Doctor Dave

by Knox, Abby

  “Do they cause you any medical problems? Back pain, et cetera?”

  “No.”

  “Well then, he’s an idiot. You’re perfect the way you are.”

  I blush so deeply I’m thankful that Dr. Dave can’t see me right now.

  “Dr. Dave, you can’t see them. They really are too big.”

  “I can assure you that’s not a thing unless they cause you discomfort. He’s a dipshit.”

  I gasp and laugh out loud.

  “Apologies for the language. Reagan. You’re not sleeping on the seven-second-delay button, are ya?”

  I continue to giggle. Oh my god, I haven’t laughed this much in so long. I feel like something inside me is unclenching. Relaxing. His voice is even more rough and sexy over the phone than it is on the radio and my body—which doesn’t understand that it’s all just innocent flirting—responds to it. My heart races; my nipples feel tight and every nerve ending between my thighs crackles. Beyond that, my emotions are becoming unruly. If I’m not careful, I’m going to develop more than a crush on this voice on the other end of the line. Real feelings could start to elbow their way in.

  “I’m going to stop you right there, though. What’s your cup size?”

  This question does not shock me. While Dr. Dave is a professional, he doesn’t shy away from his playboy persona on the air. He peppers his advice with plenty of mild flirting. It’s that combination of professional advice giver and shock jock that makes me enjoy listening to him so much.

  And now that I’m actually on the phone with him? Maybe my enjoyment is crossing the line into a serious yet unrequited infatuation.

  “I’m not sure,” I say, embarrassed. “All I know is nothing fits. The witches at the lingerie store here at the mall—you know the one—have made it perfectly clear that they don’t carry anything that fits me.”

  “First thing you need to do is be properly fitted. I have a cloth measuring tape. I’ll do it myself if you come down to the studio,” he offers. It’s true. He’s done this kind of stunt on the radio before. I remember one time, he had a bit where he guessed listeners’ cup sizes and then had them measured by a staff member to see if he was correct.

  I reply, “I would but I can’t leave the mall.”

  He’s quiet for a moment. “You have department stores at that mall?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Do you have a key? Go down there right now and get a tape measure; I’m sure they have some in the lingerie department.”

  “I’m definitely not going to do that.”

  “OK. Sorry. Did I come off too strong?”

  I sigh. What is he playing at? Do I care? My quickly dampening undies right now do not care. “I don’t feel objectified; I just can’t go rifling through their things. I’ll get caught on camera and be fired by morning.”

  Dr. Dave tries again. “You know what? Forget about getting fitted for now. Send me a picture of yourself and I’ll tell you your cup size. And I promise it’s not too big by anybody’s reasonable standards.”

  “You want me to send a photo of myself?”

  “When we go to commercial, I’ll give you the email address where you can send it right to my desk here in the booth.”

  I bite my lip. This is strange but…well…he is a doctor.

  “OK, I’m working on the photo right now,” I say.

  I put the desk phone on speaker so I can keep listening to Dr. Dave while I unbutton my uniform shirt.

  “Working on it? OK, do what you gotta do, angel,” he says, sounding a little bit confused.

  “Almost ready,” I say.

  He moves on to the subject of my abysmal dating life. “While I’m waiting on that photo, Millie, let’s forget about all those wrong guys you’ve dated. The only thing you need to boost your confidence is you. I’m pretty good at reading people and I already know you are smart, kind, thoughtful, funny, beautiful. You just have to believe that about yourself.”

  The sound of his voice, and his words, makes my skin react with goosebumps as I bare my flesh. I remove my bra and quickly take the photo. It’s dim, but you can still see everything in the light coming from the security monitors in front of me. That should be enough to get his opinion.

  I hear him say, “And that’s a commercial break. You still there, Millie?”

  “I’m here.”

  His voice is slightly different. More earnest. “I’m dead serious. I think the only thing wrong with you is that you’ve been picking the wrong guys. Thank your lucky stars you’re still a virgin.”

  I pick the phone back up and take him off speaker, even though I’m still not finished buttoning myself back up.

  “If you say so, I guess.”

  “Millie,” he says. “I want you to stay on the line and I want to keep talking, is that all right? I think we have a lot to talk about, you and I.”

  The way he says “you and I” makes me shiver.

  As my hands brush against the skin on my chest, I feel my nipples tighten some more. “I’m good with that. I’d like to keep talking to you, too.”

  “Good. I like your voice—hope that doesn’t creep you out,” he says.

  I bite my lip. “Thank you. No, you don’t creep me out. If you did, I would never have called. I don't know how to find the right guy, but I for sure know which guys are the wrong ones.”

  He pauses slightly. “And how do you think you’ll know when you’ve met the right one?”

  “Well, I don’t know exactly how I’ll know. But I think he would have to be … well … be more like you.”

  Chapter Five

  David

  Checking my email, I see that Millie’s message with her photo has arrived. Dying of curiosity, I click on it.

  Oh. Shit.

  That’s a selfie all right. A topless selfie showing her from the neck all the way down to her navel.

  For what must be the first time in my entire broadcast career, I fumble my words.

  “Dr. Dave? You still there?”

  Am I here? No, I’m floating somewhere above the clouds.

  There she is. Tendrils of light brown hair haphazardly fall around bare shoulders, framing her exquisite rack. The lighting is dim but I can see everything. Her abundant breasts are as she described: large, yes, but nothing I can’t handle, with erect, dusky nipples begging me to warm them up.

  She’s so fucking beautiful.

  And I am in so much trouble if anyone sees this.

  I have two choices right now: Tell her that’s not what I asked for and explain that I meant a photo of herself dressed. Or simply say thank you and give her my guess as to her cup size.

  It seems irrelevant now. Even without a second glance I know she’s a Triple E cup.

  Of course I email back my only choice: Thank you. Triple E, love. We’re back on the air in a few seconds, and we don’t have to talk about cup size anymore.

  I delete her email. What I’m not going to do is allow anyone else to see this photo and use it for a bit. I’m not going to let my producer Reagan make it part of the show, nor anyone else.

  “Beautiful,” I say over the phone. “Just beautiful.”

  She pauses for a second and replies, “Thank you.”

  “Send me a picture of just your face…”

  “Dr. Dave, we’re on the air!” shouts Reagan from the producer’s booth.

  “Oh crap, how much of that went live?”

  She leans into the microphone and laughs, “Enough. But do keep flirting with the caller, I want to hear more.”

  I refresh the email at my desk, eager for the photo of her face to appear while I keep talking. “You know, Millie, you come off as shy at first, but you’ve got a very brave heart. Listeners, don’t underestimate shy people. Sometimes they can shock you to your core…”

  The photo of Millie’s face arrives and I click on it so fucking hard. There’s a cute, messy bun. Luminous skin. Her full lips, parted in half a smile, match the color of her nipples that are now forever
branded in my memory. Wit and innocence sparkle in her eyes. There is something so sweet and vulnerable about what she did. She’s so open hearted, I can’t understand why someone hasn’t snatched her up.

  “Clearly, there is nothing wrong with you. All these men are imbeciles. You should come to one of my speaking events. I’d love to meet up with you. I can get you a VIP ticket.”

  “You don’t have to do that. Besides, I’ve seen you before. I worked security last time you did a charity thing where I work,” she says.

  I remember that event. Southfield Mall. It was a fundraiser for childhood cancer research. I don’t say it out loud on the air. First of all, I don’t want listeners to know where she works and also I don’t want to toot my own horn.

  “Those events are full of admirers and super fans waiting in lines ten miles long. You have me on the phone now. What are you waiting for?” Millie says.

  I glance up at Reagan. Her eyebrows are raised and she does a hand signal for me to keep going.

  Chapter Six

  Millie

  Nothing about this conversation is going the way I thought it would.

  My feelings are all over the place.

  What began as an innocent crush has turned into something else. Full-blown real-life affection. This isn’t a fantasy anymore and if he’s toying with me, so help me god, I will swallow my pride and sic my biggest brother on him faster than you can say “soft pretzel with hot melted industrial cheese product.”

  And that would not end well. My middle brother, Max, is bigger than all of them. And not only is he a cop, but also a locally famous, semi-professional wrestler in his spare time. Max would not hesitate to put Doctor Dave in the ground with one word from me.

  Treading carefully, my voice trembling more than I wish it would, I say, “So, do you have any advice for me? About…my problem?”

  The way he’s breathing through his nose sounds like an angry bull. I wonder if people listening over the airwaves can hear it.

  I check the time and it’s 12:30 a.m. already. Time to do the walkabout and check on all the locks. I never thought this phone call would go on so long. We’ve only taken one commercial break when I’m pretty sure there should have been three. And he should be on his third caller by now. I know from listening that the station manager and his advertisers are going to be livid by now.

  “I do. I do have advice for you, Millie.” The sexy, gravelly sound of his voice ricochets inside my abdomen, building up a craving so intense it hurts. I try to take a deep breath to keep my hands from shaking but it only stimulates the lump in my throat, triggering tears in the corners of my eyes from the sheer emotional tension.

  I can’t control the hoarse whisper that escapes me, knowing it’s going to be unintelligible on the radio. “What? What’s your advice? I’m dying over here.”

  Almost before I can finish that sentence, he blurts out, “It’s me. I want to be the one. Wait for me.”

  All the air puffs out of my lungs and a tear spills down my cheek. “No. This can’t be real. You did not just tell me to save my virginity for you.”

  “Yes, I fucking did.”

  I don’t even care that he’s cussing on the air. I’m way more concerned that he might be playing with me. But he’s not. I called him on it, and I think he’s telling the truth.

  “I…I…I don’t know how to respond to that.”

  “Listen. Stay on the line. I don’t want to go but they’re forcing me to take another call. But stay on the line and make sure Reagan has your number just in case we drop you. I need to talk to you off the air. OK, sweetheart?”

  Of all the times I’ve heard that famous voice say “sweetheart,” this is the first time I’ve felt as if it’s sincere.

  I swallow and wipe a tear off my cheek. “OK,” I breathe. “I’ll be right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “See that you don’t, baby.”

  He clicks me on hold, and I wait while need slicks my undies and emotions slither through my gut and squeeze my stomach like a boa constrictor.

  Chapter Seven

  David

  “Reagan, where the fuck did she go?”

  She shrugs, looking disinterested in my distress over her dropping Millie off the line.

  “Get me the number!” I bellow.

  “Dave, you’re back on the air in three minutes, and you’re in the middle of another call.”

  “I’m going to ignore the fact that you’re pretending to be my handler right now and ask again nicely. Give me her number.”

  She sighs. “I don’t have her number. She was a scheduled call-in.”

  I grit out, “Check the caller ID logs. I told her to stay on the line, so I need to call her back.”

  Reagan stands up. “If I do this for you, will you get back in there and get ready to come back from commercial?”

  She digs out the number from our call logs and I type it into my cell phone and click call.

  She doesn’t answer.

  Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Where the fuck is she?

  I know she’s not sitting at her security desk ignoring me. Or is she?

  No. No, I don’t think that’s right.

  I pace around the studio, but I don’t prepare to go back on the air. Instead I check my computer’s email for the message she sent earlier with the photo of her face. Jackpot. At the end of her email is her automatic signature. Millie Hansen, her knitted animal accessories website link, some random quote about big-breasted girls, and her cell phone number.

  I punch it into my personal cell phone and hit the call button.

  And I wait.

  Chapter Eight

  Millie

  “Where did you go?”

  I’m still trying to process the fact that Dr. Dave is calling me on my cell phone. How is this happening? I mean, I’m glad it’s happening. I’m elated it’s happening. I now feel pretty sure this is not part of a long joke being played on me by his radio persona. This is real. He sought out my number and is sounding pretty peeved that my call got dropped.

  “I don’t know. I was waiting, like you said. Then the call got dropped by accident, I guess. And in the meantime I had to leave my desk to do the lock checks. Normally, it’s not my job, but Paul’s kid is sick…well, you don’t want to hear about that. So now I’m doing that. You know, walking around to make sure everything is locked up and there’s no shenanigans going on late at night at the mall.”

  I could be mistaken, but the noise he makes on the other end almost sounds like an angry caveman grunt. Even more shocking is that my body kind of likes it.

  “I don’t like the idea of you walking around the dark mall alone late at night, Millie.”

  “Trust me, nothing ever happens here. Unless you count the occasional rat rooting around the soft pretzel stand. I don’t think Pretzel Guy cleans it up very well at night.”

  Dr. Dave mutters something about not wanting to talk about Pretzel Guy anymore.

  “Hey,” I interject. “Aren’t you supposed to be on the air with another caller right now?”

  “Yeah, in about another minute.”

  My heart drops. “Oh. Well, do you want me to go?”

  “No,” he growls. “Don’t fucking go anywhere. If the call gets dropped, find the best reception and I’ll call you back. OK? I don’t want to waste another second. Listen, where are you right now?”

  I glance around and say, “I’m standing in front of that lingerie store. You know, the one with the fashion show with the angel wings…”

  He grunts. “I’m familiar. Fuck. Now I’m picturing those gorgeous, lickable breasts of yours in something from that store.”

  I laugh. “Good luck with that. They don’t carry my cup size, remember? I’ve never been able to shop at that store. It’s so depressing.”

  Dr. Dave cusses, berating himself for making me feel bad.

  “It’s fine,” I say.

  I hear him breathing while he pauses. “Let’s have some fun, baby. What do
you say?”

  I bite my lip, wishing he could see the grin he’s provoking on my face. “What did you have in mind?”

  He cuts to the chase. “Millie. This is crazy and it may be hard for you to believe, but this connection is real. I feel it. Are you feeling it?”

  I suck in a breath and have to cover my mouth to keep from smiling like an even bigger idiot. But why? Nobody is here to see it.

  “Yes, I do feel it,” I whisper, my hand going to my chest, as if my heart might burst out of it at any minute.

  “Baby, listen. This show is over in an hour. Then I’m coming to where you are and we are going to do exactly what you said.”

  Sparks ignite and crackle over every inch of my skin. Is this really happening? “Are you saying you really want to be my first?”

  “I thought that was painfully obvious. I’ve been telling you this.”

  “I thought it was just good radio.”

  “Baby, you’re not just good radio. You’re good everything.”

  I am full-on white-knuckle gripping the glass railing around the second floor right now because my knees are about to buckle. How am I so powerless against his charms?

  Somebody is pounding on something and I realize the sound is coming from his phone. “What’s that?”

  “It’s my producer. I locked myself in the bathroom so I can talk to you, and so she’ll have no choice but to run another couple of commercials.”

  “Oh gosh. I don’t want you to get into trouble,” I tell him.

  “I’m already in trouble, in more ways than one. Now what do you say? Let me come pick you up and we’ll…talk about how and where you’d like to do this. If you want me to. Do you want me to?”

  I sigh a shivering sigh. “I would love to, but you’re forgetting something. I’m at work here until seven.”

  “Sweetheart, you can just quit that job. You’re with me, now.”