Good Time Doctor Read online

  GOOD TIME DOCTOR

  PENNY WYLDER

  Copyright © 2019 Penny Wylder

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or businesses, organizations, or locales, is completely coincidental.

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  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  His Shy Virgin

  Books By Penny Wylder

  1

  “Another?” The bartender grins at me. Her smile widens when I groan and shove my now-empty glass toward her across the bar top.

  “Make it a double.”

  “Celebrating something?” She arches a brow, and I wish I could shrink away from her gaze. What does she see when she looks at me? Someone to pity? If she does, she’s too nice to say it, at least. “Or mourning?”

  “The latter,” I mumble, as she slides a brand new double vodka soda back to me. I tip the glass at her in salute, and she pours herself a shot too.

  “To better days ahead, sis,” she says, tapping her glass against mine.

  “Amen to that.” I take a long drink, then glance at my bag. At the manila envelope peeking out the front pocket of it. Inside is the contract I signed earlier tonight. The one all my friends will be telling me “I told you so” over for years to come.

  They were right. I should have listened. But I thought it was real.

  I thought it was love.

  I take another drink, longer than my last, while the bartender drifts away to nurse some more of her ailing customers. There’s plenty of us in here. I checked in to the largest, fanciest hotel I could find downtown for exactly this reason. Because the only people you find in places like this are the other dregs of society. People like me with nowhere else to go. No plans on a rainy Thursday evening like this one. People in transit—here on business trips or passing through on their way from point A to point B.

  I thought I was done with this life. The single life, bar-hopping, the cesspool that is dating in the modern era. All of it. I figured, when I met Kevin, I was done with all that.

  From the get-go, he seemed perfect. Well-adjusted, a totally normal guy. Okay, so our first and last date was at a Starbucks. And okay, after I moved in with him a month later, we pretty much stopped leaving our house entirely, and only saw our friends whenever they showed up on our doorstep to forcibly drag us out to events. But that was normal, I thought. That’s what couples do. When you find Mr. Right, you don’t need to bother with fake romantic stuff or going out on expensive dates. You just… settled into life together.

  That’s why we got engaged after just four months together. Then we eloped a few months after that.

  My friends all told me it was too soon. They told me to be patient, give it time. It’s not like we were planning some big church wedding, so what did it matter if we went down to the Justice of the Peace a year or two later, instead of right then?

  But, exactly, I argued with them. We weren’t planning some big wedding, so why not tie the knot now? It was love—or so I told myself. We cohabitated, we got along okay. Plus Kevin had already pointed out to me how much money it would save us on our taxes.

  Well. How much it would save him. He was the one with the high-paying job as the director of an investment firm. Me, I was just the behind-the-counter girl at the local florist shop, who enjoyed spending her days arranging bouquets for other people’s weddings, and other people’s Valentine’s Days, and other people’s anniversaries.

  He used to joke that all that exposure to romance in my day job must make me immune to it in my own life. I agreed. But now, I wonder if I wasn’t just agreeing because I wished that were true. Not because it actually was.

  How did I not see this coming?

  I swirl my vodka soda on the bar and take another deep swallow. I mean, I knew Kevin had his flaws. Sure. Don’t we all. I knew he wasn’t into romance; I knew he hated any ‘unnecessary’ expenses (which included birthday or Christmas gifts, too, apparently). I knew he liked to keep everything in his life neatly categorized and organized. But I figured, that was the price of marriage. You compromise. You learn to live with each other’s quirks.

  My friends tried to warn me. I didn’t want to listen. I just wanted to be done with the dating game. I wanted to move on to the next step in life, and he was… well. He was there.

  Until two weeks ago. Just 6 months into our marriage. When I stopped by his office for a spontaneous visit (another thing he hated) to bring him his favorite lunch (a chicken sandwich, no toppings, and side salad, no dressing). His secretary told me he was busy, but I ignored the guy.

  “I’m just going to drop this off and then I’ll be out of your hair,” I promised the secretary.

  Stupid me. I should have recognized the look of panic on the dude’s face. I should have put two and two together, and realized it wasn’t business that was detaining my brand new husband.

  Instead, like an idiot, I walked into his office, completely oblivious, only to find him half naked, with a girl who looked barely old enough to be out of college—probably an intern at his company too, the sleazeball—on her knees, her lips around his dick.

  Fucker.

  I threw the chicken sandwich in his face. He just stood there, while the poor girl leapt away and tried to collect herself. He didn’t even bother to pull up his pants.

  “Don’t be so hysterical,” he told me. “I thought you were a logical person, Naomi. You know things like this happen.”

  In that moment, I wished I’d had more than just a sandwich to throw at his stupid head.

  I marched straight home, collected all of my things, and stormed out of his apartment. It didn’t take long. He had his place organized to his liking. He barely let me bring anything when I moved in—most of my stuff had to go into my friends’ houses or storage.

  “It ruins the feng shui of the place,” he told me when I said I wanted to keep some of my own furniture.

  Well, fuck his feng shui. I might have “accidentally” broken a few bottles of red wine all over his marble backsplash and lovely new hardwood floors on my way out of the door. Whoops.

  I thought that this week, when I finally got a contract drawn up by my lawyer—a friend of a friend who I called in a favor with, since I’d never be able to afford the kind of expensive lawyer I’d need to take on Kevin properly in court—I’d feel some kind of catharsis. I stormed into his office one last time and served him the divorce papers to his face (thankfully, this time avoiding a scene with any questionably-of-age interns being exploited by their director).

  But even slamming those papers onto his desktop and demanding he sign them right now didn’t feel satisfying. Because he just shrugged and smirked at me.

  “You’ll regret this rash decision when you realize how much money my future wife is going to have at my side.”

  “Trust me,” I spat in response, “you couldn’t pay me enough money to put up with you for one more minute.” I glared until he finished signing, and snatched up the paperwork before he could keep his grubby hands on it fo
r one more second. “Good luck hiring whatever gold digger you buy as a trophy wife next,” I snapped over my shoulder while I stormed out.

  It’s a crappy settlement. My lawyer even admitted that to my face. “You’ve only been married for 6 months, and your prenup was pretty specific about how little you’d get in this event,” he told me.

  “I don’t care,” I said. Which was true. I really didn’t care, not about the money. Not even though I needed to find a new apartment now, and fast, because I was burning through my savings, crashing at this fancy hotel.

  You owe yourself this much, I reminded myself. Just a few weeks here to get back onto my feet. To find a decent spot to rent again. And, of course, to find a job to replace the one Kevin talked me into leaving when we tied the knot.

  But none of that really matters. I’m doing the right thing. I’ve never been surer of that in my life. What stings, though? Is how little fucks he seemed to give. Not to mention how embarrassed I am to face my friends again. None of them will rub it in my face, which only makes it worse.

  They tried to warn me. Why didn’t I listen?

  Love makes us all act like idiots, I guess.

  But could you even call this love, really?

  I polished off the vodka soda, my third of the evening, in an attempt to silence my inner demons. Or at least to get them to stop arguing with one another.

  “One more?” The bartender flashes me that sympathetic smile of hers, but I shake my head, grimacing. The last thing I need to do is start running up a tab in here every night. Besides, I’ve had enough to take the edge off and more by this point.

  The bar sways a little as I climb off the stool and scoop up my purse with the counter-signed divorce papers in it, all notarized and filed as of this morning. I’m a single woman again, I think to myself. Except, that’s not entirely true. I’ll still have to check the divorced box on my taxes from now on. An eternal reminder of my idiocy. Of me leaping into a bad situation without bothering to check myself in any way.

  I groan as I reach the lobby. My room is only a short elevator ride away, but I don’t think I have the energy to make it all the way up there. Suddenly, my bladder is clamoring for urgent attention. At least for the price I’m paying, I know the lobby bathroom is clean and well-maintained. It’s just one of those all-gender handicap-accessible bathrooms, one stall, but it’s always empty around this time of night.

  Even the other dregs of humanity have better places to be at this hour, I think to myself, more than a little bitterly. But, as usual, it’s sparkling in there. I take a seat on the toilet, and glance up, only to find myself staring at a piece of completely out-of-place graffiti.

  I’ve never seen writing in here. Mr. Jenkins, the night manager of this place, who I’ve had to summon on more than one occasion to help with the odd plumbing or WiFi issue in my room, would have a fit if he saw this. I know he’s a regular task master with the staff, religious about making them keep this bathroom—and every bathroom in the hotel, actually—sparkling clean, no matter the hour.

  I figure some drunk person from the bar must have snuck in while Jenkins was away from his desk. That, or someone put this here on a dare. Because there the message is, sharpied onto the otherwise spotless wall in plain black Sharpie.

  For a good time, call Angel. 555-565-0240.

  I smile to myself. It’s been a while since I’ve seen any bathroom stall writing that straightforward, that old school. Lately I feel like all the graffiti you see in bar bathrooms is quotes to songs I’ve never heard of, or else philosophical arguments about whose dick is bigger, Todd’s or John’s.

  This, though… With an actual phone number? It’s a local area code too.

  That can’t be a real number, can it?

  Maybe someone’s friend put it in here as a prank. A practical joke. That, or it could be one of the hotel staff playing a joke on Jenkins himself. That would probably be a just reward for the way he treats them, acting overbearing and micromanagerial all the time. I’d thought about applying for a front desk job here when I first moved in—I have plenty of customer service experience from the flower shop after all—until I watched Jenkins cursing out his head of staff my third night here.

  Or maybe this is a legit offer, thinks another part of me. A part that, I hate to admit, gets a little excited at the thought.

  What, like a prostitute or something?

  I think they’re called escorts…

  There go my inner voices, arguing with one another again. I pull out my own cell phone, if for no other reason than to silence them once and for all. Before I think about what I’m doing, I’m punching in the numbers.

  Who does this? Like, who actually calls these numbers? Me, apparently. But it’s the first thing in a while—in longer than I care to admit—that feels spontaneous. Exciting, almost, if only because it’ll be a funny joke. Who knows who’s going to pick up on the other end? Angel sounds like a girl’s name. Could be a guy though, too, right? I think about Buffy, a guilty pleasure of my teenage years, and the ironically-named vampire boyfriend I always shipped her with.

  I can’t remember the last time I did something truly ridiculous, for no other reason than because I wanted to. With Kevin, everything we ever did was planned and mapped out down to the tiniest detail. We schedule our whole lives in advance. And nowhere in the schedule did we leave any room for fun, for freedom, for spontaneity.

  Well. Unless you counted him fucking his intern as spontaneous. I certainly didn’t. Knowing him, he probably timed how long it took her to suck him off and then gave her a performance review afterward.

  Stop thinking about him, I command myself. He’s an asshole who doesn’t deserve one more minute of your time.

  And then I hit dial.

  My phone rings. I press it to my ear, grinning. Okay, so maybe I’m a little more drunk off those three vodka sodas than I thought.

  It rings once. Twice. I debate hanging up. What am I going to say if this person picks up? Oh hi, I saw your number in a bathroom, want to hook up?

  I snort with laughter, just as I hear a click, and my heart suddenly jackhammers, leaping into my throat with surprise.

  “Hello?” A deep, masculine voice answers. If I’m not wrong, he sounds a little annoyed. “Who’s calling? Where did you find this number?”

  I take a deep, steadying breath. Then another.

  “I can hear you breathing, you know,” he says, and with the phone pressed to my ear the way I have it, it sounds like this mystery man is standing right next to me, his mouth inches from my ear. “If you’re calling for the reason I think you might be, you’d better say something before I trace this number back.”

  “I—I’m sorry,” I stammer. “I just… I saw your number in a…”

  “Let me guess. In a bathroom stall.”

  I swallow hard. “Y-yes.”

  “I see.” There’s a long pause on the other end, during which I realize I can hear him breathing too. Deep and slow and steady. The hairs on the back of my neck tickle, almost as though I can imagine him standing right behind me, leaning over me right there in the stall. “So you’re looking for a good time, then.”

  My tongue darts out to wet my lips. “I-I guess so…”

  “You don’t sound too sure about this.”

  “I’m not,” I blurt. I wince, grimacing at myself. “I mean, I just saw your number written in here, and I… Who still does that, anyway? Leaves their number in bathroom stalls. Does that actually work?”

  “You called, didn’t you?” he points out.

  Can’t argue with that logic. “Well, yes. But, er… I mean. Does it work often?”

  “Listen.” He clears his throat. “You sound like a good girl. A nice girl. Not the kind of girl who ought to be dialing this number at this hour, so I’m just going to—”

  “I’m not.”

  “Excuse me?” God, he has a sexy voice. Especially when he pauses like he does now, and then draws out his next words, long enough that
I can detect a faint accent in them. Southern, maybe? I’m not sure. “You’re not what?”

  “I’m not a good girl.” My heart is beating so fast I’d swear he should be able to hear it over the phone line. But that’s what makes this so easy. It’s easier to be sexy without an actual guy in front of me. When this is just a lark, a whim I’m indulging in. “In fact, I’m a very, very bad one.”

  This time, the pause is so long I worry he might have hung up. But when he speaks again, his voice sounds a little deeper, thicker. Like he’s battling some kind of emotion. “Is that why you called me, Miss…?”

  “Naomi,” I blurt, then wince at myself. Why did you use your real name? Always give the male escorts you call from a bathroom stall a fake name, you idiot. His name obviously isn’t really Angel, for crying out loud.

  “Naomi. Did you call me because you’re a bad girl?”

  I tense, surprised to feel a growing wetness between my clenched thighs. Damn. His sexy voice sounds even hotter when he talks like that. I reach out to trace the edges of the writing on the stall, running my fingertips over his name. “Yes, Angel. I called you because I’m a bad girl, looking for a good time. Is that something you could help me find?”

  I don’t even realize I’m holding my breath until my head starts to spin. I let out that breath, take another one, slower.

  “That depends, Naomi. What kind of a good time were you looking for?”

  Damn him. He’s going to make me say it. I lick my lips again, pulse jumping. “Preferably one that starts with you talking dirty in that sexy voice of yours and ends with me not needing to imagine what you look like.”

  On the other end, Angel takes a breath, too. “You want to meet.”

  “I wouldn’t hate it.” My cheeks flame red hot.

  “I have to admit, I don’t normally do this kind of thing anymore,” he says, slowly.

  I stare at his name and number in fresh ink on the wall. Bullshit. He probably tells everyone that.

  “But something about you intrigues me.”