I shake my head. “No, no you brought Ashley. You wanted to make me jealous and—”
“And it did,” he finishes.
My head shakes violently this time. “I was just angry that you were ignoring me. Not jealous. We’re friends, Brady. I want to see you happy. If Ashley makes you—”
“She’s not my fucking date!” He grabs my forearms as if to shake me but holds me firmly in place. “Do you hear me? She’s here with Dylan.”
“What?!”
His grip tightens and I can’t ignore the way his fingers press into my chilled flesh. “If you got out of your own fucking head, you’d see that Dylan’s crazy about her. She was never anything but a friend and if you knew me like you think you do then you’d know that.”
“She’s beautiful…smart.”
“No comparison. You’re everything, Moe.” His head dips, mouth skimming my ear. “Come home with me.”
I inhale his scent, my hands clinging to his jacket, when I’m hit with the smell of cheap peaches, his dance partner’s perfume who he just—
I shove him away. “Get off me. Let go!”
He does so immediately, his voice and expression arctic. “No more excuses!”
“Excuses? You just screwed some nobody just to piss me off! You really think I’d want anything to do with you after that?”
Brady’s noticeably affected, his hands clenched at his sides, nerve in his clenched jaw twitching. He looks past me with an anguished sigh. “Explain to me what you really want. Please. Just some trashy affair with your doctor?”
“Don’t!” My voice squeaks, no idea what more to say, how to explain what I feel in Dr. Reynolds’ office. But I know it isn’t fair to Brady. He wants more, needs more, and I can’t give it.
“What? You think you can go in that office whenever you have an itch and no one will be affected? No one will gossip? This is a small town, Moe.”
“I’m not talking about it.” I can’t. It was just fun. Dr. Reynolds allowed me to live a fantasy, one that I refuse to regret.
“Fine, then answer me one question, and I’ll walk away. You won’t have to worry about dealing with me again.”
The thought of him leaving damn near breaks me, but I hold firm.
He stands in front of me, wary vulnerability in his eyes. “Tell me the truth. Tell me why, despite our attraction for each other, you won’t let us be happy. Because, babe, I would do anything for you. I’d make you the happiest woman alive if you’d let me.” His hand moves to my cheek, thumb brushing over my trembling bottom lip. “Tell me why you’re pushing me away.”
I close my eyes, unable to look at him as I answer. “Because I need my best friend and if we don’t work out, I can’t risk losing you forever.”
Eyes still shut, his hand drops away and I feel him move back. “It’s too late. You’ve already lost me.”
I open my eyes, watching him start through the side gate. He doesn’t look back, but I hear him clearly. “And if you really think I slept with that girl, you never knew me at all.”
There’s nothing for me to say. I stand there, tears spilling out, arms crossed over my chest, holding myself together while I watch him walk further into the darkness.
My chest constricts, something shattering deep inside at the thought of never seeing Brady again, of never laughing or joking with him, never holding him close. I lose myself in the grief, sinking down to the ground where I deserve to be. I screwed up. I lost the only man I can’t bear to live without.
Chapter Nine
Everyone gets their fifteen minutes of fame, right?
Well, mine are up. For a brief blip of time I’d felt special, amazing, alive…and just as quickly, it’s over.
I sold my soul to the devil—the snarling beast awakened inside me—for a few visits with a “happy ending.” Now I’m left a shell of myself. An empty, hollow ache in my chest, rats in my hair, and stains on my three day old pajamas.
After the fifth time I was told, “His schedule is full,” I quit trying to make an appointment with Dr. Reynolds.
After the seventh failed rendezvous with my almost forgotten little blue friend, I threw it away.
And Brady…
I miss him like fat kids—which I’ll soon be if I don’t snap out of this funk—miss cake. Speaking of cake… I rouse my dumpy, frumpy self off the couch, pausing my Will and Grace DVD, to shuffle into the kitchen.
Knowing I’ll regret it later, I plunge my fork into what’s left of my beloved turtle cheesecake. My eyes close, delighting in the cool and creamy sweetness.
Brady hates caramel, so I always make sure I have one with cherry topping for him…
Stop it!
Slamming the licked clean fork down on the counter, sick of myself, I almost don’t pick out the knock on my door from the sound of my own admonishment. Another knock echoes and I twist back to stare at the door, painfully aware I’m in no way ready to greet visitors. One look around the room says my home isn’t either.
I wonder if I can hire Kathy to at least pull my apartment back together when my pity party ends.
Smoothing my tousled hair, I duck to catch my reflection in the small mirror by the door. Oh hell! I grab a baseball cap from the rack and as I’m about to shove it on to cover my mess, I stop. It’s Brady’s cap. He must have left it here…God knows when.
My fingers run over the brim and before I can stop myself, I fling it across the room and grab a thick wool cap instead. Who cares if I look like an escaped mental patient? I’m feeling a little mental.
One more peek in the mirror, wiping my face, I open the door.
There’s nobody there. I poke my head further out, looking left then right and nothing. Thank God. I’d gear up to scream at the neighborhood kids for ding-dong ditching if there wasn’t an enormous box at my feet.
I didn’t order anything, let alone something in a box bigger than me! With a series of grunts and shoves, I finally manage to maneuver the monstrosity inside and rip into it. When that gets me nowhere, I run to the kitchen and grab the scissors, then try again.
I cut the last strap and fall back at the same time the box flies open, revealing the one thing I can’t bear.
Holy—I am a piece of—shit.
There on my floor, wrapped in thin foam paper, is the outline of a surfboard. Crawling over, I pull away the packaging and run my fingers over the smooth polished wood with a pink hue, my favorite color. At the top right side is a huge white lily, my middle name, under that “My Moe” in fancy black script.
I glance up at the hook where my keys hang. The keychain he brought me from California, a hint I never realized. He had a surfboard made for me.
Fighting back the tears, I prop the unbelievable gift against the wall, making room to clean up the box mess when I spot the card taped to the bottom side.
My hands tremble as I open it, the gravity hitting me full force—these will be the only words I’ve heard from Brady in over a week.
Can’t wait to get you on the water with me!
Love always,
Brady
The floodgates burst wide open and fat crocodile tears roll down my cheeks, a bittersweet mixture of happiness, love, regret and loneliness. I leap up from the mushy puddle I’ve become on the floor and grab my phone.
I don’t hesitate, my fingers typing in a flurry of anxiousness.
Me: I got the surfboard. Thank u so much! I love it! When can we go?
Each minute that ticks by without a response cuts a little deeper into my soul and I sink down into the couch. He ordered it before everything went to shit, but now it’s here, and I pray it serves as a reminder to us both of what we are and how badly we need to get back there.
Finally my phone dings, just as I was beginning to think I really had lost him forever. Hope, that amazing, beautiful swell of my heart, brings a smile to my lips.
Brady: I’m glad u like it. You’re welcome. Find someone to enjoy it with.
The phone drops from my f
ingers. I don’t want to learn to surf with “someone.” I want to go with the wonderful man, my friend, who bought it for me! The longer I sit staring at my knees tucked up against my chest, the angrier I grow. At the situation, at myself, at Brady for being so damn stubborn.
I snatch the phone back up and pound the keys.
Me: If u didn’t want to take me why’d u buy it?
This time he answers back right away. I know him, despite what he thinks, I do! He was just waiting, fingers poised, itching for a comeback.
Brady: Things change. U called the shots. GTG.
I throw out my leg and kick the coffee table in anger. Eerrr, that impossible man! Wincing, I cradle my foot, my head hanging back. At least the physical pain matches the emotional now.
Is this worth it? Suppose Brady and I did try “more” and it doesn’t work out? The backlash couldn’t possibly be worse than this, right?
Too frustrated to think about it any longer, I hit play, resuming my show. I’m slumped even further down in the couch, arms crossed, my toe throbbing, when the bantering on screen catches my full attention—that’s it!
Brilliant. Thank you, sitcom gods, for the enlightenment.
Determination sets in, my mind made up. I know what I have to do.
When the nurse shuts the door behind me—thank heavens she doesn’t work in the ER, clearly not quick on the uptake—I pull out my compact, checking my disguise one last time.
Wig in place. Check.
Big, black sunglasses. Check.
And now, I wait.
Shortly after, a quick knock raps on the door.
“Come in,” I say in my new covert voice. It’s a high-pitched mousy tone, but it works. I think so, anyway.
I’m on the table, fully dressed, when Dr. Reynolds steps in, usual devastating smile in place, spoiled by the dark circles under his sullen eyes, a scruffy jawline and wrinkled shirt.
He looks as hellish and out of sorts as I feel and a glimmer of hopefulness moves through me. Has he been miserable too?
“Good afternoon Miss, uh…” He consults his chart once more, then ever so slowly looks up at me. A smirk hints at his luscious mouth, a slight twinkle building in those sad eyes. “Ms. Beaverhousen, is it?”
“Yes, that’s right. Thank you for seeing me,” I say in my fake voice then move in for the kill. “A friend of mine, Addison Porter, said she called several times and couldn’t get in, so I was surprised how easy it was for me.”
“I can’t discuss other patients, I’m sorry. So tell me, Ms. Beaverhousen, what can I do for you today?”
We face off, both crossing our arms defensively across our chests, waiting in tense silence for the other to cave.
Mentally, I’d been fully prepared to march in here in raging bitch mode and tell him off for ignoring me. But now that he’s in front of me, looking as distraught and devastated as I’ve been, my heart makes other plans.
Unable to wait another minute, I pull off my sunglasses and wig, offering a sheepish grin. “Hey.”
He feigns shock, clutching his chest dramatically. “Addison! It’s you!”
“Oh, stop, I know you knew.” My voice drops, shaking with vulnerability. “Why wouldn’t you see me?”
He sits the chart down and tilts his head. “You know why.”
I nod. I do know why, but held out hope he’d take my sudden appearance in his office with a bit less annoyance. Senseless or not, I’d longed for him to grab snatch me up, hold me in his arms, and tell me everything would be alright. But he says nothing else, defiant in his stance, eyes cold and hard, pinning me in place.
“I miss you,” I choke out in a pleading whisper.
With only one step closer, still too far away, he sighs and runs a hand down his face. “I miss you too.”
My head pops up, optimism piquing, a smile about to emerge, when he cuts it short.
“But not enough to continue with silly, unprofessional escapades that cheapen what I want with you.”
I agree. Time to show him. “Come here.” I crook my finger to beckon him closer.
“Addison,” he grumbles his warning but does, in fact, move to me a moment later. “What do you want from me?” His hot breath fans over my face, tickling my lips severely testing my resolve.
“A date,” I say with conviction.
His eyes search mine with trepidation, gauging my sincerity, obviously finding what they seek as a brilliant, wickedly beautiful grin lights up his face. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Hmm, what did you have in mind?” Finally he touches me, an innocent caress over my knuckles, speaking volumes.
“I want to cook you one of my specialties.”
His other hand brushes over my cheek. “Is that so?”
“Mhhm. Then I thought we could cuddle on my couch and watch a movie.”
“I’d like that,” he says head dipping to mine.
“Me too.” As hard as it is, I duck down and slink off the exam table.
He turns to me, watching as I grab my wig, twisting up my ponytail and pulling it back on then snatch my sunglasses.
“My place, tonight. Eightish?” I say, desperately wanting to kiss him but feeling the overwhelming need to wait, to give him a real date first. I slide on my sunglasses.
“Eightish,” he confirms, then walks over and startles me. I think he’s going to take my face in his hands, but instead he places them on the wig, adjusting it slightly. He leans down and presses a kiss to my cheek. “See you then, Ms. Beaverhousen.”
At eight o’clock sharp, there’s a rasp on my door and I hastily straighten my hair and outfit, suppressing a giggle as I go to answer it.
“Well, hello,” I coo. “How lucky am I to have a doctor that makes house calls!”
A frown begins to darken his expression but I quickly remedy it.
“Kidding, kidding. Come in.”
Relaxing, he runs his gaze over me then back up to my face with a smile. “These are for you.” He hands me a stunning bouquet of lilies and daisies.
“Thank you.” I inhale their vibrant scent then close the door after he steps in. “Make yourself comfortable. Dinner is about ready, twenty minutes tops. Something to drink?”
“Whatever you’ve having is fine. What can I help with?” He follows me to the kitchen, resting back against the counter.
“I got it covered, thanks.”
Filling a vase with water, I turn back, finally stopping to take him in. His sultry brown hair is styled as though he ran his hands through every piece. The light grey dress shirt does little to hide the stunning male physique of broad, but not too bulky, shoulders and a wide chest. With his hands braced on the counter, his muscular biceps beg to rip through the fabric.
Taking my time, my searing appreciation travels downward to lean hips encased in dark washed jeans, which I already observed grip his firm ass flawlessly.
Yeah—he definitely turns up the heat in the kitchen.
“Do I pass inspection?” he asks in a seductive husk.
My cheeks blush as I drop the bouquet in the vase and turn away, the food suddenly needing my attention. “Yes,” I answer softly.
“As do you, every damn time,” he speaks in my ear now, pressed against my back, moving the hair off my neck where he nuzzles in. “Smells delicious,” he murmurs, running his nose up my neck.
“It’s three cheese lasagna,” I reply in a lust-fueled whisper.
“I was talking about your skin.”
“Oh.” The spatula falls from my shaky hands, making a rather loud clang on the counter.
“Turn around.” His sinister command has me complying immediately. “So damn beautiful.” He traces my jaw with his fingertip, leaning in to place one soft kiss on my lips. “Perfect.”
Anticipation looms until one broad, hot hand slinks down my waist.
“I’m sorry, for everything,” I say, needing him to know.
His kiss silences me. It’s tender and sweet, his tongue running over my
lip seeking entrance, which I instantly grant. He backs me up until I’m flush between him and the wall.
“I need you,” I say into his mouth.
His response is a hungry moan, his wandering hands slipping down my thighs past the length of my short dress. My skin tingles under his fingertips as he trails them back up and cups my ass, pulling me even closer, crushing our chests together.
Strong hands grip and lift me up, my legs wrapping around his waist, ankles locking together. My lips glide over his jaw, then gradually up to his ear. “Bedroom,” I murmur, needing him, desperate to seal the connection between us.
My hands weave into his hair as he begins to move, turning to turn off the oven—good thinking—then carrying me across the room. I dip my head, tilting it to the side, merging our mouths, tongues flicking together with natural passion.
I don’t even realize we’re near the bed when he bends down, releasing me from his hold as my back meets the mattress. My legs still sealed around his hips, reluctant to let go. He doesn’t seem to mind, moving his body with mine until he’s standing at the edge of the bed leaning over me.
My hands slide down his back and up underneath his shirt, meeting warm skin, solid muscles flexing under my touch. Slowly he removes my legs, kissing away my pout, and pulls me up to a sitting position.
With a sensual caress over my breasts, tickling slightly along my ribs, he peels the dress over my head. A shiver of pleasure shakes me as I reach for him, deliberately popping each button on his shirt one by one.
Beautiful eyes filled with gentle desire watch me, his head moving forward, dipping down to my bare shoulder, where he presses his mouth. He inhales deeply, his tongue swirling over my skin while I conquer the final button. Opening his shirt, I skim my fingers down rippled abs, smoothing my palms over a strong, chiseled chest, then sliding them back up, appreciating.
Tugging my lips between my teeth, I peer up to eyes glistening with tenderness. He feels it too, wants me as much as I want him. There are no issues, no conflicts, no mess between us. We’re in the same arena, but no longer playing any games.
Stirred Up #2 Page 7
