The Doctor's Damsel (Men of the Capital Book 3) (6 page)

“Don’t shout when I’m bowling. I came to win.” He paused, inches from her face and she held her breath, waiting for him to kiss her. Instead, he stood up. “Your turn.”

Becca hefted the hot pink bowling ball in one hand and strode to the line confidently, determined to show off the switch in her walk, if not any particular athletic skill. She eyed the rows of pins. Then the music switched and the blacklight came on. Dots of light from the disco ball swirled around them, and the song switched to
Tainted Love
. With a shimmy of delight, she looked over her shoulder at Abe, who had stopped with his beer bottle halfway to his mouth, dumbfounded by the psychedelic display.

“Isn’t it fabulous!” she beamed, turning back to the game. With an insouciant shrug, she strutted forward and threw the ball with a hard spin. When all the pins toppled down, she shrieked in delight and jumped up and down. “STRIKE!” she squealed, clapping her hands with unaffected joy.

Turning around to see if Abe was suitably impressed, she nearly ran squarely into his chest. He was upon her, looming over her in a way that made her heart pound. He took her by the shoulders and kissed her hard and fast, her knees going weak as she clutched his shirt for balance. He released her as quickly as he’d captured her and she subsided into a chair as casually as she could.

They bowled a few more frames, but her head wasn’t really in the game. They were touching each other more. He’d tug her ponytail playfully as he went by; Becca slapped his butt when he got a spare. It was rowdy and suggestive, a complicated mating dance that had her wanting to wrap her legs around him. When it came to the last frame, she turned around and beckoned him to join her at the lane.

“I need your help,” she whispered urgently. “I need something out of my purse.” She raised her eyebrows, as if to imply that it was a female emergency of some sort.

Cooperatively, he went back and grabbed for her purse, the musical dildo tumbling out. Becca dissolved into laughter as he gaped at the item in his hand. Recovering quickly, he brandished it, coming toward her with amused menace.

“My lady, you required a specialized tool?” He offered. She took the dildo from him as if he were presenting an Academy Award. “I believe this is what you’re looking for.”

“Thank you so much. You’ve found exactly what I need.” She smiled sweetly. “Your turn.”

He bowled a strike and when he turned around, arms raised in victory, she slid her arms around his waist, tipped her head up and met his lips with hers. As he kissed her slowly, hands framing her face gently, he heard the strains of cowboy music begin as she switched on the dildo she was hiding behind his back. He laughed against her mouth and kissed her again.

“Give me that.” He growled and turned it off. “You don’t need that.”

“Really? Why not?”

“Because now you have me,” he said against her ear, catching her earlobe in his teeth. She giggled.

“Are you hungry? I’m starved. Let’s go get something to eat.” They relinquished their rented shoes and she concealed the dildo in her purse again.

“Do you want to drive or should I?”

“I rode here on my bike.”

“Ooh, Harley?”

“No. Schwinn. It’s a ten-speed.” She laughed.

“So I’ll drive,” she said, leading the way to her beat up blue Nissan. She’d gotten it used for her sixteenth birthday, and it was now a decade old. She reached across the seat to unlock the passenger door and he got in the car.

“So what’s its name?”

“What?”

“You asked about my victory ritual, so what’s your car’s name?”

“Rosie.”

“I’m not sure you’ve noticed this, but your car isn’t red or even pink. It’s blue.”

“I know that. I got it the year I played Laura in the Glass Menagerie...you know, the guy used to call her Blue Roses...” She trailed off. She had thought it was a cute story, but he seemed to be coming up blank on even the most rudimentary theatrical knowledge. “Okay, what’s your bike’s name?”

“It doesn’t have one. Who names a bike?”

“So it’s fine for cars to have names, but bikes are unworthy? I think that’s pretty racist of you, doctor,” she teased as she pulled out of the parking lot. “What do you want to eat?”

“Pancakes?”

She scrunched up her nose. “I don’t eat carbs or dairy.”

“Like ever? So what do you eat?”

“Fish. Salad. Some low glycemic fruits and the occasional chicken breast.”

“Okay, so if you were going to indulge you’d eat....?”

“Berries.”

“Are you a chipmunk?”

“No. I’m an actress, and I have to keep fit.”

“You look pretty fit to me.”

“No offense, but you’re not a director.”

“No, I’m a doctor. I’m an expert on the human form. And your form is very nice.”

“Thanks, but you’re not in charge of casting. I’m still carrying around six extra pounds that I have to get rid of. I’m not getting a lot of work now because my age and now my weight.”

“Your age? What are you, thirty?”

“No. I’m twenty-seven,” she huffed. “Why, do I
look
thirty?”

“I know that. I read your medical chart, remember? I just wanted to see you get riled up.” Abe grinned at her and she stuck her tongue out at him.

“Sushi?”

“Sushi is bait. I don’t eat raw stuff. I’m a doctor. Contamination. Pathogens.”

“So you also have dietary restrictions.”

“I like to eat things that are cooked. Burgers, for example. Fries. Milkshakes.”

“Not on my diet.”

Abe couldn’t help being a little impressed. She wasn’t whining about the diet and how much she wanted a burger. She wasn’t cheating on her diet or bitching about her weight. She was extremely practical about it. He would have loved to see her dive into a double cheeseburger, but he respected her discipline.

“Okay, what’s a good salad place?”

“Rosen’s on Nineteenth Avenue. I love that place.”

“The deli? I’ve been there. They have a corned beef that—probably isn’t low fat.” He trailed off, his stomach growling in anticipation.

They reached the deli and found a spot to park. He held the door for her as she entered the cramped, old-fashioned space and went to gaze into the glass case. There were all kinds of salads—greens, pasta salads, potato salad, even lobster salad—along with the deli meats and cheeses. She ordered a green salad and a giant kosher dill pickle. While they waited on their food, Abe spent most of his time trying not to kiss her. Then when he was diving into his thick meaty sandwich, he watched her take a huge bite of the garlicky pickle and grin at the sourness.

“How can you eat that?” He grimaced.

“It’s delicious. And it’s basically a vegetable. A deadly, sodium-laden vegetable.” She smiled wickedly. “Try it.”

“I’m not really a pickle guy.”

“I’ll take a bite of your sandwich if you try my pickle.”

He leaned forward and bit a tiny piece off the strong pickle and held out his corned beef on rye with extra cheese and dressing. She took a huge bite and grinned, shutting her eyes to revel in the spicy, salty flavor and the richness of the cheese and the slick oil-based dressing. It was like Abe was offering her every forbidden thing, and she couldn’t afford to do more than sample it. She forked up more of her salad and ate it happily.

“I could get used to this. I mostly eat alone, either in the cafeteria at Central, or takeout in my apartment.”

“What could you get used to? I’m not even talking.”

“Not being lonely.”

“Do you like being by yourself? You seem pretty self-contained.”

“I am. That doesn’t mean I enjoy it. I know how to be alone, but it’s no fun. How about you?”

“I hate it. I know that’s not the modern, independent thing to say,” she confided, “but I absolutely hate being alone, especially at night. I hear all these noises. You probably think I’m crazy, but I always think someone’s going to break in and kill me.”

“In this city, that’s not exactly paranoia,” Abe said, taking her hand in his. “Your hand looks good.”

“No, it looks terrible. I lost a job because of it today.”

“What kind of job? Hand model?”

“No way. Hand models have to wear gloves all the time—it’s really insane. I was up for a commercial, and when I pretended to hold up the product, the director saw my stitches and said no way.”

“What product?”

“Feminine itch cream.”

“That stuff doesn’t work. You need a prescription if it’s a yeast infection or the more common but less publicized bacterial vaginosis.”

“Ew. I didn’t say I need an itch cream, I just wanted to be paid to advertise one.”

“Well, don’t shill crap that isn’t effective. It’s unethical.”

“So is dating your patients.”

“I think it’s safe to say I’ve left ethics behind, so who am I to judge?” He relented. “I have to work tomorrow, and basically, forever. So I can’t do a relationship now or in the near future. But I like you. This has been fun.”

“Has been? As in you’re through with me? One salad and that’s it?” she joked, an edge of real distress creeping into her voice.

“Not through with you so much as unavailable. I work all the time. You’re juggling a job and an acting career. It’s not a good mix, scheduling-wise. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Does that mean I can’t see you when you
do
have time?”

Becca wished she could just go ahead an offer to vacate Hannah’s and move in with him so she’d see him every time he got home from work. She sensed it was too soon to mention it. Just because she was sure of her feelings for Abe—more certain every second she spent with him—didn’t mean she should scare him off. He looked skittish, as though he would spook easily.

“I’m not sure when that will be.”

She waggled the stump of her pickle at him scoldingly. “You’re brushing me off. Choose your next words carefully, doctor. Remember, I have a musical dildo in my purse and I am not afraid to use it.”

He raked his hand through his unruly hair with a sheepish grin. “Bec, I’m not trying to brush you off, I swear. I just have—“

“The weight of all the world’s problems on your shoulders?”

“Sort of. Yeah. I have this job, I mean I chose it, it’s not like it was forced on me—but it consumes most of my time and energy. I still think about it, worry about it even when I’m not physically at the hospital. I’m not very good company. My schedule’s crazy, and it’s possible that I’m a little crazy in the bargain.”

“You know, you’re right. There is no possible way I could relate to that. I have no understanding of crazy whatsoever. It’s not like I told you that I can’t sleep because I imagine someone’s rattling the doorknob trying to break in all the time. Or that I let my ex’s new girlfriend use my shampoo and keep my magazine.”

“You what? Why would you give her your stuff? I mean, she already has your ex-boyfriend...does she want your bone marrow, too?”

“I doubt it. She’s very young and sweet. I didn’t want to be a bitch and take away the magazine because she was already looking at it.”

“So you let her have something that was rightfully your own because you didn’t want to hurt her feelings? Who even does that?” He shook his head. “Becca, you have to stand up for yourself. No one else is going to look out for your interests if you don’t.”

“You’re ruining my pickle buzz. I was indulging in a yummy salty pickle, and you’re preaching assertiveness training to me. I demand that you exert yourself to be more amusing.”

“Fine. I just think you’re too nice.”

“Is nice a bad thing? Do we live in such cynical times that kindness and consideration are viewed as a weakness?”

“Well, yeah. That’s about the size of the situation. Like, when you came into the ER, when I was treating you, I could tell you wanted to be consoled, babied, but I can’t let myself do that. If I allow myself to sympathize with patients, I’ll drive myself mad and be unable to help them at all. I have to distance myself, look at it as a wounded hand, not a person. Do you know what I mean?”

“I do know what you mean. I just don’t agree with it,” Becca said evenly. “I think you’re doing yourself and your patients a major disservice by being distant and clinical.”

“Clinical kind of goes with my job description.”

“No, it doesn’t. You work in emergency care. Part of taking care of people in a crisis involves some social and emotional skills as well as medical training, Abe.”

There was a little vertical line between her eyebrows from frowning at him so hard. He couldn’t help thinking it was adorable, despite the fact that what she said was threatening his entire belief system. Surely there was something seriously wrong with him if he could be attracted to her while she was making him question everything. He should be defending his reasoning, citing instances in which the injuries or accidents were so upsetting that allowing any human emotion would have sent him into a panic and rendered him useless. Abe knew he ought to argue with her but he had a nagging feeling that the woman had a point.

“There are situations—oh, hell.”

“It’s harder to live with your whole heart out there. Believe me, I do it every day, Abe. But it’s worth it. Because you’re really there, all in, not holding back part of yourself for safety’s sake.”

Becca leaned forward, her eyes alight with feeling. Harrison Abrahemson felt smitten, besotted, and older than God. She seemed so young and so idealistic. He wanted to protect her, make sure no one ever knocked her around, used her wages to buy drugs or yanked her kid’s arm out of the socket. He wanted to hold her. More than that, Abe wanted to cover her eyes with his hands.
Don’t look
, he longed to say to her.
It’s bad out there
.
It’s bad and it’ll break you in half.

It damn near broke his heart to think of how painful disillusionment would be for her...and then it made him mad, because she was twenty-seven years old and by all rights she ought to know better by now. Why should he feel protective of her? Why should he worry about how miserable she’d be when life finally scraped the naïveté off her?

His hands clenched into fists as he experienced what he could only identify as a rare moment of emotional conflict. On one hand, he wanted to tell Becca to grow the hell up and realize that not everything can be done well and efficiently with an open, affectionate heart. On the other hand, he wanted to make sure no one hurt her while she tried to live that way. Regardless of which impulse won out, the woman was tying him up in knots over pickles and a salad.