Dr. Neurotic(14)

Ivy and Harper grinned, but Nick stared up at me in confusion.

"Wait, what?" he questioned. "Dance? I don't dance."

I grabbed his hand and tugged him out of his seat. "You do tonight."

With what felt like two cinder block feet, Nick followed my lead as I  weaved us through the crowd until we stood in the center of the dance  floor.

The bar felt charged, everyone feeding off of the smiles and dancing to  the beat of "Hotline Bling." And I was more than ready. Ready to move.  Ready to dance. Ready to watch Nick let loose.

With a little smirk, I put his hands on my hips and started to slowly  move my body like an uncoiling rope. Standing frozen in his spot, he  looked uncomfortable and awkward but completely fascinated as he watched  me dance. The feeling was like a shot of adrenaline to the heart, and  all at once, I was moving, one with the music, and once he gave in to  the beat, one with Nick.

Laughing and smiling like loons, and with his hands on my hips, we  danced to music so loud that we'd probably end up deaf by the end of the  night. Everything else was inconsequential. Nothing else mattered but  Nick and me and us having fun together.

I felt like I could go all night, my feet moving to the crazy beat like  they belonged to the music. I moved in my dress like my hips were made  to sway, the gold sequins of the material catching the soft lighting of  the kitschy disco ball twirling from the ceiling, launching every shade  of the rainbow into the room.

In the darkness of the club, my gaze stayed locked on Nick. His high  cheekbones, his mischievous brown eyes, and the way his mouth appeared  to be fixed into a smirk. Once he gave in to the music, he danced like  no one was watching.

But of course, I was watching. I couldn't take my eyes off of him.

God, he looked sexy when he let loose.

His hand drifted to my hips again, settling there and pulling me closer  against his warm, chiseled-to-perfection chest. Why must he feel so  fucking perfect?

Our gazes locked. The heat, the warmth, the intensity in his eyes urged a  sharp inhale to fill my lungs. I splayed my hand over the material of  his dress shirt and left it there, and both of our breaths quickened.

He nuzzled my neck with delicate kisses. So faint, they felt like  whispers. My heart tripped into a quick and reckless rhythm as he angled  his head to the side and his lips came closer and closer to mine.

I parted my lips. Our breaths mingled. And my heart fluttered inside of my chest.

And then, his lips brushed mine. Not innocently, like a tease, but hot, fiery, passionate and demanding.

Senses seduced, I fell headfirst into his delicious kiss.

God, he tasted good. And his lips, his oh so perfect lips, felt better than I'd imagined.

I moaned against his mouth, and I sensed his lips quirk up into a smile.

"Charlotte," he whispered slowly, prolonging each letter as if to savor them.

I smiled, my heart beating quicker at his voice, as I clasped my hands  on either side of his face and gazed into his warm mocha eyes.

God, never before had my name ever sounded so wonderful until it was leaving his lips.         

     



 

Without caring about who or what was around us, Nick took my mouth in  another deep, slow, and delicious kiss before he wrapped his arms around  my waist and swayed my hips with his.

And then, we danced.

All night long, we danced and kissed and danced and kissed.

I couldn't remember a night so good and an intimacy so right.





Assault rifles sounded and a trumpet blared, all within an inch of my head-a head, incidentally, that had just hit my pillow.

At least, that was what it felt like.

In actuality, the guns and music were just the harmoniously mixed trill  of my alarm clock, and my head had really first made contact with my  pillow three hours ago.

Back in my college days, three hours of sleep would have been more than  sufficient. I'd have thrown a Hot Pocket in the microwave, scarfed it  down, and hoofed it to my final with nothing more than a pencil and my  calculator in hand.

But now-now that I was fucking old-three hours just didn't cut it  anymore. I hadn't even had all that much to drink-though I was  considerably out of practice-and my head still throbbed.

With a quick smack and a groan, I silenced the alarm and rolled over to my stomach to shove my head into the fluff of my pillow.

"Oh my God," I grumbled.

Even the sound of my own voice was grating.

Great, I thought. This should make work interesting.

I grabbed my phone off of my nightstand, rolled back onto my back, and typed out a quick message.



Me: So, apparently, you're a sadist.



A reply popped up nearly immediately.



Charlotte: Wimp.



Me: I'm actually sore.



Charlotte: It takes time to acclimate to the dance life. You've got good moves, though. Be proud, soldier, be proud.



Me: Oh, so I suppose you're completely fine?



Charlotte: Yep. ;)



Me: I kind of hate you.



Charlotte: That wears off. Trust me. Pretty soon you won't be able to live without me.



My heart jumped in my chest despite knowing full well she was teasing.  But those words, written there together, taunted me and dared me to  challenge them. They were cocky, almost as if I had no chance of  choosing another fate.

But I was a man of science, and I knew better.

Right?



Me: I could live without the hangover for now. I have to be at work in thirty minutes.



Charlotte: You know, you wouldn't have to be up for the job in California for another three hours.



Me: Funny.



Charlotte: ;) Get some coffee and some Advil. Take a shower. You'll feel better in no time.



My phone beeped with a calendar alert, telling me I now had literally  thirty minutes to walk through the doors of St. Luke's. As much as I'd  like to stay in bed for eternity, swapping playful barbs with Charlotte,  I had to get up and follow her advice, pronto.

Slowly, and quite painfully, I climbed from my bed and to my feet,  wiggling my toes in the carpet to force some kind of sensation. I felt  slightly numb to the morning, like it wasn't really happening-like I was  Bill fucking Murray and this was Groundhog Day and I was living  Thursday all over again.

Obviously, thanks to my busy schedule, my movie references dated back quite some time.

"Christ, Nick," I mumbled. "You're pathetic."

I tossed my phone, ensconced in its usual all-black phone case, to the  bed, and it made a soft thud before disappearing into the camouflage of  black sheets.

Of course, then it started to ring.

"Fuck," I muttered, frantically combing through the sheets with my hands, trying to hit the solid surface of my facedown case.

It was on the fourth and final ring when I finally felt my hand graze  it, rescued it from drowning by sheet, swiped my finger across the  screen, and lifted it to my ear.

"Hello?"

"You sound lethargic," my daughter said by way of greeting on the other end of the line.

"I'm fine, Lex," I grumbled, rubbing at my temples to temper the  pounding, as I stepped away from my bed and headed for the bathroom. I'd  have to multitask this morning if I had any hope of making it to work  on time.

"Wow. And irritable. How much did you have to drink last night?"

Fucking hell, why is my daughter so observant?

"Lex-"

"Is your urine yellow?" she cut me off to ask, her voice clinical. I  shook my head and looked to the ceiling as she went on. "You might be  dehydrated if you haven't-"

"Lexi, I'm fine. What's up? Why are you calling this early?"

"I need a ride to school. Mom and Wes have a meeting in New Jersey, and  she told me to call you to see if you could take me because murderers  ride the subway."

"What?"

"Those are her extremely hyperbolic and generalized words. Not mine."         

     



 

I looked to the clock on the gray and white marble vanity counter of my  bathroom and considered carefully. If I took Lexi to school, I'd never  make it to work on time. I didn't think I'd been late to work a day in  my life, and people in the hospital were always counting on me. My job  was important.

"Okay. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."




Winnie and Wes's street was quiet-for Manhattan anyway. Tree-lined stone  sidewalks and elegant townhouses, it was a family neighborhood if ever  I'd seen one. Of course, it was a family neighborhood for the wealthy,  boxing out people without a flexible income in just property taxes  alone. For most people, if they were lucky, $70,000 was a salary. Not  the governmental cost of living.

I loved that they lived in something so nice, but I also feared the day  they would move out of the city. I knew it was coming at some point,  more and more of their work happening at the stadium in New Jersey and a  chance for even more value for their money, and I knew I had no say in  it. I also knew I didn't deserve a say, but that didn't make the reality  any easier.

Three sharp knocks to the solid chestnut-colored wood of the door complete, I stepped back and waited for Lexi to answer.

What I wasn't expecting was someone who would never, could never, be my number one fan.

"Nick?"