Dark Passions (29 page)

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Authors: Jeff Gelb

BOOK: Dark Passions
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“No, He doesn't.” Jeannie sat back in her chair, and, for a moment, the only sounds in the office were the whisper of the air conditioner and tick of the wall clock. “So, you'll help me?”
“Help you?”
Jeannie leaned closer, heart pounding so hard she knew it must be making the front of the shift jump.
“Yes, nothing much,” she said, “just a little reverse cosmetic surgery. Maybe thin out my lips or make my ears stick out or—oh, maybe break my nose so it curves a little to one side. That would work. And I definitely want my breasts to sag. I've never worn a bra, you see, and ... Is there something wrong, Dr. Drake?”
There was a definite green tint to the skin beneath his eyes.
“You're joking.”
“No.”
“Ah.”
He kept saying that, “ah,” for almost a full minute while he nodded and looked at her chart and looked at her and nodded and nodded again. Jeannie sat back in her consultation chair and waited for him to finish.
“You're serious.”
“Oh God, yes!”
“That's crazy.”
“You're crazy, do you know that?”
That was her mother's response to everything Jeannie ever tried to do to look like everyone else.
“You're beautiful! Any woman on the planet would KILL to look like you, and all you do is complain. You're crazy.”
“I'M NOT CRAZY!”
“I—I never said you—”
“I just want what every woman wants ... to be loved for MYSELF, not for my body.”
“But your body is—”
“NOT ME!” Jeannie's fingers bent into claws that raked the shift. The tiny pains reminded her of the time she'd tried to cut off her breasts. She was ten, an early bloomer, and the girls at school made her life hell.
“Look it's Boobie!”
“Bet you think you're better than us, huh?”
“Freak!”
“Slut!”
“Skank!”
“Barbie doll! Barbie doll!”
Her mother, the one person who should have understood, didn't. When she found Jeannie in the garage, naked from the waist up, the training bra sliced in half, the knife point dimpling the flesh of the burgeoning perfection, she did the only thing that could stop her—then and now—she called Jeannie's father.
“Frank, come here! Your daughter's crazy!”
Jeannie slowly lowered her hands. “I'm not crazy, Doctor, but this body isn't
me.
I'm more than that.”
“Of course you are.”
“Then you'll help me?”
“Ah. Ms. Wallace, this is possibly the most unusual request I've ever heard
anyone
make, and that's including the man who wanted me to clip his ears and put implants into both cheeks so he could look more like his bullmastiff.”
“Did you?”
“No, Ms. Wallace, I did not. What I did, however, was suggest he see a colleague of mine, Dr. Benjamin Margrove.”
Jeannie felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air-conditioning. “He's not a plastic surgeon, is he?”
“No. Dr. Margrove is one of the top psychiatrists in the field.”
Jeannie took a deep breath, controlling the urge to scream. “I know how this must sound, but I just want a body that a man can live with, not compete against. I want to be
normal.
”
The doctor's eyes softened behind their prison wall of glass. “I think I understand, Ms. Wallace. For the most part, very few people are completely happy with the way they look. Have you considered methods other than cosmetic surgery?”
Jeannie sat up straighter, heart pounding. “Such as?”
“Oh ... such as, well ... ah ...”
He stumbled along. She would no more tell him about some of the other nonsurgical
methods
she'd already tried than she would about her one attempt at selfsurgery. That would have sounded crazy, but she had tried. S&M clubs. Bondage freaks. Men more than willing to add a little bare-knuckled graffiti to the canvas of her body. But bite marks heal and bruises fade and even her left nipple,
accidentally
torn during an overenthusiastic acting out of “Barbarian and Slave Girl,” had mended without so much as a visible line.
Tattooing and piercing weren't options. Those were recognizable and, in most cases, delicate body art. The last thing
her
body needed was something else to draw attention to itself.
“... uh, well, there's ... um... .”
Jeannie exhaled and let him off the hook. “Whatever it would be, Doctor, would just make me
different
in another way. I just want you to make my body like everyone else's. A little less than perfect, you know?”
She smiled. He cleared his throat, then leaned forward to scribble something on a prescription form.
“In your case, however, I think this may have more to do with brain chemistry than physicality.”
“I'm
not
crazy, Doctor.”
“No, no, of course you're not, but I think you may have a perception problem. This is Dr. Margrove's office number—he's right here in the building. If you like, and I'm not saying this because I think you have serious problems, I'll call him and see if he can talk to you. He usually doesn't see anyone on Thursdays, so this won't be an appointment. He'll just listen and maybe suggest a few things. If you think you'd like to see him regularly, that's up to you to decide. You're a very beautiful woman, Ms. Wallace, and I think you'll be much happier in the long run if you can find it in yourself to accept that.”
He held the sheet of paper out to her as he stood. Jeannie followed his example but looked at the name and office number—308, six floors down—instead of meeting his eyes.
“And if I still decide I want the surgery, after
talking
to Dr. Margrove?”
“Then we'll discuss your options. Go on now. I'll call him and make sure he isn't taking a nap.”
 
 
Dr. Margrove wasn't anything like she expected.
He was nice, with an infectious laugh, easy manner, and the most beautiful gray eyes she'd ever seen. Five steps into his office—softly shadowed in the late afternoon light, steps muffled by the thick wall-to-wall carpeting—and Jeannie felt a familiar heat drench the tiny scrap of fabric between her legs.
“I—I usually don't make appointments like this,” she stammered, already trembling.
“But this isn't an appointment,” he answered, taking her hand in a firm grip that didn't let go until he'd led her to a soft leather chair. “This is just a meeting ... of a friend of a friend.”
And she laughed and he laughed and asked if she'd like a drink. She would. She did. He joined her—
as a friend of a friend
—then listened, quietly and without judgment, as she explained.
And decided to ignore the three-date policy.
Her mother had always wanted her to marry a doctor.
“Well, Don's right about one thing,” he said after finishing off his own blended scotch and soda, and Jeannie steadied herself for the dreaded murmurings of
perfection,
“you're beautiful.”
A compliment.
Okay, she could handle that.
“But my esteemed colleague and poker buddy doesn't realize just how much a burden beauty can be, does he?”
Jeannie's heart skipped a number of beats. He
understood.
It took several swallows of her highball before she could answer.
“No, he doesn't,”
“And given what he does for a living, he should, wouldn't you think?”
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
“Tell me why you want to change your looks.”
Jeannie finished her drink and accepted another, stronger by color in taste, before she repeated her tale about the “Too-Perfect Princess and the Many Ungrateful Nights.”
She finished her second drink long before she came to
“and she only wants to live happily ever after ... like everyone else.”
Ben—
because they weren't doctor and patient, just a friend of a friend
—set his glass, still almost full, down on the small coffee table next to their chairs before taking hers. When the glasses sat next to each other, side by side, he took both her hands in his and leaned forward.
Jeannie could smell the mellow whiskey on his breath, the crisp scent of his aftershave.
“Would you like an opinion?”
“Please.”
“The only trouble with you, my dear Ms. Wallace, is that you're dating a species of the human male that we, in my professional specialty, categorize as ‘Losers.'”
Jeannie hadn't expected that either and, with the help of the two drinks she'd consumed in little under fifteen minutes, laughed so hard she actually snorted.
“See,” he said, his laughter much more controlled, “you're not perfect. Perfect women do not snort. And as for these ‘Losers,' let me just add that there are a number of men who go after drop-dead gorgeous women as simply a status thing. Like test driving an expensive sports car they have no intention of buying. It's an ego boost they think will make them the envy of all their similarly-engaged ‘Loser' friends.
“But owning a sports car requires careful and conscientious maintenance. So, after all the friends have seen it, and he's milked as much self-worth as he can out of it, he turns the car back into the dealer and moves on to the next ego-fix.”
His hands gently squeezed hers.
“When they say ‘It's not you, it's them,' they're not lying. It
is
them. There's nothing wrong with you, Jeannie ... except your choice in men.”
Jeannie sat there and blinked until the threat of tears had passed. He was right. Jesus, she never realized what she'd been doing—picking men who'd already picked her, then following their lead like some gullible lamb to the slaughtering pen.
Shit!
It
was
her fault ... and it
wasn't
them, it really wasn't.
It was
her.
His hands tugged. “You okay?”
And she smiled back. “Yeah. Thank you.”
“No thanks necessary.” He moved forward in his chair until their knees touched. “And let me just apologize for my weaker brethren. You are absolutely the most beautiful woman I've ever met.”
The blush came naturally, despite the number of times she'd heard those same words, as did accepting the open-mouthed kiss when he pulled her into his arms. His tongue wasn't the least bit shy of making itself at home ... and when it finished exploring her teeth and lips, it traced a path to her neck before backtracking to her ear.
The prickly, rippling sensation began at her shoulders—tiny at the start, like the first drops of a mountain stream after a hard winter, gathering speed and strength as it flowed down her body. Her nipples tightened at its passing; her heart pounded. The stream became an unstoppable, churning cascade that pounded the swelling flesh of her clit.
“Absolutely beautiful,” he purred, his breath tickling, his tongue finding new places to taste. “How could you think otherwise?”
Jeannie moaned, head thrown back, exposing her throat in surrender. “Please.”
His laughter raised more goosebumps as he stood. The scent of musk filled the air in front of Jeannie's face.
“Ladies first,” he said and dropped his pants.
His cock was big, thickly veined, and tasted like saltwater. Undoing the straps, Jeannie shimmied the dress to the floor before leaning forward to take as much of him as she could. She only managed half, but that seemed to be enough. Groaning, he sank his fingers into her hair, snapping off a few brittle white strands, and held her steady while he moved slowly back and forth against the ridge she'd made of her tongue.
“Oh God ... baby.”
Sweet words to counter the taste of pre-cum at the back of her throat.
With one hand Jeannie traced his balls with her nails—carefully, softly, just enough distraction to keep him on the edge without falling over, with the other, she slipped one finger, two, into his ass.
“JESUS! OH GOD! I'm close ... oh God, I'm close. Wait, wait ...”
The vacuum in Jeannie's mouth made a popping sound when he jerked out and bent down to fumble with his pants. He had the condom open and out before Jeannie could stand.

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