So Different (2 page)

“Open for me,” he said, quietly, up close to her face, delivering his request in a smooth, smoky bedroom voice; or maybe that was her hormones, her wishful thinking. Her eyes darted to his, and he caught the interest for more in them. He sat back, cleared his throat, and said, “I’d like to take a look inside. Open your mouth, please.” No way that could be misconstrued as sexy.

She closed her eyes and opened her mouth. He leaned in close again. She wished he’d ask that question someplace other than the dentist office.

“Any pain?” he asked, as he poked around.

“Nope.”

He took the time to look at the rest of her teeth, and her, now that he was up close. He checked out that eye again; it had to be recent. The discoloration was new. He scanned the rest of her body, catching sight of a very large hand print on her left arm.

“Well, you do have a cavity,” he said, rolling away from her on his chair. “We’ll need to schedule you to come in to have it filled,” he said, looking at Mariah now like she was some sort of specimen before turning to stare at the X-ray thingy again. He turned back to her a few seconds later.

“Rachel will finish you up. We’ll see you at your next appointment,” he said. He stood up and walked to the door, glancing back once, catching her eyes on him. He smiled that dentist smile again before he disappeared from sight.

Ten minutes later Mariah was at the counter, checking out.

“Two weeks. I’ve got you down,” Jupiter said.

“Thanks,” she said, and walked through the door to take her back into the waiting room and then into the sunshine, heading to her bus stop, reviewing Junior D.D.S. and what to make of him. He’d been professional, serious even. But was that interest she’d detected underneath his professional demeanor? She’d noticed him checking her out, scanning her body. That was not her imagination, or at least she hoped not. And then there was the way in which he asked her to open her mouth.
Open for me
. Why would he have selected those words if he hadn’t been mentally picturing her, alone in a room, the two of them stripping for each other?

She would have to see what was up on her next visit. She would spruce up a bit, too—lose the red hair and give him her natural auburn, not that she was changing for a man. She wasn’t. He’d just seemed on the conservative side. Weren’t most dentists conventional? She had a conservative side, too. So what if she didn’t pull it out much. It was there, and now was the perfect time to use it. She could play nice with Junior D.D.S. Wouldn’t Casper be pleased with her? See, she’d just needed the right incentive.

* * *

Adam entered the door to the Taco Post, the friendly neighborhood taco place located at the end of the block from his dad’s business. It was where he sometimes stopped for breakfast on the way in to work. Today it was for lunch. He scanned the room, eyes landing on a patient, the 32 bucal who took the
open for me
comment further than she should have. She was standing in line, the woman with the tattoos and bruises. He walked over and stood in line a few people behind her.

Of course she’d seen him enter. She cataloged his eyes as they skimmed over her, and her gaze followed him as he made his way to stand in line. He was tall, athletic grace at its best, the picture of health and sexiness, glasses and all. She sighed. He looked great in those scrubs, which were blue today. She didn’t think they were supposed to hang that low off his hips like that. That had to be against some rule of the stereotypically starched-shirt dental profession: No clothing that made your patients swoon. But if he didn’t mind showing, she didn’t mind looking.

She placed her order, handed over her money, accepted the cup for her drink and walked over to the area that held the soda fountain, utensils, and condiments. Junior was alone and she’d decided she was going to join him. No use waiting for two weeks when fate had placed him here, today, for lunch. She was indulging her desire to get closer, but first she’d go to the restroom. That should kill some time, and allow him to place his order and find a table. She would then come out, grab her stuff, and ask to join him if he was alone.

Five minutes later she scanned the dining area and there was Junior D.D.S. sitting alone by the window, looking down at his watch, waiting on his order. She filled her cup with water, grabbed some napkins and a fork, and headed his way.

He looked up as she stood next to his table.

“It’s Mariah from your office the other day,” she said, in case he didn’t remember.

“It is,” he said, smiling the dental equivalent of gold.

“Mind if I join you?” she asked.

“No, I don’t mind,” he said, watching as she took a seat opposite him. “You work around here?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, listening for the number that was called. It was hers. “I’d better get that,” she said, standing up and walking over to retrieve her order. In case he was following her with his eyes, she added a little more
ump
to the swing of her hips.

She returned with her basket of tacos just as he was leaving to retrieve his. He smiled again and she watched him underneath her lashes as he walked over to the counter. What a great day this was turning out to be, she thought.

“I’m glad to see you again,” he said.

“Me, too,” she said, giving him one of her most powerful smiles, even fluttered her eyelashes. And she never fluttered anything.
See
, she said to herself. He
was
interested.

“Hey, look, it’s none of my business, but I stopped by this place the other day. I was thinking about you on the way home.”

She about fell over. This was so good, Mariah thought, impressed that she’d lingered in his mind long enough to stop for anything for her. She smiled more, if that were possible, and watched as he reached into his wallet and pulled out a pamphlet, handing it over to her. She scanned it, and had to go back and reread it in case she’d been mistaken.
It’s not your fault
.
We are here to help
.
Center for Domestic Violence.
The next line contained the center’s address and telephone numbers.

“You know, there is nothing to be ashamed of,” he said, concern etched all over his handsome face. “We all need help getting out of tough situations. I don’t know if you are in a relationship where you are being hurt, but if you were, you could find help here,” he said, pointing to the pamphlet held in her hand.

“Abused? You think I’m an abuse victim?” she asked, looking at him, fighting to hide her surprise and embarrassment at coming on to him.

“Your black eye. The large hand print on your arm,” he said, reaching for her arm, pushing her sleeve to show her the faint grip of someone’s hand. “Where are these from?” he asked.

“Took an elbow to the face,” she said.

“From whom?”

“My boo.” She said the first thing that came to mind.

“Does your boo hurt you often?” he asked, holding onto her arm still, gazing into her eyes, with concern and pity.

She shrugged again, not really caring now what he thought.

He smiled, his look filled with disbelief and more than a small amount of skepticism. “I just wanted to be helpful,” he said. She gave him another slightly dimmer smile and looked away.

Well aren’t you the idiot, Mariah? Of course he wasn’t interested.
Not only wasn’t he interested, he thought she was the black girl letting the man beat up on her; or maybe that was the pint-sized chip on her shoulder rearing its ugly head again.

She glanced at her watch. “I’m going to wrap these up and take them with me. I have to get back to work. Overloaded. You know how it is,” she said, finally pulling her arm away from his hand, grabbing her tacos and wrapping them up as best she could.

“Tell Boo to take it easy,” he said, smiling as he reached for her hand. He gave it a squeeze before she took off.

“I will,” she said, as she turned and headed out the door. She should have known better. His type was never interested in her.

* * *

So sad, he thought as he watched her walk away. He’d seen women like her before at the clinic in Houston, letting some male use her as a punching bag. He’d have to talk with his dad about her. He’d checked her chart this morning. She’d been a patient for the last three years. She was twenty-eight years old, three years younger than he was. Probably didn’t make enough money to live independently. She had worked out a long-term payment plan for her dental work. Her chart had also told him that she lost her crowns often and suffered from loose teeth. His dad had to have been aware of her situation.

What was up with women? He didn’t understand. He’d come from a family of women that would kick your butt before you’d ever lay a hand on them. His sister and his mother were both feisty and fierce.

Mariah, he thought, remembering the way she seemed interested in him this morning. She was attractive if you went for the punk-rocker type, which he didn’t. Underneath the bruises and the black eye was smooth, honey-brown skin. That short, wavy and really, really fire-engine-red hair—why would anyone deliberately choose that color?

She was built nicely, too. Tall and lean, like him. Not as hippy as his ex had been. He liked hips on women. Mariah was of narrow waist and almost no hips. Boyish in her figure, but with a nice round ass in jeans, though. Okay, she was attractive, even with the small diamond stud in her nose. It probably wasn’t a diamond, more like a cheap substitute, given her financial situation. He had no knowledge of cheap substitutes. Jamie’s, his ex’s, huge chunk of a ring flashed through his mind.

Rings of dots were tattooed around both of her wrists, and there were more dots at the back of her neck, peeking out from underneath the collar of her shirt. He had seen them earlier while he checked out her teeth.

She was pretty, he amended, but so different from what he went for. He wasn’t much for tattoos. One, maybe two. The cute ones placed in just the right spot, but beyond that, not so much. He wasn’t big on rescuing women, either, and that sounded harsh, but he had enough problems of his own.

* * *

Later that evening Adam sat on his parents’ couch, his feet propped up on the coffee table in front of him. He’d stopped by for dinner. He was sitting here surfing the net on his laptop with one eye on the basketball game on TV in the background and one ear open as his pops talked politics.

“Hey, Pops, I forget to mention it, but there is this woman who came in today. She had some kind of black eye, bruises on her arm,” he said, after it had grown silent.

“Mariah?” his dad asked.

“Yes. So you do know,” Adam Jr. said, relieved, moving his laptop to the couch, sitting forward, focusing on his father’s face. “I’ve been worried about her. So you have seen the bruises before?”

“Yes,” his father said, his face purposefully blank. “Did she tell you how she got them?”

“Her boo,” Adam said, looking intently at his pops liked he solved the puzzle of the century. “It makes sense. I’ve seen her type before—hair color all over the place, tattoos everywhere, a punching bag for some man. At the clinic in Houston, when I volunteered, you meet all types of people there.”

“I bet you do,” his dad said.

“I checked the schedule and she is due in to have a couple of cavities filled in a few weeks. I thought I’d try and talk to her again.”

“Again?” his dad asked.

“Yes. I saw her at the Taco Post today. I gave her some information on where to get help.”

“Oh. Where?”

“The Center for Domestic Violence,” Adam said.

“Huh?” his pops said, choking and coughing.

“You okay?” Adam Jr. said, walking over to his dad. He patted him on the back. “I’m surprised you haven’t done more. I checked her chart and she’s had more than the normal amount of loose teeth and replaced crowns. I’m sure you noticed.”

“I did. So you say you’re going to talk to her again?”

“Yes.”

“Good idea. Let me know how it goes. Glad to see you’re concerned about the patients. How are you holding up at work?” his dad asked, deliberately changing the subject.

“Fine.”

“Any other issues I need to worry about?”

“Nothing serious. I’ve started checking into some newer systems for the office—accounting, patient files—hoping to bring you and the office into the age of technology,” he said, resuming his seat on the couch, relieved that someone else knew about Mariah. She’d been in his thoughts, but he wasn’t sure what, if anything, he could do for her.

* * *

“Mariah,” she said into her cell phone the following morning, not sure of the number displayed on her caller ID.

“Mariah, it’s me. Dr. Barnett Sr.”

“Oh, hey, Dr. Barnett. How are you? Heard about your accident.”

“I’m fine now. All healed up. Just taking some much-needed time off now that my son is here to help,” he said.

“That’s good.”

“Hey, look, the reason for my call. I hear you’ve met my son.”

“Yes,” she said, not sure how much more to say on the subject.

He laughed. “I also heard he mistook you for a domestic violence victim. Sorry about that,” he said, and laughed again.

“It’s no big deal. Honest mistake, I guess—people see what they want to see,” she said.

“I know. Anyway, I called you this morning to give you a heads-up. He’s going to talk to you again about seeking help, and I didn’t want you getting angry and reading him the riot act. I had a better idea in mind.”

“Do you?” she said, perking up.

“He means well, really. He’s grown up to be a nice young man. I’m proud of him, but he sometimes can take things more seriously than he needs to. Not that abuse isn’t serious. But I was hoping you would work with me to play a little trick on him.”

“Sure. What do you have in mind?” she asked, and they talked for about ten minutes more, discussing strategy and what would happen at her next encounter with his son.

“I love you, Dr. Barnett. You’re my new hero,” she said at the end of their conversation. “I’m going to really enjoy this.”

“Thanks, Mariah. I knew I could count on you. Heard the Brass Knuckles lost the exhibition.”