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Authors: D. D. Scott

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Licensed For Love (Short Story)

BOOK: Licensed For Love (Short Story)
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Licensed for Love
Mom Squad Mini-Mayhem Mystery #2
D.D. Scott

Copyright © 2011 by D.D. Scott

 

This book is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places and incidents are either products of the
author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can
be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the
author or publisher.

 

Smashwords Edition: October 2011

 

 

 

 

Contents

 

Start Reading LICENSED FOR
LOVE

Note from D.D. Scott

About the Author

Also by D.D. Scott

 

 

 

 

Licensed for Love

 

I
pulled the bundle
of mail from the mailbox and flipped through the stack.

Nothing out of the ordinary — bill, junk,
bill, Psychology Today magazine, and a renewal notice for my
membership in AASECT, the American Association of Sexuality
Educators, Counselors and Therapists.

To me, AASECT has always sounded like some
insect name, not a pleasant acronym of a professional organization
for sex therapists.

But “out of the ordinary” and insects
describes more than my mail, it describes my current life, where
everything is far away from my norm and quite frankly, bugging
me.

I’m Dr. Telaine Patricia Cohen, your basic
Rosalind “Roz” Focker, Barbara Streisand-portrayed Sex Therapist. I
moved to Nashville, Tennessee — AKA Music City — after falling in
love with it while visiting my niece, Jules Lichtenstien, who you
probably already know, is Music City’s new cupcake boutique queen
and also a caterer to the stars.

But I didn’t just fall in love with the city.
I also fell hard for one of its letter carriers.

For the past four months, I’ve been living
with Jules’ prosthetic-eared mailman, Ben. And although I adore the
guy, I’m still trying to remember why I agreed to move in with
him.

Our relationship could definitely use a match
to re-ignite the spark that originally attracted us.

Ben’s spark had been his penchant for fun. He
may not be able to hear very well, but the guy’s got the Midas
Touch when it comes to over-the-top spectacular, seeing stars in
the bedroom moves.

But after glancing at the deer on the cover
of his latest sportsman’s catalog, I had a revelation. Fun with
your live-in was evidently out of season. Hunting, however, was
in-season, meaning girlfriends and/or wives were out.

I know what you all are thinking. And yes,
I’m a “therapist”. A therapist who now needs a therapist. Why?
Because, let me tell you something. At Yale, they don’t teach you
how to deal with becoming a hunting widow.

My cell phone rang and temporarily shook me
out of my life funk.

I glanced at the display. No surprise.

I’d actually taken the phone with me to the
mailbox because it was time for Ben to be fighting interstate
traffic on his way home from the post office. He always called me
to estimate his arrival for dinner.

Evidently, hunting season didn’t rob a man of
his appetite for food…just his appetite for love.

“Hey, baby.” Ben’s voice sounded muffled from
the hands-free system in his SUV. “I should be home in about half
an hour.”

“Sounds good.”

“Do we have any plans for tomorrow?”

In Ben-speak that meant he did.

I took a deep breath and forced a pleasant
response. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, a couple of the guys want to head to
the woods because deer season starts tomorrow. Is it okay if I
go?”

“Fine with me,” I said, with a bit more zip
to my voice than I’d originally intended.

I normally deplored Ben’s little-boy way of
asking for a kitchen pass. But his request to hunt, coupled with
the catalog cover had given me an idea.

Maybe I hadn’t lost my multiple-award-winning
therapist’s touch. Suddenly, I had an epiphany and knew just what
to do to shake up our waaay too cozy — and boring — love nest.

So it was big-game season, huh?

Well, too bad.

I wasn’t about to spend our four-month
anniversary — the fruit and flowers one — alone. Ben would be
hunting, all right, but not the prey he planned on. The only permit
he was about to be issued was his live-in’s license for love.

I’d teach him that the fifth anniversary we’d
be celebrating next month, one I’m sure he planned to live to talk
about, wasn’t the only one with “wood” involved.

And yes, I know that technically, you count
anniversaries in years, not months. But I’ve always coached my
patients to celebrate every day, every week, and every month of
their relationships. I’d simply forgotten to make good on my own
therapeutic recommendations.

With only half an hour to work, I had to move
fast.

Ben’s favorite meal always got his attention,
so I’d start with that. Luckily, I was one of those
wives-in-the-making who always had extras on-hand, ready to defrost
and nuke.

Pulling packages of bison meatloaf and fried
corn fritters out of the freezer with one hand, I grabbed a box of
instant mashed potatoes from the cabinet with the other.

With the microwave on high and the stove’s
right front burner turning bright red, I hurried into the pantry to
grab tonight’s aphrodisiac treats.

What the hell, I thought, grabbing a couple
avocados and a handful of asparagus too. You can never go wrong
with the fruit of the testicle tree, or the phallic-shaped bliss of
fresh steamed asparagus.

And now that, in my retirement, I had
invested in Jules’ and her boyfriend Cody’s aphrodisiac produce
market, I always had plenty of these love veggies to rely on. As
the principle owner and financier of Weiss’ Produce and Penis
Foods, I was on it. Or as our slogan said: We’ve got a passion for
produce and a heads-up on the competition.

Once I’d made the fresh guacamole and
prepared the asparagus for the microwave, I hurried into the
laundry room, which now doubled as my scrapbooking studio.

Three sheets of cardstock, one pair of edging
scissors, a tube of puffy, metallic glow-in-the-dark fabric paint,
along with a couple of markers, and I was almost ready to roll with
part two of my plan.

One last-minute trip to Ben’s shed in the
corner of the backyard, and I had everything I needed to make my
heart and nether regions Ben’s primary targets.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Three bites into his meatloaf, and I had Ben
lined-up in the sights of my scope. My love scope, that is, and I
was ready for the kill.

“Great dinner, honey.”

He stuffed another corn fritter into his
mouth. Then he shoveled potatoes onto his spoon, followed soon by a
fork-severed spear of asparagus.

“What’s the occasion?”

“Well, since I’m about to become a hunting
widow, I thought it would be nice to have a last supper
together.”

His head came up slowly, like a big buck
catching a hunter’s scent in the passing breeze, determining
whether to bolt back into the woods or carry-on.

Steady girl, I coached myself. Be patient.
Wait till you get a clear shot.

“That reminds me, I need to go to the store
and get my hunting license and tags tonight,” Ben announced with
his head back down, grazing from his plate.

“Speaking of which, here you go. I picked
this up for you today.”

I slid a plain manila envelope across the
table.

“What’s this?”

Judging by the clueless look on his face, if
I hadn’t shoved our anniversary in his face, I’d for sure have been
spending it alone.

He slit open the envelope with his untouched
dinner knife and pulled out the contents.

At first, he seemed to be a deer gazing into
blinding headlights. But as he browsed through the items, a wicked
smile formed across his lips.

“Baby, I’m sorry I forgot our anniversary,”
he said, wearing that pathetic, but frustratingly endearing,
‘uh-oh, I blew it’ expression.

And damn he wore the look well. It turned me
to mush every time.

He held up one of the pieces of stock
paper.

“Is this thing good all season?”

As he admired the “License for Love” I’d
designed and the tags to go with it, I laughed and nodded my head.
I’d even found one of his old permits in his junk drawer and
precisely copied its format.

“There
is
a three tag limit this year,
you know,” he said.

“Hmm. I’ll have to check with the
conservation officer about that.”

He opened his arms and motioned for me to
come sit on his lap.

“Not so fast, Daniel Boone. I’m the outfitter
on this expedition. Give me five minutes and then meet me in the
bedroom.”

Without so much as a wink, I left him to
finish his meatloaf and veggies.

While I prepared our evening campsite with
the gear I’d dug out of the shed — a lantern, a sleeping bag for
two, and two chocolate bars for a midnight snack — I overheard Ben
on the phone, canceling his hunting date with the guys.

I couldn’t wait to find out from the other
wives what his excuse had been.

But in the mean time, I added my own gear to
our campsite — my well-worn, illustrated copy of the Kama Sutra, as
well as much more than just oil for our lantern. Think love potions
and lotions with their very own feather duster applicators.

When Ben appeared in the doorway of our
bedroom, I could tell by the sparkle in his eyes that he was more
than enjoying my efforts.

Wearing the puffy, metallic bulls-eye I’d
painted onto one of my nightshirts, I handed him another tag
entitling him to the only doe he was going to get this weekend,
then kissed him on the cheek.

“So my limit has been raised?” He asked,
while pulling me close to his hard body and wrapping his arms
tightly around me. “You’re amazing. And I’ll never forget
that.”

“That’s my plan.”

He kissed the side of my neck and whispered
in my ear, “I’ll never think of my favorite field sport in quite
the same way.”

Until I’d gamely reminded him, I’d feared
he’d forgotten his favorite sport was me.

“Wait ‘til you turn out the lights,” I said,
hardly able to stand it until the glow-in-the-dark, puffy paint
lit-up the bulls-eyes on my nightshirt.

“You’re not gonna off me are you?” Ben asked
while feeling out his targets.

“Depends on your definition of getting
someone off.”

Not many people knew I was more than a
retired sex therapist and aphrodisiac produce queen. I was also a
Mom Squad Member whose specialty happened to be that of a Bond Girl
femme fatale.

“That said, I do have a few new techniques
I’d like to explore. Let’s just call it research,” I teased.

“Oh boy,” Ben said, and laughed.

As the last bulls-eye lit-up on my
nightshirt, I giggled. I had a feeling this wasn’t the kind of bush
Ben thought he’d be in this weekend.

 

THE END

 

 

 

 

Note from D. D. Scott

 

Welcome to my next D. D. Scott-ville
Adventure…

 

The Mom Squad Mini-Mayhem Mysteries

 

What are The Mom Squad Mini-Mayhem
Mysteries?

Here’s the scoop…

I had a ball writing The Bootscootin’ Books
and just couldn’t stand parting with all my quirky-crazy
characters. So…I brought ’em all along for my Cozy Cash Mysteries
plus added-to my ensemble casts and zany crews.

In the mean time, I had sooo many of you
requesting new stories, featuring my Bootscootin’ Books and Cozy
Cash Mysteries’ Mom Squad Characters, that I decided I’d treat
y’all to short stories too!

Each Mom Squad Mini-Mayhem Mystery (short
story) will feature at least one of The Mom Squad quirky-crazy,
blue-haired Charlie’s Angels wanna-be’s!

You’ll get to meet their extended families
PLUS learn the unique skill each Mom Squad Member has been
trained-to by The Cozy Cash Mysteries’ QuarterMaster R.

 

FLUID FULFILLMENT
— Mom Squad
Mini-Mayhem Mystery #1 -features Roxy’s mom Lily Vaughn, who some
say is now fairly gifted in Jujitsu.

 

LICENSED FOR LOVE
— Mom Squad
Mini-Mayhem Mystery #2 — features Jules’ Aunt Tulip, who rumor has
it, is now not just a sex therapist, but also a femme fatale.

 

What else is new in D. D. Scott-ville?

Thanks also to the request of all my superfab
D. D. Scott-ville readers and fans, I’m bringing you a D. D. Scott
Special Edition Ebook Boxed Set in November 2011.

BOOK: Licensed For Love (Short Story)
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