by Robin Leaf
He held a pen light and shined it in first in her right eye then in her left. “Are you feeling nauseated?” he asked in a slight accent she couldn’t place.
She swallowed. “No. Again I ask, what happened?”
“Any blurred vision? Headache? Hearing ok?” The mystery of the sweaty cocoa butter smell solved. It was him.
“No, yes and yes. Um, who are you?”
“Dr. Vladimir Drakena.” That can’t be his real name. And why did he sound like the Count from Sesame Street when he said it? “I’m Riley’s next-door neighbor.” When he turned around and bent over again, she saw Riley, one arm across his stomach, the other bent, his hand nervously rubbing his chin watching the doctor intently. He stood shirtless again, with a look of utter concern on his face. When he noticed her looking at him, he smiled tentatively.
She put her hand up just above her right temple and felt the rather large bump that had formed while she was out. Then she noticed her three-quarter sleeve that once covered her arm was now missing. In fact, her whole shirt was missing. She had been covered with the shirt Riley once wore and a throw that she recognized from the back of the couch. Her hair was damp and her neck felt sticky.
“Ok, what the hell happened?” she thundered, sorry that she did when her head throbbed.
Riley stepped forward. “You hit your head. Best I can tell, you fell forward when trying to sit on the stool and your head met the marble counter. I heard a thunk, and when I turned around, you were on the floor out cold.”
“So why am I shirtless, wet, and sticky?” The question got a snicker from Dr. Drakena. She shot a death glare at his back.
“Orange juice,” Riley briefed, as if that was enough of an explanation.
She gestured to her chest. “That doesn’t explain why I’m shirtless.” She narrowed her eyes. “You just felt you needed to get a look and felt comfortable undressing me?” she dared. Riley gaped like a deer in the headlights. “I thought we established I’m not a prosti…”
“She shouldn’t do much today,” Dr. Drakena interrupted. “No driving or other strenuous activity. And you need to watch her for signs of a concussion: nausea, vomiting, extreme dizziness, sleepiness or anything out of the ordinary for the next few hours.” He nodded to Riley, and it irritated Vanessa how the doctor only addressed him, not her. Riley stepped forward and shook the doctor’s hand. “Now, since she is awake, it looks like she will be okay. Therefore, I must get back to Tatiana and my hot tub.” He brusquely grabbed his medical bag and left.
When she heard the door close, she stared at an embarrassed Riley, who refused to make eye contact.
“You couldn’t have asked Dr. Dracula to get dressed before treating me?”
“Drakena. And he did get dressed.”
Vanessa milled that around for a moment, shuddering after receiving the full mental picture. “Gross.”
“Yeah, you probably don’t want to know what I saw when I interrupted them.” He smirked.
She still stared at Riley. “Are you ever gonna answer my question?”
“Well, I kind of hoped you had forgotten.” He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. Then he turned serious. “I saw you on the floor, and when I checked you out and saw you were still breathing, I called Javier to help me move you, but I didn’t think you’d want the orange juice to stain your white shirt, so I put my shirt over you and took off yours. Javi stayed with you while I went through the gate to next door. Once I came back, I rinsed it out in the sink for you while Dr. Drakena checked you over.” He grinned slightly. She continued to glare. His smile slowly disappeared and he shifted under the weight of her stare. “Ugh, fine. Javier suggested I take off your shirt because he didn’t want the couch all sticky, and I thought you would be more comfortable – to not be sticky, too.” He paused and looked down at his feet. “It made sense at the time.”
“Good call.” She noticeably felt her neck. “You can’t afford to get a couch cleaned? And you thought this gave you the op to sneak a peek, maybe cop a feel?” Her tone remained surprisingly calm.
“Trust me, I didn’t see anything,” he defended. “I immediately draped my shirt over you before unbuttoning your shirt.” He looked down at the floor. “The feel was accidental.” He lifted his eyes carefully. “I was concerned for you. I wasn’t thinking clearly, and Javi seemed to know what to do. I just followed his orders.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Jeez, you were unconscious on my floor, for cripes sakes.”
“And his first thought was to undress me,” she stated, not asked. “Neither one of you thought to just put a towel down?”
“I… I wasn’t thinking clearly,” he stammered. He shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged his shoulders. “Honestly, Dr. Taylor, I’ve never been so scared. When I saw you on the floor. . . At first, I thought you were dead.” Now it was his turn to shudder. He leveled his gaze at her. “I’m glad you’re not,” he added quietly.
His last words filled her with warmth, and she reluctantly smiled. He noticed. His full-on, pure-dimpled smile followed. They held each other’s eyes for an immeasurable moment, both grins fading. She felt the air change, become thicker and charged. Goosebumps raised on her flesh, as if his gaze was actually touching her. She blinked and sat up, shaking away the feeling.
“I think it’s safe to say this first meeting was. . . unsuccessful,” she said as she cuddled the shirt to her chest and ignored the throbbing above her right eye. “I think I’ll be heading home.” She stood and quickly fell back on the couch, fumbling to keep his shirt from falling. She winced and attempted to stand again.
“No you’re not,” he said, stepping closer to her and setting his hands on her shoulders to steady her. He removed his hands quickly, as if her flesh was too hot to touch, which, since he touched her, felt that way to her, too. Their eyes held for a moment, and then he looked away.
“I can’t very well stay here all sticky and shirtless, Mr. Tate. I should go home and get cleaned up. We can talk tomorrow.”
He stepped back from the couch. “You heard Dr. Drakena. You shouldn’t drive. I have a shower you can use, and I even have some clothes that’ll probably fit you here.”
She bit her lips together. All her planning in her head the night before had done no good. Never in her wildest dreams could she have planned for a worst-case scenario like this. If she had any idea this would happen, she would have cancelled.
“I’m not sure that’s ethical, Mr. Tate. If I am to be your therapist. . .”
“I haven’t agreed to that, yet, Dr. Taylor.” He smiled shyly. “After you are less sticky, we can discuss it. I still owe you a waffle.”
***
After slipping his shirt over her head when he turned his back, Riley led Vanessa upstairs to a room that she was sure was not his since it was filled with boxes and bags containing women’s clothes.
“I’m sure you can find something in here that will work. Most of the clothes are new, and you can keep what you wear.” He turned to go, but paused. Without turning back to look at her, he continued. “Do you think you are okay to be left alone? You did just suffer a pretty nasty head bump.”
“Thank you, Mr. Tate. I’ll be fine.” I hope.
He closed the door without turning back. She surmised it probably had something to do with the room or all the clothes in here.
Vanessa dug through the bags – pretty swanky stuff, mostly from boutiques she had driven by on Rodeo and other high-end places. There was really nothing she would ever wear though, mostly very short skirts and fitted dresses. The two pairs of pants she found were too small and too long. She kept digging. The only thing she would wear was a pair of black knit yoga capris, way overpriced, and a royal blue designer t-shirt, both items had the tags still on them. Who pays $105 for a plain t-shirt? At least I’ll be comfortable. What is with all these clothes anyway?
Shoes were another issue. Going barefoot didn’t seem very professional, and capris with her own black patent heels were a little too
low-rent porn star for her. She found a pair of fancy flip flops, one size too big, but they would have to do.
Before getting in the shower, she looked at herself in the mirror. The orange juice had almost dried in her hair making it difficult to take down. The bump on her forehead was quite noticeable; purples and blues already appeared, and she was thankful that at her last haircut, she agreed to allow the stylist to give her bangs.
She showered quickly, difficult to do in the spacious shower with two opposing jets relaxing her to the point of jello status. It was especially challenging to be careful not to ruin her makeup.
All the bath products available were way too fancy to have been bought at the local Walgreen’s. The bathroom felt bigger than her new apartment, containing both a shower and a large Jacuzzi tub, and this was for the guest room. She could only imagine what the master bath looked like. Stop imagining, Nessa. You’ll never see it. This isn’t going to work out. Get dressed and get outta here, and fast. Not just out of the bathroom, either. Go. Now. Back to Texas where you belong. You’re in way over your head.
A knock at the door broke another mental ass-chewing. “Dr. Taylor? The waffles are ready. I’ll be out on the back patio.”
“Okay.”
You goofily sing-songed that “okay?” What a dork you are, Nessa.
FIVE
Vanessa found her way to the back door and looked through the windows before exiting to the patio. She saw Riley sitting at a small table looking out at the waves. Unfortunately shirted now, he sat leaned back in the chair, shoulders slumped. A sudden sadness washed over her, a gnawing in her gut that told her Riley was way worse off than he admitted.
She walked outside, pleasantly warm air ruffling her damp hair. She noticed he had changed into cargo-style khaki shorts, and his shirt was a nicer-than-a-t-shirt hunter-green polo that made his eyes even more irresistibly gorgeous.
When he turned her direction, she noticed his eyes widen slightly, as if she surprised him. Unlike last time, he stood up and moved toward her, pulling out her chair. This close up, she noticed he stood above six feet tall, maybe 6’3” or 6’4”. That, coupled with his very broad shoulders and large chest, made her feel very tiny without her high heels.
A polite smile hinted around his lips. “Feel better?”
She automatically brought her hand to her head. “Marginally. Thanks.” She sat in the chair and appreciated that he helped her position it close to the table. No one had ever done that for her before. She swallowed and watched him move back to his chair. “May we eat?”
“Sure.” He sat and picked up his fork. “I like the shirt you chose. With your eyes, blue is definitely your color,” he paused and smirked, “just not on your head.” His dimples fully displayed when she rolled her eyes. “Seriously, I’m glad you found something to wear.”
“Yeah, about that.” She poured syrup on her waffle; she decided to let both the very flattering compliment about her eyes and the tease about her lump on her head slide by. “If you are harboring those clothes for your plan to become a cross dresser, you might want to exchange them for a bigger size. I mean a size zero? That’s not a size; that’s a void.” She hoped a joke would offer an opportunity to open up about his reaction to the clothes without making him feel like she was prying.
He finished chewing and swallowed, watching his fork intently so he could not-so-obviously refuse eye contact. “You’re angling, Dr. Taylor.” He shoved the bite in his mouth.
Damn, observant, too. Add that to handsome and can cook? Double damn. End this now, Nessa.
“Not much to fish for, Mr. Tate.” She paused until he looked at her. “Apparently you have an ex-girlfriend. Ended badly. Probably because you found out she was a gold-digging tramp, which explains why the clothes are still here and not with her.” She carefully gauged his reaction. Judging by his surprised expression, her hypothesis was dead on. “What I can’t figure out is why you haven’t returned the toothpick’s clothes to the stores.”
His brow furrowed. “It’s complicated. And how did you do that?”
“Do what?” she innocently asked.
“Know exactly what hap... did Charles tell you?”
“No, Mr. Tate. Charles told generalities, not specifics. He honored your privacy. I am just very perceptive and know a thing or two about women. You are very hurt by her actions because you probably thought she really liked you, the real you, and feel pretty duped. You are trying really hard not to let it harden you, and you are probably wondering what is wrong with you since someone you thought you liked, someone you thought you knew, would use you for your money.”
He glared at her for a very long time. She tried to look nonchalant while she enjoyed her waffle, like pissing off actors is something she did every day. Just let that sink in, Mr. Perfect Tate. He’ll probably get so angry, he’ll ask me to leave. Then it’ll be out of my hands. I won’t have to think of an excuse to go. C’mon, dumb ass, say something. Stop looking at me like I just told you that I ran over your puppy.
As his expression softened, he laid his fork down and continued his stare. He finally looked away from her to the ocean, she assumed, in an attempt to think of a way to ask her to leave.
“I’m impressed, Dr. Taylor.” He turned her direction, nailing her eyes to his with his expression. “So, what do YOU think is wrong with me?”
“Nothing, other than you made a bad choice in a girlfriend. SHE was what was wrong, Mr. Tate. As for you, just based on what little time we’ve spent together, I can tell you are very sad and trying very hard to hide it.” He turned slowly as she spoke continuing to study her eyes, and she continued. “Based on what you meant by your question, though, I don’t think there is anything wrong with you. But until you agree to therapy, I can’t offer much else.”
“I really don’t see why I need a psychiatrist.” His statement seemed to be a challenge.
“First of all, I’m a psychologist, not a psychiatrist.”
“What’s the diff?” he asked.
“Well, about four more years of school, roughly an excess of $100,000 more debt, way more expensive malpractice insurance, and a prescription pad.” She smiled. “They’re medical doctors. Most psychiatrists treat the severely mentally ill. I wanted to treat people with everyday problems.”
“So you can’t prescribe meds?”
“Nope.” She resumed eating her breakfast.
“Dang. There goes my plan to sell Xanax on the set. I need the income to pay for all those clothes.” His deadpanned joke made her laugh. “So, how do you do it?”
“Do what?”
He studied her for a second. His intense stare was becoming uncomfortable. “Even though you’ve been here for just about an hour, we’ve really only spent about fifteen minutes together, where we were both conscious anyway, yet you know a lot that I didn’t give away.” He looked deep into her eyes curiously. “I want to know how?”
His staring made her feel self-conscious, as if he were trying to search for answers through her retinas. She looked at her plate, which sat empty in front of her. “Well, I’m not sure it’s a good idea to reveal the secret to my trade, Mr. Tate.”
He leaned forward on his elbows, clasping his hands together in front of him. “What if I told you I needed the information for one of my acting jobs, would you tell me then?”
She narrowed her eyes at him, trying to see if he revealed anything other than what he said. Seeing nothing but true curiosity, she carefully continued. “Well, in college, I had the opportunity to take a one-semester seminar given by Dr. Timothy Philips, a prominent researcher in the subject of body language. Out of the 120 who applied for the seminar, only ten of us were chosen, so it was a pretty big deal. He spent weeks discussing and training us on how non-verbal cues are just as important as verbal ones, meaning that what is not said is just as important as what is said. One has to consider speech patterns, word choices, tone, inflections, as well as the subtle, and sometimes not-so-subtle, body language. Al
so, one must pay attention to what happens when there is no speech. White space is what Dr. Philips called it. A little can tell you a lot, if you know what to look for, and we had some hands-on training with simulators and pictures and videos to see if we can tell more than what is said.” She took a drink from the water bottle he had thoughtfully provided. “Too many people don’t pay attention to anything other than what is spoken. That’s how so many people get swindled by con-artists or fooled by partners, both romantic or otherwise.” Oh God, please don’t take offense to that since you got yourself swindled by a trashy little gold-digging slutty bitch from hell.
“Sounds like an interesting seminar.” He sounded genuinely impressed.
“Oh, yeah. This guy is like a rock star in the psychological community.”
“And you took to this people-reading thing easily?”
She smiled shyly, but her voice remained strong. “Yes, it was very interesting.”
“You were his star pupil, weren’t you, Dr. Taylor?”
She blinked, trying very hard to not reveal it on her face. His question rattled her. He had flipped the tables, which was usually her move.
“I wouldn’t say that, Mr. Tate.”
“Maybe not out loud.” He smirked. “But you did, just now, with the smile you tried to conceal. Is that the kind of thing the rock-star doctor taught you?” His eyes sparkled with amusement; she could tell that he enjoyed making her uncomfortable.
She paused in shock at his accurate assessment. “Well, yes.” She tried hard not to let her jaw drop. “Dr. Philips said I was a natural.” She felt herself get bright red. “Now I guess it’s your turn to impress me.”
“Let me see if I can do more.” He looked her up and down curiously. “I can also tell you are not from around here, not even from California. Based on the hint of the accent you have, which, by the way, seems to get more prominent when you are annoyed, I’m guessing somewhere southern.” He squinted. “Maybe Texas.” Tapping his chin, he added, “Probably from the Southeast part.” He watched her face closely, then nodded. “Tell me, am I right, Dr. Taylor?”
