Chapter Three
Melody
I’ve accomplished a lot in my year here in Rockaway Bay, I think as I park back in front of my office. I’ve got my own business — even if it is failing — and I’ve started a new life. It’s an accomplishment, it’s something to hold on to, even if I’m so close to losing it.
And now I’m host to a crime scene, apparently.
It’s such a proud moment for me, I almost feel like stopping in the parking lot and taking a picture with Al before we go inside. That way, when I’m older, I can look at the pic and wistfully rub the screen of my phone, with a tear in my eye as I remember one of the lowest points in my life.
Al and I both hop out of my car and run inside.
Sure enough, there’s Sheriff Phil Dawes. One of Rockaway Bay’s finest.
Phil’s in decent shape, has buzzed blond hair, blue eyes, and is crazy-tall. Any chance he gets, he’ll tell you about his time playing college basketball for USC thirty years ago, before an ACL injury sidelined him forever. He was a center and, according to him, he blocked shots with authority.
Now he spends his time blocking crime, also with authority.
He’s not the only one in the front office. And the new guy draws the breath right out from my lungs. Whoosh. And not in a bad way.
Green eyes that just seem to stare into me, medium-length dark hair that’s perfectly disheveled. And a smirk. It’s a smirk that on any other face would upset me or irritate me, but, on him, on his stubbled, handsome face, that smirk twists my insides and makes me feel warm all over.
He looks like pure sex, and smells like whiskey, smoke, and spicy-sensual cologne.
So the two of us, we burst into my front office in a huff expecting the worst and then stop and stare.
Al grabs my arm and squeezes. She’s feeling it too.
We share a look.
Maybe life isn’t so bad after all.
“What?” I say. And I barely force that word out.
Way to be eloquent in front of the hot guy, I think.
The new guy, that I just cannot stop staring at, holds up one of his cuffed hands and I see it is covered in blood.
“Fun town you got here,” he says, dryly.
“There was a stabbing at The Crossroads, that biker bar a few miles down the highway, and this one put three bikers in the hospital,” Phil says, his voice very matter-of-fact and cold. “I need you to patch him up.”
“They thought it’d be a good idea to try and borrow my bike,” the hot guy says. “Turns out, those bikers aren’t that smart.”
“That’s a man,” I say, pointing. Again. So eloquent, Melody. Way to make a first impression. Somehow, my tongue keeps going. “We’re veterinarians. We don’t work on people — we work on cats and dogs.”
“That man is not a dog,” Alice adds.
“There’s quite a few woman that would disagree with you on that point,” the mystery man says.
He seems remarkably calm for a man whose hands are so red looks like he’s been finger painting all day. He might be dripping blood everywhere, but he’s also just plain dripping with confidence.
How much blood has he lost? A pint? Two?
Sheriff Phil grabs the guy by the arm and starts dragging him towards one of the back examination rooms.
“Ladies,” he says over his shoulder. “I understand this isn’t exactly your purview, but Doc Anderson’s out of town and, well, Rockaway Bay ain’t the biggest place; there’s no one else to stitch him up. Don’t worry about getting in trouble — Good Samaritan laws in Oregon are pretty forgiving and I ain’t going to report you. So, you going to help me or what?”
Al and I share a look and then we hurry up to follow the sheriff. Once in the room, she goes about getting from the cabinets the equipment we’ll need — gauze, stitches, needles, surgical tape, iodine — and I carefully pick at the man’s shirt and start to peel it back.
Sitting as he is, every bit of his eight pack abs is taut and on display, and his pecs stand out on his chest like solid slabs of muscle. They flex and move and I look up at him and there’s that smirk again.
Safe to say, the patient works out.
“We’re going to need to get this off you, so we can clean the wound and stitch it up, ok?” I say.
He chuckles.
“Do you really think I’m going to object to a beautiful woman wanting to take my clothes off?” he says, winking at me.
And then he slips his shirt off and my mind slips out of focus as I take in the sight of him — his muscled form stretching and extending as he takes off his shirt — and, when he tosses it into the corner, he gives me this look that quite blatantly says he’s happy to keep stripping.
“Since I’m about to get to get to know you pretty well, sir, it’d probably be a good idea for me to know your name,” I say, using the same calming voice I use with my regular patients. Patients who are dogs and cats. Not handsome, half-naked men stretched out on my examination table and looking at me like they want to eat me up.
It’s tough though to keep my voice steady while I examine him.
For one, I’m breaking a lot of rules here, serious rules, and I know it. My veterinary license does not cover human treatment, and while there are allowances made for certain circumstances, the idea of losing my license freaks me out. If I lose that, I don’t know what I’ll do.
Not to mention, working on dogs and cats is a lot different than working on people and it’s not just the lack of fur.
“Julian Stone,” he says, not even flinching as I poke around his stab wound a bit.
To my right, Al gasps and drops the bottle of iodine she’s holding, but I don’t pay it much attention as I’m too busy checking to see if any arteries or organs were hit.
“Nice to meet you, Julian. I’m Melody,” I say, semi-distractedly.
“That’s a beautiful name,” he says, and there’s some extra heat in his voice that gives me pause. “Melody,” he repeats it to himself, quietly.
“Hi, I’m Alice,” Al blurts out.
“Hi Alice,” he says, smiling at her.
I don’t know what’s got into her. Yes, this guy is hot as hell, but she is acting like there’s something else to this patient that I’m just not getting.
Whatever. I focus on my job.
Though the wound is pretty messy looking, it’s not actually too deep and doesn’t look like it’s punctured the abdominal cavity. Which is very good news for my patient.
“Al, can you hand me the iodine? We need to make sure this wound doesn’t turn septic.”
“I think we should take his pants off,” she replies, outright staring at his crotch and I’m pretty sure she’s hyperventilating right now.
Thirsty, much?
“What? Why?” I say.
“Help yourself, ladies,” Julian says, grinning.
“Because, I think there’s something we need to check out, Mel.”
Jesus, girl, can you save it until after we stitch this guy up?
Then I follow her eyes — my gaze lingering for a second on the very visible bulge in the crotch of his pants — down to a spot on his upper thigh. A spot that looks a little darker than the rest of his dark jeans. Blood.
There’s a second stab wound.
“I think you’re right, Al,” I say and I reach for his belt. “Can you clean the abdominal wound while I strip him down?”
“Yes, please,” she says, quickly moving to get her hands all over Julian.
He doesn’t make any move to stop me as I undo his belt. If anything, his grin gets wider. He’s loving this.
Belt off, I slide his pants down.
Now I know why he’s grinning so much. I get his pants down just past his thighs and I freeze.
Holy shit, he’s big.
I mean… holy shit.
For a second, I forget why I’m stripping him and just look at it. Al — practically frozen in place — is staring, too.
“Damn, dude,” Sheriff Dawes says, and I can’t tell if he’s exasperated by this whole situation, or if he’s more appreciative. “Good job.”
Is that what guys say to other guys who’re well endowed? ‘Good job’?
Guys are weird.
Still, there’s this gorgeous, athletically-built man stretched out on my examination table, barely-clothed, and he’s taunting me in a way that’s both maddening and incredibly hot. And it’s my job to touch him.
I’m suddenly a lot less hesitant about this whole arrangement.
In fact, I kind of love my job right now.
“Oh, come on,” Sheriff Dawes exclaims, grabbing Julian’s jeans and pulling them the rest of the way off.
“You too, sheriff? I never would’ve guessed you swung that way,” Julian says, feigning shock.
“I am not stripping you for my own gratification, I just want to get this shit over with and get home to my wife,” he replies. “My wife who happens to be female. And who I have sexual relations with all the time.”
“Your eyes are saying something totally different. I see you looking. There’s no shame in admitting it, man.”
“I have to keep an eye on you. I’m the god damn sheriff, it’s my job.”
“Don’t you just love it when duty and pleasure intersect? At the very least, you’re admiring. Admit it.”
“I am not admiring your body,” Sheriff Dawes blurts out. He hems-and-haws for a second, as if debating himself, before continuing. “Well, not in a sexual way. I will admit you’re in damn good shape, man. I mean, back when I shot hoops for USC, I was almost in as good of shape. What sort of workout do you do? Crossfit?”
Julian shrugs, and he hardly flinches as I apply the iodine to his cuts and work at cleaning them up before I stitch them. Muscles and tattoos compete for my attention, and any time I even halfway catch a look at his face out of the corner of my eye, I see that smirk. That smirk that says I know what you’re thinking and pushes me to get even dirtier.
I’m supposed to be thinking about stitching him up… instead, I’m thinking about him, and me, alone in this room, stretched out on the examination table. I’m lost in the suggestions of his sexy body and his spicy, earthy scent and thinking about just what this scorchingly hot man could do to me.
Focus, Mel. You’re a veterinarian. You screw this up and it is seriously bad news.
I get myself back on track.
“Martial arts, rock climbing, sex, it varies,” Julian says, his eyes flickering towards me for a second. “Really depends on where I’m at. Traveling and work makes things complicated, but depending on the place or my partner, I get in as vigorous a workout as I can.”
“Well, keep it up whatever you’re doing. You are cut,” Sheriff Dawes says.
“You’re not in bad shape yourself, sheriff,” Julian says. “Pretty impressive that you can keep yourself maintained for all these years. You should be proud.”
Sheriff Dawes smooths his uniform out over his abdomen and stands up a little straighter. “You think so?”
“Yeah, man. You look good.”
I get the needle and thread out and, even though he hardly reacted to me cleaning his injuries, I do the courteous thing and give him a warning. “I don’t want to interrupt you boys and your gym talk, but, Julian, this might hurt a little. And, before you ask, no, I can’t give you any anesthetics because I only have stuff meant for animals.”
“Don’t worry about me, just do what you need to do,” he says casually.
The needle goes in and there’s hardly a reaction from him. It’s like he didn’t get stabbed a half hour ago. Even though these injuries aren’t that deep and he’s not taking this seriously, I sure am. I tune out Julian and Sheriff Dawes’ jawing and male bonding, and I focus on making these stitches as tight and perfect as possible.
By the time I cut the thread and Alice puts some gauze over the area, Julian and Sheriff Dawes are best friends.
“Ok, you should be all set,” I say, standing up and removing my gloves. “You’ll need to go easy for a week or so. That means no bar fights.”
“Melody, do you have a second?” Sheriff Dawes says, once I toss my gloves and finish putting my gear away.
I follow him out into the hallway and, even though I’m not looking, I can feel Julian’s gaze burning into my back… Well, a bit lower than my back.
“What is it, Phil?”
“I wanted to do you the courtesy and let you know that I’ll be coming by this Friday to deliver some papers,” he says, his voice dropping quiet, “Papers from your landlord.
My stomach feels like a lead balloon. “You mean?”
Phil nods. “I really hate to do it, but your landlord is just tired of waiting and he wants to see what other offers he can get. Again, I’m really sorry, Melody, I tried to talk him out of it — lord knows the property market here in Rockaway Bay isn’t the hottest — but he’s pretty set.”
My stomach might be sinking, but my voice is rising and tears are scratching their way out. “You’re evicting me? I’m trying so hard, Phil. I’m really trying.”
It’s gone silent in the examination room. I know they’re listening, but I don’t care.
I’m such a failure. I knew this was going to happen at some point — I’m not an idiot. I know that zero revenue plus steady bills equals big problems. But it was one of those things that was more comfortable to deny and ignore than admit was right on the horizon.
I feel so humiliated, right now.
Not even the big hug that Phil’s giving me is helping, even though Phil gives great hugs.
“I’m sorry, Melody,” he says.
I don’t answer — I just let myself go, just for a second, just enough to get out some of those tears that I can’t hold back any longer.
“It’s fine, Phil,” I say, my voice shuddering. “I know you’re just doing your job.”
“I’ve got to go, now. I’ve still got a few hours on my shift, but, if you need to talk, call me, ok?” he says, hands on my shoulders while he looks into my eyes. “There’s going to be a tow truck coming by in an hour or so to drop off Julian’s bike. You and Alice going to be good until then? I can call my wife to come wait with you, if you like.”
I shake my head. “No, I’ll be fine.”
I’m not so sure about that, but, right now, the fewer people I have around me, the better. I’ll be having an ugly, self-hating cry in just over an hour, once I manage to chase everyone else away.
This was my big chance, this was me starting over, this was me taking control and seizing the opportunity to make something happen for myself — and just myself — and now I’m losing it.
“Good night, Melody,” Phil says from the door.
I give him a little wave, biting my lip and feeling a lump rise in my throat.
Even when I see his car pull away and his taillights disappear out the parking lot, I stay in that front office, not wanting to turn around, not waiting to face Al and let her know what she probably already knows — that soon she’s going to be out of a job, that I’ve let her down.
It’s then I realize I can’t do it. I can’t tell her. Not with him in the room.
“Al, can you come out here?” I call out.
She comes slowly. She already knows what I’m going to say. We’ve both suspected this day was coming at some point.
“Hey, Mel, what’s up?”
I swallow. Better to get this over with. “Friday’s going to be our last day.”
Bless her, she doesn’t belabor it. She doesn’t argue it. She just nods, and then she gives me the mother of all hugs.
“I’m sorry, Mel,” she says to me.
Something wet hits my shoulder.
I don’t know if it’s one of hers or mine.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry, and I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“It’s ok. It’s going to be ok. We’ll figure it out.”
She says it over and over and it starts to feel comforting, like just the act of repeating it makes me feel that it’s going to be real.
Maybe we will figure it out. I’ve been through tougher stuff. This isn’t going to be the end.
Still, what I’m staring at seems insurmountable and inevitable.
I’ve failed.
“You can go home, if you like,” I say, slowly.
Al looks at me for a moment, unsure. “If that’s what you want.”
“Yes, I’d like to be alone here tonight,” I say. “And, maybe, don’t come in tomorrow? I can handle the appointment myself.”
“Sorry, not doing that. I’ll be in at one, whether you pay me or not, and I’m bringing you your coffee. Extra caramel and extra whipped cream. And a bottle of whiskey.”
I smile. “Thank you.”
“Well, I’ll be at home if you need me. I’ve checked on Rex and he’s sleeping like a hundred-and-fifty pound baby. Are you sure you’re good, being here with our other patient?” she says, nodding towards the examination room.
“I am. Thanks, Al.”
She grabs her things and gives me one last look before heading out the door. I take a second to compose myself and then, realizing that’s probably not going to happen, I head to my desk and take out the bottle of rum I keep in there for emergencies.
I’m going to miss this place. I’m going to miss my patients — what few of them I had. I’m going to miss sharing coffees and gossip with Al in the hours between appointments.
I’m going to miss feeling like I was making something of myself.
Though I guess I did make myself into something. A failure.
I don’t have a glass around to drink from. But then, I don’t need one — when you’re drinking emergency rum, you drink straight from the bottle.
“Care to pass that my way?” comes a voice from behind me.
It’s kinder, gentler than it was minutes ago. That smirk is gone, replaced with genuine concern. He’s still shirtless, still distractingly sexy, and even relaxed, he’s harder than any man I’ve ever seen.
His deep, green eyes just seem to drink me in and make me want to open up about him. There’s something about him that’s so compelling that I can’t say ‘no’ to.
I pass him the bottle and hope he doesn’t drink too much.
“Thanks,” he says, taking a long swig and then passing it back to me. “That’s some good stuff. Little on the cheap side, but it’ll do.”
That bottle cost me seventy bucks. Back when I actually had seventy bucks to spend.
“Don’t mention it.”
We sit a moment, quiet, except for the sloshing of rum in the bottle as we pass it back and forth and drink.
“Some night,” he says.
“Look, Julian, I really don’t feel like talking,” I say.
And I don’t. Even if he is hot, and even though we’re alone, I kind of just want to drink until I stop feeling so disappointed in myself. Or I pass out. One or the other, it doesn’t matter.
“Then how about listening,” he says, pausing just a moment for me to nod before going on. “I got the gist of what’s going on for you — that look, that nice bottle of rum, those goodbye hugs — you’re about to lose this place, am I right?”
I haven’t even nodded before he goes on.
“Of course I’m right. I’ve seen this scene at least dozen times, hell, I’ve caused this scene most of time. Shutting down under-performers, cutting the dead weight after mergers. It’s a fucking fact of life.”
I’m hardly listening at this point. Just hearing the words ‘under-performers’ and ‘dead weight’ has me thinking of myself. It cuts too close to home.
“I’ll bet — like everyone who starts a business — you thought you were going to be doing well by this point, didn’t you?”
I frown and look up from the rum bottle. “When I bought this place, there was a dairy farm and a ranch, both just outside of town, both made me busy as hell, and then both closed down. Can you fucking blame me?”
He shakes his head and takes the bottle out of my hands. “I can’t. But you probably should. I’ll bet, after they shut down, you just kept plugging along, hoping things would change.”
I hate what he’s saying — the words sting and I can feel the harsh truth of it all like a slap in the face — but I don’t hate how he’s saying it. His words might get my hackles up, but not him — he’s sincere, he’s not judging me.
“What does it even matter?”
“Because back then, when you should’ve been looking for other ways to drum up some business — whether it’s moving to a different town, or offering pet grooming services, or fucking whatever — you kept your head in the sand. That wasn’t a good decision.”
“Thanks for pointing out how well-established my failure is.”
He shakes his head and drains a quarter of the bottle in one swig. “If you want to accept it, then fine. If you want to change it and save your damn business, I’ve got an offer for you.”
I take the bottle back, take a pull, and shrug my shoulders.
“Ok, what’s your offer?”
He looks me right in the eye. “Be my fiance.”