Bethel's Meadow by Gregory Shultz Page A

death.”
    “That is very commendable of you,” Samantha said. She started laughing again, and then she howled, “Whooooo! You are something else.” She got up and collected my dishes. “You’re full of shit, but you’re still something else.”
    I offered to help but she refused it. She ordered me upstairs to take a shower in the master bathroom and to then hop into bed.
    “We’re not finished yet,” she said.
    …
     
    Following three hours of the most incredible sex ever, during which time I engaged in sexual maneuvers I had never contemplated nor even imagined, Samantha transitioned into doctor mode yet again. We were still in bed.
    “I think you’ve made the right decision regarding your meds,” she commented. “I believe every man should be his true self, and that he should have to manage his true nature. Psychiatric chemotherapy is a crutch used by both patients and doctors. It shields both patient and doctor from having to deal directly with the underlying problems.”
    “But that’s how you make your money these days, isn’t it?” I asked, perplexed. “You’re contributing to the problem.”
    “Honey, I’ll say it again. Money has no mother.”
    “There’s your own brand of bullshit, Dr. Fleming.”
    “But it’s true.”
    “Why did you scale back your practice?” I asked. “Why do only the rich and famous deserve your counsel?”
    “Because I think it’s all bullshit,” she said. From her back she nimbly flipped over and straddled me. “Why don’t you just shut up and fuck me.”
    “No,” I said, carefully returning her to her back. “I understand you’re the top dog in pharmaceutical sales around here. But can that possibly be more profitable than charging seventy or eighty bucks every five minutes for med checks? And just how many rich and famous people are around here anyway? Do you have the entire PGA tour contingent from Isleworth and Bay Hill coming through here to secretly obtain meds and counseling from you?”
    “Mr. Smith, I’ll tell you why I’ve scaled back my practice, but you have to tell me something about yourself that no one else knows.” She tried to get back up but I kept her pinned down. She must have enjoyed the physical force I was exerting, because she was purring like a kitten.
    “You want a quid pro quo here?” I asked. She nodded. “Okay, I’ll go first. I wrote a book.”
    “Really?” she said. That seemed to rev her up a bit more. “I always wanted to fuck a writer, but only a really good one. Are you a good writer, Mr. Smith?”
    I shook my head. “Apparently I’m not. I’ve sent query letters to fifty or sixty agents and none of them were interested. I got nothing back but form rejection letters. Agents are worse than bad dates when it comes to doling out rejection.”
    “Can I read it?” she asked. “What’s it about?”
    “I’d rather not say more about it than that,” I said. “At least not for now. I guess I should tell you that I am unemployed.”
    “Yeah, I know that,” she said flatly. “Wally told me what happened with you guys getting replaced by the Indians.”
    “Well, anyway, that’s how I found time to write. I even hid what I was doing from my girlfriend—my ex-girlfriend, that is. She would have just laughed at me.”
    “I might know some people that could help get your book sold,” she said. A kind offer, but it sounded dubious to me.
    “No, thanks. If it gets picked up, I want it to be because I put in the work to get it done myself. I’ve revised the manuscript three times since the last rejection I got. If I get to a point where I think it’s close to being ready, I’ll let you and other friends of mine read and critique it. But I’m not ready yet.”
    “Okay,” she said, nodding. “But I will get your book published one day. You’ll have to learn to trust me. I’m the kind of woman who can get things done.”
    “Well, I gave up a secret,” I said. “Your turn.”
    “Okay,” she said,