Authors: Gregory Shultz
“I don’t know,” I said. “I feel like I could hurl right now. I have to have something
now
to make myself feel better.”
Sam Fleming stared at me for a minute, and then finally nodded, as if she had reached some favorable conclusion regarding my character.
“Let’s get out of here and you follow me to my place,” she said. “I can give you enough meds to carry you through until the prescriptions are filled. That way you can get some sleep tonight and normalize a tad. But you have to realize that eventually, once you’ve fully tapered from these drugs, your sleep will never be as deep or as rehabilitative as it was while taking these meds. You probably have a history of insomnia, right?”
“You must have taken a peek at my chart while you were loosening Tabak’s tie,” I cracked.
She didn’t think that was funny.
“Just follow me to my house, Plain Old Smith, and we’ll get you taken care of.”
“Okay, but only if you quit calling me Plain Old Smith, Miss Big Bouncy Tits With The Big Black Suitcase Full Of Goodies.”
She did like that—it put a million dollar smile on her supermodel face.
“Smith, you’re a real smartass, but I already like you. Let’s go.”
6
A
S I FOLLOWED DR. Samantha Fleming to her home in Bay Hill, I thought of what she had said about having gone to school with Sidebottom. That meant she was thirty-nine or forty years old. Based on my most recent sinful glimpse of her from inside the lobby of Dr. Beady Eyes, however, I had placed the doctor’s age closer to thirty or so. Her stunning looks had, for quite a long time, distracted me from seeing the real truth in her eyes. But having finally gazed directly into them I had picked up upon a profound sense of loss, sadness, and emptiness. I’ve always been adept at reading eyes. I would soon find out that I was right on the mark with my assessment.
After parking in the doctor’s driveway, I remained in the car and picked up my cell phone. It was a quarter after eight. I thought I might be able to catch Caitlin before the real partying began up in Minneapolis. I tried calling her three times, but each time the call went straight to voicemail. I glanced up and saw the doctor standing in front of my car. She placed her hands on her hips and playfully nodded toward her front door. I now felt like I was on a date.
“To hell with you, Cait,” I said as I pocketed the cell phone. I got out of the car and followed the doctor into her enormous two-story house.
Inside it was immaculate. I whistled in awe.
“Don’t credit me with decorating this fucking museum,” Sam said bitterly. “All this depressing and boring Baroque artwork was bought by my ex-husband. I only leave it up because my son insists that it not be removed. And don’t be impressed with the cleanliness of the house, either. I have a service.”
“Okay,” I said. “Props to your ex-hubby and the maids.”
The place did look like a museum. It didn’t look like anyone was allowed to sit anywhere.
“Follow me into the kitchen,” she said. “But try not to drool behind me while you’re admiring my ass. The carpet’s a bitch to clean.”
I didn’t drool—almost, but not quite.
The kitchen was a monstrosity. It had two silver high-tech stoves made of steel, the kind I had only seen before in swanky restaurants in places like New York City and Chicago. There was a black refrigerator damn near the size of my walk-in closet at home—more than adequate space to stash a few corpses.
“I know what’s good for a headache,” Sam said.
From a wine refrigerator that was built into the kitchen’s expansive island she removed a bottle of Chardonnay.
“The wine may go down well enough,” I said, “but with this headache I’ll pay the piper in the morning for it. I think I’ll settle for some ginger ale or water.”
Sam handed me the wine bottle with one hand and an old-fashioned corkscrew with the other.
“Just open the damn wine and pour each of us a glass,” she commanded. “Before you leave here tonight I will give you medicine that will help you sleep and alleviate your pain. A few glasses of wine won’t hurt you. Meanwhile, I’m going to prepare dinner. I have a couple of filets, if you like steak?”
“Come to think of it,” I said as I uncorked the wine, “I haven’t eaten since breakfast. A steak sounds good.”
Sam told me to relax in the living room while she prepared dinner. She powered on the high-definition TV and set it to ESPN. She said she was a big fan of the Orlando Magic, and a Magic game was nearing tipoff. I never watched basketball, but after taking a few sips of the wine I began to feel a bit better and found myself somewhat interested in the game, and watching it soon took my mind off of life’s aggravations. Through the rear sliding glass door I eventually took in a sight that would have inspired LeRoy Neiman: a gorgeous view of one of the fairways on the Arnold Palmer-designed golf course.
Fifteen minutes later Sam took a break and came into the living room. She was holding her wine glass as she sat next to me on the brown leather couch.
“What’s the score?” she asked.
“The Magic are up by nine,” I answered. “It doesn’t really matter though, because all of these games aren’t decided until the last ten seconds. They’re completely rigged.”
“Your cynicism is duly noted, Mr. Smith.” She grinned and winked at me, which was enough to instantly set off a fire in my belly that made my throat dry and my heart swell. I then had to concentrate to quickly douse the flame within.
“By the way,” she said, “Walter told me your first name. What’s the big deal about that?” She then said my first name and it really pissed me off. But I kept my cool and told her I didn’t want to talk about it. I figured I’d tell her later, in exchange for her telling me something about herself.
For the next ten minutes she didn’t say a single word. She was too engrossed in the basketball game. Every bucket made or missed by the Magic players or their opponents dictated her emotional responses, which ranged from abject disgust (for the missing of an easy layup by Dwight Howard) to cheers of hallelujah (for Dwight redeeming himself by blocking a shot on the defensive end of the court).
“The steaks are done,” she said during a commercial break. “I’m just waiting on the baked potatoes now. It shouldn’t be too long.”
For the rest of the first half we sat there drinking and watching the game, just like two old friends. Every time Dwight Howard dunked, or when Jameer Nelson sank a three-pointer, Sam would pump her fist and give me a high-five. Her enthusiasm was contagious, and by halftime I was cheering along with her.
“Okay,” she said when the halftime buzzer sounded, “let’s eat and maybe we can get back on this couch again by the third quarter.”
I was served a sumptuous feast. The steak, an eight-ounce filet, was out of this world (Sam told me she’d obtained the steaks from the same source that supplied Ruth’s Chris Steak House). I never knew that a damned baked potato could taste so delicious, but this one surely did. She served mushrooms and garlic butter with the steak. Along with the red wine I’d uncorked to go with the meal, this was one of the best dining experiences I could recall having in a while.
Whoever said that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach must have fallen in love with Dr. Samantha Fleming at some point.
During the meal I complimented her on the food and drink, which elicited a prideful and nearly childlike smile from her. I knew she wanted to needle me about my personal life, but I just kept the compliments coming. Not only about the food but also about the drapes, the carpet, the wet bar down the hall, the water fountains in the backyard, the elegant chandeliers, and the fancy wine glasses. When I ran out of household objects to compliment her on, I told her I liked the highlights in her hair, that I liked her nose, her delicate cheekbones, the way she walked, the way she talked . . . Hell, I was so drunk by then that I can barely remember what I was saying. Finally she put a stop to it.
“Let’s go back to the game,” she said. “At the end of the third quarter I’ll bring out dessert.”
The Magic were in a close contest. They had blown a big halftime lead and Dwight Howard was in foul trouble. None of their three-pointers were dropping into the bucket, and it was looking bad. When the third quarter ended the Magic were down by five. Sam got up and ran back to the kitchen. She returned two minutes later with two plates and dessert spoons.
“This is my homemade flan,” she said. I’d never had flan before, but with caramel sauce drizzled on top, it looked delicious. “I hope you’ll like it. Everybody loves my flan.”
I loved her flan.
The Magic regained control of the game after Jameer Nelson started sinking three-pointers with a confident and masterful touch. Sam’s spirits were elevated by the Magic comeback, and when the final buzzer sounded she jumped off the couch and started cheering: “
Yessssssss!
” She turned around and said, “Stand up and cheer, Mr. Smith!”
I stood and cheered with her. It was then that I realized how tall she was, maybe five-nine. She really did look like a supermodel. And here I was, in her home, watching basketball with her like we had known each other since childhood. Then she hugged me. Her face was pressed against my chest and I felt as hot as the summer sun. She then looked up. Without warning she gently pressed her soft lips against my own. We held it that way for maybe ten seconds, and then she amped things up by slowly slipping her tongue deep into my mouth. And did we ever kiss. If I was on fire before the kiss, I was now a blazing inferno. After two minutes of this she started to remove my shirt.
Dammit!
I stopped her and took a step back.
It was the last thing I wanted to do.
Believe me.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I’ll be right back. I just have to step out front for a second and make a phone call.” She smiled incredulously, a look that said something like this could never possibly happen to her. But I kept walking.
It was eleven-thirty now. As I closed the front door behind me I pulled out my cell phone and tried calling Caitlin again. This time she answered. I had trouble hearing her. It sounded like she was in a loud bar.
“You won’t believe this,” she shouted. “We’re in a nightclub partying with the Minnesota Timberwolves. You wouldn’t believe how tall these guys are.”
“I bet you the bloody fuck I would,” I said.
“What the hell did you just say to me?”
“Call me when you’re done,” I said. And then I hung up.
I stood on the front porch for two minutes, half hoping she’d call me back. It didn’t happen. I went back inside.
“Tell me about her,” Sam said as I stepped back into the living room. She was sitting on the couch. She had cooled down. Our moment had passed.
I walked over and sat next to her and sighed.
“My girlfriend is a total bitch,” I said. And when I said it, I really meant it. I was very close to pulling the plug on my relationship with Caitlin, and even now I have to admit that it was Sam’s kiss that had pushed me to that point. Still, it was true: Caitlin was a total bitch.
“I won’t cheat on her,” I said. “Even though she’s as mean as a double-peckered snake, I must remain faithful to her until it’s officially over.”
“Tell me about her.”
The doctor was in.
“Well,” I said, “I know how all my guy friends feel about this, but I’ll try asking a woman now.”
“I’m listening.” She sounded almost like Frazier Crane when she said it. “What’s her name?”
“Caitlin,” I answered.
“Okay, tell me about Caitlin.”
I looked at Sam and she seemed genuinely concerned.
She’s a professional
, I thought.
I can trust her
.
“A couple of weeks ago I asked Caitlin if I was the best she ever had.” One of Sam’s eyebrows arched and she laughed. I continued anyway. “And you know what she said to me? She said that no, I wasn’t the best she ever had, not by a long shot. I mean, she got really demonstrative in making her point. She even told me who her best was. It was some asshole she had met out on a trip to Atlantic City a few years ago. She said his name was Michael. Man, did we ever have a come-to-Jesus meeting about that one.”
“Your girlfriend was just being honest,” Sam said. “And maybe you’re not being attentive enough to her in bed. Have you thought of that? Maybe she needs something you’re not giving her.”
Right at that very instant I wanted to ball the daylights out of Dr. Samantha Fleming, just to show her what I was made of. I wanted to render her speechless, only to have her later say, “What a total bitch your girl is. You
are
the best I ever had.”
“Let me tell you something,” she said. “And you can tell your girlfriend I said this.” Sam grabbed my arm and pulled herself closer. I thought she was going to kiss me, but instead she came out with this: “The best sex is the sex you are having
right now
. And let me tell you, I’ve had some mind-blowing sex. Trust me on that one. No sex from the past, no matter how good it was, does anyone any good now. The best orgasm you can have is the one you’re having right now. Orgasms are ephemeral. They are completely meaningless after they have occurred. Your job as a lover is to do your damnedest the next time to satisfy your partner, so that she’ll want to come back to you for more. Because as anyone with half a brain knows, you are only as good as your last sexual encounter, just as a quarterback is only as good as his last game, or as Jameer Nelson is after his last game-clinching shot. Everyone loves a winner, and nobody loves you when you lose.”