

  The bride’s mother, Valerie, is there, too, but has no real opinions beyond, “Oh, I love it.”

  Nana, on the other hand, has an opinion about everything. This is the sixteenth or seventeenth dress she’s turned down. I've lost count. It's half an hour until closing time, and quite frankly, I am done with this freaking day.

  “I think it’s lovely on her,” I say with my smiley, buttered-up tactic that makes most mothers of the bride whip out their credit cards, especially when I add, “…and we have some great shapewear to match.”

  “No,” Melanie says.

  I turn my attention away from Valerie, who has already taken her wallet from her purse, and blink at the bride.

  “I can’t do shapewear. It’s not safe,” Melanie adds.

  “Sure it is,” I say, returning to my persuasive mode. “How about I get a couple of them for you to try?”

  “I said I can’t wear it,” Melanie says through gritted teeth, glaring at me.

  “Nonsense,” Nana says. “We wore girdles every day when I was your age. You can’t suck it in that long.”

  “I think she’s beautiful,” Valerie offers.

  Nana sniffs. “Oh, stuff it, Valerie. It’s your fault. You let her eat junk food for years.”

  Melanie screeches and stomps her foot. “God, just stop it, both of you! I can’t wear a girdle or any other squeezing garment because I’m…pregnant.”

  Valerie’s wallet falls to the floor, followed by Valerie herself.

  “Bride mother down!” I yell to Glen, who rushes over with a dress catalog.

  He kneels and fans the woman frantically until she finally comes around and sits up, dazed.

  Nana crosses her arms and shakes her head at the scene. “Figures.”

  Time for some heavy-handed sales tactics. “You know what? I’ll let the dress out as much as you need and give you half off.” My frustrated mind adds, if you’ll just take your shitty reality show and get the hell out.

  From her recovery spot on the floor, Valerie pulls a credit card from her wallet and holds it up. “We’ll take it. And that shapewear too. For me.”

  ∞∞∞

  I straighten the place up as Glen closes down the register and locks the doors. Despite the crazy customers today, my mind keeps coming back to Jack. Maybe I dodged a bullet by running away from such an arrangement with him. Look what's happened to poor Melanie – knocked up and trying to hide it from everyone until after the wedding.

  To be fair, I don't really know Melanie’s circumstances. Is she actually marrying the baby daddy? If so, are they happy about the pregnancy? Or does he even know?

  Is that what Jack fears, getting suckered into marriage? I wouldn’t dream of doing something like that.

  Someone taps on my shoulder.

  I yelp and spin around. “Don’t do that!”

  Glen stands there, hands on his hips.

  Once I catch my breath, I add, “Okay, what?”

  “Okay, what is wrong with you? You’ve been a jumpy, moody bitch all day. What gives?”

  “You didn’t just call me –"

  “I did, and it’s true. Girl, you need to chill. Go to the break room, get a soda, and then you can tell me what’s going on.”

  Someone raps on the glass of my shop door, peering in with pudgy hands, shielding his eyes from the evening sun.

  My stomach turns. “Is that who I think it is?”

  Glen groans. He turns me around and gently pushes me toward the back of the store. “Go on back. I’ll deal with him. He doesn’t like to talk to me very long because I’m gay. Thinks it’ll rub off on him or something.”

  I have to laugh at that. For a gay guy in the buckle of the Bible belt, he sure takes things in stride.

  “There, that’s better. Now shoo.”

  “Okay, fine. But I’m drinking the last Diet Coke.”

  Glen rolls his eyes and heads for the door. I'm glad he's willing to talk to the jackass who owns this building, Larry Crabtree. He's constantly fussing about any changes I make, though none of them are irreversible. I can't afford big renovations anyway. I had hoped after two years leasing this place that I’d have enough saved up for building my own shop. It's been a dream
of mine since I was a little girl, to help women look their best for the most important events in their lives.

  Not even a business management degree and an MBA had prepared me for the effect a 40 percent small business tax would have on profits. That, and Mr. Crabtree increased the rent this year. Like a naïve little girl, I’d signed the lease agreement without insisting upon having prior notice for rent increases. So since then, every unexpected bill makes it harder to make ends meet and pay Glen each week. I can't even give him a raise, though he’s been an angel about it. No wonder, considering his husband, Jeff, is a surgeon, making this job little more than a hobby for Glen.

  I reach for the Diet Coke in the break room fridge, sigh, and choose a bottle of water instead. It's the least I can do for Glen's sacrifice. As I sit at the table, I can hear Glen’s muffled voice and that of Mr. Crabtree through the door. Craning my ear toward the conversation, I think I hear another guy's voice too. Who can that be?

  My cell phone rings. The caller ID shows: Leigh Meriwether, LPC. I tap accept, although she's probably calling to tell me I owe her for a counselling session after I called her last night. I spilled my guts (and tears and snot) about the stupid contest and Jack and some old shit I went through in high school.

  “Hey, girl,” I say, trying to sound upbeat.

  “Hey. You feeling better today?”

  “Not really but I’ll be fine. At least it’s closing time.”

  “Well, maybe I can cheer you up. I’ll be needing a new dress soon.”

  “Oh, where are you going?”

  The break room door opens, and Glen sticks his head inside.

  “To my wedding,” Leigh answers.

  I jump to my feet and squeal. “Seriously? I knew it wouldn’t be long.”

  Glen backs away slowly and closes the door. He thinks I've lost it, but what else is new?

  “Jesse made me a candlelight dinner last night, then asked me. It was the sweetest thing.”

  “I didn't think he could cook."

  “He can't, poor thing, but he managed to get Garrett Mann to show him how to prepare a few recipes.”

  “Well, that’s wonderful. I’m so happy for you.” I really am happy for Leigh, but I can't deny that pinch of envy sitting tight in my chest.