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Reining Her In
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The last time I saw Declan St. James was at our rehearsal dinner. That was shortly before he jilted me at the altar. To avoid the swarm of whispers and finger pointing every time I dared to show my face in public, I fled two hours south to Atlanta and never looked back. Over the last decade, I’d planned hundreds of scenarios about how our next meeting would go down. The expletives I’d hurl at him. Which knee I might use to annihilate his balls. Which dimpled cheek on his ridiculously handsome face I would send a stinging slap across.
But being elbow deep in a cow’s ass was not one of them.
Normally, I didn’t get up close and personal to a bovine’s rectum. At least not since veterinarian school. But desperate times found me back home to attend my grandfather’s funeral, who happened to be the town’s large animal vet. Those two facts had left me wading through manure in Roy Wallace’s pasture to care for a distressed heifer.
While time and maturity seemed to have changed him from the boy I knew, I still wasn’t falling for his charm. Or his hard, chiseled body. Or ass you could eat dinner off of.
No, I wasn’t going back down that street again. Unfortunately, Declan didn’t seem to get the message. Instead, he seemed as stubborn as he ever was and ready for a fight. It’ll be the fight of his life for me to let him back in my heart.
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The squeaky soles of my Crocs echoed down the hallway. With my head down, my eyes scanned over the electronic chart of the patient who awaited me in the operating room. After presenting the familiar symptoms of a bowel obstruction, an x-ray had revealed a round foreign object in the stomach. The mystery object was too large for a laparoscopic removal procedure. Instead, I would be scrubbing up and going in surgically to remove it.
I’d just come back from briefing the family, which was never easy. I tried to put them at ease by assuring them I had done the procedure countless times. After taking their hands in mine, I stared reassuringly into their anxious eyes.
As I entered the anteroom off the OR, I stepped in front of the sink. After lathering up my hands and forearms with the medicinal soap, I rinsed them thoroughly. Once they were dry, I slid a surgical mask over my face before donning the surgical cap.
When I entered the OR, I found my nurse, Tasha, preparing the instruments. “Hey girl, how’s it going?” she asked, her dark eyes twinkling behind her mask.
“It’s going. Besides Barney, it’s been a pretty noneventful day.”
Waving a pair of surgical scissors at me, Tasha said, “I wouldn’t hold my breath. It’s a full moon tonight, and you know the crazies always come out of the woodwork.”
I laughed and moved to the operating table. “That’s true.”
Lying on his back, my patient’s limbs were strapped down to the table, leaving his abdomen exposed. A symphony of machines echoed around me as they registered the patient’s oxygen intake and blood pressure.
At the sight of a set of low-hanging balls between his legs, I rolled my eyes in disgust. I was tempted to lop his sac off right then and there. At his age, it wasn’t like he was going to get any use out of them. Considering he was a mutt, he didn’t need to be procreating for breeding or any other reason frankly. Why the male species obsess over their sacs is beyond me.
What? Did you think Barney was a human patient I had plans to castrate? I didn’t mean to mislead you. Maybe it’s because I take my job so seriously it might seem I’m a physician, rather than veterinarian. Turning away from Barney, I picked up the remote to the radio. Within seconds, an old-school Whitney Houston tune was piped in through the speakers.
Because I listened to music during surgery, one of my ex boyfriends loved to call me a wannabe Meredith Grey at Fur’s Anatomy. I liked to call him a micro peen. Well, at least I did in my head. I wasn’t bitchy enough to actually voice it. Instead, I quickly ended the relationship and vowed to never date anyone again who didn’t respect my career or who had a moderately sized dick.
For those who are slightly squeamish, I’ll skip the descriptions of the blood, guts, and gore that occur when you do internal surgery. We’ll just move right on through that like you’re fast forwarding on a DVR. To get you up to speed, my fingers had just enclosed around something that felt like a hard, round ball.
“What the hell?” I asked as I pulled the object out. As I turned it around in my fingers, I noticed it was larger than a marble but slightly smaller than a golf ball. The surface was smooth, and it gleamed silver in the light.
“Let me see that,” Tasha said.
When I handed it over, Tasha widened her eyes before dissolving into laughter. “I-I can’t b-believe it!” she sputtered.
“You seriously don’t know what this is?”
“If I did, would I be asking?” I replied.
“It’s a Ben-Wa ball.”
I furrowed my brows at her. “Hold the phone. Ben-Wa as in the sex balls?”
“Are you telling me I’m going to have to go out there and tell the family that Barney ate one of their coochie balls?”
Tasha started laughing again. “Better you than me.”
Sure, it wasn’t the first time I’d dug slightly unmentionables out of a canine’s stomach or intestines. Over the years, there had been a plethora of chewed up thongs, not to mention parts of a veiny dildo. There’d also been several condoms. Thankfully, the condoms had been eaten directly from the box.
Part of my apprehension came from the fact Barney’s owners were a sixty something woman and her forty-something daughter. While the odds seemed to favor the ball belonging to the daughter, I didn’t even want to fathom it belonging to the mother. Shaking my head, I muttered, “Fucking full moon.”
“You can say that again,” Tasha snickered.
With the cause of Barney’s blockage taken care of, I began suturing him back up. Once I was finished, Tasha and I wheeled him next door to the recovery room. As I was making post-surgical notes in his chart, a beep came over the intercom. “Dr. Beasley, your mother is on line two,” a secretary related. Inwardly, I groaned. While I might’ve been knocking on thirty’s door, my mother still treated me like I was teenager. She insisted on almost daily texts or calls. She claimed it was because I lived so far away in the “big city”.