Good Time Doctor

by Penny Wylder

  She’s counting the last of the cash, and then she too leans back to relax for a moment, running a hand through her hair as she glances across the counter over to Becca, still ensconced in her office doodling away. “Tell me about it. Last I checked, I worked in a flower shop, not a fast food place. Is this why people in other retail industries hate it so much?”

  I laugh and bob my head. “Pretty sure, yeah. But hey, good news for our income this month.”

  “Sure, as long as we kept enough flowers in stock to fill all our remaining orders this weekend.” Monica shoves the till closed and starts to meander through the store, eying up what we have left. “Your cousin is one of the ones graduating Sunday, right?” she calls over her shoulder.

  “Yep. Lilacs and lilies,” I reply. “Because at the last minute, Mom called to tell me she hates gardenias and lavender.” I roll my eyes. Monica doesn’t need me to elaborate. She knows how my mother—how my whole family, in fact—are. They demand things last minute and always expect them to be perfect. I feel like half the time they do it because they know I won’t be able to get things perfect when they wait until the last minute. That way they can ensure they always have something to complain to me about.

  Monica finishes pacing around the perimeter of the store. “Well, you’re in luck, then, and we might be able to avoid Mama Jordan’s rage for a few more nights. Because we’ve got just enough lilies and lilacs left for one last bouquet.”

  “Can you put those aside for me?” I ask, relieved. “You know how she is.”

  “Trust me, I wouldn’t sell these flowers for three times their value, girl. I would not want to get on your mother’s bad side for doing it,” Monica replies with a grin.

  We spend the next half an hour destressing and hanging out with Becca, admiring her drawings. At the same time, Monica complains about some of the more difficult customers she had during the rush today. I share a little more about my worries for the weekend and my family. Then Monica asks if I found the woman who I think hit my car, and I worry at my lower lip with my teeth, nervous about how much to tell her. She’s already very protective of me, and it was her kid in the car with me, after all.

  “Well, actually…” I start, just as a bell tinkles over the door to announce another customer. Ah, the rush continues. I jump up to my feet to help, eager to stall this conversation for a little bit longer if I can. “Hi, sir,” I call across the shelves. “Can we help you?”

  “I hope so.” He smiles at me, though he looks a little bit worried. “I was wondering if you had any lilacs available for a small bouquet.”

  My stomach sinks a little. I glance at Monica, and then the fridge that contains the last bouquet of lilacs in the store.

  “We’re actually all out,” Monica replies for me, moving to block his view of the fridge.

  His face falls. “Oh, I see.”

  “We just had a rush,” she says apologetically. “We weren’t really expecting it. Maybe we can help you find another flower to your liking?”

  He’s shaking his head, already moving toward the door. “That’s all right,” he says. “My wife is just very particular. She prefers lilacs above anything else, you see, and she just wound up in the hospital last night, so I really wanted to surprise her with some. But I understand, if it’s been a busy week for you all…”

  I slide out from around the counter, unable to help myself. “Actually, I think we might have just a few left. We could make up a small bouquet for you.”

  “Oh, really?” His face brightens. “That would be great, if you could.”

  “Naomi.” Monica bars my way. “Those flowers are for your—”

  “My friend,” I interrupt. “Who doesn’t really need them anyway. It’ll be fine. I’ll figure something else out.” My family can have their second favorite flowers for one day. A graduation is important and all, but next to this guy’s poor wife who’s in the hospital wanting her favorite flower? Well, it’s less of a big deal. Besides, I’m pretty sure my cousin doesn’t care about what kind of flowers we have at all. It’s mostly just my mom who will make a huge deal out of not getting exactly what she wanted.

  So, I forcibly move Monica from in front of the fridge she’s still blocking protectively, and pull out the vase holding what was supposed to be my family’s bouquet. I pluck out the lilacs from it and throw in some other flowers to fill out the bouquet. By the time I’ve finished making the arrangement, the man’s eyes are alight with joy and he’s smiling from ear to ear.

  “Thank you so much,” he tells me, again and again. “This will make my wife so happy. It’s exactly what she’ll love.”

  “Good, I’m so glad.” I smile back at him. “Tell her I hope she gets well soon, and that I know the hospital will take good care of her. I’m friends with one of the doctors. They do a really great job.”

  His smile deepens, and he reaches across the counter to shake my hand profusely. “Thank you for that,” he tells me.

  After he leaves, I sink back against the counter and steal a glance at Monica.

  “Your mother is going to kill you,” she points out.

  I huff out something between a sigh and a laugh. “Trust me, I know.”

  Monica shakes her head. “I’ll save some roses for your funeral, then,” she adds, and we both laugh this time, as she goes back to tidying up the store. I think that maybe, hopefully, she’s forgotten about our earlier line of conversation, until she pauses halfway through sweeping.

  “So… you were saying, about the woman who hit you?”

  I swallow hard. “Yeah. Actually… I think I did find her.”

  Monica nearly drops the broom she’s holding. “At the preschool?” She darts a glance at Becca, then, realizing that her voice rose to nearly a shout when she said that. With an effort, she takes a deep breath and lowers it again. “Who was it?”

  “Do you know a Mrs. Randall?” I ask.

  To judge by the way Monica scowls, I guess she must. “Are. You. Kidding. Me?”

  “I think it was her, at least. I’m like, 99% sure. But I tried confronting her, after school. I cornered her in her classroom.”

  Monica balls her fists. “Let me guess, she tried to play dumb?”

  “She acted like she had no idea what I was talking about. Even though I could see it written all over her face. Talk about a shady bi—” we both glance at Becca. “Big mean lady.”

  “She is mean,” Becca pipes up.

  “Trust me, sweetie, I know.” Monica shoots me another sympathetic glance. “I once had to work with her for a bake sale at school. She yelled at me for baking cookies because they were glutenous. For a bake sale! I didn’t get the memo that the entire bake sale needed to be gluten free. But who yells at a person over something like that?”

  “The kind of person who’s willing to hit your car and run and then lie to your face about it.” I shake my head, glaring.

  “You really should call the police. I’m serious.” Monica forces herself to uncross her arms and carry on sweeping up the floor. “She should not be allowed on the roads, if that’s how she drives around school zones.”

  “I know. I just want to be completely, 100% sure that it was her before I do anything drastic…” We both fall silent as the bell tinkles at the front of the shop yet again.

  I look up to find a young woman with mousy brown hair lingering in the doorway, eying the cases around her like a startled deer. I smile at her. “Hi, there. Can we help you?” Will the rush of people today never end? This is more customers than I’ve seen in this shop in the last three months combined, all in one day.

  “Yes, hi.” She forces a smile and walks up to the counter, though she moves slowly, checking over her shoulder repeatedly like she’s nervous someone might be following her. “I, er, I have an order to pick up.”

  “Sure thing.” Monica takes over. “What’s the name?”

  “Angel,” she says, and I still in the middle of wiping down the counter to stare at her a little more close
ly now. “Angel Robinson.”

  Alarm bells start to ring in the back of my mind. Angel. Like the name Jason used on the bathroom wall. And Robinson, his last name. Did he order flowers for someone? For who?

  I swallow hard. “Um, are those flowers for someone else, or…?”

  Monica shoots me a sideways glance, brow furrowed at me in the silent but universal “why are you asking this?” face. We don’t normally make it a practice to ask our customers’ business, after all.

  But I can’t help it. I need to know.

  “No.” The lady meets my eyes and forces a small smile this time. “They’re for me, actually.”

  “Here they are.” Monica sets them on the counter between us with another sideways glance in my direction. “How would you like to pay today?”

  Knowing full well that I look like a crazy person, I still peer over Monica’s shoulder anyway as she checks the woman out. Sure enough, right there on the screen, it shows this woman’s credit card details. Angel Robinson.

  The unease in my stomach doubles in size. What’s going on? Why would Jason write some other person’s name on the wall, with his cell phone number? And why this woman’s name?

  I hadn’t wanted to ask him about the bathroom or the phone number. Not after we’d started to hook up. I didn’t want to know, frankly. I’m sure he has some reason, some explanation for it. And after all, could I judge him too harshly for being the kind of guy to write his number in a bathroom stall, if I’m the kind of girl who called his number afterward?

  But now… I watch the woman go, carrying her flowers in one hand, checking both ways up and down the street outside the flower shop before she pushes her way out of the front door. Now, I wonder what’s really going on. Who this woman is to him.

  “Are you going to tell me what that was all about?” Monica asks, arms crossed, when I turn away from the door to catch her side-eying me. To be fair, I sympathize. I’m side-eying myself too.

  Still, I shrug and force my best innocent expression. “What was that all about?”

  She snorts. “Why did you want to know that woman’s name? And why did you look like she’d just slapped you in the face when she walked in?” Monica’s eyes narrow. “And why do you think she had the same last name as your mystery doctor hookup?”

  My stomach sinks. I forgot she was there in the exam room with Dr. Robinson. She knew his name, or at least part of it. “Not just his last name,” I say, grimacing. And then I finally tell her the whole story. The name on the bathroom wall, the number I called. The smoking hot man who showed up at my door, and the even hotter sex—for this part of the story we both make sure Becca is engrossed in her coloring books in the far side of the shop, and we talk in whispers too low for her to hear.

  “I thought he was… I don’t know, an escort or something,” I murmur. “Until I woke up in his hospital bed the next day.”

  “And you never thought to ask for more details after that?” Monica raises an eyebrow.

  “I don’t think I wanted to know more,” I admit, biting my lower lip. “I mean, what explanation could he have? That it’s his kink to meet lonely women nuts enough to dial his number from a bathroom stall or something?” I shake my head. “I figured I was better off just not knowing anything. That way I could just, I don’t know… Live in ignorant bliss.”

  She snorts. “Ignorant is one word for it.” She crosses her arms. “Look, Naomi, what did I warn you?”

  “Not to jump in too fast, I know. But I didn’t think hooking up counted as too fast.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” she acknowledges. “But hooking up with a guy with all these secrets? I mean… Who was that woman, do you think? His wife?”

  My stomach churns harder, now that she’s voice the worry that’s been nagging at the back of my mind ever since she said her name out loud. Angel. Angel Robinson. “She could be nobody,” I point out. “It could be a coincidence.”

  “This town isn’t big enough for that kind of a coincidence,” Monica replies. She has a point.

  “She could be a… I don’t know. His cousin?” I think about my own cousin and her upcoming graduation.

  “A cousin who was cool with him impersonating her for his weird sexual bathroom fetishes?” Monica raises an eyebrow. “Look, I’m as big a fan of rebound sex as the next person . Especially with hot doctors. But I don’t want you getting hurt again, Naomi, especially not right after you finally got out of that whole shitty situation with Kevin.”

  I grimace. “I know. And you’re right, I do need to be more careful. I don’t want to jump straight in again.”

  “So don’t. Not with this guy, anyway. He was fun while he lasted, now move on to the next.”

  I find myself nodding, even as my insides rebel at the thought. I don’t want to move on to the next guy. I want to see Jason again. I want him to touch me the way he did last night, this morning. I want to have hot shower sex with him again, pinned against the wall with him fucking me until we’re both screaming. I want him to lick my pussy until I’m begging him to let me come. I want him to fuck me so hard I can barely walk the next day. I want it all, over and over.

  But I don’t know what his situation is. I don’t know anything much about him, really, beyond his job and his bathroom stall writing. He could be married for all I know. That woman, Angel Robinson, could be his wife. Hell, maybe they’re swingers and she wrote his name on the bathroom stall, I don’t know.

  Monica is right. I shouldn’t see him again. I’m just going to get hurt all over again, like I did with Kevin.

  “At least think about it, okay, Naomi?” Monica begs, and finally, I nod. She smiles with evident relief and pulls me into a hug. “We’ll find you a nice guy,” she says.

  “Sounds good,” I agree, without any real feeling behind it. But I hug her back anyway. It’s not her fault. She’s not the one who does crazy things and picks the wrong guys and ends up falling way faster than they ought to.

  Still, after we finish closing down the store that night, and I’m alone again, driving my rental car back toward my place, I can’t help but wonder if maybe I’m doomed to keep making the same mistakes, over and over again. Will I ever actually meet a normal guy? Or will I just keep winding up with guys like Kevin, cheaters and liars every time? I thought Jason might be different. But maybe I’ve just set myself up for heartache all over again.

  10

  Are you awake?

  He texts me around midnight, the first message he’s sent since his sweet thank you message after we hooked up two nights ago. I hadn’t replied to that. Now, staring at my screen, I’m not sure I should answer this, either. All I can think about is that woman who crept into my shop looking nervously over both shoulders. Angel Robinson. Who was she? Who is he?

  But I don’t have the guts to ask him about it right now. And now that I’m awake, staring at my clock, remembering the last time he was next to me in this bed, and how good his hands felt as they explored every inch of my body, followed by his mouth… I can’t resist the urge to answer him, either.

  What’s the matter? I write back. Can’t sleep?

  Not when all I can do is think about how sexy you looked in that hot little slip of yours, no.

  My breath hitches and my pulse speeds up a little. I pause to stare at my ceiling for a moment before I type out another response. I can’t stop thinking about you either. Every time I take a shower now, all I think about are your hands on my body, and that thing you did with your tongue…

  I want to taste you again, he responds, quicker than I would have thought a person could type. Have I mentioned before how fucking amazing your pussy tastes?

  You might have mentioned it once or twice. I find myself grinning. You know what I want to do though? I want to taste your cock. I still haven’t yet. Another point to show how much he’s all about my desires, my pleasure. But it hardly seems fair that he gets to make me lose my mind so often and I haven’t made him call out my name yet.

  You want
to suck my cock, you naughty girl? I can practically feel how he’s probably smirking on the other end of the phone. I can picture you now, on your knees in front of me.

  I’d take my time with you, I reply. Licking every inch of your thick cock first, sucking on your balls before I put you into my mouth. As I type, I reach a hand between my legs to stroke myself, getting wet at the thought.

  I’d make you go slow at first. Let you relax and adjust to my size before I started to thrust in and out of your mouth…

  I’d want you to go faster, I write back. To really take control of me.

  Do you want me to fuck that dirty little mouth of yours, is that it, Naomi?

  Fuck yes, I do.

  Do you want to take my cock so deep in your mouth it makes you choke a little?

  God yes. I’m fingering myself faster now, feeling how wet I am, soaking my fingers in it as I stroke myself harder, faster, just imagining how he’d take control over me.

  Do you want to swallow my cum? Or do you want me to come on your breasts and let you feel how hot it is?

  I want to swallow it, all of it. Come in my mouth for me, Angel. I write the name, knowing how he’ll react. Knowing how he reacted the last time, when I called him that to his face after we first met.

  There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. So long I wonder if maybe he put his phone down and walked away. As I’m waiting, I finish myself off. But the orgasm isn’t nearly as strong as any of the ones he gave me, in person. I think it’s because he made me wait for them, stroking me right up to the edge and then pulling back, over and over again, teasing me so much that when he finally gave me that release, it was strong as hell.

  When he does answer, it’s short and sweet. You are so damn sexy, Naomi. I’ll talk to you more tomorrow, yeah? Hope you dream of me tonight.

  I hope so too, I answer, disappointed. About what? I scold myself. Disappointed that he didn’t just explain to me over text message who the hell Angel is? Especially right after we just sexted. Of course he doesn’t want to talk about that now, whatever that is.