Too Much Information (Awkward Love 3)

“Just get it out,” I beg her.

“Fine,” she grumbles as she gets down onto her knees. She lifts up the skirt of my dress and peers between my legs. “Hey, you smell really good. What kind of body wash do you use?”

“Becs.”

“Right, sorry,” she mutters. “Focus.”

I close my eyes, my toes curling as she slides a finger inside me. I groan, thrusting my knees together, because just the feel of her fingers inside me is driving me insane.

“This kind of feels like that game we used to play at Halloween, where we had to find the balls in the slime, while blindfolded,” she muses.

“Except with less balls,” I mutter.

She spends the next half a minute feeling around inside me, then she jumps to her feet and backs up so far, she’s standing against the wall on the other side of the room. She shakes her head, a mortified look on her face.

“I’m sorry, I love you, but I can’t do this. I can’t feel it anyway and what if I damage something or pull the wrong bit out?” she demands.

I laugh, even though I want to cry, because the situation is so helpless. My hands shake as I lift them to my head and cover my face. I’m so tired, and I can already feel another orgasm beginning to develop.

“Do you want me to call an ambulance?”

“No!”

“Why not?” she asks, surprised by my sharp tone.

“Because they’ll take me to Mercy,” I say, gritting my teeth.

“Yeah, because it’s the closest… Oh.” She pauses and at least tries to fight the smile forming on her lips. “It’s also where you start your residency next week. I guess this isn’t the kind of first impression you want to make.”

“You reckon?” I say, on the verge of tears. “Please, Becs, just help me.”

She frowns at me. “Can you walk?”

“No,” I whisper. “I crawled from the bed to here and it took twenty minutes.”

“Then I’ll have to carry you.” She turns around, bending her knees as she taps her back. “Jump on,” she urges me.

“What?” I protest. “I’m two inches taller than you,” I say, laughing in spite of how desperate I feel. “You can’t piggy back me all the way downstairs—”

“Unless you have a better idea, shut your trap, and get on,” she demands. I climb on, wrapping my arms around her neck as I hold on for dear life. “You know, I always dreamed that one day, you’d be having repeated orgasms while riding on my back,” she jokes, leading me into the elevator, which, thank God, is empty.

By some miracle, she manages to carry me all the way down to her car, while passing minimal people. I hurl myself across her back seat and whimper. She shuts the door and gets in, glancing back at me with a frown on her face.

“You know, I’m totally regretting getting you that gift card right now,” she grumbles.

“Really?” I mutter, grunting as a stab of pain slices through me. That can’t be good. “Well I think I’m regretting it more.”

How did this go so wrong? I picked the least scary looking toy on that damn site. Who could mess that up?

Me. Apparently, I can because here I am vibrating my way to the emergency room, instead of heaven, like I was promised on the box.

#

I insist we go far enough out of downtown LA that there’s no chance of running into anyone I know, and forty minutes later, we’re finally nearing the exit for the Orange County Hospital. As Becca takes the exit, the severity of the situation starts to sink in. I feel like passing out. What the hell am I going to say? How am I going to explain to a doctor that I, a medical professional, have managed to lodge the world’s smallest vibrator inside me?

“Here we are,” Becca soothes as she cuts off the engine. “You wait here; I’m going to race inside and find you a wheelchair.”

I nod, resting my head against the seat as she disappears. All the worst possible outcomes are racing through my head right now. What if I need surgery? Forget about the pain or explaining this to a doctor, how I do explain it to Mom and my brother, Matt? I’m such a shit liar, too, so if I concoct some story, they’re going to see right through it and badger me until I confess the truth, which pretty much happened with every lie I told during my childhood.

The door opens, and I look up, expecting to see Becca. Instead, I see a middle-aged male orderly smiling sympathetically at me.

“Your friend said you might need some assistance getting out?”

“Thanks,” I say, not sure what else to say to that.

Becca’s face appears behind him, mouthing I’m sorry. I brace myself and carefully slide my butt across the seat to the door. I moan, my thighs twitching as I bury my face in the seat, pressing my legs together. I sob softly as I come for what feels like the thousandth time.