Doctor-Patient Confidentiality: Volume One (Part One) free porn video

PROLOGUE

I lie here in this incredibly soft and cushioned California King Bed, draped by navy blue silk sheets in a room illuminated only by the dim glow of scented candles.

The blended aroma of lavender and jasmine fills the warm air, but despite the pleasant, therapeutic scent, I am hardly relaxed.

The sound of my shallow breathing fills my ears, and it becomes even more audible as I feel it getting slightly labored, no doubt with sheer anticipation.

My skin is heated and flushed, and my dark, curly hair is a tangled mess against the soft pillow underneath my head. I vaguely register the ticking sound of the large wall clock hanging high above the headboard.

I feel a bead of sweat trickle down my chest and between my breasts, tickling my skin as it moves further south to collect in my belly button.

I stare into the eyes of the gorgeous man on top of my naked body with uncertainty as he enters me for the fifth time tonight, wondering how it is exactly that I got into my current position.

Literally and figuratively.

I continue to behold his big, muscled body as it effortlessly covers mine. I don't think it'll ever be possible for me to get tired of looking at its impeccable display, clothed, naked, covered in mud, or in a glowy sheen of sweat like it is now. My eyes travel upwards to find him staring hard at me, and I feel my sex clench and throb violently, as if it's the first time his arresting gaze has covered me in goosebumps.

He remains silent as he pushes into me without warning or restraint, and I quickly feel myself getting even more flushed at the squelching, sucking sounds that his entry causes.

I feel myself gaping wide open as he quickly buries himself deep inside me, like he's done many times before. His strong fingers dig into my skin as he grips my hips roughly and brings them hard against his pelvis in one quick motion.

I'm unable to stop the yelp—a throaty mesh of pain and ecstasy—that escapes from deep within my throat at the deliciously forceful invasion. I arch my back and push my head further into the pillow in surrender, because frankly, that’s all I can do.

This man owns me.

I'm certain of it now.

And I honestly can't believe just how willing I am to be owned by him.

I instantly cream myself and his now sheathed cock, still in utter disbelief at how much he fills me up. A moan escapes my quivering lips as my upper body is pressed further into the mattress by his incredible weight.

My fingers instinctively reach out and dig into his forearms, feeling the magnificently corded muscles and veins in them as I wrap my legs tightly around his waist. My feet are pressed against the taut skin of his firm ass. I feel his hips flex under my thighs, and I can't subdue the pleasured smile that sneaks its way onto my lips.

I'm all too aware of how much he stretches me open, and despite the embarrassment that still lingers, I love feeling the incredible heat and thickness of his cock pressing almost desperately inside my pussy.

I crave it.

Badly, sometimes.

The soreness I still feel presents raw evidence of what he did to me just twenty minutes ago, as does the pool of sticky wetness between my thighs, and I can't help but revel in the sweet pain. As twisted and obscene as it is, I always love reminders of how roughly and thoroughly he fucks me.

He pulls back, and pushes forward again with even more force.

He does it again. 

And again. 

And again.

And all I can do is surrender myself to his deliberate actions.

All I can do is take every inch of each powerful thrust and allow my body to feel each and every second of the raw ecstasy that’s running wildly through its veins.

The flickering flames of the candles cast shadows against the beige walls, and I watch our entwined silhouettes moving in sync to a frantic, sexual rhythm—like that of passionate, devoted lovers.

But that can't be further from the truth. We aren't lovers, and despite the romantic setting, this isn't a romantic getaway or honeymoon. The gorgeous man inside me is not my boyfriend or my husband.

In fact, he's someone else's.

Husband, that is.

And we aren't making love. Or even just having sex. This is good old-fashioned, raw, reckless, uninhibited fucking.

Just like he likes it.

And just like I've come to as well.

He looks at me with unapologetic lust, and his stare is unfaltering. He digs into my very soul with icy blue eyes that both terrify and captivate me. The same eyes that wouldn't leave mine the moment we met. The same eyes that have blatantly refused to leave my mind ever since. And the same damn eyes that still haunt my every waking hour, and won't leave my dreams alone when I sleep at night.

He moves faster and faster, pumping into me harder and harder with abandon. The sticky, slapping sounds of cock in pussy crack and echo through the stillness of the night, giving testimony to our raw and depraved coupling.

I want to kiss him, so much that it physically hurts. I want to press my lips to his full, pink mouth and suck on his tongue, like I’ve been dying to ever since I met him.

But I don’t.

I can’t.

Because I know he won’t let me.

He never lets me.

It’s the one thing he refuses to do with me; his number one rule for me to keep if I want… Whatever this is between us, to continue—this arrangement of sorts. And as wrong as I know this is, I also know that I’m not ready to stop just yet.

Our tempo becomes even more hurried, more frantic, and each of his angry thrusts sends me deeper and deeper into an abyss of sheer ecstasy. My moans are turning into a mesh of cries, whimpers, and pleas. My skin is scorched, ablaze with lust and want, and all the pores on my body are screaming in emotional overdrive as I feel myself becoming feverish and drenched in sweat.

I can't believe how different things are now; how complicated my life has become in such a short amount of time.

It was never supposed to be like this. He's off limits.

He's always been off limits.

I keep telling myself that; that being here with him is not supposed to feel this good.

God, he's not supposed to feel this good.

I wonder what my life would have been like now if I had gone to the clinic on a different day, or if I had just insisted on going with the physician I was initially referred to.

Never in my life would I have thought that in the events that followed the beginning of a regular school week, a random check-up would end up spawning a highly angst-filled, incredibly confusing, and quickly-unfolding mess.

CHAPTER ONE

The wipers sway intermittently across the windshield, and their blades do a sloppy job of clearing the precipitation from my view. Their constant rubbing against the glass emits ear-wrenching squeaks that I wish I could ignore, but cannot.

These ancient wipers need to go.

At least that's what I've been saying for… How long has it been now? Five months? Yeah, about that long.

Every time I get around to changing these annoying wipers, something else more urgent suddenly comes up, and whatever money I’d been saving toward replacing them goes to that 'more urgent' thing. That happened again yesterday.

I spent the money I’d been saving for a pair of new wipers on a newly published music composition book that I absolutely need and can't seem to find in any of the libraries. I guess it'll be at least another month or so before I get rid of the ancient wipers—and that's if nothing else ends up taking priority over them before that.

Somehow, I highly doubt that things will actually go that way.

Maybe I'll get used to the squeaks.

Yeah, right.

A tired yawn escapes me as I reluctantly listen to the obnoxious voice of a man streaming from my car's radio. He goes on and on and on, blabbering away in an infomercial that's way too dramatic and really over-the-top.

The guy is desperately trying to make flannel jackets sound like magical garments that have been woven into golden pieces of fabric by Rumpelstiltskin, and then later catapulted into retail stores straight from a unicorn's asshole.

He really is doing—or saying, as the case is—far, far too much. I doubt the company's marketing team intended for their ad to sound this ridiculous. Or at least, I hope not, for their sake.

I'm extremely tempted to change the station, but I don't. As much as I'd rather listen to something that doesn't make my eardrums want to commit suicide, the obnoxious banter is effectively chasing away any sleepiness I still feel, and this early in the morning, that's something I desperately need.

Another yawn escapes me and I feel my eyes water slightly behind my glasses as the lingering sleepiness slowly evades them. I crank up the heat a bit and enjoy the blast of hot air that emanates from the heater.

There's barely anyone on the road now, and I'm glad I don't have to deal with so many other cars and their equally grumpy-from-sleep drivers so early in the morning.

My fingers are firm on the steering wheel as I hit the gas, speeding up and managing to pass a traffic light right before it turns red. Pretty soon, I'm pulling into the only unrestricted parking lot on campus.

Even at this early hour, the lot is fairly full, mostly because it's not that big, and most students without a parking permit, like myself, scramble relentlessly for a parking space here everyday. I'm sure some kids leave their cars here for days at a time just to ensure that they have a spot.

I circle the lot once and I'm fortunate enough to find a spot without as much hassle as usual, and given my morning crankiness and impatience, I'm pretty darn thankful for that. However, even though my car isn't big, the spot is pretty awkward, and it's not even a little bit bright outside. I suck at parallel parking, and being fairly new to driving a stick-shift makes maneuvering my '98 Volkswagen Polo right now even more frustrating.

After more attempts than I'd like to admit, I finally manage to park the old Polo without setting off World War Z. The rumble of the engine eventually dies down as I turn off the ignition, and the absence of any radio feed leaves me encompassed in complete silence.

I take a moment to look out through my blurry windshield, and I have just one word to describe my surroundings.

Depressing.

Actually, make that three words.

Depressing as fuck.

Except for the still cars that are lined up, the lot looks like some post-apocalyptic barren wasteland. 

Maybe I did set off World War Z.

I grab my satchel and reluctantly open my door. As soon as I step out, I'm greeted by an overwhelming gush of frigid wind, and I have to stand still for a moment so that I can adjust to my new frosty environment.

It's that time of year again, and winter has come back full force with a vengeance, rearing its ugly, frigid head once more. At six-thirty in the morning, the sky looks no different than it did at midnight.

Pitch fucking black.

It's way too dark out here, not to mention ridiculously cold. I walk briskly through campus, feeling the crunch of ice and snow beneath my boots as I take every shortcut I know of to head to west campus—home of the Liberal Arts School.

CHAPTER TWO

I tug on my jacket and pull my beanie further down on my head as I continue to brace myself against the mercilessly frigid onslaught. I say a silent 'fuck you' to whichever administrator is responsible for this currently fucked up parking situation.

Fuck, it's cold.

I realize that I say 'fuck' a lot when I feel like my blood is turning to ice.

It's my fourth winter in Milwaukee, and I'm honestly not sure I'll ever get used to how cold it gets here in Wisconsin. And to think I used to complain about winter in Manchester as a kid. What a joke. That was nothing compared to this. Even my winters in New York never got as bad as it does here.

I pull the sides of my brown padded jacket closer together as if doing so will make me feel any less cold. I knew I should have worn a third layer underneath before I left my apartment. Once again, I grossly underestimated just how cold it can get here.

The jacket by itself isn't nearly as insulating as it looks. Despite its deceptive size, it's not very practical. It’s really big for no reason. I wish I had known that before I spent almost sixty bucks on the damn thing. What a waste of money.

Another gust of wind accompanied by snow flurries washes over me, and all I can do is groan in despair.

"Holy hell," I mutter. I silently curse for the umpteenth time, wishing like hell that I didn't have to head to vocal practice so damn early, especially when most of the campus is still sound asleep. What I wouldn't give to be cozied up in my bed right now.

Fuck Monday mornings, for real.

My teeth start to clatter uncontrollably, and most of my nose has already gone numb. I have to keep bringing my hands up to my mouth and blowing between my leather gloves to bring some of the feeling back into my face.

My glasses keep fogging up every fifteen seconds, and I have to struggle to see where my feet keep landing. It doesn't help my poor eyesight that the campus street lights are dim as hell.

What exactly are all the campus fee charges being spent on?

Christ.

I walk as carefully as I can, all the while trying to maintain my speed. I come close to falling twice, but manage to regain my composure each time.

"Good reflexes. Just like your mother," my grandma would say.

My chest tightens as soon as both women come to mind. I feel a bout of sadness creep up on me as I think of the woman who brought me into the world.

As I continue to dodge muddy mounds and slippery black ice, I idly remember the very first time I was allowed to play in the snow.

I was five at the time, and my parents and I still lived in Manchester then. It was the first time I had ever seen snow in real life, and I was so eager and excited to go out and play in all that immaculate goodness.

My mom had tried to persuade me not to, but of course, like any curious and eager child, I wasn't hearing any of it. Boy should I have listened to her.

My so-called snow play session ended with me crying hysterically with snot all over my face because my hands were throbbing in excruciating pain.

Apparently, yours truly thought she was a mini Einstein and figured it would be a brilliant idea to try to build a snowman with her gloves off. I think my mom let me have my way to teach me a lesson. That shit had seriously hurt. Needless to say, that was the very last time I ever did that.

I wish I could also say that that was the last time I did something unbelievably stupid.

Yet another wave of frigid air quickly brings my focus back to the present, actively pushing the memories aside. I can't help but be grateful. I don't like how I feel when I think of my mother, and I don't want to start my day off feeling any more crappy than I already do.

I hum Hayley Westenra’s ‘Across the Universe of Time’ to keep my mind off both my mother and the numbing cold, as well as to hear something other than the sound of my clattering teeth. It's a song I love a lot, and it’s also the song I chose to sing for my very first solo performance last year.

I'm still amazed at all the praise and acknowledgment I got from both the audience and the entire music faculty for it. I was even asked for an encore.

Needless to say, that performance had done wonders for my ego, removing so many doubts I had at the time and increasing my love for vocal music even more. That moment also felt like a confirmation that I had indeed made the right decision coming back to college, and that I really have a shot at a successful career in music after all.

I finally reach West Campus, and I thank the non-existent stars for getting here in one piece, even though I could barely see a thing on my way here.

I head past the English, Film, and Art buildings like I always do. A minute later, I'm swiping my ID card in the slot at the main entrance to the music building. I eagerly make my way inside, happy to put an end to this annoying, frost-bitten journey.

CHAPTER THREE

I'm immediately encompassed by hot air, and I'm incredibly grateful for the nice and toasty atmosphere as I feel the heat quickly neutralize the unbearable cold I felt just seconds ago.

I dust the snow off my jacket without halting my footsteps, and adjust the strap of my carry-on as I feel it digging into my shoulder, bearing most of its unnecessary weight.

I make a mental note to remove whatever items in it that I don't use daily. I have a bad habit of always carrying around a lot of stuff in my bag, but there's absolutely no reason to keep carrying a butt load of crap everywhere in this shitty weather if I don't have to.

The building is dead quiet from this end, and I make my way through the hallway equally silent. Even though I'm tempted to take the elevator to head to my department, I ditch it in favor of the stairwell as usual.

I make my way up the lengthy flight of stairs, taking two at a time like I always do. I consider this part of my daily workout routine, and between my hectic schedule and lack of a gym membership, it's pretty much the ideal daily exercise option for me. Plus, it helps to fully wake and warm me up for practice on early mornings like this.

Just right before I reach the very top of the stairwell, I wince as I feel an abrupt and discomforting sensation right below my chest that makes me stop in my tracks.

Ugh. There it is again.

This is like the fourth or fifth time it's happened since it started a little over a month ago. I don't know why I keep getting this random discomfort in my stomach. I have to hold on to the railing for support as I wait for the uneasy feeling to subside.

The first two times it happened, I just figured maybe it was my body's stress response to the hectic life of juggling two 

majors, a full-time job, and being constantly worried about money. Now, I'm not so sure it's as simple as that.

I close my eyes momentarily and take in deep breaths, trying hard not to mentally freak out. I find relief when the sensation fades away in a few moments. A few seconds later, I hear the door of the main entrance open again from below me, and a pair of familiar, obnoxious voices follow right after.

Even without looking to see who it is, I know all too well the distinctive, high-pitched and snarky voices of Wendy Gilmore and Julianne Hendricks.

Wendy and Julianne are, for all intents and purposes, first-class 'bee-otches'.

And that's by anyone's standard, including theirs, if they’re honest with themselves.

They're your typical rich and snotty mean girls who have it out for pretty much anyone who isn't richer and/or more overbearing than they are—which, in my class, is pretty much everyone.

Although, I sometimes wonder how long their rich-girl partnership will last. From my own experiences, girls as mean and ruthless as they are always seem to have a hard time getting along with anyone for extended periods of time, even people who are exactly like themselves.

I always do my best to avoid the 'Dastardly Duo' as my best friends, Trixie and Bill, have dubbed them.

I actually think the alias is quite fitting.

The chicks are incredibly mean for no reason at all. Lord knows I've had my fair share of mean girls in middle and high school, and even during my first go around in college, so I'm no stranger to the general behavior and attitude of girls like them, but I'm way too old to entertain or tolerate that type of juvenile bullshit anymore.

I avoid them not because I'm scared of or feel intimidated by them, but because I'm just not a very confrontational person by nature, and at the age of twenty-four, I find dealing with the B.S. and bitchy antics of their kind incredibly exhausting and draining. I have quite enough going on in my life that drains me as it is, and in the extremely rare chance that I'll actually want more crap in my life, I'll just tune in to Duck Dynasty.

I hear the echoes of their laughter and gossip becoming louder, signaling that they're getting closer. The last thing I want right now is for the Dastardly Duo to begin their daily routine of people-spiting with me, so I push my concerns for my stomach to the side for the moment and quickly make my way to the vocal department.

CHAPTER FOUR

I make a stop by my locker before I head to the rehearsal room to drop off my belongings. I set my satchel down and turn the grey metal dial as I enter the new combination to my locker. I takes me two tries to get it right, and it opens up with a very slight creak. I had to get it changed about two weeks ago since someone had managed to break into it and steal my iPod, my recorder, a library book—which I had to end up paying for, and a few of my other belongings.

My locker had been thoroughly vandalized, with nothing but broken glass and what looked like lipstick streaks left behind. 

The perpetrator still hasn't been found till date, so the only thing the faculty head could do when it happened was make an announcement of the incident and arrange to have my combination replaced.

I suspected and still suspect that it’s someone in my class who did it—probably Wendy or Julianne—but I have no proof to back my theory up.

Besides, the Dastardly Duo aren't my only suspects. There are quite a few classmates who really don't care too much for my existence, and I guess that mostly has to do with the fact that I'm one of the top music students in the school and most of our professors seem to take a liking to me.

I was appointed lead vocalist earlier this semester, as well as lead pianist, and apparently only two other students have ever held two lead positions in different departments at the same time in the music school's history. It’s obvious that some of my classmates don't think I deserve either of the highly-coveted positions, and certainly not both at the same time.

A lot of them have claimed everything from being the granddaughter of a legendary music composer to their assumption that I'm ‘part British’—which I’m not, and I don’t know why the hell that would even make a difference, but people will obviously use anything as an excuse—as the only reasons why I was given those positions. I frequently hear passing remarks like, "She's just lucky her grandfather was famous and had connections here" and "It’s not fair! I can sing so much better than she does. What makes her so damn special?"

It's crazy how much perception skews the truth. I consider myself anything but fortunate, but no one would ever agree with me based on simple outward appearances. I guess I should have expected the disgruntled reactions of my classmates.

Like most classical art fields, classical vocal music is a highly competitive field anywhere in the world, and people will use any excuse they can come up with to discredit their competition.

I'm sure the classical ballet dancers across the hall have it much, much harder. I've seen firsthand how fierce the competition in their department can get, and I sometimes wonder if most of the dancers still enjoy dancing with all the pressure they're constantly under.

Lord knows I wouldn't.

I guess I just have to be extra careful and vigilant from now on. It's not like I can afford to lose any more of my stuff.

I take my hat and jacket off and shove them into the medium sized locker, and my satchel soon follows. I remember to take my new MP3 player from it before I close it. Okay, it's not exactly new, but I feel like it is.

Trixie's older brother, Drake, gave it to me last week, insisting that I take it when he heard about what had happened with my locker. I almost wish Trixie hadn't told him.

I was extremely reluctant to take his music player when he offered it to me, even though it was exactly the miracle I needed then. I absolutely hate feeling indebted to anyone, and I hate the idea of Drake feeling sorry for me even more. I also hate the fact that I like the guy, and although I've had something of a crush on for him for a little over a year now, I know I'll never act on those feelings.

It probably sounds absurd to most people, and I'll never admit it to anyone, but one of the greatest fears I have in life…is falling in love.

Yeah. I'm kind of dysfunctional like that.

My greatest fear isn't dying broke or starving to death or being alone for the rest of my life. Not even the thought of having maggots crawling out of my nose makes my system shut down like the thought of being deeply in love with someone. I don't know if that’s sad or what.

I mean, most people crave love and romance and spend incredible amounts of time and energy searching for it.

But not me.

Every time love so much as tiptoes my way, I run from it faster than Usain Bolt ever could, and do everything in my power to eradicate any sign of it in my life. I'd heartily welcome the plague over it.

To be clear, I wasn't always like this, though. I thought I wanted love once upon a time, and on very few, rare occasions, I still think I might, but I know for a fact that I wouldn't be able to handle being in love if a bucket of the stuff was thrown right in my face. I just wouldn’t; not after seeing what being in love did to my father.

Not after witnessing and being part of the toxic and destructive aftermath that resulted from that whole situation.

My body shudders involuntarily, not from any remnants of the cold outside, but from unpleasant memories. I actively push the depressing thoughts from my mind before they wander any further.

I scrunch my hair into a messy ponytail and put my earphones on as I walk to the backdoor of the rehearsal room, actively switching my focus to music so that I don’t have to think about my somber past. At least not for the next few hours.

CHAPTER FIVE

I scroll through my classical playlist in search for Celtic Woman's 'The Voice', one of the songs for our group performance taking place two weeks from now. I find it by the time my hand is turning the gold-plated door knob. I notice a few people in the distance, haphazardly scattered across the room as I let myself in.

The gentle hum of the heating system fills the room along with the sound of a few shuffling bodies and idle chit-chat.

The air is even warmer in here, incredibly cozy with the perfect temperature for a nap, and I have to fight the temptation to run back to my car, speed home, and dive right into my bed.

The white tiles of the recently renovated flooring look even more immaculate under the fluorescent lighting of the spacious studio.

The bright lights attack my eyes and make me squint behind my glasses as they create a glare on them.

Everyone here has their earphones in already, and are singing along to the music they're hearing just as I'm about to. 

I look around and notice that Trixie isn't here yet, but it's not unusual. She hates coming to practice even a minute earlier than she has to.

I make my way over to a corner, right in front of one of the many floor-to-ceiling mirrors so that I can properly monitor my posture as I sing. I glance at my cheap plastic watch. It's digits read 6:50 AM.

I only have ten minutes to warm up, which is good for one full go round, but considering this funkiness going on with my stomach, I'm not so sure. I'm worried I may need more time.

I regard my figure, looking intently at the eyes of girl staring back at me from behind thin brown-framed glasses.

I look tired.

Incredibly tired.

And I know it's not just because it's early in the day. I always look tired. I've been constantly exhausted for years now, and it really shows. I feel a sigh escape me as I try not let my mind wander back toward negative thoughts like it normally does.

I bring my full focus to the current moment and the task at hand. I readjust my earphones as I feel one bud slipping out. I arch my back and bring my shoulders back so that they're aligned with my hips. Lightly spreading my feet apart, I straighten my spine as best as I can, and even though it still makes me feel slutty, I push my chest out to fix my slouch.

I feel the tension leave my lips as I part them slightly, a measure I always have to take against my tendency to purse them. With my posture adjusted, I hit play, and soon, the harmonious melody of Celtic Woman's 'The Voice' fills my ears.

I begin to mimic her, singing along to her hypnotic voice without having to think about the words as they are etched into my memory thanks to having the song on replay non-stop for the last several days. As the music continues to stream into my ears, I momentarily close my eyes as I feel myself being transported out of the two thousand square foot rehearsal studio to a tranquil cottage on a lovely green meadow in Ireland.

I feel so in sync and free, and I continue to sing with increasing abandon, as if I don't have a care in the world. It all feels so… Magical; like nothing else in the world. I forget all my troubles, past and present, and think only of the music and how amazing the harmonious rhythm makes me feel. I open my eyes and continue to monitor my posture.

Everything looks and feels right so far. I glance at the MP3 player, noting that I'm already two minutes in. My surroundings have become a blur, and all I can focus on is singing, as if it's the only thing I know how to do.

Three minutes in and everything is still flowing smoothly. My timing and precision is on point. I continue to sing fairly effortlessly, and the difficult bridge is coming up. I tackle it head on as I've done many times before. I watch myself closely in the mirror again, regarding the flex of my abs as I feel their muscles contract.

I feel the various parts of my body—my diaphragm, my lungs, my larynx, and my lips—all working together in perfect synchrony to control and maintain the pitch, tone, timbre, depth, and fluidity of my voice. I feel the power in my voice as I sing at the top of my lungs, feeling the waves reverberate within me and escape my lips.

I'm so in my element right now, completely in my zone. 

Nothing beats the feeling I get when I sing like this. 

Nothing gets me on such a high or gives me such an overwhelming sense of freedom—

Abruptly, I feel myself lurch forward unnaturally and my voice cracks. I feel the warm air forced from my lungs in a strained rush as it escapes my flared nostrils. My chest tightens in response.

God. It's happening again.

CHAPTER SIX

The discomforting feeling that I had earlier is back, and it's considerably more painful this time. It's never even happened twice in the same day before. I'm beginning to think that whatever this is, it’s probably more than just a stress-response.

I see a bunch of girls behind me just standing there and giving me strange looks through the mirror, and I notice that Julianne is among them.

She has her arms crossed over her fake chest, eyeing me suspiciously as she gives me a once over, followed by a snarky scoff just before she goes back to talking with her better half.

Or worse half, I'm not sure which.

I can't help but roll my eyes. I can't be bothered by their darting glares and pettiness. However, even though I'm putting on a brave face, I cannot continue to pretend that this stomach-hitching thing-a-majig doesn't bother me, either. I think I need to get this checked out.

I look at my watch again, noticing that my arm is slightly trembling. It's almost seven. More people are streaming in through both front and back doors, scurrying to get settled in before Madame Vito, the head vocal instructor, gets here.

I'm actually surprised she isn't here already. It's not like her to be late.

I take off my earphones with a shaky hand as the music is still playing and head to my usual seat. Just as soon as I do, I notice Trixie waltzing in nonchalantly likes she owns the joint, completely unbothered by the prospect of arriving later than Vito unlike everyone else.

I have to smile.

I absolutely love her cavalier, 'I-have-no-fucks-to-give' attitude. I find it extremely refreshing and down-to-earth, especially after being immersed head-first in such a competitive environment like this one.

She grins as she spots me looking her way, giving me a light wave as she approaches me. I can't help but think about how well she'd fit in if she ever moved to New York City, even with her prominent Milwaukee accent.

"Hey, you. Miss me? You look like shit, by the way," she says as she takes her seat next to me. She's always very blunt and honest.

Brutally honest.

And honestly, even after a year of being friends with her, I think I'm still getting used to that aspect of her.

"Gee, thanks," I say with a smile. I know she means no harm, and we tease each other all the time, but I'd be lying if I say looking worn out with bags under my eyes all the time doesn't bother me at all. I change the subject, deterring the conversation away from my not-so-stellar appearance.

"How was your weekend? Did your parents enjoy their getaway?"

She stretches her arms over her head, leaning back in the chair in a carefree motion. "Ugh, it was great for the parentals. Bloody exhausting for me."

I love how she emphasizes the word 'bloody'. She's been using it ever since she met me, and I guess that's not the only word I've rubbed off on her. I sometimes catch her saying 'crisps' instead of 'French fries' and 'trousers' instead of 'pants'. I sometimes slip up and do the same.

"The twins kept bugging me to bake them cookies and apple pie and whole bunch of other shit. I mean, look at me," she gestures to herself in a humorous way with her fingers. "When have I ever attempted to bake anything? Do I look like Mary fucking Poppins to you? I’m Italian and I can barely even boil spaghetti right without nearly burning the whole neighborhood down. I swear, ever since you made those oatmeal cookies for them, they've been going berserk for more. You spoiled them rotten. I totally blame you for this," she laughs.

I laugh with her, trying to picture a punk-rocker chick like her trading her black leather and multiple piercings for an apron and oven mitts.

Yeah. Not happening.

"Wasn't Drake there to help out with baby-sitting?" I ask, hoping I don’t sound as eager I feel saying her brother’s name.

She rolls her whiskey eyes as she runs her hands through her dark, choppy pixie cut.

"Pshhh. He was there, alright. But the only thing the idiot helped out with was leading their cookie-demanding crusade. He even got them Cookie Monster hats to wear!"

I picture Drake rallying the two identical six-year olds to drive Trixie crazy. I can't stop laughing, and I admire how she talks about her relationship with her brothers. I can only imagine how interesting being the only girl among three brothers must be. I'd be lying if I say I'm not a little envious of her in that regard.

I've always wondered what it would be like to have a brother—one who doesn’t despise my very existence, anyway. I think I'd love having one. Or even a sister. Ideally, I’d have both. I guess I'll never know.

"So," she crosses her feet as she faces me again, "how was your weekend? Much better than mine, I'm sure."

I shrug. "Meh. Pretty standard. Work. Study. Work some more.” I sigh and close my eyes dramatically. “All that work and somehow, I'm still broke."

She laughs and shakes her head. "You and me both, 

Roni. You and me, both.”

I laugh, even though I know our situations aren’t even remotely close to being the same. Trixie may not have money to around splurging on retail therapy, but she certainly isn’t scraping for cash everyday either. I try not to think about my financial situation, and it works for about seven seconds. Her next question only manages to fuel my worrisome thoughts.

“Oh yeah, how's your Nana? You grandfather's memorial is coming up, isn't it?"

I nod. "Yeah, it's in a few days. She's holding up okay as far as I can tell, but I know thinking about it is affecting her more than she shows. She just won't ever say anything to me because I know she doesn't want me to worry about her."

"Right. As if that's possible," Trixie says.

I shrug. "It's not like I can help it, Trix. She's all by herself over there. She shouldn't even be working at her age but she can't afford not to after everything that's happened."

"Yeah, I know," she nods solemnly. She pauses for a bit, as if she's in deep thought, then asks, "Did you ask Larry for a raise?"

I sigh as I adjust myself in my chair. "No. It's only been a couple of months since he gave me my last one. I'd asked him for an advance last week but he can't give me one right now. I really need the money but I don't want to feel like I'm backing him into a corner, you know. It's too soon to ask again."

She looks at me incredulously, and the warm glow of her eyes settle on mine. Drake has the exact same whiskey-toned eyes, and looking at hers really freaks me out sometimes because it feels like I'm looking into his.

"Oh, please, don't give me that hogwash," she says. "You know you're the reason that grizzly bear has been getting as much business as he has this past year. Most people on campus had never even heard of the Mushroom before you started singing there. And with a name like that, I can't imagine why. I mean, Jesus, was he trying to get his bar to fail? He owes you big time. That's all I'm saying."

I laugh at her nickname for my boss, Larry Fitzgerald. I swear, Trixie has nicknames for everyone. I agree with everything she's saying, including Larry's bizarre choice of a name for his business. I'd suggested something a little less sexually innuendoed, like 'Larry's Tavern' or even the 'Drunken Mushroom', but for whatever reason, he's been pretty adamant about sticking to the 'Wooden Mushroom'. Everyone just calls it 'The Mushroom' for short now.

Larry's a really nice guy, and something of a father figure to me, but he is a bit off. I guess everyone is to some extent. Trixie can't seem to cut the guy a break, though. She's insisted I quit and get a better paying job if Larry can't pay me more, and she doesn't understand my loyalty to him.

I've been working for him for three years now and I know how grateful he is to me, but it's not like I'm his only employee. He's got kids of his own and other obligations and responsibilities outside the bar, too. I can't expect him to bend over backwards for me, even if I'm walking the fine line of desperation. It’s not like I’m the first person in the world to ever get caught in a financial rut. Although, I have to admit, some days, it sure does feel like it.