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His ass looks like a peach in those khaki shorts, ripe and plump and good enough to make into a pie.
She licks her lips. Corn-fed farm boy, out and about in the big city. Blond hair, blue eyes, and sticking out like a sore thumb; she’d roll her eyes if her hand weren’t already knuckle-deep in his back pocket, fingers tight around his wallet.
“Come here often, sweetcheeks?” she whispers in his ear, husky and seductive, oh she’ll have him wrapped around her pinky finger by dawn, he won’t know what hit him. She likes the cut of his jaw and the way it catches the dim glow of the lights behind the bar when he turns. The kid looks like Steve McQueen; all that’s missing is a pair of chaps and a dusty brown cowboy hat.
“Beg yer pardon?” McQueen says, turning with a smile; then he takes one look at her face and does a spit-take so exaggerated it makes her smile widen. Good idea to ditch the bra. These country boys are so easy.
Beer foam hits her skin and slides sensually down, down her rack and under the glittery folds of her shirt.
“I’ll have you beggin’ for more than just my pardon,” she tells him, giving him her best Liza Minnelli smile with an extra dash of sugar just because. She advances and McQueen stumbles back, horror on his face, knocking a glass full of limes over off the bar with one flailing hand.
Well, figures. All this kid’s done in his short, sad life is tip cows and fuck boots filled with lard out behind his daddy’s woodshed. Of course he wouldn’t know how to handle a whole lotta woman up in his face.
She sighs, taking pity on him. “Come on, kid, you won’t regret it,” she says in a sing-song, setting her honey trap with a bat of her eyelashes. See? Harmless. “I won’t bite. That is, unless you like that sorta thing. A Benjamin for a bee-jay, throw in an extra 20 for just the tip if you’re good.”
Just to give the kid a little preview, she flops a tit out from her top.
McQueen gags with a retching sound.
She tsks; poor baby choked on a fly.
“MYRNA!” the bartender yells, “I told you last time I’d call the cops if you keep pulling this shit!”
The lights around them swirl prettily, like breathy wisps of starlight. Myrna laughs and blows a kiss at her Steve McQueen when the pigs come, and lets the weight of his fat farmboy wallet slap against her thigh when they cuff her and haul her away.
When she drops to the ground outside the cop car, shuddering and foaming at the mouth in an Oscar-worthy performance, they all groan and grunt prettily like the pigs that they are.
::
The doctors of PTMC are all pretty as pretty can be. Tall, short, young and old, she could take them all—at the same time if she hydrates properly. Myrna lets her eyes wander. That Doctor Shen looks damn good in scrubs when he bends over to check an old guy’s pulse. He walks by, giving her a look from the corner of his eye like a hungry dog watching you eat your dinner. Myrna licks lips that are suddenly dry; she parts her legs suggestively, almost moaning when the air conditioning wafts up her skirt and hits her just right.
Dr. Shen’s brow furrows, and he looks up and away, muttering under his breath. No doubt asking God for forgiveness for his animalistic lust for her.
“Hey, dragon fruit,” Myrna says. She knows he can hear her, even though he’s concentrating on the computer screen and pretending not to. “Wanna see how far you can stretch this mochi?"
“Jesus,” Shen mutters, typing slowly.
She waits for him to ask her what she’s in for. Nothing. He does love to play hard to get. She hands him the baton: “A handsome cowboy caught me with his lasso tonight.”
“Uh huh.”
“Couldn’t escape it in time.” Myrna closes her eyes. Where did she put that wallet? Must’ve fallen out when she pulled her get-out-of-jail-free card and faked that seizure. “Then the pigs got me before we could have some fun.”
“Uh huh.”
Booooring.
Myrna lets her gaze slide off of his hunched up shoulders. What a shame Fruitcake isn’t on duty tonight. He prefers the sun, she knows. He’s like Superman with a motorbike and a bald spot. She misses Fruitcake; he may be a homosexual in constant distress, but he’s the only one that knows how to tango with her when she’s feeling frisky. Can’t say the same for Dr. Dunkin over here.
There’s only one other doctor in his hellhole that can keep up with her; she keeps her eyes peeled, Shen and his oral fixation slash caffeine addiction already forgotten.
It takes a while but then, Bingo: there he is, those salt and pepper curls and freckled biceps illuminated across the Emergency Room like there’s a spotlight on him. Myrna squirms in her wheelchair, watching him. Hello Dr. Abbot, and hello to those strong hands and fingers so thick she wants to throw them on a grill, so fat and juicy they'd fill her up like a whole meal. He walks across the Pitt, no-nonsense and authoritative as a lion with his pride, with that tripod stride of his—and yeah, she knows about the leg, that’s not what she’s talking about.
Just the thought of the python in his pants is enough to bring on a hot flash. Myrna grabs a paper off the nurse’s station and fans herself, waiting. Damn straight she’s seen the bulge. Hell, you couldn’t miss it; sometimes Abbot walks by and she dreams of getting suckerpunched by an untimely swing of his wrecking ball of a sack.
Wouldn’t that be a great way to earn a boarding bed. Myrna takes a mental note. She’ll have to wait for a day where he’s gone commando.
“Well, well, well,” she calls out when he’s within earshot. “If it isn’t Doctor Abbot.”
Abbot turns, finding her with unerring accuracy like he’d already clocked her before walking over. Well, he probably had. They have a connection, after all. Too bad he’s married. Myrna glares at the ring on his finger, praying for a miracle.
“Hey, Myrna,” Abbot says, an angelic smile lighting up his handsome face. “That’s a beautiful dress.”
“Not a dress,” Myrna whispers, beckoning him over. When he’s close enough, she pulls her top up to expose her belly, showing him her new piercing. “Better this way. Easy access, ya know?” She winks at him.
Now, see, if it had been anyone else, they wouldn’t have been able to handle it. Abbot, though, he gets it. He grins at her, a little boyish, charmingly crooked. “Nice tattoo,” he says, like she hasn’t shown it to him a dozen times. “I like my girls a little dangerous.”
“Then you’d love my swing set back home, sugartits,” Myrna purrs, laying on the charm. She likes how he looks into her eyes. His are hazel green and twinkle naughtily. Excitement floods her body, makes her wet with anticipation. The glacial breeze of the aircon hits her again; it just intensifies the feeling. Oh, yes. Tonight is the night.
“Acrobat, huh?” Abbot smiles.
“They don’t call me Flexy Lexy for no damn reason.” That’s a lie. No one calls her Flexy Lexy. Still, she knows some tricks, and starts to pull up her leg just to show him what he’s missing.
“Whoa, now,” Abbot says, laughing, and stops her, his hands hot on her skin. His bulge is so noticeable in those flimsy damn scrubs. Right at face-level. She doesn’t need to be invited twice. Tongue out and teeth bared, Myrna lunges, and almost gets her mouth on the prize but he’s as quick as a housecat and jumps out of the way.
Myrna pouts up at him.
“Always nice to see you, too, Myrna,” Abbot says, and then he’s gone.
What a cocktease. Myrna watches him go, appreciating the view.
Always nice to see her, huh?
Well, her daddy did raise her to take a hint when it was shoved in her face.
::
It’s easy to find the right moment to wheel herself out to the ambulance bay. It’s even easier to pick the lock of the handcuffs; she’s done it enough times she could teach a masterclass. No one’ll miss her: the pigs had been happy to escort her to the hospital instead of locking her up and dealing with the paperwork, and the nurses are in the middle of handoff, easiest time to lose track of a patient.
Myrna leaves the wheelchair, grabs a cigarette out of her bag, and walks seductively around the hospital to wait by the front door.
When Abbot finally emerges, he looks tired. Myrna tsks under her breath. She’ll fix that in no time. Men have called her pussy many things, but one John in particular stands out because he’d breathed her in and, high as a kite, told her her come was like crack cocaine.
(He’d been geared up to the gills at the time, of course, but still counts.)
She watches Abbot linger by the door, greeting the occasional person that wanders by. She takes a long drag of her cigarette and snorts in disgust when Abbot suddenly straightens at the sight of a cute young thing sauntering out of the exit.
That’s Samira, Myrna assesses, squinting her eyes to get a good look. Yep, that's her alright. Samira Mohan. Hoity-toity Mohan. Whatever. Samira is a very good doctor, always very polite, and patient, and yada yada, Myrna doesn’t swing that way so she honestly couldn’t give a fuck.
Dr. Abbot seems to swing that way, though, judging by how he’s looking at Samira. Oh yeah. He’s swinging hard. Myrna feels a twinge of jealousy when Samira laughs at something he says, and Abbot bites his lip, watching her with a gaze that says far too much.
Myrna doesn’t like that, not one bit. She stomps out her cigarette and lights another one.
After fraternizing for a couple more minutes, they part ways and Abbot walks slowly to his car. Myrna follows him a safe distance behind. He doesn’t seem to notice her; he looks lost in thought, craning his head to peer up at the sky that is slowly turning grey with morning sunlight. He keeps dragging a hand down his face, like he’s caught in some mental turmoil. It’s so obvious. He’s always been a little too obvious, you ask Myrna. She tries not to think about it, but hard not to when he’s strutting around that hospital, his yogurt slinger leading the way, constantly throwing moon eyes over at Samira when her back is turned.
Myrna tsks again. She could help him clear his head, forget about that pretty young thing.
When he unlocks his car, it’s easy to sneak around and slide into the passenger seat.
To Abbot’s credit, he only jumps a little.
“Is that a stethoscope in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?” Myrna asks over his yelp and muttered curse.
“You know,” Abbot says when he's got his breath back, face flushed, “I was wondering when we’d get to this point.”
“Only a matter of time, sugartits,” Myrna agrees. “So how do you want to do this? You wanna fuck in the car, that’ll cost extra.” Last time she’d done that, the John had left her stranded on the I-79, and the walk home had caused an arthritis flare-up in her knees that lasted weeks.
Abbot rubs his face again. Aw. She hadn’t taken him for a shy one. She likes the shy ones. They always want to do the nastiest shit once she’s gotten them a little loose with a shoot of tequila and a popper or two. He just needs a little encouragement.
Myrna leans over and lets her tongue work its way down his neck, tasting sweat and musk and man, her hand finding that bulge she’s been eyeing for years. Oh, baby, it's just like she’d imagined. That wrecking ball will be demolishing her architecture soon, she thinks with an excited moan.
“Myrna, stop—”
—and his lips are so soft. He tastes like coffee and grape jello, and his day-old scruff is like sandpaper against her chin. Myrna moans and slips her tongue into his mouth, already worked up and ready for him. She pulls his hand down below her skirt, lets his fingers find the puddle he’s responsible for.
“Myrnastop,” Abbot says, muffled against her mouth.
“Shhh,” Myrna says happily. “Just let it happen. She doesn’t have to know.”
Abbot pulls back sharply. “Who?”
Good question. Myrna pauses with his fat fingers halfway up her cunt. She grips his hand with her thighs, feeling the outline of the wedding ring. The answer should be obvious. Then she thinks back to the way Abbot had been gazing at Samira Mohan like she’d hung the moon from her pussy lips.
“Uh,” Myrna says, thinking fast. “Your girl.” Vague enough. She latches back onto his neck, back to massaging his bulge. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Listen,” Abbot says. He pulls his fingers from her cunt with what looks like regret. They make a sound like a cork pulled from a bottle. Yeah, baby. She does her daily kegels.
Myrna sighs again at the look on his face. Of course. Here comes the guilt.
He works his stubbled jaw like he’s figuring out what to say. “I’m flattered, Myrna. I just… don’t think I’m the guy for you.”
It’s like a slap in the face. Myrna collapses into her seat, a hand clutching her chest where her heart is beating a mile a minute. Her Jack Abbot? Rejecting her? She’s no fool. She knows what’s going on.
“Your girl,” Myrna says sulkily. It isn’t a question.
A multitude of emotions crash into each other on the highway of Abbot’s eyebrows. “...Yes,” he says finally.
She sniffs. “Fair enough.” The rejection is taking its toll. She can feel herself wilting. She’ll need a full day of beauty sleep and a hearty regimen of aphrodisiac-rich foods and a carefully doled out daily dose of meds before she’s ready to take to the streets again tonight.
With a heavy heart, she prepares to dismount. “Goodbye, sugartits,” she says mournfully, stroking a hand down his beautiful face. He gives her a weak smile.
Then he stops her before she closes the door. “Wait. Myrna. How did you know about how I feel about Samira?”
Samira? Myrna frowns. Oh. Well, it’d been a coin toss, at the end of the day.
“I’ve seen the way you look at her,” Myrna pouts. “When you think she isn’t looking. It’s not very attractive to pine so openly, Doctor Abbot. Be a man and do something about it, or get that dick wet with a woman who will actually appreciate you for who you are.”
Abbot looks like he’s been hit with a bolt of lightning.
Before she leaves for good, Myrna pauses. Might as well throw him a bone. For old time’s sake. “She looks at you too, you know,” she says. “When you’re not paying attention.” She shakes her head. “Better take advantage of that before it’s too late. If you change your mind, you know where to find me."
When she walks away, she tosses one last look over her shoulder. Abbot has his head leaned back against the headrest, hands over his face, and his shoulders are shaking. She pauses to make sure he’s not crying. After a minute, she realises he’s laughing.
“What a fruitcake,” Myrna mutters to herself, and walks away, lighting another cigarette.