Fowl Play (Tuft Swallow)

22. Brian

CHAPTER 22

Kodi

Hey, sorry I bailed on you at the bar. I wasn’t feeling well.

Me

Your phone works!

Haha, yeah, that old rice trick works wonders! ??

So you’re not having second thoughts about our relationship?

No! Course not. I still owe you a few Medi-Cal lessons, don’t I?

Yes! Tomorrow?

In between work and practice okay?

??

Ibreathe a sigh of relief, then close out of the messaging app and return to the task at hand. It’s about 8:30 am and I’m pushing a mostly empty grocery cart in the cereal aisle, chewing over how I’m going to handle seeing Kodi tonight.

So far, our appointments have been mostly professional, not delving too deeply into each other’s personal lives. But yesterday at the gym, the things I learned about my supposed girlfriend make it a little bit harder to stand to the side while she beats around my other patients.

After all, I’m just now starting to make some real connections in town. Nick has been an incredible asset to my business, singing my praises to all the athletes in town, and his little emergency phone call yesterday gave me an opportunity to show everyone down there what I’m capable of. D’Shawn’s already made a follow-up appointment, and Brad asked me for a few of my business cards to hand out to some of the guys from the force who need help recovering from past injuries on the job.

So finding out that Kodi’s antagonizing my future customers by busting their balls three times a week at cornhole, of all things? Not exactly good for building a strong professional reputation.

And isn’t that the main reason why we’re doing this? So I can get That’s Good Crack established and thriving?

Well, not the main reason, I suppose.

Even as my interactions with the guys make me want to treat Kodi with caution, I know that I don’t stand a chance of winning back Zeke if she and I don’t get closer.

Zeke. Whereas in the first few days after our breakup, I agonized over him, I now can’t seem to think about him or our flirty exchange in the router aisle without Kodi’s face popping up in my mind.

The constant hijacking of my thoughts has been confusing at the best of times, and frustrating at the worst. It’s been going on for a while now, too. I can’t even jerk off anymore without her light brown eyes and freckled nose creeping into my me-time at the worst possible moment. Because of that, I haven’t gotten a real release in over a week.

It doesn’t make sense. Sure, we had those few intense kisses at the match, and then later at the bar. Honestly, I still haven’t really unpacked that night–our first public outing together since agreeing to the whole relationship ruse. I thought I’d been doing a decent job improvising, and she was totally playing along. It was innocent. Fun. Until a quick peck on the cheek turned into something altogether…

Sinful.

And then she saw me naked...

I’m still contemplating the whole mess when an older, fashionable woman with a blonde Blanche Devereaux haircut approaches me.

“Excuse me, are you Brian?”

I slip my phone into my pocket and meet her eyes, surprised that she actually asks me. So far, everyone in town has been rather shameless about already knowing who I am from the Pecker. “Yes?”

“It’s so nice to meet you,” she says, sticking out her hand. “I’m Linda Gander, Kodi’s mom.”

“Oh!” Shit. “Uh, hello, Mrs.–”

“Oh please, call me Linda. We’re practically the same age, after all.” She looks me up and down with a face that’s entirely unreadable and fluffs her hair.

Fuck. I can’t help it; I panic. I’m not sure if she’s trying to say that she isn’t that old, or that I’m not that young. And to her, I probably seem like some kind of predator.

Which is a little rude. Granted, I’m 34. Which does present a bit of an age gap with her daughter, I suppose. And yeah, I’ve got a few gray hairs in my beard that I earned back in my residency that make me look even older in the right light. But Kodi and I aren’t actually dating. And even if we were, Kodi seems much older than 24.

Oh God. That’s the kind of thing that groomers say, isn’t it? Does Mrs. Gander think I'm grooming her daughter?

Too many seconds pass before I remember that it’s my turn to say something, and that all of this isn’t worth overthinking anyway because I’m not really dating a 24 year-old. I force out an awkward laugh and attempt to be charming.

“Linda. There’s no way you could be Kodi’s mother. You don’t look a day over 35!”

Fuck. Is 35 considered young? Am I old? Did I just insult my fake girlfriend’s mother in Tuft Swallow’s only grocery store? God, why do I have to be so awful with parents? I need to come back here if I want to eat. I can’t avoid the grocery store if I accidentally make an enemy of Kodi’s mother.

A beat, and then Linda laughs, revealing a mouthful of sparkling white teeth. “Oh, you’re a charmer! I can see what Kodi sees in you! I’m teasing, by the way. You seem like a very nice young man. And you’re a doctor!”

“Of Chiropractic, yes.” God, this is uncomfortable. What on earth am I supposed to say to the mother of the woman in whose kitchen I’ve been photographed wearing a frilly pink apron? “It’s nice to meet you.”

Oh.

Lies. That’s what I’m supposed to say. Well, that makes it a little easier, I suppose.

“Do you golf? You and Marty should schedule a tea time. I’m sure he’d love to get to know the man who charmed our daughter so…quickly.”

I swallow.

If I'd known that Kodi’s parents lived in town, I'd have been a lot more careful about our public exploits. I wouldn’t have made out with her in front of the whole town, for one. And maybe not spent the night at her apartment when she got drunk after the game.

But really, it’s not the fact that her parents live in town that’s the problem. It’s the fact that that town is Tuft Swallow, and Tuft Swallow is home to the Pervy Publishing Society of Elderly Espionage, and our entirely chaste sleepover was spread across the morning news in black-and-white.

Where it was likely read by her parents.

“I’ve never played, actually.”

“He’ll let you borrow his spare clubs. I insist! What’s your number? He’ll call you.”

I’m trapped. If I don’t give her my number, she’ll think I have unsavory intentions for her daughter. If I do, then her husband is going to make me play golf and give me the third degree about the unsavory intentions they’ll still believe I have for their daughter. It’s a catch-22.

I scrabble in my pocket for a business card and hand it to her. “Here. It’s my office number.”

“Fabulous! Well, I have milk in my cart. Marty will talk to you soon! So nice running into you.”

She takes the card from my hand like she’s selecting a weapon for battle. Then she flashes me that ten thousand watt smile again before click-clacking her sensible heels past me and down the aisle.

I pick up the rest of the ingredients for dinner in record time.

By the time Kodi makes it to my office after work, the chicken parm I whipped up for the two of us is baking in the oven. She rings the doorbell and I run from the upstairs kitchen down to the front door to let her in.

“Hey! Sorry I’m late. Three different moms brought in their toddlers with chicken pox half an hour before closing. Then the Doc had me cancel his early morning appointments so he could sleep in.” She rolls her eyes, shifting the weight of the backpack on her shoulders.

Moms. Oh God. Should I tell her about running into her mom at the grocery store earlier?

“Anyway, ready to dive into Medi-Cal? I managed to find more of my notes from scho–oof!” She shifts her weight to take off the backpack and her knee buckles a little. I just manage to catch her before she stumbles onto her good leg.

Her hair wafts across my face as she falls into my arms, and I get a whiff of the scent of her shampoo. Strawberries. My arms tighten around her instinctively, and suddenly her smell is everywhere.

And…it’s nice. Really nice.

I lean in closer to her, the instinct to kiss her so close to the surface that I almost forget why she’s here.

But then her backpack clatters to the floor, and I remember. I place her gently upright on the floor, and clear my throat, backing away a respectable distance.

That was just a reflex. I don’t actually want to kiss her. It’s just become something we do now, for the sake of the act.

“Why don’t we do an adjustment first? Then we can talk software,” I suggest. And maybe breach the topic of golf with your dad.

Why am I so nervous all of the sudden?

She nods, wincing as she straightens her knee. “To the table?”

I nod, swallowing. “Face up this time.”

I take her backpack and she hobbles to my office. As she goes, I observe her gait, shifting my thoughts into doctor-mode. One of the most important things I learned in school for chiropractic was how to set aside personal feelings when working with a patient. Call it bedside manner, call it professionalism; when working with a patient’s body, it’s crucial to see it as just that: a body. A system of muscles and bones and connective tissue. As a chiropractor, it’s my job to observe it clinically so I can fix the issues without awkward emotions getting in the way.

Even in the wide-leg trousers she’s wearing, I can see that her hips are off-kilter. The fact that she can’t support weight on her left leg is causing all sorts of other problems up the chain of her musculoskeletal system. I’m amazed that her boss let it get this bad. Isn’t he a doctor, too?

He should know better than to let a healthy, dynamic twenty-four year-old woman with an ass like that walk crooked for the rest of her life. It’s appalling.

“You coming, or what?” She hollers from the office. I set her backpack down by the stairs and follow her. “You know, lying face up and staring at the ceiling, I’m realizing you should have some glow-in-the-dark stars or something up there to look at. Ooo, maybe a crossword? Or a fireman-of-the-month calendar?”

I snort and place my hands on her ankles, checking the alignment of her legs. “No way. If I’m putting a pinup calendar in my office it’s gonna be where I can see it. Did you know your hips are an inch off? Have you felt any pain around your pelvis or lower back?”

“I mean, my back usually gets sore by the end of the day. Dr. Cratchet isn’t exactly known for investing in ergonomic office chairs.”

I hum in acknowledgement. “Remind me to check your neck and shoulders later.”

“Oh, you’re not going to crack my neck, are you?” She shivers on the table, and for a second I think it’s because I move my hand to her thigh. I wonder if I’ve somehow messed up again. Am I slipping with my healy hands? Then she looks at me fearfully and I realize it’s the thought of having her neck adjusted that’s making her shiver.

Unlike last time.

I give myself a little shake internally. No. We’re not going to think about last time. We agreed to forget that last appointment ever happened. I shift gears, falling back into doctor-mode once again.

“Does it make you uncomfortable?” A lot of people don’t like getting their neck adjusted. I understand; there are plenty of quacks out there who have seriously hurt people. But damn, there’s nothing better than just the right crack to get your head back on straight. “I won’t do it if you really don’t want me to. But I assure you it’s safe.”

Her eyes are wary as she considers me.

And then I push my thumb into the distal end of her sartorius muscle.

“Motherfuu–” She can’t even finish the word as all the air bleeds from her lungs.

“Yep. There it is.” I hold steady pressure while I wait for the muscle to unclench. I knew from observing her walk in here that she’d have a knot. “That’s from planting your weight wrong when you toss your beanbags.”

“Wh–what?” She pants, face still contorted in pain. “How the fuck do you know I do that?”

I lean into her, and speak softly into her ear. “Because I’ve seen you play.” I feel her breath hitch, and I lean back. She pants like a Lamaze instructor in her second trimester as I hold pressure—not uncommon considering how tightly her muscle is wound. Her brow smooths at the exact moment I feel the fascia release. “Have you ever tried yoga?”

“What’s yoga got to do with anything?” She grunts as I move my fingers out to the vastus lateralis.

“Stretching is good for you. Stretchy muscles are happy muscles. Yours aren’t very stretchy.”

“You don’t say?” She mutters another string of curse words as I work my way up the outer thigh along her iliotibial band, the same place I’d worked with D’Shawn. Especially when people have had ACL or MCL injuries, they lose a ton of flexibility from overcorrecting during rehabilitation. They think they need to protect their joints more, which makes them move more stiffly–first on purpose, and then unconsciously. Eventually, they lose mobility altogether.

I don’t want that to happen to Kodi.

“You need to reestablish range of motion in your joints. You’re young. You should be wiggly. You were stiff as a board when you walked in here.”

“Isn’t that what muscle relaxers are supposed to help with?”

I frown at her. She gives me a shit-eating grin that turns into a grimace when I find another bundle of fascial tissue just to the side of her butt cheek. She jerks up from the table. I laugh at her toes curling, and I’ll admit it: I may enjoy the sight of her thigh muscles spasming under me a little too much.

I pull my hand away, the sight of her writhing beneath me making my mind drift into dangerous territory. I pray that the heat I feel rising up my neck isn’t visible to her, and will myself back into Doctor-mode.

I take a deep breath, find another spot near her hip, and press. She tenses.

“Yoga would help better.”

Her jaw slowly unclenches, and she gives me a questioning look. “You mean help more?”

I remove my hands, and I swear the woman wilts from relief. “No. More is not better. Better is better.”

She clasps her hands over her stomach as I walk around to the other side of the table to check out her right leg. She tilts her head a little, contemplating. It’s interesting to see how much she’s relaxed since she first laid down on the table. I wonder if it’s just the adjustments that’s helped her feel better, or if there was something else on her mind that had her so tense.

“I don’t know if I agree with that.”

“Agree with what?” Her hip is still tilted a bit, likely from her compensating while she’s been walking. I motion for her to turn on the table. “Face down.”

“That more isn’t better.” She shifts gingerly, and I gesture for her to take her time. I’ve done a lot of work on her muscles, and she shouldn’t be moving too fast. She slows down, talking as she rolls. “I mean, practice makes perfect, doesn’t it?”

“Ah, but what if you’re practicing the wrong thing?”

She doesn’t respond as she places her head in the facerest, but I imagine she’s chewing on a comeback. Her back and shoulders are quite tight. I release a few knots in her lumbar spine and tell her to take some deep breaths, then straighten her vertebrae back into shape as she exhales. Her cartilage pops and crackles in harmony with her grunts as I do. When I tell her to sit up (slowly), she sniffs at the air.

“Is something… burning?”

The chicken parm!

“Fuck!” I jump back from the table and sprint up the stairs, shouting over my shoulder, “Stay there!”