Of Winged Creatures & Nesting Grounds: (A Quirky, Sexy, Dirty Doctor Romance)

by A. Wilding Wells

“A girl can dream.”

  And maybe that’s all I’ll get of him. Hunt in my dreams. Every night when I close my eyes. Every day when my mind drifts. And even now, when I swear I see him sitting across the room at a table alone.

  Chapter 54

  Floating on solid ground

  Hunt

  Two weeks later

  I took Lucy’s advice, packed up my truck and headed to Wyoming with Hugo. The fresh mountain air was cleansing and my time there meeting with architects and builders to rebuild the cottage gave me hope for new beginnings. Hugo and I rode miles each day, and most of the trails were ones Happy and I had ridden while we were there. Hugo was content on my back in a baby carrier, as I told him stories about all the things I loved and missed about Happy.

  Her snorts and giggles. Her bird nest hair in the morning, and how she tried to contain wisps of it with those bluebird bobby pins, one of which I have and keep in my pocket at all times. Her soulful blue eyes and the way they shined when she looked at me like I was the man of her dreams. Does she dream of me the way I dream of her? Her rambling and randomness. Her plan and how much it meant to her. Where is my little bluebird now?

  I’ve fallen into a routine now that I’m back in San Fran. My morning run with Hugo in the jogger. My drive to the office via a ridiculous detour that takes me past Happy’s house. My once a week outing with Bowie and Lucy, to solve all the world’s problems, which by that I mean, mine. I wish I could move on, but I don’t know how to do that. I don’t know how to fix myself. I’ve been so busy fixing other people for so many years, I’ve forgotten what it takes to work on my own insides.

  On Thursday night, Bowie and I head to a bourbon bar that doubles as a gallery, in the South Market, where three of his grad students are performing. He claims that the place serves over four hundred types of whiskeys. Good for me. I can drown my sorrows while his students parade around citing poetry or whatever the fuck he said they were doing.

  The dimly lit bar—a twisted mix of baroque-meets-modern—pulses with energy as we make our way in. Musicians at the back of the bar carrying fiddles, banjos,and basses huddle around in clusters.

  “Should have brought my fiddle,” I say as we settle in on a couple of red-velvet club chairs. “Hell, I’d fit right in.”

  A waitress saunters over with a flight of bourbon tastings for us to sample. I jump on it like a pig in shit, ready to get my buzz on.

  “So, what’s the deal?” I ask.

  Bowie looks around, then nods at two young women who I assume are his students. “Honestly, I’m not too cued in on exactly what each of them is doing. All I ask of them is that it’s raw, real, and revealing. They’re allowed to pretty much do whatever they want, the goal being they illicit an emotional toll from the individual they perform for or with. Each of them performs three pieces, and you, my man, get front and center on the final piece from one of them. My choice.”

  “What about you, Professor? You just sit here and soak in the vibes and whiskey?”

  “I float between them. Then I see the final pieces.”

  “Am I going to get a lap dance?” I chuckle. “That might be nice come to think of it.”

  “I don’t know what you’re going to get or what you’ll be asked to do. Every year, it’s different. Just enjoy your bourbon and relax, dude. We can go out later and find you some move-the-fuck-on ass, okay?”

  “Yeah, just what I need. A side of hail Mary sex. You know that is never going to happen after her.”

  “What? Now that you’re a dad, you don’t do one-nighters? Christ, man, your palms must be raw.”

  No, that would be my fucking heart. Raw and shredded.

  When Bowie wanders off to watch the performances, I head over to the musicians. One of the guys points to a wall of instruments and tells me to join in. An hour later, with a decent buzz going, I feel a tap on my shoulder.

  Bowie crooks a finger as he backs up two steps and says, “Hey, grab your whiskey. You’re up. Final performance for Cat Whiskers.”

  I grab his arm. “The fuck did you just say?” My heart leaps out of my chest.

  “You heard me right.” He chuckles. “Calm your shit, I’m going to tell her an old friend of mine is her audience.”

  “You’ve known she was here? For how fucking long?” I grab a fist full of his shirt and scan the bar for her face.

  “Long enough to know she’s madly in love with some guy.”

  “Fuck!” I crack my knuckles, wanting to throw a punch. She moved on?

  “Maybe she’s not that madly in love. There could still be a chance for you guys. If you were meant to be, maybe tonight will clench the deal.”

  “Or be another goodbye.”

  Madly in love. Shit. What will she do when she sees me? Come to me or fly away to him. My little bluebird is here, and madly in love…with someone else.

  Chapter 55

  Speed shmeed. It’s about progress.

  Happy

  I straighten my top hat in the bathroom mirror and finger the waves of my hair. Then I suck in a deep breath. One last performance. Smiling, I trace my tongue along my teeth, licking a smear of red lipstick away. This last piece is my biggest. Professor Brig wants raw, and oh boy, he’s going to get it. Thank god this place is closed to the public tonight. Parents, faculty, and other students, I can deal with. I’ve come a long damn way to get to this point. Next up on my journey of healing and helping others: the book I’ve worked on over the last six weeks. I’m going to reveal my past and help other women who have gone through their own hell face their fears, just like Hunt helped me.

  My heart pounds as I saunter out of the bathroom for my last piece. My first performance was easy. Beatbox and rap, my life in rhyme. The guy I performed for has been one of my professors for the last two years. A few tears were shed at the end, his and mine. A small crowd gathered behind him as I finished. My second was a little more stripped down. Literally. My long, embroidered coat was in a puddle at my feet as I cut holes in my dress, revealing my vitiligo patches to a woman I’m guessing might have been a parent. Her lips quivered as I recited a poem about each section of my bleached skin. And the warm, tearful hug we shared when I finished was just more proof that I’m okay with who I am inside and out. My life no longer sits on the seam of some perfectly planned timeline with me losing my virginity to some stranger because I’m too afraid I’ll be left alone someday as my natural honey-colored skin morphs into ghosted patches.

  Professor Brig spots me as I turn the corner. Hooking his arm in mine, he says, “Impressive as hell so far. You might be the most courageous student I’ve ever had. Your first two pieces were a knock out. I’m sure you’ve got something amazing up your sleeve for your last one.”

  “Thanks. That’s really sweet of you.” I stop walking. “Hey, I just want to be honest about my last piece. It’s raw. I mean, raw. So, that’s good, right? I’m not going to get kicked out of here mid-performance, am I?” I grip the stack of photos under my arm. “I could seriously offend someone.”

  “God, no. That’s why the place is ours tonight. You can do whatever you need to. Put it out there.”

  “Okay, cool. It’s pretty out there. I’m really going for it, major exposure. Literally.” I jerk my neck around and rub the taught muscles in my shoulders.

  “You’re over here,” he says, leading me to a quiet room in the back of the bar. He parts a beaded curtain then directs me to the far corner of the dimly lit red room, where three black, wingback chairs crowd together in a circle. On a round, brass table are multiple bottles of bourbon and a few colorful crystal snifters along with a pitcher of water.

  “Am I performing for you alone? My friend Cece was going to come, but one of her kids is sick.” I place my stack of photos upside down on the table. I shouldn’t be nervous, but this performance is going to be more than a step outside of my comfort zone. It would be great if it were just him, because he’s as easygoing as they come. But even that makes me jittery. I let out
a deep breath as he collapses into a chair, a glass of bourbon in his hand seconds after a long pour.

  “Nope. Doesn’t work like that. You’re a performance artist. This is about being vulnerable. An old friend of mine is your audience. Don’t worry. He’s cool.”

  “Oh, a guy. Okay. Let me have a swig of that.” I take his snifter and bring it to my lips. Warm, amber liquid burns down my throat and coats my empty stomach. Then I gag and hand it back to him and pour myself some water. “I know you get to call the shots, but I think only one person along with you, if you don’t mind. It’ll be plenty vulnerable.”

  He nods, then walks over to the entry, and closes the shutters, the beaded fringe chiming against the wood. I take a gulp of water, then look toward the door upon hearing the creak of the shutters seconds later. The glass falls out of my hand as I lose control of my grip. It lands on the chair in a wet bounce, then slaps the floor. Crash. Thud. A thousand pieces fly. Like my heart.

  “Hunt?” I twist a handful of my dress into a knot at my thigh, and my eyes sting from the beautiful sight of him.

  “Happy.” He sinks one hand into his jeans pocket, the other gripping his scruffy jaw as he peruses me. He takes a step forward then stops and runs his hands down his face. Another two steps and he’s inches from me.

  My mouth falls open, my pummeling heart continuing to dance while my rubbery knees cause me to wobble. I’m frozen in a stare of disbelief.

  He reaches out to touch my face, his fingers landing on my cheek. “You look like you’re seeing a ghost,” he says. His throat bobs as one side of his mouth lifts into a smile.

  I never thought I’d see him again. Promised myself I wouldn’t chase him. He has a life, a family. But here I am, lost in the cyclone that was us.

  “Phantom limb,” I whisper, stumbling backward in doubt, my hands pressing against the wall behind me.

  “You’re on, girl,” Professor Brig says. “No more reuniting.”

  “Can you give us a minute?” Hunt asks, never looking at Bowie.

  “Not a chance,” Bowie says. “This is going to be the best piece of the night.”

  “Go fuck off for a bit, will ya?” Hunt glares at him.

  “Not gonna happen, my friend.” Bowie sinks into a chair, shaking his head as he laughs. “She might be your fairytale wife. But she’s my student. Sorry, kids. The show must go on. Happy, take a breath. Hunt, have a seat and a drink, my man.”

  “Holy, holy, holy fuck!” I mouth as I spin on my heel. This is insane.

  Did he say fairytale wife? Nice.

  Turning to face Hunt, my nerves ripple. I pick the photos up and place them on his lap.

  “A portrait of innocence,” I say. His gaze bounces down to the image. Sebastian’s photo of his masterful painting of me.

  Some might call me sick for finding redemption in this performance. I can’t worry about some. Or shame. I’m working on me. And doing this will help me help others who have gone through crazy things in life. Pain, you motherfucker, I’m going to use you as my stepping stone.

  Hunt brings his hand to his face and groans. I gasp at the tattoo on his ring finger. He married her and got the tattoo? My heart hammers. While unbuttoning my dress, I inhale through my nose. I snatch the photo from his hands and shred it. Pieces of it fall to the ground. His eyes flash to mine, a flicker of shock on his face as he reaches for the torn scraps. I swipe them from his hands, scattering them like litter and feeling the same.

  He stares at the next photo on his lap: me, a fresh bud of a girl. His eyes widen as he shakes his head.

  Shrugging my dress off my shoulders, I close my eyes. Then snap them open. And here we are again. He loved me once. He knows that this happened; he helped me climb out of it.

  “Jesus,” he mutters as he grips the arm of the chair. His eyes dance between the photo, another exquisite oil painting, and me.

  Does he see who I’ve become? A woman who doesn’t forget to be awesome every fucking day?

  His eyes, wet with emotion, sweep up my mostly naked body.

  “Shred it, shred them all, the next few,” I say. “This is a shared performance, in case you didn’t realize.”

  He stares at the photos marked with numbers—my age at the time each one was painted. His hands tremble when he flips through them.

  He shakes his head, a somber expression on his face. “I can’t do that to you. Won’t.”

  “You already did shred me,” I answer. Unfair, yes. But it’s killing me to be near him, knowing he’ll never be mine again. “Do it again,” I say quietly, taking a step forward.

  He jerks back as I move inches from his mouth. So close I can smell bourbon on his breath. His eyes map my body. His chest rises and falls.

  “Not by fucking choice. You left me,” he says. Then he shreds the photos. His jaw clenching, his eyes turning steely.

  I back away two steps then turn around and squat. I’m stripping everything away. My past, my pain. I’m getting naked.

  “Take it off the rest of the way,” I say, yanking both sequined straps of my red lace bra down my shoulders. I wait to feel his touch.

  His trembling fingers work the clasp of my bra, goose bumps scattering in the wake of his touch. He traces my spine with one finger, and my throat tightens. After spinning to face him, I grab the bra from his shaking hands and toss it to the ground. With the toe of my high heel, I drag it back and forth on the floor like a used cigarette butt. As I stand, he stares at my pebbling nipples. This might be harder to do than I thought.

  “Next image.”

  He glances at it then back to me.

  “Give me a four-letter word for ‘what I look like I wanted’?” My cheeks flame.

  He could answer this one of two ways.

  Looking away and lifting his glass, he growls, “Fuck.” His eyes fill with tears.

  I nod, wishing he had said love. I yank a marker from my stocking top and hand it to him. Placing my stiletto on his knee, I point to the four connected crossword squares I drew earlier along the lace edge of my underwear. “Fill me up.”

  He licks his lips before muttering a string of swear words. Then he slides one hand under my knee, up along the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. My body tingles, and I hold my breath until he meets that spot, waiting for the wet tip of the marker. His other hand grips the back of my thigh, his thumb stroking the wet lace panel of my underwear.

  “You can’t,” I say, clutching his hand. My heart races at his touch, and my spine goes from steel to mush.

  “You don’t want me participating now?”

  We meet in a stare before he fills the blank spaces.

  “Fuck,” he whispers, dropping the marker once he’s written the word. “This is torture. I can’t do this.” He shoves a hand through his hair and studies me.

  The way he looks at me sends chills through my body. I see sorrow and the same pain I saw the day I walked out of the hospital. But he has everything he wants now, and I’m just a girl he used to know.

  “Next image. I’ve named her, Begging For It,” I say, dropping to the floor. “Take them off.” I motion to my underwear, fingering the lace edge as I stare at the wall filled with bottles behind him, lifting my hips.

  “I can’t do this,” he says. “I can’t fucking… What is this? Is this helping you? I tried to help you, tried to be there for you.” He tosses the stack of images onto the table and presses his fingertips to his temples.

  “This is my fucking life!” I shout. “This isn’t about you. What can’t you do? Look at my body before and after? Accept a woman in progress? Yes, my vitiligo has progressed, it’s everywhere, and I’m okay with it. You helped me get here. Because of you, I’m able to do this performance.”

  “Keep going, Cat,” Professor Brig says as Hunt flips his chair over, the back of it crashing in a loud slap on the floor.

  “This is fucking crazy,” Hunt says. He takes a hold of my underwear, and his digits press into the length of my legs as he draws the red lac
e off my body.

  I suck in air, wondering all the while how I’ll make it much further in this performance with him so near.

  He stands and whisks up his glass of bourbon. Then he takes my underwear to his nose and inhales it. I’m positive he’s leaving when he charges to the opposite side of the room. But he stops next to the door, whirls around, and leans against the wall. He fixes his eyes on me as he sips his drink.

  I continue. “Next image. An arc. My life forever altered.” I grab the photo from the top of the pile and hold it up for him to see. Me posing, with my painted doves perched on my body. “Come here!”

  He storms over, but he doesn’t look at me. “Draw a map of my treasures. Use whatever fluid you want to mark me. Connect the innocent me to the bold me. Then intersect me to you.”

  Hunt shakes his head and comes closer. When he drops to his knees, he’s so close I can smell him. My eyes mist with tears as he examines me, following my curves, before his gaze lands between my legs.

  “Tell me what you want,” he says. He licks his forefinger, draws circles around my right nipple, then traces around a jagged, white patch of skin.

  I take in shaky breaths as his other hand encircles the back of my neck and his forehead meets mine. “To be loved in this lifetime,” I answer, my heart breaking now that I’ve said those words to the one man I want but will never be able to call my own.

  “You are,” he says softly. After licking another finger, he draws around other white patches with slow, measured movements, the opposite of my pulse. Then he presses his fingertips onto my throat. “Don’t you see that? Feel it?”

  “Here,” I say, pointing to a jagged circle of skin he’s drawn around. “Fill it in. Five-letter word for love.”

  Chapter 56

  Seven-letter word for affected by love *smitten

  HUNT

  On her right breast, I write Happy with the black marker. She glances down, her chest blushing in bright patches of color.

  “Opposite of ugly,” she says, pointing to the horizontal, narrow, white patch under her breasts.