Chaste (McCullough Mountain) (55 page)

He
sighed. “I don’t want you to cry.”

She
frowned. “Why would I cry?”

“I
hear you, Ash, every month when you get your period. I know you want a baby.
I’m afraid if I can’t give you one you’ll be sad and cry more than once a
month. Because it would be forever.”

Her
eyes darted away and he sensed her guilt. “I didn’t know you heard me.”

“I’m
sorry.”

She
frowned at him. “Stop. You didn’t do anything wrong. This is the way God made
us and you’re my husband. If we can’t have children then it’s something
we
will
deal with. Us, Kelly. It happens to both of us and it’s no one’s fault. Would
you have held it against me if I were barren?”

“God,
no, but you’re fine.”

“Says
one doctor. She could be wrong. Doctors make mistakes too.”

“I’m
pretty certain it’s me,” he said quietly.

“Then
get the test. Let’s not assume anything until we have some answers.”

“All
right. I’ll make an appointment this week.”

She
smiled and he felt the swell of relief. If a test made her happy he’d take
whatever test she wanted. He was an ass for putting them through all this. He
was afraid of a cup. He could handle a cup. He’d fuck that cup up. He frowned. That
didn’t sound right.

“Let’s
go to lunch,” she said, kissing his cheek.

“What
about confession?”

She
turned away and grumbled, “You have me second guessing myself. I don’t want to
make any promises I don’t intend to keep.”

His
head fell back as he laughed. When he met her eyes, he said, “On second
thought, lunch can wait. Let’s go upstairs and make love. I miss my wife.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Kelly
approached the clinic with the imagined symphony of soft flutes filling his
head, the distinct voice of the greatest world leaders speaking of preventative
knowledge, taking steps up the ladder of science, and conquering every man’s
fear. Drums pounded, children stilled, heroes nodded, and women cried. Dishes
clattered, forgotten, to the ground as he, Kelly McCullough, brave soul and
distinguished rogue of the McCullough clan, marched forth and faced his
Armageddon.

No.
It really wasn’t anything as fancy as that, but Kelly kept his imagination
going in order to keep from bolting out the door of the fertility clinic.

He
approached the glass window and cleared his throat.

“May
I help you?” the woman in scrubs behind the partition asked.

“I
have an appointment.”

“Name?”
Did she have to shout?

His
throat cleared again. It must be the pollen. “Kelly McCullough.”

“Pardon?”

“Kelly
McCullough.”

She
met his eyes. “Oh, the semen analysis. Just a second. Let me get your cup.”

His
eyes shut and his head tipped back. Didn’t she know he had a slow motion
entourage of the world’s finest astronauts following him on this courageous
day? She was busting his groove.

“Here
you go.” She slid the tiny plastic cup across the counter, its whispered tread
had the amplified skid of a dump truck scraping across a sheet of jagged metal.
His vision seemed to take halting and magnifying zooms into the cups lid until
he could see every porous fiber of the plastic. He snatched it out of view and
thought about making a joke about needing a bigger cup, but figured getting
away from people right now was a better idea.

Another
woman dressed in scrubs appeared. “Kelly McCullough?”

Jesus,
how about a little discretion! He shot the nurse a look. “That’s me—as everyone
now knows.”

She
frowned at him. “Right this way.”

He
followed her to a small room and avoided her gaze as she pointed out some
‘tools’ he could utilize to achieve his task. The door shut with the echo of a
shotgun and suddenly the trumpets from Chariots of Fire made a slow roll in the
silence. The world slowed on its axis as he took in the clinical surroundings.
Drums pounded and his skin glossed with sweat as his feet slowly carried him
toward his mission—
was that Playboy? Sweet.

His
imagined symphony cut off as he dropped to a chair and scooped up the magazine.
He placed the cup on the table and paged through the pictures. Once he’d perused
the magazine he tossed it aside. Ashlynn was prettier than all of them.

He
eyed the cup. He eyed the door. Standing, he went to the lock and flicked it.
“Let’s do this.”

He
glanced at his hand. “It’s just me and you, Jill.”

He
returned to the seat and twisted the cap off the cup and placed it back on the
table. Leaning back he breathed—just breathed.

Glancing
at his belt he shifted. This was sanctioned. Not just by his wife, but by
science, by doctors, by God. He’d somehow landed the one free pass to defile
himself, but couldn’t, for the life of him, get hard.

Frowning,
he undid his pants. He contemplated the cup and then contemplated his junk.
There had to be one good swimmer in there. He just needed to get him out. He
opened the magazine to a woman bending over a car and placed it on the table.

He
was going to the front line for men everywhere. He was putting himself out
there. This was not just for him and Ashlynn. This was for the future of
mankind. This was his call of duty. This was for every down-on-their-luck
bastard out there who stood in his shoes.

This
wasn’t about women, but about men. Only men could sympathize with how fucked
this situation truly was. He needed to keep telling himself he was still a man,
no matter what the outcome. He. Was. Still. A. Man.

“You’re
a man. You’re a fucking man. She loves you and you can do this for her, because
you’re a hairy, grisly, beer drinking, carnivorous, strapping, beast of a
fucking man—blanks or not.”

He
shut his eyes and filled his mind with images of motivation. Samuel L dressed
as Coach Carter in
Boys Become Men
nodded encouragingly from the corner.
The hockey team from
Miracle
sat along the wall as the coach’s voice
spoke about being born for great moments of opportunity. The Hoosher’s Jimmy
Chitwood gave him a nod of determination and the janitor who bullied Rudy into
not giving up gave him a stern glare and asked what he was trying to prove.

Yeah,
he was losing it, but needed the imagined support. It was time.

He
took his flesh in hand and got to business.

He
was loving. He was tender. He was there to get ‘er done.

When
he finished his men burst through the front line like the raging Scots charged
into the Battle of Falkirk. He capped the cup and collapsed into the chair. It
was done.

It
took longer than he suspected to leave the room. He’d spent months avoiding
this situation, but now that his task was complete he feared the next step.
Nervously, he poked around the room, setting the dirty magazines in perfect
perpendicular order and washing his hands twice. He alphabetized the porno
collection next to the dated television set and stared at his cup. He should
probably turn that in before it spoiled.

Sighing,
he grabbed the little sample and unlocked the door. As he stepped into the hall
he stilled.

“Kelly?”

Fuck.
Making a slow turn he came face to face with Bridget West. His arm snaked
behind his back holding his sample. “Hey, Bridget.”

She
smiled. “What are you doing here?”

Why
hadn’t he been a plumber or an electrician, something he could use as an excuse
right now. “Uh…”

She
was wearing scrubs. Stepping closer, she whispered, “I heard you’re married
now. You left so many women devastated we should form a support group. How’s
that going, by the way?”

“Marriage?
It’s great.”

She
gave him a look that was hard to mistake. Yeah, he’d seen her naked a few
times, did some nasty things with her and let her do some nastiness back to
him, but what he had with Ashlynn made all those memories feel tawdry and
cheap. He stepped back.

“It
was nice seeing you. I gotta go. My wife’s waiting for me at home.”

She
glanced at his hand stuffed behind his back and arched a brow. Motherfucker. He
needed to get the hell out of there. Without another word he turned and bolted
to the front desk, dropped off his swimmers, and hightailed it home.

When
he got home he found Ashlynn anxiously waiting for him. He didn’t give her time
to ask questions. Rather, he reaffirmed his manhood and fucked her right there
on the kitchen table until she called his name and made him feel like a god.

Yeah.
She was worth it.

* * * *

A
week later, he was back at the formidable clinic, which really wasn’t anything
more than a quaint little house remodeled as an office just outside of town,
but Kelly found the picturesque shutters and window boxes slightly mocking.

Ashlynn
climbed out of the truck and followed him to the door. He wasn’t sure if it was
a good thing or a bad thing that the doctor had suggested he bring his wife to
hear the results. Ashlynn had a calming effect however, so Kelly was glad to
have her there with him.

They
were shown into a small office and waited. “Have you met the doctor yet?” she
asked.

Kelly
tapped his foot. “Nope. My only intimate knowledge is with that of the plastic
sort.” When she frowned, he clarified. “The cup.”

She
smiled at him. “Are you nervous?”

Yes.
“No. Just
anxious to get this over with.”

The
door opened and an older man in a white lab coat stepped in. “Mr. And Mrs.
McCullough? I’m Dr. Brestein. How are you?”

Kelly
shook the doctor’s hand and mumbled a reply. The doctor smiled and flipped open
a file on his desk. “Well, let’s see…it looks like Kelly’s sperm suffers from
poor motility.”

“Poor
motility? Like they aren’t getting around as good as they should?” he asked.

“Exactly.
In other words, they’re just a little lazy.”

Those fuckers!
“So there’s nothing really wrong?”

Ashlynn
smiled and the doctor, although not outwardly disagreeing with him, held out
his hands. “Well, sometimes the problem can be resolved with simple changes.
Stay out of hot tubs, wear the right sort of underwear, lay off drinking and
smoking.”

“What
kind of underwear?” Ashlynn quickly asked.

“The
looser the better. Why do you think Scots brag about their virility? It’s
because nothing’s holding them down under those kilts.”

Ashlynn
chuckled and blushed, but her eyes were set with determination. “Kelly doesn’t
smoke, but he drinks on occasion.” She turned to him. “No more booze.”

Who
was this woman? He’d never seen her so single-minded. She had the look of a
drill sergeant.

“I
can suggest some supplements that others have tried and had luck with.
Basically, continue with a healthy living, have lots of intercourse, and sooner
or later one of those little buggers are gonna find their way. If you still
aren’t having luck in a while, come back and see me and we’ll discuss other
options.”

“What
other options?” Kelly asked.

“There’s
always In Vitro Fertilization.” They frowned and the doctor explained. “The
female takes hormones to help produce multiple eggs. The eggs are removed
during a minor outpatient procedure, which requires mild sedation. The male’s
sperm is cleaned and concentrated, mixed with the female’s eggs and once the
cells form, the embryo is transplanted back into the female like a typical pregnancy.”

“My
guys can do this?” Kelly asked.

The
doctor smiled. “Most likely. But that’s a ways down the road. Your chart says
you’ve been trying for seven months. Give it a little longer. I’ll give you
some reading material that will help.”

When
they left the doctor’s Ashlynn was like bottled lightening. As soon as they got
in the truck she squealed, “See! I told you nothing was wrong!”

Had
she been at the same meeting? “We don’t know that yet.”

She
turned and climbed onto the seat. “We just need to shake up your little
swimmers. No more being lazy.”

He
laughed as she kissed his neck. Nudging her back into her seat he started the
truck. “We’ll see.”

She
sighed, a perpetual smile on her face, as she buckled her seatbelt. “This is
great news, Kelly.”

“I
know.”

“You
don’t seem relieved.”

“I
am. I just don’t want you to get your hopes up.”

“You’re
changing to boxers. No more briefs.”

Good
God. “Whatever you want.”

They
drove home and he feared Ashlynn was already painting a nursery in her head.
That evening, they had sex four times, once in the living room, once in the
shower, again in the bed, and once on the floor. He had no complaints, but felt
incredible pressure to succeed.