Provocative Professions Collection (3 page)

"Of course I will. You have fun, don't worry about us, or about calling Brady. I'll tell him we spoke and how excited you are. In fact, don't even take your phone with you, Kathy, escape for a while and enjoy your family."

"You know, I think I will. Thank you, dear," she says brightly, her excitement ringing through.

The day my brother keeps his own shit picked up, let alone cleans an entire house, and for a week, I'll give up chocolate and chick flicks. Those two Neanderthals are gonna be swimming in filth by tomorrow night, mark my words. The mere thought makes me giddy, erasing my earlier aggravation and making the rest of the day bearable.

Infinity sminity—take that, Mr. Appointment Maker.

Never once have I felt as out of sorts as I do standing in front of the feminine hygiene products. Gone is the whistling, carefree girl that strolled in the store, still basking in the torture she'd sprung on an unsuspecting friend. Here I am in the corner drug store where I came for fresh razors but the damn "Feminine" sign drew me over. My eyes and brain can hardly keep up; there are
way
too many products available for the vagina.

"Excuse me," a woman says out of nowhere, reaching for the douche kit in front of me.

I smile and take one myself, tossing it into my cart.
Totally normal.
I can do this. Unsure what the other items are, I pluck one from each category and hightail it to the front of the store. Waiting in line, I snatch a bottle of lotion from the display. Jasmine works for me; in the cart it goes.

What I had not anticipated when I'd filled my cart with half a dozen freshening products was the young cashier, of course male, currently straining to control his amusement as he scans each item slowly.
Yeah, yeah, I like a clean vagina; keep scanning, buddy.
I thrust the cart forward and begin bagging the items myself.

Chapter 3

I wake with a lead weight in my gut, the panic of today's looming appointment sinking in the minute my eyes peel open. Nope, not ready to face it. I slam my eyes shut again, roll to my stomach, and bury my face in my pillow. My nerves are alive and rampant, eating at me to hurry up before the clock runs out and I'm left going to the appointment unshaved with the stench of the vet's office lingering.

With a huff, I'm on my feet shuffling to the bathroom. This is it—V day. No, not the flowers and candy one, the vagina one. I glance back at my cell phone perched mockingly on my night stand, my only escape plan. Beads of cold sweat break out over my forehead and the base of my neck, hell, even my breasts are damp. They're not ready to play peek-a-boo with the doc, let alone be fondled and judged. The debate to call and cancel is off the table. I already took the morning off work and my health
is
important, not to mention I'll walk across fire and snakes—
snakes on fire
—before I let Brady win!

Cursing him under my breath, I grab the two full bags of products and slam the bathroom door behind me. If I'm gonna do this, I'm gonna do it right. I turn on the shower to let it warm up and start with the easiest task, brushing my teeth. A little floss, mouthwash, spit and voila! Pearly whites glisten back in the mirror.

After opening the new pack of razors, I strip out of my clothing and dig under the counter for the hand mirror. Because of the
ample
notice I'd gotten, obviously there's no time for a professional visit, so ladyscaping is left up to me. I'm not that worried, the work should be light considering I keep a monthly appointment at our local spa, but with my love life nonexistent as such, I need to fully assess the situation.

Focused more on my lackluster dating life, I grab the few feminine products that I can apparently use in the tub. I step one foot into the shower and instantly rear back with a trembling squeal when the scalding stream hits my toes.

"Crap!" I reach in to crank the nozzle a bit, cursing my lousy apartment building for the always unpredictable water heater.

Timidly, I poke a finger into the downstream and relax for the first time all morning. Gotta take the small victories. Easing into the warm shower, I first tend to the basics, hair washing, loofah scrubbing, and armpit shaving. Next my legs, twice, with my usual silky body butter, using long, smooth strokes, willing my hands to stop shaking; the last thing I need is a ton of little nicks from my pesky nerves.

With an expert eye, not a single sneaky loner hair around my ankle or hidden behind my knee is left untouched. And then, in the most limberly-challenged way possible, I prop my right leg up with my foot on the edge of the tub, mirror gripped in one hand, razor in the other.

This is it, one stray hair left in the wrong place or a tiny nick will reveal my anxious preparation. Not the time for haste. I duck my head so water doesn't hit my eyes and give my girl a slight trim, nothing over the top. She looks pretty good actually, so the job's fairly easy, but with the obstacles and my anxiety, it takes longer than it should.

When I'm completely satisfied she's show worthy, I release a cleansing breath and turn off the spray, which was growing colder by the minute. I wrap myself in the comfort of my favorite extra-large fluffy towel, surprisingly, another birthday gift from Brady. He got tired of me complaining that the perfect towel didn't exist. Turns out I was wrong, Brady found it, and bought me a whole stack, which had me in awe, especially when I went to the store he'd purchased them in and saw the price tag.

Perfect or not, it was out of my budget.

Clean, check. Smooth, check. What next? Deodorant! I go ahead and slather it on now so it'll have time to dry, then sit on the lid of my toilet and open the first shopping bag.

Like a grab bag, I reach in blindly and pull out a deodorant, but not for my underarms. I flip it over and read the back. "Island splash. Spray anytime you need that fresh feeling."

Sounds easy enough. Ripping the package open, I give a little test squirt in the air and I'm hit with the scent of coconuts. Not too offensive, subtle and clean. Unsure of the appropriate distance to hold it, I spread my legs and spray. The coolness covers my sex, tingling the sensitive flesh. Definitely feeling fresh. Thumbs up there.

I place it on the counter and pull out the second product, wipes. Not needed, I toss them on the sink and take out the bottle of powder. "Too messy."

Next is a box of Norforms. "Hmm." Clicking my tongue, I read until my eyes catch the words "melts when inserted."
Trash can!
Wouldn't that be fun? Melting goo dripping out on the man!

One by one, the products get separated out between the trash and the counter.
Finally,
the lotion, something simple and familiar to me. With a spurt to my palm I massage it down my leg…and we hit a snag. My senses are assaulted with the pungent odor of fake jasmine flower.

Are you kidding me? Spooling toilet paper around my hands, I scrub my leg, removing as much of the offending lotion as possible, then grab my loofah and scrub harder. Bent forward, I sniff my leg, satisfied when only a trace of cheap jasmine remains. Good enough.

Hunched down, chastising my drastic behavior, I notice my toes, or more accurately, my toe polish, is a hot mess, chipped and bright blue. No, no, no! What was I thinking?

Everything possibly located in the bathroom goes flying as I manically dig for polish remover, cotton…do I have time for this? I fumble back, resting on the floor. No, nor do I have nail polish.

Breathe in and let it out.
I replay the instructions for calming I learned in the one yoga class I took last year. It works… a little. Okay, he won't notice my toes, I tell myself. Why would he when he has all my other body parts revealed and at his perusal?

I stand on wobbly legs and leave the steamy room to search for a
loose
blouse; I'll sweat through it the second I walk in the office otherwise. Once the billowy light blouse is in hand, I scour the closet for pants with no fussy buttons as well as pretty panties and a matching bra.

You know the rule, 'never leave the house in your "that time of the month" granny panties'. The minute you do… you'll find yourself in a car wreck…or in a gyno's office.

By the time I've reapplied deodorant, blotted the clumps, and sprayed perfume up and down my body, including down south, I'm exhausted. Turns out Cherry Almond doesn't mix well with Ocean Spray; my gag reflex hits and I race back into the bathroom and start scrubbing. Now I'll be red and irritated,
freaking
fabulous
!

That's it, enough!
My hands fly up into my hair, the one thing I could care less about and have done nothing with. This's going from bad to worse to…painful. I grab my cell, finger ready to dial and cancel, when I see the text.

Brady: Don't forget your appt. @10!

I realize all doctors take that darn oath thing, swearing to help all at any time able, but he's a bit too worried about my hooha's health.

Me: On my way out the door

There are phones that unlock with only the owner's thumbprint. They can take a heart out of one body and minutes later, place it in the chest of another, beating new life. People speak live, continents apart, over the internet. And yet no one has mastered the craftsmanship of the "doctor visit robe" beyond crinkly paper with one big ass side open…
unbelievable
.

The unpleasant hint of sweat building in the crease between thigh and ass cheek, as well as the backs of my knees, curtails my focus off the overly detailed illustrations on the walls. I'm left jumping up to shimmy across the cold floor with my ass hanging out to rip some paper towels out of the holder.

Wiping frantically, I dip a hand in my purse and spritz one more time, another scent—it's like Fruitopia down there.
Jesus, just kill me already.

I'm climbing back on the table, the paper cover over it, in collaboration with my robe, making the loudest crinkling sound possible when a knock on the door spins me around with a startled yelp.

"C-come in," I stammer, straightening myself quickly.

Dr. Reynolds' head peeks around the door, his face lit up with a beautiful, comfortable smile. "Addison, you ready?"

No!
"Yes." I manage a brave face for him.

Chapter 4

The doctor steps in, so young yet so dignified, and closes the door behind him. "How're you today?"

My pulse is rapid, throat dry, skin prickling. "Fine." The simple word hooks in my throat; bad start, try again. Mustering all the bravado I can find, I tear my gaze away from my clammy hands up to meet his. "Fine," I repeat clearer. "You?"

"No complaints." His eyes friendly and shining. "It's probably the best morning I've had in a while."

"Really. That interesting, huh?" I ask, gnawing my bottom lip.

Chart in hand, he hums affirmatively and strolls across the room. "Delivered healthy twin boys to a couple that spent almost a decade trying to conceive. Mama spent half the pregnancy on bed rest." He throws his leg over and straddles the rolling stool. "There's nothing like handing a parent their child for the first time. It's beyond incredible."

Gone are my nerves, replaced with a swell in my heart. "I bet it feels amazing to give them that."

His eyes rise to mine. "Not gonna lie, it feels pretty good." A soft puff of laughter bubbles up at his honesty, releasing the tension from my shoulders as my head tilts down.

All calmness working its way through me vanishes the instant I once again raise my head. He's watching me intently, his eyes holding mine in a commanding grip. The silence hanging over us is no longer natural and easy, but heavy, almost deafening. Goosebumps flare up my legs as the air charges with some foreign electric surge that shivers down my spine and pools in my gut.

It's Dr. Reynolds that breaks the heated connection, dropping his focus to my chart. "First visit, nervous?"

Am I nervous? I'm a lot of things right now, many yet to be named. I blink twice and subtly shake my head, attempting to brush off the fact that my body's on high alert, eager to discover what exactly just happened between us; that look, that spark.