Perfectly Adequate

by Jewel Ann

  “And she doesn’t shed, so we wouldn’t get dog hair all over us.”

  “Are …” His gaze shifts over my shoulder for a few seconds. “Are you suggesting we get in your backseat?”

  “I got the Q5 because it’s roomier than the Q3. Not for having sex, for Gemma. But since the room is there … well.” I shrug.

  Please say yes. I’m dying a little here, buddy.

  “Sex? In the backseat of your car? Now? In this parking lot?”

  “The windows are tinted.”

  “Dorothy …” He chuckles, shaking his head. “I’m a doctor at the children’s hospital. My son goes to the daycare there. We are within miles of it. Patients … their parents, other doctors or administrators could happen to stop here to eat. We could get arrested for lewd acts … public indecency.”

  “Okay.” I release his face, but he doesn’t move. So we’re just two people not planning on having backseat car sex, hovering really close to each other. “Welp …” I pull my mouth into a tight-lipped grin. “Thanks for dinner. Say hi to Roman for me.”

  He gives me a look … a real emoji, but I can’t decipher its meaning. Confusion?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Mild Insanity

  Elijah

  “Goodnight, Dorothy.” What can I say? My Dorothy Mayhem high hits a level so high I’m not sure my feet feel the ground beneath them.

  The lesson for the night?

  Expect the unexpected—whiplash with a deadpan delivery.

  Did passing up the opportunity to go down on her, followed by hardcore adult reasoning for not having sex with her in the back of her car, make me the most responsible man in Portland or just a run-of-the-mill dumbass?

  I ease my upper body out of her car and give her one last smile and easy nod. “Drive safely.”

  “Sure thing, Dr. Hawkins.”

  “Eli. Dorothy …” I shake my head. “You can’t suggest what you just suggested and then call me Dr. Hawkins.”

  “Well, as you just reminded me, we could see people from the hospital, and I should keep things professional.”

  “Touché. Goodnight.” I shut her door. As she fastens her seat belt and plugs her phone into the charging outlet, I just stand here, like a stalker.

  I love my job, in spite of watching so many young people suffer and sometimes lose their battles with cancer. The fight to find a solution keeps me motivated. I love being a dad to Roman, even if I have to give him up every other week. I love lunch on Fridays with my mom. Family dinners. Morning runs and evening hikes along the dense forest trails.

  But … something’s missing. For a year I thought it was Julie.

  It wasn’t.

  It’s Dorothy Mayhem and the backseat of her Audi Q5.

  Sliding my fingers along the side of her clean car, I stop at her back door, take a deep breath—the kind you take before doing something mildly insane yet totally exhilarating—and open it. As I ease into the backseat and shut the door, Dorothy and her big blue eyes watch me with uncertainty.

  “I don’t have a condom, but I can fulfill your pre-dinner request.”

  Her lips part, and her eyes widen a fraction more for several blinks. “Okay.”

  Brilliant.

  Had she said anything but “okay,” I would be disappointed. But Dorothy Mayhem doesn’t disappoint … ever.

  And because opening and closing two doors would be too easy, she unfastens her seatbelt and crawls over the middle console, landing like someone dumped a bag of arms and legs onto my lap.

  She straightens herself onto the other seat and reaches under her arm for the zipper to her strapless dress. “I have a condom. I always pack a condom when I wear this dress. So, we can do both. And I don’t have a bra on, so this will not be a striptease. I’ll quickly go from clothed to naked. You good with that?”

  Um … yeah. This is Heaven. She is Heaven. At thirty-eight, it’s hard to imagine something old ever truly feeling new again.

  Wrong.

  Dorothy makes breathing feel new again. And something tells me she’s about to make sex feel new again. And I don’t give a single fuck that we’re only on our fourth date (first official one).

  We’re consenting adults.

  Julie got fake boobs and tattoos.

  I haven’t had sex in a long time.

  And if the world ends without me getting into the back of Dorothy Mayhem’s car, I will regret it in the afterlife.

  “I’m good with that.” I try to keep my voice steady, but anticipation and complete disbelief shake my words.

  Zip.

  She lets her dress fall to her waist. I stop breathing. Part of me surrenders to the distraction of the logistics. Sure, her car model isn’t the smallest, but it’s far from roomy in the backseat.

  On a smirk, she leans back and lifts her butt off the seat, shimmying her dress past her hips, and stepping out of it before slinging it over the seat in front of her.

  Wow …

  Here she sits in nothing but a delicate pair of white panties. And she doesn’t appear the least bit self-conscious. Looking me in the eye seems to pose a bigger challenge to her than taking off her clothes.

  “Good thing I’m short, huh?”

  Yes, she’s short, and my dick is long and so very very hard.

  “Panties on or off? You can slide them to the side to access everything.” Her lips twist. “But I don’t want them getting really wet, so let’s just take them off.”

  It has to be a dream. There’s no way this conversation is taking place. She makes oral sex sound clinical. I anticipate her giving me a quick tour, pointing out specific things like her clitoris. Yet … I can’t blink. And for whatever unexplainable reason, it’s the most erotic moment of my life.

  Dorothy unties her shoes and removes her panties. She folds them and sets them on the center console. I’m in the back of Dorothy Mayhem’s car, and she is naked!

  “Are you going to lose your clothes so we can go right from one to the other? Or do you want to leave yours on while you do me?” She scoots to the far corner of the backseat, which isn’t that far at all, and draws one leg toward her chest, resting her foot on the seat like someone might do while getting cozy on a sofa. Only … we’re not on a sofa. And her new position completely opens her up to me.

  Everything about her paralyzes me. Only my eyes can move, and they can’t decide where to land. She is fucking beautiful.

  “Dr. Hawkins …” Her nose wrinkles. “I don’t want you to feel rushed to the point that you can’t perform. But I do have to work in the morning. So …”

  “Let’s go back to kissing.” I lean in and kiss her.

  She cups my face again and kisses me back in a way that sends my hands into a frenzy of need.

  Needing to explore her naked body, but the time crunch nags at my conscience, I cup her left breast while my other hand cups her between the legs.

  She moans into my mouth, and I nearly come in my damn pants. I slide my middle finger inside her and massage her clit with my thumb. But Dorothy knows exactly what she wants … she knew it before dinner. Her hands on my face guide my head down her body, only my long torso doesn’t allow me access. And she’s pressed to the door. Maybe she needed to go with a bigger backseat to accommodate car sex with someone over six feet tall.

  “I’ll scoot onto the floor. You lie down, and I’ll straddle your head.”

  I laugh a bit, in spite of my efforts to remain serious. After all, I have a naked woman offering me sex, all different kinds of sex. But there’s just not enough room. And her words are sexy, but still very matter-of-fact. A how-to manual instead of raw and needy.

  My carpe diem begins to fade. Really, what if one of my colleagues gets a craving for pizza and walks by the car and happens to glance back through the windshield into the backseat?

  “Dorothy …” I let my head flop against the headrest, closing my eyes and rubbing my face. It’s not that I’m not ready. The possibility of my cock breaking from the strain agai
nst my pants remains a serious threat. “I thought I could, but if someone walks by your car …”

  She sighs, scooting back onto the seat while hugging her legs to her chest with her chin resting on her knee. “You’re probably right. The last thing you need after the chaos of Boss Bitch leaving you is a viral rumor about you snacking on Dorothy Mayhem—patient transporter—in the back of a car parked outside of a restaurant.”

  Kill me now. Snacking on Dorothy Mayhem?

  My fisted hand flies to my mouth as tears fill my eyes. I don’t want to laugh at her. Really, truly, sincerely do not want to laugh at her. But I do. And it isn’t a slight chuckle; it’s the kind of laugh that makes me cry, makes it hard to breathe, makes the muscles in my stomach hurt.

  To make things worse, I peek open an eye after wiping my tears, and she’s just … waiting there. No big deal. Still naked like sitting in her car naked happens all the time. Her nose scrunches, but she doesn’t seem offended. Maybe a little amused by my reaction and equally confused.

  “Do you always laugh so hard you cry?”

  “No …” I shake my head and hold my stomach with one hand while my other hand wipes my face. “I’m not …” I breathe hard to keep from laughing more. “I’m not sure I’ve ever laughed so hard in my life. Thank you.”

  “For what?” She leans forward and grabs her folded panties, slipping them on slowly with a bit of lethargy or resignation in her movements.

  I regain my composure, wiping my eyes one last time as she puts her dress on and slides her feet into her shoes. “For you.” I grab her waist and pull her onto my lap, her legs straddling my legs—not my head. “You are the very best of humanity.” Then I kiss her, keeping my hands on her waist instead of snaking them up her dress like I want to do.

  The night got away from us in the most bizarre way imaginable. But it’s turned into something so unforgettable, I feel reborn. Someday, I will look back and remember this night—the night Dorothy Mayhem crawled into my existence in a way that would change me forever.

  She could bring me back to life.

  She could show me a world I never imagined possible.

  Or … she could destroy me.

  If I only knew …

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Playing Hooky

  Dorothy

  The car incident requires more than one journal, but I only have one red journal left! And it has to be red, since I wore my red dress.

  WE

  WILL

  NEVER

  HAVE

  SEX!

  !!!!!!!

  That takes up the first six pages.

  Sex is not a priority for me.

  BUT …………………

  I don’t like to fail.

  I don’t like to disappoint.

  How did this happen?

  ??????????????????

  I just don’t get it!

  The books.

  The movies.

  The blogs.

  I’ve read

  EVERYTHING!

  Eighteen pages. And I just keep writing. So many emotions. Thoughts. Things to work out and sort through. I replay the entire evening on paper, including dialogue, so I can reread my entry. Study it. Figure out a way to repeat the good stuff and avoid the disasters.

  Knock. Knock.

  “Yes?” I slam my journal shut with two blank pages left. I’ll add THE END later.

  Mom cracks open the door and pokes her head inside. “You sneaked in without saying anything.”

  “Nothing to say. And it’s late. Didn’t figure you’d still be awake.”

  “You had a date tonight. There has to be something to say.”

  “What do you want to know?” I crawl into bed, knowing there is a good chance I might fall asleep during her interrogation.

  She sits on the end of my bed. “Did you have a good time?” Her questions sound generic, but my answers rarely are.

  “Yes. He was so easy to talk to. It was like talking to you and Dad. And he ate my kind of pizza and ordered a large.”

  “That’s great. So there might be another real date?”

  I sigh. “I don’t know. I mean … well, it’s just hard to say. He doesn’t function like most guys I’ve dated. I’ve been able to do the same thing and get the same results. Not with Dr. Hawkins. It’s like he plays with rules from a different rule book. Ya know? But I really like him, so I’d like to see his rule book. Would it be really weird if I asked Dr. Hathaway?”

  Mom grimaces. “I’m inclined to say yes, but you said it’s been a long time since she left him. So I suppose it depends on what you want to ask her.”

  “I want to ask her about his … preferences.”

  “What kind of preferences? Foods? Activities? Sports? I’m not following.”

  “Gah! You just don’t get it. Sex, Mom! I want to know what does it for him.” I throw my arm over my face, half from frustration, half from embarrassment because the moment I said it, her mouth fell agape. Why does she have to react like I’m a little girl?

  “I’m just …” She stutters.

  “Just go.” I turn onto my stomach and bury my face into my pillow.

  “Dorothy, I’m not mad. I just wasn’t expecting you to say that.”

  “Oh … wow.” I lift my head to speak but keep my gaze on my headboard. “Thanks for not being mad that your thirty-year-old daughter is sexually active.”

  Is? Was? Can I say I’m sexually active if no sex is involved?

  Truth. I’m actively seeking sex with Dr. Hawkins. That counts. Right?

  I almost lost my virginity at twenty-three to a guy who was also a virgin. He thought he was inside of me. I thought he was in the vicinity. His cock slid between my folds, quite vigorously, and I kept waiting for it to take a sharp turn into the first hole. It never did.

  When it was over, he asked if it was good for me. I said yes. And it wasn’t a lie. That kind of almost-but-not-really sex involved constant clitoral stimulation. I orgasmed. Twice actually. However, the partial lie ate at my conscience for a week, so I texted him:

  Me: Hi. U didn’t find the hole. Just FYI for future reference. I still enjoyed it. Good luck on your finals! BTW Charlie’s food truck has peanut butter fudge today. (tongue-licking emoji)

  “Dorothy, I’m not mad. Just surprised. You told me last month that sex was overrated, messy, and mentally exhausting. Now you’re thinking of asking a man’s ex-wife about his sexual preferences. So, take a breath, baby girl. I’m just surprised, but also happy for you. The fact that you want intimacy with him is good. Right?”

  I flip around again to look at her. “Sex. Not intimacy. I just like hanging out with him. He gets me … I think. We like the same foods. We work together. We both love exercising. I mean … we follow each other’s rings now. I love that. It’s the greatest motivation. And he’s competitive too. But the sex is just getting in the way. I know he wants it. I just don’t know how he wants it. And yes, most of the time I don’t think I want sex because it usually is overrated, messy, and exhausting. But when Dr. Hawkins kisses me, I feel like the messy exhaustion could be worth it.”

  Mom grimaces again. “I’m not sure what to say. Maybe you can ask him. That’s what all the experts say. Right? I mean, your dad and I don’t—”

  “LALALALA …” I pinch my eyes shut and plug my ears. “I don’t want to hear this!”

  I open my eyes when she kisses my forehead. “Understood. Truth be known, I don’t like to talk about sex with your dad either. You’ll figure things out with Dr. Hawkins. Stressing over the sex at this point might not be the best thing for a relationship in the early stages.” She winks and leaves my bedroom.

  After trying and failing for hours to get to sleep, I text Dr. Hawkins.

  Me: I should have purchased the Q7, huh?

  It’s not that I expect him to answer, after all, it’s after one in the morning. I just need to find a way to figure out the sex thing. And not because I want it all the time. I simply want to be
good at it in his eyes.

  Dr. Hawkins: Hi

  I jump when he responds so quickly.

  Me: Whoops. Figured you were sleeping.

  Dr. Hawkins: I don’t think you need a Q7. I think you need to call in sick tomorrow and come to brunch at my parents’ house.

  “What?” I mumble, reading his text.

  Me: I’m just having issues sleeping. I’m not sick.

  Dr. Hawkins: Good. I’d hate for you to get my parents sick at brunch tomorrow.

  I’m not tired enough to sleep, but I’m too tired to write in my journal. And here he is, texting me an invitation to eat food with his parents.

  Food.

  Unknown food.

  Food made by other people.

  Food not at one of my regular restaurants.

  Me: You want me to lie?

  Dr. Hawkins: I want you to meet my parents tomorrow.

  Me: I have never called in sick.

  Dr. Hawkins: Do it for me.

  Me: I’m not good at lying.

  Dr. Hawkins: Pretend you’re sick and it won’t feel like a lie. That’s what you did earlier when you tried to cancel our date. I’ll write you a doctor’s note.

  Me: Really. I’m a terrible liar.

  Dr. Hawkins: Text your boss, then you don’t have to say the lie aloud. It will be easier.

  Me: Do you lie about being sick?

  Dr. Hawkins: No. I’m a doctor. I have to work from my deathbed.

  Me: I’m a patient transporter. If I don’t show up to work, who will transport YOUR patients?

  Dr. Hawkins: Please (folded hands emoji)

  Me: (eye rolling emoji)

  Dr. Hawkins: I’ll make sure everything is vegetarian. I’ll even order you a pizza or a dozen tacos from your favorite restaurant so you don’t have to eat my mom’s cooking. Which would be a shame because she’s an excellent cook. (three folded hands emojis)

  Dr. Hawkins is an emoji man. That makes him exponentially more attractive to me. Still … I’m not a good liar. But since it will be Sunday, maybe having four days at school before seeing my coworkers again will make it easier to deal with the guilt and not spew my confessions the second someone at work asks me if I’m feeling better.