Читать книгу Believe: Not Until You, Part 7 - Roni Loren, Roni Loren - Страница 5

Chapter 33

One month later

“Marcela!” My father’s voice boomed from the other room, echoing through the hall.

“Coming.” I sighed heavily as I scrubbed my hands. I was so not in the mood for that tone. I’d already had two emergencies this morning, plus had been faced with a devastated family when I’d had to put down their beloved fifteen-year-old tabby. The only thing I wanted right now was to take a lunch break and get a MexiCoke from the store next door to drown away my stress with cane sugar.

But I dutifully headed to my father’s office. I leaned against the doorjamb. “Yes, Papá?”

“What is this crap?” he asked with a scowl. “I told you what to order for the Whitcombs’ Rottweiler.”

I nodded at the little tube of ointment he was holding in his hand. “That’s a better treatment. It works faster and he’ll only need a few doses instead of two weeks of applications to clear up the rash.”

“Just because it’s the newest, fanciest cream doesn’t mean it’s better,” he said, tossing it onto the desk like it had dirtied his fingers.

“I realize that,” I said, trying to keep my patience. “But in this case, it is better. Plus, he’s my patient now. I make the call.”

My father looked up, his glare holding warning. “Order what I told you to order. I still make the final call in this practice. And I don’t need my clients spending more just to get a brand name when something else works.”

In the past, that quelling look alone would’ve sent me cowering. But the more I worked with him, the more I was realizing how much of a bully he could be. And when we were here, I was supposed to be his co-worker first, daughter second. Not the other way around. I crossed my arms over my chest. “Would you bark an order like that at me if I were some other doctor you hired?”

One bushy eyebrow lifted. “Yes, Marcela, I would. I am training you how I want this practice to be handled. Our clients expect a certain kind of service and when I retire, I want to insure that we continue to do that. And I appreciate that you learned some different techniques in school, but you need to remember who has the decades of experience here.”

Like I could ever forget. “Yes, Dr. Medina.”

He frowned. “Don’t be smart, Marcela.”

“Sorry. I’ve been told I have a problem with that,” I said, remembering the playful way Foster used to call me smartass and the amused glint that would light his eyes when I’d spar with him. I turned on my heel, trying to tamp down the surge of loss that greeted me over the memory.

Two, my mind silently made the hash mark.

I was getting better. Already lunchtime, and it was only the second time he’d crossed my mind today.

I grabbed my purse and headed out of the clinic to get some fresh air and food. There wasn’t much to do in Verde Pass for lunch, and I knew my mom would probably have something cooking since my dad went home daily for lunch. But a Mexican Coke and a chicken salad sandwich from the shop next door sounded way better than listening to my mother wax on about so-and-so’s son and how I should make a point to get to know him better.

I stepped inside the Sip ’N Shop, the little bell announcing my arrival, and gave a quick wave to J.C., who covered the shop for his dad during the day. I bought what I needed, then took it outside to one of the picnic benches. The temperature was in the triple digits again today, but I couldn’t bear to be inside much longer. Plus, the shade trees arching over the tables and the faint breeze provided a sliver of relief.

And apparently, I wasn’t the only one who’d had this plan for lunch today. Before I finished unwrapping my sandwich, a shadow crossed over the table. I glanced up and smiled. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Michael Ruiz, now Dr. Ruiz the dentist, slid onto the other side of the picnic table. “Well, I’ve heard this is the hottest spot in town.”

I took a sip of my Coke, the bottle sweating against my palm. “It definitely is hot.”

Michael pulled a bottle of water from his bag. When we’d dated in high school, he’d had a Mountain Dew addiction, but apparently dental school had scared him off the hard stuff. “Hey, I’d be willing to take you to some place fancier, you know, with air conditioning and stuff, if you’d ever let me. I’ve heard the SUBWAY has an excellent charcuterie platter.”

I smirked as I peeled the crust off my sandwich. Michael asked me out pretty much daily these days. I’d told him I was coming off a breakup and wasn’t ready to start dating again, which he’d respected. But he hadn’t stopped joining me for lunch to keep me company. I appreciated that he wasn’t putting pressure on me about it, just being a friend to me when I really needed one. But I knew that he would prefer it was more than that.

Bailey had told me to give the guy a break—well, after I’d told her he was a doctor and had sent her a photo of him so she could verify he was of acceptable hotness. She was of the “get back on the horse” mindset, but the thought of going out with anyone held about as much appeal as watching a CSI marathon with my dad—which, incidentally, was what I’d done last weekend.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, hoping it came across light and not like a jab.

He pulled the butcher paper from around his sandwich, but his dark eyes stayed on me. “Want me to stop asking?”

I sighed, elbows on the table, sandwich in hand. Michael had always been sweet to me. When we’d dated, we’d never gotten too serious, but I’d always known he was an inherently good guy. He’d be the type to take it slow, to be polite no matter what, and to yield to my preferences on where to go and what to do. He was everything on paper I’d always thought I wanted—good-looking, hardworking, and a guy my parents would be happy to see me with.

He was an obvious choice, and I already knew we got along and that I’d have fun with him. I’d said no over and over again in ten different subtle and polite ways. But as I peered at him there across the table, I started to question my reasons. The stuff that had been holding me back was beginning to look more and more ridiculous—silly, romantic notions that belonged in movies, not real life.

Maybe I didn’t need that thing. Whatever that thing was that I used to feel when I looked at Foster. In the end, that intensity had only led me straight to a heartbreaking dead end anyway.

Time to change gears. Reboot. Get with reality.

I reached out and put my hand over Mike’s. “Don’t stop asking.”

His mouth curved. “I’m good at being patient.”

“Thanks, Mike.”

***

Later that night, as I sat on my living room floor unpacking boxes and eating a microwaved potpie, I was still ruminating over my conversation with Mike when I came across a little silver piece of jewelry that I’d tossed into one of the boxes. I pulled the anklet out of the pile of stuff, the sound of the Big Bang Theory rerun on the TV fading into the background, as I held it along my palm. Such a small thing—a little length of silver. But it’d been the lynchpin that had blown everything up between me and Foster. That day in the office, I’d dropped it in my purse in my haste to get out of there as soon as possible. But now it was here, opening up the wound that I was working so hard to close.

He’d wanted to protect me. That’s what he had said. And to mark me as his.

The memory made tears knot my throat. His.

I’d been so ready to start something with him, so open to the possibilities, but that simple word had scared the hell out of me. He’d looked so serious, so sincere. And I hadn’t wanted to promise him something I wasn’t sure I could give. And I definitely couldn’t imagine wearing something that could be tracked. Visions of my teen years had flashed before me—trapped, monitored, ruled over. It would’ve been the wrong move. I wouldn’t have been able to handle it long term. And it would’ve hurt us both more in the long run.

I couldn’t be his submissive. It wasn’t me.

But the thought wrenched something sideways inside me, making me press my forehead to my knees. Who was I kidding? I didn’t know who I was. I didn’t have a freaking clue. During the day, I fought constantly to make my own path at the clinic, do things my own way. I’d stood up more for myself since being back home than I ever had in my life. But at night, when the place got quiet and my mind drifted to memories of Foster, I couldn’t help but let myself fall back into the fantasies we’d shared, times where I had no control at all. I replayed them in my mind like some addict needing a hit—just one more time, one more time … And when that wasn’t enough, I’d create new ones, weave even dirtier, more sordid scenes for us to star in.

I didn’t know how to reconcile that girl with the other. How could I be both?

I stared down at the anklet, running my thumb along the metal, which was now warming from the heat of my hand. The latch was some type of screw design, and I found my fingers slowly turning it. The anklet fell open, and without knowing why, I reached down and fastened it around my ankle. The silver pressed against my skin, sliding over the delicate bones there. And the sight of it—his mark—locked around me sent burning tears to my eyes.

I could imagine Foster there, kneeling down and looping the jewelry around my ankle, pleasure in his eyes. The word mine on his lips. His mouth kissing up along my calf, my thigh, his eyes going hot with intent as he whispered all those dirty, tempting things he was so good at saying. The image warmed me from the inside out, making a flush creep over my skin.

Unconsciously, I pushed up from the floor and clicked off the TV. I lowered myself onto the couch, closing my eyes and letting the fantasy run, sinking into it. Foster always had such a slow, deliberate way of kissing every part of me, his mouth leaving trails of heat on my skin. Without thinking too hard about what I was doing, I let my body and the images take over. My hands slid up my stomach beneath my shirt, and I cupped my breasts, imagining it was his big hands instead of mine. The feel wasn’t quite right, my touch too soft, too feminine to be his. So I pinched and plucked at my nipples like he would’ve, making sure to do it hard enough to cause a snap of pain. Yes, that was better. I sighed softly, opening my eyes briefly to see the silver glinting against my ankle.

Moisture and heat gathered between my thighs, the sight of jewelry pushing some lever inside me. I let my eyes drift shut again and trailed my hand down my stomach. Foster liked to tease me, to move his fingers along my folds but not quite stroke my clit yet. And his touch was always so sure, like he knew exactly how to bring me right to the edge and hold me there, hanging by my fingernails. I imagined him lowering his head between my legs, my arms tied above me, and the feel of that five-o’clock stubble moving against the tender skin of my thighs—the abrasive, scritch-scritch sound that made.

In my mind’s eye, he was there with me, calling me angel and whispering lovely, filthy things to me. My fingers moved inside me, my hips rocking against the stimulation. I moaned in the silent house, lost to the fantasy and to the man who I’d never touch again, and came hard.

Slowly, my breath returned to me, and I blinked out of the haze of the dreamland—my heart still pounding but my body cooling. My living room came back into view. The boxes. The ugly walls. The emptiness. Despair rolled through me.

I pushed myself off the couch and dragged myself into the shower, sitting on the floor of the tub and just letting the hot water pound against me.

Afterward, when I caught a view of myself in the bathroom mirror, I barely even recognized the person staring back at me. I’d changed out of scrubs into pajamas, but other than that, I didn’t look much different than when I’d woken up this morning. No makeup. Hair hanging limp around my cheeks. It was the face of a girl who had totally given up on being presentable.

I stared at my reflection, my hands gripping the edge of the counter. Was this what my life was going to be? Sitting around in my half-unpacked, That ’70s Show house, fantasizing about some guy who I hadn’t talked to in over a month? I’d become a goddamn cliche. All those times I’d rolled my eyes at movie heroines who ended up on their couch with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, watching Lifetime network, and now here I was. The only thing different was that I’d chosen Hungry-Man potpie instead of Ben & Jerry tonight. Pathetic.

I flicked the light off, getting rid of that girl in the mirror, and strode into my bedroom, grabbing my phone off the charger. Enough of this shit. I scrolled through the numbers, looking for the one I needed, then hit Call.

“Cela?”

He was clearly surprised to be hearing from me. But before I lost my nerve, I let the question fall from my lips. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”

“Why do I have the feeling you’re going to tell me?”

“I’m saying yes, Michael.”

I could hear his smile over the phone. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all night. Pick you up at seven.”

“I’ll be ready.”

And hopefully, I would be.