Page 11 of Property of Doc

“Do you have any pictures of what you’ve done?” Constance asks, glancing at Maria. “Because I just had an idea.”

I put the peeler down and pull my phone from my back pocket, smiling when I see that Doc has sent me a silly meme. He spends long hours away from the clubhouse because he’s trying to run the clinic and help the other survivors who are staying at the cabins the Kings own. But he always makes it back in time for my last meal of the day, then we spend time just talking.

Opening my phone to my treats folder, I pull up the pictures then hand my phone to Constance. The pleasure it gives me to hear the two women exclaiming over the different things I’ve made makes me feel good and pushes the monkey back a few steps.

“You said you had an idea, what was it?” I ask Constance as she hands me my phone.

“Oh! We sponsor a rodeo twice a year, and last year, Issy put in a bunch of buildings for different food vendors. I bet if we had one of the men convert one of those old-school pop-up campers, it could be used for you to sell the treats,” Constance replies. “Then, you could take your show on the road, if you wanted to.”

“I hadn’t really thought of the future,” I admit. “I mean, I have my LPN, of course, but I need to check with Doc to see if what happened to me will impact it or not. If it does, I’ll have to find another job.”

“You could still do your recovery sessions,” another woman says as she walks into the kitchen. She looks at me and states, “I’m Beth Harris, from Hope House. Doc mentioned you might need someone to talk to.”

“Oh! You must be the therapist,” I reply, fighting the urge to duck my head as shame, once again, swamps me.

“Yes, but I see that you’re busy right now, so I won’t interrupt. I just wanted to swing by and introduce myself and offer my services,” she says.

“Does Doc have your number? I can call and make an appointment,” I tell her, courageously keeping my eyes locked onto hers.

“He does, and I’ll look forward to hearing from you soon,” she says. “Ladies, it was good to see y’all again. I’ll let you get back to it.”

“Do you think it’s a good idea?” I ask Doc as we settle against his headboard for our evening chat.

We have a bucket of popcorn between us, and he has a movie set to play, but I want to know his opinion about starting a mobile treat shop. I could go to the local farmer’s market on Saturdays, set up at the rodeos, and maybe even create a website for local orders.

“I believe that if it’s something you enjoy that much, you should go for it,” he replies. “I’ll check about your license, but we didn’t get the police involved, so there were no reports made to the state. So, it’s likely still active and you’re welcome to come back to the clinic whenever you’re ready.”

He’s being beyond gracious with me. Despite me being out of pocket those weeks while I was held in captivity, and now being on leave while I establish a solid recovery since my detox is nearly done, I’m still being paid. When I asked him about it, he told me that it wasn’t up for discussion.

“So, while I finish getting clean, I can make treats and feel like I’m contributing something,” I murmur.

He pulls me closer so I’m leaning against him and says, “I’ll willingly taste test them if you want. You just get a list of what you’re going to need, and I’ll have one of the prospects go and get it.”

That’s the only thing about all of this that sucks; because they still haven’t found the assholes who took me, I’m confined to the clubhouse, unless he’s able to be with me. Because he’s working so much, that doesn’t happen all that often.

“I have my molds and stuff at my house, as well as a lot of supplies already,” I reply. “Maybe this weekend, we could go to my place and get all of it, then I can see what I need to get?”

“That sounds like a plan. You probably need to talk to your landlord about breaking your lease as well.”

“What? Why?” I ask, not understanding why I need to do that.

“Because while the threat is still going on, you’re staying here. No sense in paying for a place you’re not going back to. Remember, you’re mine, sweetheart.”

I shake my head then say, “Fine, fine. But right now, we’re in molasses territory.”

“What the hell does that mean?” he asks.

“Well, you’ve made no secret that you want a relationship, but you haven’t really done anything beyond insist I sleep in the same bed so you can ‘keep an eye on me’, kiss my forehead, and boss me around,” I sass. I mean, it’s not like I had a revolving door in my bedroom, but I’m not a virgin or a shrinking violet, so his hesitancy to do anything more physical is driving me crazy!

“Because you’re dealing with the effects of withdrawal. Besides, you know it’s recommended not to get involved with someone during the first year,” he teases.

“Yeah, I know,” I retort, rolling my eyes at him. “Except some scrub-wearing biker in a cut steamrolled past all of that.”

“We’ll get there, baby, I promise,” he whispers, kissing my temple. “Now, let’s watch a movie before we have to get some shuteye.”

“Mongrel, we’re going to need to clean out the room next to the kitchen so she can set all this shit up,” Doc says as he looks around at all my stuff. “At least she’s got shelves already.”

“Got it, Doc. We can bring over a couple of the bigger trailers so we don’t have to break the shelves down, which would help,”Mongrel replies. I don’t know him all that well; he’s a prospect, but one thing I have noticed in my time around the clubhouse is he’s always hustling and taking care of things before one of the guys orders it. I don’t think it has as much to do with trying to get into the club, either. I think that’s his personality.