by Jeff Gelb
“No, Ms. Wallace, I did not. What I did, however, was suggest he see a colleague of mine, Dr. Benjamin Margrove.”
Jeannie felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air-conditioning. “He’s not a plastic surgeon, is he?”
“No. Dr. Margrove is one of the top psychiatrists in the field.”
Jeannie took a deep breath, controlling the urge to scream. “I know how this must sound, but I just want a body that a man can live with, not compete against. I want to be normal.”
The doctor’s eyes softened behind their prison wall of glass. “I think I understand, Ms. Wallace. For the most part, very few people are completely happy with the way they look. Have you considered methods other than cosmetic surgery?”
Jeannie sat up straighter, heart pounding. “Such as?”
“Oh ... such as, well ... ah ...”
He stumbled along. She would no more tell him about some of the other nonsurgical methods she’d already tried than she would about her one attempt at selfsurgery. That would have sounded crazy, but she had tried. S&M clubs. Bondage freaks. Men more than willing to add a little bare-knuckled graffiti to the canvas of her body. But bite marks heal and bruises fade and even her left nipple, accidentally torn during an overenthusiastic acting out of “Barbarian and Slave Girl,” had mended without so much as a visible line.
Tattooing and piercing weren’t options. Those were recognizable and, in most cases, delicate body art. The last thing her body needed was something else to draw attention to itself.
“... uh, well, there’s ... um... .”
Jeannie exhaled and let him off the hook. “Whatever it would be, Doctor, would just make me different in another way. I just want you to make my body like everyone else’s. A little less than perfect, you know?”
She smiled. He cleared his throat, then leaned forward to scribble something on a prescription form.
“In your case, however, I think this may have more to do with brain chemistry than physicality.”
“I’m not crazy, Doctor.”
“No, no, of course you’re not, but I think you may have a perception problem. This is Dr. Margrove’s office number—he’s right here in the building. If you like, and I’m not saying this because I think you have serious problems, I’ll call him and see if he can talk to you. He usually doesn’t see anyone on Thursdays, so this won’t be an appointment. He’ll just listen and maybe suggest a few things. If you think you’d like to see him regularly, that’s up to you to decide. You’re a very beautiful woman, Ms. Wallace, and I think you’ll be much happier in the long run if you can find it in yourself to accept that.”
He held the sheet of paper out to her as he stood. Jeannie followed his example but looked at the name and office number—308, six floors down—instead of meeting his eyes.
“And if I still decide I want the surgery, after talking to Dr. Margrove?”
“Then we’ll discuss your options. Go on now. I’ll call him and make sure he isn’t taking a nap.”
Dr. Margrove wasn’t anything like she expected.
He was nice, with an infectious laugh, easy manner, and the most beautiful gray eyes she’d ever seen. Five steps into his office—softly shadowed in the late afternoon light, steps muffled by the thick wall-to-wall carpeting—and Jeannie felt a familiar heat drench the tiny scrap of fabric between her legs.
“I—I usually don’t make appointments like this,” she stammered, already trembling.
“But this isn’t an appointment,” he answered, taking her hand in a firm grip that didn’t let go until he’d led her to a soft leather chair. “This is just a meeting ... of a friend of a friend.”
And she laughed and he laughed and asked if she’d like a drink. She would. She did. He joined her—as a friend of a friend—then listened, quietly and without judgment, as she explained.
And decided to ignore the three-date policy.
Her mother had always wanted her to marry a doctor.
“Well, Don’s right about one thing,” he said after finishing off his own blended scotch and soda, and Jeannie steadied herself for the dreaded murmurings of perfection, “you’re beautiful.”
A compliment. Okay, she could handle that.
“But my esteemed colleague and poker buddy doesn’t realize just how much a burden beauty can be, does he?”
Jeannie’s heart skipped a number of beats. He understood. It took several swallows of her highball before she could answer.
“No, he doesn’t,”
“And given what he does for a living, he should, wouldn’t you think?”
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
“Tell me why you want to change your looks.”
Jeannie finished her drink and accepted another, stronger by color in taste, before she repeated her tale about the “Too-Perfect Princess and the Many Ungrateful Nights.”
She finished her second drink long before she came to “and she only wants to live happily ever after ... like everyone else.”
Ben—because they weren’t doctor and patient, just a friend of a friend—set his glass, still almost full, down on the small coffee table next to their chairs before taking hers. When the glasses sat next to each other, side by side, he took both her hands in his and leaned forward.
Jeannie could smell the mellow whiskey on his breath, the crisp scent of his aftershave.
“Would you like an opinion?”
“Please.”
“The only trouble with you, my dear Ms. Wallace, is that you’re dating a species of the human male that we, in my professional specialty, categorize as ‘Losers.’”
Jeannie hadn’t expected that either and, with the help of the two drinks she’d consumed in little under fifteen minutes, laughed so hard she actually snorted.
“See,” he said, his laughter much more controlled, “you’re not perfect. Perfect women do not snort. And as for these ‘Losers,’ let me just add that there are a number of men who go after drop-dead gorgeous women as simply a status thing. Like test driving an expensive sports car they have no intention of buying. It’s an ego boost they think will make them the envy of all their similarly-engaged ‘Loser’ friends.
“But owning a sports car requires careful and conscientious maintenance. So, after all the friends have seen it, and he’s milked as much self-worth as he can out of it, he turns the car back into the dealer and moves on to the next ego-fix.”
His hands gently squeezed hers.
“When they say ‘It’s not you, it’s them,’ they’re not lying. It is them. There’s nothing wrong with you, Jeannie ... except your choice in men.”
Jeannie sat there and blinked until the threat of tears had passed. He was right. Jesus, she never realized what she’d been doing—picking men who’d already picked her, then following their lead like some gullible lamb to the slaughtering pen. Shit! It was her fault ... and it wasn’t them, it really wasn’t.
It was her.
His hands tugged. “You okay?”
And she smiled back. “Yeah. Thank you.”
“No thanks necessary.” He moved forward in his chair until their knees touched. “And let me just apologize for my weaker brethren. You are absolutely the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.”
The blush came naturally, despite the number of times she’d heard those same words, as did accepting the open-mouthed kiss when he pulled her into his arms. His tongue wasn’t the least bit shy of making itself at home ... and when it finished exploring her teeth and lips, it traced a path to her neck before backtracking to her ear.
The prickly, rippling sensation began at her shoulders—tiny at the start, like the first drops of a mountain stream after a hard winter, gathering speed and strength as it flowed down her body. Her nipples tightened at its passing; her heart pounded. The stream became an unstoppable, churning cascade that pounded the swelling flesh of her clit.
“Absolutely beautiful,” he purred, his breath tickling, his tongue finding new places to taste. “How could you thin
k otherwise?”
Jeannie moaned, head thrown back, exposing her throat in surrender. “Please.”
His laughter raised more goosebumps as he stood. The scent of musk filled the air in front of Jeannie’s face.
“Ladies first,” he said and dropped his pants.
His cock was big, thickly veined, and tasted like saltwater. Undoing the straps, Jeannie shimmied the dress to the floor before leaning forward to take as much of him as she could. She only managed half, but that seemed to be enough. Groaning, he sank his fingers into her hair, snapping off a few brittle white strands, and held her steady while he moved slowly back and forth against the ridge she’d made of her tongue.
“Oh God ... baby.”
Sweet words to counter the taste of pre-cum at the back of her throat.
With one hand Jeannie traced his balls with her nails—carefully, softly, just enough distraction to keep him on the edge without falling over, with the other, she slipped one finger, two, into his ass.
“JESUS! OH GOD! I’m close ... oh God, I’m close. Wait, wait ...”
The vacuum in Jeannie’s mouth made a popping sound when he jerked out and bent down to fumble with his pants. He had the condom open and out before Jeannie could stand.
She never managed to get her panties off. Kneeling, he grabbed her legs and laid each over a chair arm. The sodden piece of material between them cut into her, heightening the pleasure-pain. All it took was a quick tug, and they literally gave up the ghost.
“Oh God ... scoot forward ... that’s right. Oh yeah. Oh baby.”
He slipped two fingers into her cunt as far as they would go, pulled them out, and shoved them back in. Jeannie bit her bottom lip to keep from crying out in pleasure.
“You like that, don’t you? Oh yeah, you like that. I know what you like.... I know what you need.”
His fingers moved faster, in and out and in and out, and he laughed softly when Jeannie’s body tightened around them. Her clit was diamond hard.
“Hold on, baby ... let it rise ... c’mon ... just hold on. Are you close? Ready?”
Jeannie gripped his arms and arched her back, grinding her cunt against his hand.
“Now ... NOW!”
He pulled his fingers out, and her body spasmed—the orgasm imploding on itself one second only to reverse direction an instant later when he drove his cock into her up to the hilt. His shoulder, hidden beneath its crocodile-embroidered polo shirt, muffled Jeannie’s scream of ecstasy.
“Relax, baby, I’m just getting started.”
Lungs heaving, hips bucking, hands clawing, they finished simultaneously. He got up first, excusing himself as he went into the office’s adjoining bathroom to clean up and give her time to dress.
When he returned, face washed, hair slicked back, she was still in the chair, legs spread, naked.
“Uh, shouldn’t you be ...” He pointed to the shift on the floor.
Jeannie’s smile trembled for a moment. “You—you taste good. Can I have some more, please?”
He straightened the polo shirt’s collar.
“I, um, don’t think I’d be able to ... right now.”
Jeannie lowered her legs, pouting just a little because men told her it was cute.
“Okay, we can do that later. I have nothing planned for tonight and—”
“Can’t. I have ... plans for tonight.”
“Plans?”
He walked to a desk that was smaller than Dr. Drake’s. On it was a framed photo that Jeannie hadn’t noticed when she first walked in. The woman in the photo was lovely, not beautiful. She wasn’t perfect.
“Oh. Your wife?”
He followed her gaze. “Just a girlfriend.”
Just.
“So, how was the test drive, Dr. Margrove?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Of course not.” She slipped the dress on over her head and tied the shoulder straps without looking at him. “Could you do me a favor, at least?”
“If I can.”
“Will you convince Dr. Drake to perform surgery?”
“No. You don’t need surgery, Jeannie ... you need therapy.”
“I’m not cra—” She stopped. It would be crazy to try and convince him of that. “Is there a ladies’ room on this floor?”
He seemed surprised by the question. “You can use this one.”
“I’d rather not, thanks. Is there?”
Standing, he pulled a key attached to a neon-pink rectangle of plastic on which the words “WOMEN—THIRD FLOOR” were inscribed and set it on the edge of the desk closest to her.
“End of the hall, to the right. You can just leave the key there. I’ll have Maintenance get it in the morning. And take this.”
Jeannie took the business card. There was another doctor’s name on it ... in a building across town.
“I think you might feel better about yourself if you did talk to a therapist, and she’s one of the best. Does a lot of work with teenage girls. Eating disorders, self-image issues, that sort of thing. Make an appointment.”
She didn’t thank him or say good-bye.
Jeannie made her way to the last door on the right in silence.
She’d been in enough offices to know that the windows therein are only for show. Not so with windows in public restrooms. The one in the WOMEN—THIRD FLOOR was small, but after removing a rusted bent nail that acted as the security precaution, opened all the way. The view from the window was of another corporate-owned building, the windows facing her shut and empty ... possibly more bathrooms. Below, three stories down, was a narrow courtyard that had been converted into a miniature green space. There were a few benches, a trash can or two, a man sitting on one of the concrete benches, smoking, talking on a cell phone.
It was perfect.
Three stories wasn’t high. People and animals and even small children survive falls from that height without major damage. And the man on the bench would be able to call an ambulance.
In the last moment, before she pitched forward, Jeannie caught her reflection in the mirror over the sink and smiled. Her body was tense, frightened. She blew it a kiss.
“It’s not you... . It’s me.”
“Ms. Wallace? Can you hear me? It’s Dr. Drake. Ms. Wallace? Listen. You’re in the hospital, but you’re all right. You have some broken ribs and a slight concussion, but you’ll be fine.”
Jeannie forced her eyes open and immediately closed them. The room was filled with dazzling white light. It hurt. Her eyes hurt. Her face hurt. Her body ached.
Good.
“H-how ... am I?”
She felt the bed shift slightly as he leaned forward.
“The doctors on your case can tell you more, but I can say that they expect a complete recovery. Internally.”
Without opening her eyes, Jeannie lifted her hand—she could feel a bandage—toward her face. Another hand stopped it and returned it to the thin hospital mattress.
“You’ve suffered massive trauma to your face, and that’s why I’m here. I spoke to Ben Margrove, and he said you seemed a bit troubled when you left him, but I can’t help to think that this was nothing more than a horrible accident. Was it?”
Jeannie forced her eyes open. Only one seemed to work.
“My face?”
“I’ll do the best I can, but ... I’m afraid the damage was extensive.”
“Will there be ... scars?”
His owl-eyes darkened. “I’m afraid there may be some.”
Jeannie smiled at him through the misty anesthetic haze and felt something tear open on her cheek. “Perfect.”
Son of Beast
Graham Masterton
Helen dropped her pink toweling bathrobe onto the floor and was just about to step into the shower when her cell phone played “I Say A Little Prayer.”
She said, “Shit.” She was tired and aching after sitting in her car all night on the corner of Grear Aly, waiting for a rape suspect who had never appeared. But the tune
played over and over, and she knew that the caller wasn’t going to leave her alone until she answered. She picked up the cell phone from the top of the laundry basket and said, wearily, “Foxley.”
“Did I wake you?” asked Klaus.
“Wake me? I haven’t even managed to crawl into bed yet.”
“Sorry, but Melville wants you down here ASAP. Hausman’s All-Day Diner on East Eighth Street. It looks like Son of Beast has been at it again.”
“Oh shit.”
“Yeah. My feelings exactly.”
She parked her metallic red Pontiac Sunfire on the opposite side of East Eighth Street and crossed the road through the whirling snow. It was bitterly cold, and she wished that she had remembered her gloves. As she approached the diner, she shook down the hood of her dark blue duffel coat so that the two cops in the doorway could see who she was.
Klaus Geiger was already there, talking to the owner. Klaus was big and wide-shouldered, so that he looked like a linebacker for the Bengals rather than a detective. His dirty-blond hair was all mussed up, and there were plum-colored circles under his eyes.
“You look like you haven’t slept either,” said Helen.
“I didn’t. Greta’s cutting two new teeth.”
“The joys of parenthood, right?”
Klaus turned to the owner and said, “Mr. Hausman, this is Detective Foxley from the Personal Crimes Unit. Mr. Hausman came to open up this morning about a quarter of six and found the back door had been forced.”
The owner took off his eyeglasses and rubbed them with a crumpled paper napkin. He was balding, mid-fifties, with skin the color of liverwurst and a large mole on the left side of his chin. “I don’t know how anybody could do a thing like that. It’s like killing two people both at once. It’s terrible.”
Without a word, Helen went over to the young woman’s body. She was lying on her back with her head between two bar stools. Her black woollen dress had been dragged right up to her armpits, and although she was still wearing a lacy black bra, her panties were missing. Her head had been wrapped around with several layers of cling film, so that her eyes stared out like a koi carp just beneath the surface of a frozen pond.
