“She may as well be. You don’t sleep with anyone else, and you ditch your friends for her. So, she’s your girlfriend.”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” I press, restraining from flipping him off.
“So is,” he childishly chides under his breath.
I choose to ignore him and decide to talk to the adult in our group. “What’s it like for you and Heidi? I mean, does she still do it for you?” I ask Finch, who smiles at the mere mention of his wife.
“She is the sexiest woman alive, and I never have a problem making love,” he proudly replies, while Hunter gags.
“Ugh. Can you not use that word please?”
“What? Love?” Finch questions, puzzled lines furrowing his brow.
“Yes, and please refrain from using the term ‘making’ before it. It’s so…gay,” Hunter replies with revulsion.
I can’t help but laugh.
“Making love to your beautiful wife is not gay, let me tell you,” Finch says, waggling his eyebrows. “We please one another. That’s what relationships are about. Making the other person happy as well as yourself.”
“And this is why Hunter is still single,” I tease. He playfully flips me off, but I see a touch of hurt behind his usual mischievous eyes. What’s he hiding?
“Sorry to bring this up,” Finch says with reservation. “But you were engaged, Dix. I mean, surely when you and Lily were together, you felt some kind of connection?”
The mention of Lily would usually throw me, but today it doesn’t at all, and I really take Finch’s question onboard.
My “whatever” with Juliet doesn’t even compare to what I felt for Lily. I mean, I loved Lily more than life itself. And not once did I ever picture another woman other than her while we were…making…fuck. But with Juliet, I feel like a dick on demand, which is fine, as I suppose she’s my cooch on call.
Finch and Hunter are right. I was foolish to think this was anything other than sex.
“You’re right.” I sigh. Hunter clears his throat. “You’re both right,” I amend, sarcastically smiling at my friend. Deciding to be honest, I confess, “With Juliet, I feel like a dick on demand.”
Hunter sadly doesn’t appreciate my honesty, and bursts into fits of laughter. “Dr. Dixon, the Booty Call M.D.,” he says, while mimicking with his hands like he’s sign-writing on a billboard.
“Then stop seeing her,” Finch says, implying this isn’t rocket science. “You know, you’re the psychiatrist here. Shouldn’t you be the one giving out advice?”
“It’s not that simple, Finch,” I reply, fisting my hair. “Everything you’ve learned and applied to others doesn’t apply when you’re the one who needs the advice. And besides, my forte is addiction, not relationships. I’m a psychiatrist, not a damn relationship guru.”
Finch nods. “That’s understandable.”
“No, you’re just a dumbass,” Hunter pipes up, pushing his empty plate away from him. “I told you to stay away from that harpy.”
“Enough with the third degree. I don’t see you happily married to your soul mate.”
“That’s because I’m not an idiot,” he replies, but quickly corrects, “No offense, Finch.”
Finch shakes his head, not at all offended because he’s heard it all before.
“Women are trouble, and I plan on living like Hugh Hefner.”
“Old, lonely and addicted to Viagra?” I ask with a smirk.
Hunter throws a bread roll at me, and I dodge its flight path. “No. Rich, surrounded by Playmates, and happy.”
Finch and I look at Hunter and chuckle. I suppose one can dream.
“Just call me Hunter Hefner,” he jokes, eyeing a blonde waitress and making bunny ears at her.
“How about I call you Hunter Half-Wit instead?” I suggest, still chuckling.
Hunter crosses his arms across his broad chest as he leans back in his chair. “Okay, Dixon Mathews, Cock on Call. Oh, sorry.” He coughs, fist in front of his mouth. “I meant, Doc on Call.”
I can’t stop the cackle that bubbles from my throat, and as Finch and Hunter join in with the laughter, I can’t believe we’re talking about this over brunch.
15
Expiration Date
DIXON
After brunch, I come home and decide to catch up on some paperwork. But I’m soon distracted, as I can’t stop thinking about what Finch said. Do I have feelings for Madison? Surely that’s not possible. If it were, why did I choose Juliet over her? I know it’s not that clean-cut and simple, but I could have said no to Juliet the day I was meant to see Madison.
Before this morning, I immensely enjoyed sleeping with Juliet, but now, the thought isn’t as appealing as it once was.
I decide to bury my head in the sand and focus on my new research paper.
As I’m drowning in innate behavioral patterns, my phone dings. I reach for it and see it’s a text from Juliet.
I’m deliciously sore from this morning. Thank you. X
I would usually reply with a dirty comment and not-so-hidden innuendo of making her even sorer, but I don’t. I don’t even reply.
It’s 9 p.m. on a Saturday night and I’m home. I’m also alone.
I can’t remember the last time this happened, because before Juliet, I was chasing tail and about ready to seal the deal. But she’s been taking up a big hunk of my Saturday nights and up until now, I hadn’t realized how much so.
I check my cell but she hasn’t texted, but I didn’t reply to hers earlier, so the radio silence makes sense.
Goddamn—when did this become so relationship-like?
Sighing, I focus on the idiot box, hoping some mindless T.V. will occupy me.
Two Jaws movies and twelve beers later, I’m craving scotch and porn.
I guess I could jerk off, but the thought has me wondering whose body and face I would use as inspiration.
That’s definitely a mood killer, so I reach for my phone and decide to check my emails. However, for some unexplained reason, I go to my contact list instead and stop on the letter M. I really shouldn’t be contemplating what I currently am, as it’s quite late on a Saturday night/Sunday morning. I’m also semi-drunk and extremely horny. In no way should I text Madison…says no one ever.
Before I can stop myself, I’m typing out a short message and hitting send before I can talk reason to my impulsive brain. The text was harmless and I kept it clean as it is roughly
1 a.m., and I don’t want Madison to think I’m drunk-dialing her for sex.
I stare at my screen for endless minutes, but nothing. Just as I start to curse my reckless move, my screen lights up with a reply from Madison.
What? she asks, in reply to my joke of, “A man walks into a psychiatrist’s office wearing nothing but underwear made of saran wrap. What does the psychiatrist say?”
I know it’s lame, but it’s better than the alternative of “What are you wearing?”
I can clearly see your nuts, I reply.
I cringe at how stupid I sound, but it’s an icebreaker. I admit it’s a juvenile one, but at least I got her attention with my idiocy. The wait is giving me heartburn and I toss my phone onto the sofa. But the moment it chimes a second later, I dive for it, eagerly awaiting her reply.
LOL. My turn…What do you call a nurse who is waiting for someone to call?
I read the message twice to ensure I haven’t misread it, and even though it seems we’re no longer joking, I decide to humor her anyway.