Page 43 of You're So Vine
“To sleep,” I add. “You need the rest.”
“I need this week to be over,” she says. “I need to know if there’s anything wrong, so I can deal with it and get on with my life. That’s what I need. But what I want…”
Ava slides her fingers into my mop of hair and pulls my mouth down to hers, kisses me hungrily. I respond because of course I do. Run my hand up and under her top, cup her breast. Think about how to do it in the cab of the Dodge without freezing our asses off…
She breaks the clinch.
“You’re right,” she says. “I need rest.”
Shit. I’m that weak; I cave the instant my dick gets hard.Nice work, Hollander. You really know how to stand by your heroic principles.
But Ava presses her lips against mine again, briefly, softly. And smiles.
“So it’s best if I lie there and you do all the work.”
And by that, she means…?
Got it. Slow, but I got there.
“Don’t worry, I’ll reciprocate,” she says. “No fun trying to sleep with a case of blue balls.”
“How do you know?” I ask as we step down out of the Dodge.
“I have more balls than most.” Ava pokes my arm. “Thought you’d have figured that out by now.”
Yup, I’d figured it. What I don’t yet know is whatI’vegot balls-wise. Guess we’ll soon find out.
* * *
Doc doesn’t care for people being tardy, apparently, so Ava and I arrive five minutes before her eight-thirty appointment. Behind the desk is a middle-aged woman who looks like she’s seen the person she most hates on Earth, who just happens to be you.
“That’s Priscilla,” Ava whispers. “She’s ornery.”
“No shit,” I say, very quietly.
“Hi, Priscilla.”
Ava approaches the desk while I look for the waiting room chair that’s farthest away. It’s by the kids’ toy box. Makes sense. Any closer and they’d be needing therapy for life. I could be doing Priscilla a disservice, but I’ve seen friendlier expressions on the faces of serial killers who’d scoop out your brains and feed them to you.
And here’s the Doc, bustling out of his office, exuding cheerful authority. I wish I’d met doctors like him when I needed them.
Doc glances over at me and correctly interprets that I’m hiding in the corner.
“You want to join us, son?”
He doesn’t have to ask me twice.
With us all safely in his office, door closed, Doc cuts straight to it. “I’m going to start with bloodwork, so get yourself to the hospital and hand this to the lab.”
He gives Ava a medical slip, which she takes, reluctantly.
“Do it this morning and I’ll have results in a day.” Doc spotted the reluctance. “Right now, I’m going to check your vitals.”
He heads off to fetch the blood pressure cuff.
“Doesn’t he mean vittles?” I whisper in her ear.
“No, son.” Doc Wilson has the hearing of a bat. “Vittles—also victuals—comes from the Middle English and Old French wordvitailles, a corruption of the original Latinvictualia, which means food or provisions. Vital comes fromvita,the Latin for life.”
