Page 23 of Doc Showmance
No. It wasn’t cute. And I didn’t notice the tattoo that barely peeked out from beneath the sleeve of his pale green scrub top. He got a tattoo? I wanted to talk ink. I was a person who could talk ink for hours.
I leaned forward to whisper, “We’re not on camera, and no one’s judging you. You can drop the smiley shit.”
“I smile when I’m nervous.”
“How could I possibly make you nervous?”
“You threatened to maul my balls and encouraged me to lick a duck.”
“You’re being a weenie. Grow a pair. You could sit on me and I’d squish like a bug. You’re a hundred pounds heavier than me and in way better shape.” I examined the menu. “How about we order dessert? Unless you’re hungry for real food.”
We ordered sweets and decaf coffee and sat in silence. I couldn’t even remember what I ordered other than coffee, but it had the word chocolate in it. After two sighs, a seat shift, and a few drums of my fingernails on the tabletop, I couldn’t stay quiet any longer. “Well, this whole thing sucks balls.”
He laughed. Fucking laughed.
“I forgot how foulmouthed you are. It’s hilarious. First, you’re telling me your fantasy of mauling my balls, and now everything sucks balls.”
“I’d be happy to give you a one-two punch to each testicle right now. I, for one, will feel a lot more relaxed.” I held up my fists in starting position for a fight. “I do kickboxing on my days off. So, if you’d be so kind as to stand up and shuffle to my side…”
He shook his head, sobering. “No thanks. Wouldn’t have taken you for a kickboxer. Guess it makes sense your fun activity is hitting people since you’re kind of a tiger in a mini package.”
“I am not mini,” I said, bristling.
“Come on, Amber. You have to stand on the stepstool to reach the top shelf drugs.”
“So do a lot of other people. I’m five-five, thank you.”
His eyebrows shot up.
“You’re still such a dillweed.” I rolled my eyes.
“Goth Girl,” he shot back.
“This is never going to work on the show. All you do is pick, pick, pick. It’s like you’re trying to see which buttons you can push to get the greatest explosion out of me.”
His eyes narrowed. “Maybe so. You’re exciting when you get mad.”
I held up my hands in a time-out position. “Enough. How do we make this work to survive the next few months?”
“I don’t know.” He looked out the window next to him and into the darkness lit by lights from neighboring businesses. “I guess we fake it till we make it.”
“Does that mean you want me to be nice to you at work? To not jump down your throat when you call me short or fat?”
“I’ve never said you’re fat. I’m sure you’re aware your curves work for you. There’s nothing wrong with being short. It makes you deceivingly cute. People think because they tower over you they can run all over you. When they try, the tiger emerges one-two punching.” He did a punch-jab for illustration.
What? He thought my curves worked for me?
Who the hell was this Ian Todd?
“Second,” he said, “I’m sure Marianna would like you to be nice. But me? I prefer you not nice. If you came at me all soft and sweet and cooperative, I’d be terrified you were luring me in to lay an actual punch to my nuts. Or you wanted me to do something awful, like manually evacuate a constipated cat.”
“I’ll have to remember that’s your nightmare. Constipated cats. I can make sure you get the next one, if you’re not careful.”
He sipped his water before looking back up at me. “Beyond our history and the fact you’ve got a huge grudge, which I get, what’s the worry for you with the two of us developing something for the camera?”
I leaned back. He couldn’t seriously be asking about why this was problematic.
Lips pursed, I stared at him.
