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Between the Boys


LISA

I never should have opened my mouth. But it was late; Greg had dominated the bitch 
session for most of the night and I could see by the swiftly lowering levels of malt in his 
glass that Jimmy was getting fed up with listening to the Great Doctor House’s View of 
the World as much as I was.

Honestly, Greg’s brilliant at what he does, but his utter lack of bedside manner still 
astounds me. It’s as if he’s got some grudge about patient contact, a personal phobia 
that he enjoys flaunting in our faces. I KNOW he can do it—be caring and 
compassionate that is—but it only pops up once in a while, and under internal cues 
known only to HIM. So just to derail his latest rant, I give him a pointed stare.

“You know, I’d really rather hear about your sexual fantasies.”

Bingo. Greg widens those big blue eyes of his and next to me Jimmy’s sitting up a little 
more now, his slow sweet grin spreading wide. I take another sip of my martini, letting 
the vermouth sting a little on the way down. We’re stuffed in a circular booth in a bar 
only a few blocks from work, exhausted yet in need of company, and I’m between my 
boys right now. Greg on my right, Jimmy on my left; close enough to have our personal 
spaces overlapping like Venn diagrams.


It’s nothing new—the three of us have done this before. Sometimes I go out with Jimmy; 
once in a very great while with Greg, but more often than not it’s the three of us, 
sometimes in good moods, more often in quiet or melancholy ones. Not dates, in any 
formal sense of the word—just a drink, or a bite to eat with a colleague. I let Jimmy pay 
when I’m with him—he insists. When it’s Greg we split the bill right down to the tip. 
Works out well, and in both cases the company’s not bad.

When it’s Jimmy and me, I hear a lot about Julie, (and Debbie for that matter) during 
dinner. In turn I tell him about my rotten luck with Docmixer.com and we laugh a little 
over it. He keeps threatening to set me up with his cousin. When I eat with Greg he 
grouses about his team, or hospital politics, or the endless annoyances of his day. I let 
him roll on and counter the more outrageous comments when I can.

Cheap therapy I suppose, but when Greg finally winds down there is a softness to him 
that I appreciate, and he’s actually pretty charming under the façade of Vicodin and 
cynicism. He’s usually twice as irritating the next day, as if to make up for his lapse, but I 
let it roll off my back. It’s just his way.

My boys. When we’re out all together like this, it’s an amazing blend. Jimmy is sweet, 
Greg is tart, and right between them I manage to keep the peace, egging them on, 
letting them vent, getting in a few zingers myself. They listen to me during these nights 
out; really listen to me, and I come away from our sessions knowing I won’t find 
anything better than the two of them to keep me on a steady course. They make me feel 
smart, and needed and . . . attractive.

Because they DO flirt, both of them. Jimmy’s stopped himself from making full passes 
at me, but his gentle flirtatious moves do my ego good. He helps me with my coat, 
strokes my hand on the table, hugs me goodnight and nuzzles my ear. Just enough 
sexy little moves to remind me that I’m a woman and he’s a man. Just enough to leave 
us both knowing there could be something very good between us.

Greg’s flirting is less direct, but devastating at times. He looks at me with those baby 
blues, and sometimes he lets the hunger show through. That intense little glimpse of 
appetite makes me squirm. He tucks his cane under the table and never fails to let the 
shaft of it rest between my feet in a Freudian show of dominance that amuses me. He 
looms when he sees me to my car, and although he never hugs me back when I hug 
him, sometimes I can feel his erection muffled through layers and denial.

Jimmy and Greg—they each want me, a little bit.

And I want them. Theirs are the faces that come to mind when I rub myself to orgasm 
in the lonely darkness of my bed. I might think of someone else at the beginning, but 
gradually my thoughts return to my boys: Jimmy’s beautiful hands; Greg’s fascinating 
lips. They each have appeal, each have charms that attract me to them. Either would 
be a good lover, I know that instinctively.

But together . . .


JIMMY

I can see by the gleam in her eyes that Lisa is about to yank Greg’s chain, and I surely 
don’t want to miss this, so I sit up a little and watch. It’s an easy habit to fall into; just 
watching them. They’re oil and water, cat and dog, fire and ice—although usually Lisa’s 
the ice and Greg the fire. Watching them bicker is good entertainment, actually, 
because when Lisa gets worked up—

--Well, I do too. A little. Not that I can do anything about it, but still it’s a tiny inner thrill I 
savor. She’s beautiful, in her fine-boned intensity. Elegant. And even though we’ve 
pretty much always kept things at a hands-off-let’s-preserve-the-friendship stage I’d be 
lying if I didn’t admit I’ve thought of her in a few fantasies.

I happen to know for a fact Greg has too; his confession coming over a bottle of scotch 
we split a few years back. I’m sure it’s an admission he regrets making, but what the 
hell. He’s hoarded enough of my secrets that’s it’s only fair I get some leverage in kind. Between us we’re a catalog of regrets and screw-ups and misdeeds, but neither of us 
carries the load alone.

And now Lisa’s in the club too; a damned nice addition to the mix. Lisa’s sharp, and 
funny, and she can keep Greg on his toes; the show’s fun to watch once it gets started.

“My fantasies?” I hear Greg repeat. The tone’s full of bluff and insinuation, but under it 
I can hear the little bleat of surprise. I grin into my glass, waiting to see what nonsense 
he’s going to spout. Probably something about naked cheerleaders—that’s usually his 
first line of thinking.

“Anything but cheerleaders,” Lisa warns, and I feel my grin widen. Good girl—get him 
on the ropes early. Greg gives a mock-sigh and shoots me a look that I’m supposed to 
respond to. I shrug—he can try his Angelina Jolie line if he wants. Under the table I feel 
Lisa’s lean thigh resting alongside mine, and the sweet warmth is good. I like her thighs.

“Well, I do have this one that involves an upclose and personal judging of supermodels,” 
I hear Greg begin, warming to his subject. “Along with tropical oil that needs to be 
applied in liberal amounts to exposed skin. Nothing like gleaming supermodel thighs to 
make a man happy to be alive.”

“Just you and all those supermodels?” Lisa asks. I love her slightly cynical tone, and I’m imagining the little cyberchips of her brain fetching images and calculating logistics for 
Greg’s fantasy. She’s highly analytical when she wants to be, and that’s part of her 
charm too. Good about the details AND the big picture; undoubtedly she has to be in 
order to do her job.

That’s one of those factors that attracts me, to be honest. Lisa’s direct. She flirts, she 
gets flustered at times, but by God she hasn’t got a coy bone in her body. No wonder 
her Internet dates go bust on a regular basis—no computer chat could ever prepare a 
man for her refreshingly blunt approach face to face.

Call me shallow, but I’m glad she hasn’t managed to hook up with anyone yet. I like 
having her here, with us. I like the way she shoots me an intimately amused glance now, waiting for Greg to respond to her question. Her eyes are smoky blue, and they glow a 
little in the candlelight.

“Just me. Doctor Wilson can dream up his OWN fantasies,” House rolls out loftily. 
“Besides, he’s not into supermodels. They play hell with his guilt.”

“Guilt?” I snap, feeling my face flush a little. Trust Greg to get a dig in a tender spot 
without even trying. So I kept marrying, even when I shouldn’t have. Serial commitment, 
my therapist called it. Looking for Love in All the Blonde faces, Greg called it.

Asshole. I pick up my glass, but Lisa shifts her thigh to rub mine in a comforting way, 
and instead of downing the rest of my whisky I sip it. Greg continues.

“Me, I’m guilt-free. I can indulge in a multi-layered orgy of personal delight under a 
tropical sun with young and eager bodies lushly begging for the personal satisfaction 
only I can provide . . . “

“You’d fry like a slice of bacon on a griddle,” I point out, staying mild, but smirking. “All 
that pale middle-aged skin under blazing rays . . . Melanoma City, Greg. Oil has no 
SPF you know.”

“Jesus, it’s a FANTASY!” he growls, “A mental indulgence that doesn’t require UV ray protection OR condoms OR HIV tests for that matter! In our own minds we are GODS, 
Jimmy.”

“Or goddesses, Lisa points out, her voice low and amused. Suddenly I get an image 
of her, flowers woven into her long flowing hair as she rides in over the ocean waves on 
a scallop shell: AphroCudd-dite, naked and tempting. Wow. That’s enough to make me 
cough a little over my mouthful of whisky.


GREG

I have no idea what the hell’s gotten into these two tonight, but whatever it is, we need 
to drink it away. I’ve already had my daily dose of frivolity from Bibbity, Bobbity and Boo 
this afternoon, and right now the itty bitty frayed nerve endings along my temper and my 
femur are wearing ever thinner. It’s sure as hell not helping that Cuddles is wearing her 
amused face along with a sweater so low I can damn near see her navel. That part I’m 
not complaining about—the low cut one anyway—but the smile has me a tad worried.

Since when did she ever want to hear about my fantasies? I’ve watched her alcohol 
intake, and it’s been nowhere NEAR enough for a question like that. Cuddles has never 
been the type to encourage the general raunchiness Jimmy and I can create out of thin 
air. No, she generally listens in for a moment and then either changes the subject, or 
caps us good, leaving both of us sulking in our beers. Or tequila. Or whatever we’re 
imbibing.

She does NOT bring the smut to the table; no, that’s OUR job. Ergo, something’s up 
with Princess Plainsboro, and I intend to find out what it is. At least I didn’t spring the 
one on her about the Astroglide, the latex gloves and Clara Barton in full dominatrix 
gear. Even Jimmy can’t grasp the breathlessness of THAT combination.

To wit: Jimmy is sliding into mildly marinated, and I can see he’s getting used to being 
without his wedding band because he’s not fiddling with his fingers at the moment. 
Cuddles has both elbows on the table and that brings the Golden Globes into play nicely—and distracting as those sweet things might be, I need to keep focused.

Damn it. That smirk in soft rose lipstick knows too much now. Tonight I might as well 
give it up—I sense a capper coming, even in the fantasy department. The best way to 
slink out of it is to hit to left field, so I do.

“All right Jimmy Bob, resident Radiation Sheriff of the Table, what’s YOUR fantasy, 
hmmm? Bimbo A La Carte?” I toss his way as I prop an elbow on the table. This brings 
my face lower, and damned if I don’t have to look over Cuddle’s pretty chest to see 
Jimmy. What a shame.

Jimmy’s squirming now, not making eye contact with either of us, and I have a pretty 
good suspicion why. It’s not just that Luscious Lisa is here, although that’s probably 
part of it—it’s that he’s got a hankering for the slightly unconventional. I know this 
through careful observation through the years. The odd conversation, the telltale signs 
here and there: James Evan Wilson might laugh at my Clara Barton daydream, but I’m 
willing to bet my Official Best Buddy here has had more contact with leather than 
Cuddles and myself put together.

He blushes and looks down into his drink, but before I can call him for stalling he clears 
his throat and speaks in a low tone.

“Getting kidnapped and, um, used by a motorcycle babe—happy now?”

I blink, surprised he’d admit THAT much. He must be drinking more than I thought, or 
just feeling brave tonight. Cuddles gives an approving nod.

“Very hot . . . chains jingling, boots, tight cropped teeshirt—“ she croons and all of a 
sudden I’m fighting a serious surge of interest from Mr. Up. Crap, I do NOT need that at 
the moment. From the look on Jimmy’s face he’s got the same damned problem.

“Yes well what can I say—forceful women fascinate me,” he mumbles into his whisky. I 
snort loudly, shifting to give myself a little lap room, as it were.

“Fascinate—is that a code word for whip you with their--?”

“---Shhhh, no dissing someone else’s fantasy Greg.”

I goggle at Cuddles. “Did you just say ‘diss’?”

Now she turns a slightly irritated look my way, and those smoky eyes glitter a little. “Yes, 
diss. As in slang for dismiss, all right?”

“Well shuckies there, Miz Cuddy, I never did have much book larning,” I drawl back. 
Jimmy’s fighting back a laugh now, which is good. The waitress sails by, but none of us 
are taking another and she disappears again. A little moment of quiet settles in with us 
and I look at the two of them.

I don’t know when it happened, but it was slow, and steady. My social life, which was 
never huge to begin with, telescoped down into a very narrow field of focus, fueled by 
the damned infarction, and later Stacy driving away in her Volvo. I ignored calls, and 
threw away letters and lost touch with everyone.

Everyone but these two.

Jimmy, who takes my barbs and brushes them off, then waits to hear more, and sweet, 
sweet Cuddles, who sees me exactly for what I was then and am now.

So it boils down to a friend I sure as hell don’t deserve, and a woman I can never have. I 
guess it’s true what people say—I AM one sad and sorry fuck.

Might as well make a night of it, so I turn my best leer to She With the Ultrahot Hooters. 
“So, Doctor Cuddy, what’s YOUR sexual fantasy? Talk slow, I want to catch EVERY 
word.”


LISA

I take a breath—this is it, a very make or break moment here. They could end up 
laughing at me, and even if I joined in . . . but I brought it up, and damn it, I can piss on 
the wall too. At least I’ll have said it, and I can live with myself for that much.

I hope.

I shoot a look to my left, then my right; rapt attention from them both. Jimmy looks 
genuinely interested, and Greg has a smirk already starting. I wait until he begins to 
take a sip of his drink, then give a low, breathy sigh.

“Mine is to sleep with both of you—at the same time.”

Perfect timing! Greg’s choking on a mouthful of scotch burning down the wrong pipe, 
and Jimmy has sucked in so much air the candle on our table is wavering.

“Jesus Christ! WARN a guy before you spring something like that on us!” House 
coughs. Jimmy has this adorable flush over his cheekbones, but he’s very, very quiet. I 
look down, working on my demure expression, but I know I’m pretty pink myself right 
now. Greg is still gurgling a little and I give a little happy hum.

“Oh come on, it’s harmless—I just have this warm and happy dream about snuggling up between the two of you.”

“Just . . . snuggling?”

It’s Jimmy who asks, not Greg—interesting.

“In the beginning, yeah. All safe and cozy under some big blanket in the dark.”

“So . . . is this a one-at-a-time thing, or are we all . . . involved?” he continues, and I 
smile at him. God I love Jimmy’s persistence. That’s why he’s the head of Oncology; he 
doesn’t give up until he has the answers. I prop my chin on my hand and toy with my 
glass.

“Oh all of us, the first couple of times. Nice slow intense lovemaking. Lots of touching 
and tongues, powerful climaxes. After that I pair off with each of you while the other one recuperates.”

“Oh God,” I hear House wheeze, “Yeah, those first ten rounds are a bitch. Who’d have 
thought you had such a dirty imagination, Cuddy? And bear in mind we’d need a 
damned big bed—California King at LEAST for that sort of tag team action.”

“I know,” I sigh, “but since it’s a dream that’s no more a problem than your tanning oil, 
right?”

“Riiight,” Jimmy reassures me, his eyes twinkling. “Just a mental indulgence—involving 
the three of us.”

“I feel so USED,” Greg complains, but I swear I hear a little—fear?—in his voice. 
Carefully I make it a point to shoot him a more serious look.

“Weren’t you the one pointing out it’s just a fantasy, Greg? Those never come true 
anyway, right?” I check my watch, which is one of our signals, and reluctantly Jimmy 
slides out of the booth to let me get out. I toss down a ten to cover my drink and wriggle 
into my coat, wanting to slip away now that I’ve spoken up. I feel embarrassed but a 
little proud too—and at least they know now.

Jimmy almost says something, but I shake my head, trying to keep my expression soft. 
There’s something about the way Greg’s looking at me that’s bringing me close to tears, 
and I’m not going to let him know it, so I lean over the table and pat his bristly cheek.

“Don’t worry, it’s only sexual harassment if your job’s on the line, right?”

“Snuggling—“ he snarls softly. “You devious, devious woman.”

And I feel it; almost imperceptibly he pushes his cheek against my hand, seeking the 
caress. Gently I let my fingers trail away. I turn to Jimmy, hugging him, feeling the 
response of his body to my words, my proximity.

Sweet.

I walk away from them, tossing a casual “Goodnight, doctors” as I make my way out to 
the door. My car’s visible through the window and I know they’ll watch me get in and 
drive off, linger a little once I’m gone.

I bet it’s an interesting conversation I’m leaving behind.


JIMMY

Wow.

Just—wow.

Talk about a bombshell of amazing proportions—not only did I have NO idea I was a 
featured player in a fantasy of Lisa’s, I didn’t know it would be a ménage a trois to boot! I 
settle into the booth again, needing a moment to let my erection die down, but it might 
be a while.

Still stunned. Flattered. Wishing it was myself, Lisa and say—Cameron, but still, not my fantasy I suppose so I’ll have to settle for the split with Greg. God, the three of us in a 
bed, entangled, giving in to urges . . .

“Yo! Ground Control to Major WILSON! Get your mind off the launch pad in your pants 
for a moment here!” comes Greg’s snarl and I stare a little stupidly at him. He’s gulping 
his drink now, and I wince, knowing how that burns.

“Slow down, you’ll fry your esophagus at that rate.” I tell him. He shrugs.

“What are you, a doctor? Oh, wait, yeah you are,” he sourly comments, slamming the 
glass down lightly on the table. I wait, sensing more is coming.

I don’t wait long.

“She did that on purpose. Sat there between us and just, just BAITED us. Women are 
devious, Jimmy. And Cuddles is the queen of them all.”

“Cuddles?” I question lightly. I don’t care how outraged Greg’s getting; Lisa was 
probably more honest about her fantasy than we were with ours. I mean, yeah I HAVE entertained thoughts of being cuffed and dragged off by a motorcycle babe, but what I 
didn’t mention is that I’ve mentally cast that role a few times. Once in a while my 
motorcycle goddess is Ann Margaret. Occasionally she’s Traci Lords. MOST of the time though, I fantasize that it’s—

“—Not like I have a PROBLEM with more than two players on the field as it were, but I 
wasn’t planning on you being ONE of them.”

I sigh, letting go of my daydream for a moment and try to focus on Greg.

“Right. Give me a break, Greg. We HAVE seen each other naked. Not like either of us 
are prime hunks here.”

He grunts. I pause a moment, and it’s odd, because in that little moment of silence I 
suddenly figure out what really bothering him about Lisa’s revelation. The thought 
makes me feel sympathetic and oddly compassionate, so I choose my next words 
carefully.

“In fact, she’s probably already seen YOU naked.”

Greg’s glance shoots up at me, sharp and confused, I pick up my drink and swirl the ice 
in it a little and continue. “Come on, she was your attending for the infarction. Pre-Op. Post-Op, she probably got a good eyeful of your manly charms while you were 
unconscious.”

“Fuck,” Comes his little dry moan. “Lying there with filet ‘o thigh and enough morphine in 
my system to be drooling like an idiot. Yes, THERE’S a great image to jerk off to. I’m 
sure my dick was a gorgeous sight with a catheter shoved up it.”

I feel my eyes roll as exasperation floods through, replacing my compassion. “Damn it, Greg—Lisa just admitted she’s got a fantasy starring the three of us. Can we 
concentrate on the positives here?” I grunt a little. He squeezes his eyes shut for a 
moment.

“I’m still trying to process that. Not that she has the fantasy, but why she TOLD us 
about it.”

This irritates me. The man can’t accept anything at face value, particularly compliments. 
It’s as if he has some built-in bullshit detector that never shuts off and seeks out motives 
all the time. I know Greg’s accused me of being an excessive optimist, but you’d think 
the one default any man would have would be when a woman’s fantasy is unveiled.

Particularly THIS woman.

“You know what? I don’t care. She had the courage to do it and if I ever have to share a 
woman with you, she’d be the one. Lisa’s smart enough to keep you from being an utter 
asshole, and sexy enough to keep both of us satisfied, Greg. Face it, one weekend with 
Cuddy and we’d BOTH we walking with a limp.”




GREG

Fuck.

I am still trying to get my synapses around the concept of Cuddles wanting a threeway. 
With US, no less. This SO does not compute—We’re talking about the head of Princeton-Plainsboro; a woman who thinks in terms of hourly billing, and intern 
schedules. I mean yeah, she showcases a hot lil’ bod and has a naughty smile I’d love 
to leave cream on, absolutely, but doing it with Jimmy AND me?

I pick up my drink once more, wondering how it got empty. I can’t go yet—Mr. Up is still saluting the fantasy, so I just growl a little.

“Har-de-har-har. After the two of us, I think SHE’D be the one limping, Jimbo—after all, 
neither of us are currently laying pipe anywhere but our own showers.”

Jimmy grunts a little in return, acknowledging without admitting and for a moment we 
sit there in the semidarkness of the bar. I know he’s hard, and he knows I’m hard, but 
we’re not discussing it.

Just one of those guy things.

Finally I sigh and make it a point not to look at him, even though I can see his profile. 
Jimmy’s almost painfully handsome at times; a hell of a lot better looking than I am.

“So, ever HAD a threeway?” I demand. He blinks a little, mouth smiling as he runs a 
hand through his hair.

“No. That one’s not in my repertoire,” he looks at me. “How about you?”

I pause, knowing full well I could spin a web of bullshit right now and Jimmy would 
never know how much was true and how much wasn’t, but my heart’s not in it. Just remembering Cuddles’ cool hand on my burning cheek, the hungry look in her eyes . . .

“No. Hard enough with a one-on-one most of the time.”

“Amen to that,” Jimmy agrees and I feel a little of the tightness in my chest start to 
leave. We don’t say anything for a couple of minutes, and I find myself wondering if I 
actually could handle trading off with Jimmy.

He’s more athletic, I’ll give him that, and probably has a slightly faster recuperation, but 
I’ve got the edge with a better capacity for concentration, and staying power. And a 
slightly bigger schlong.

“Although if it WERE to ever happen—“ I offer cautiously now, keeping my voice low. 
Jimmy tips his head up, looking towards the ceiling and I can’t quite tell if he’s laughing 
or exasperated, so I keep talking. “—Then I suppose we COULD make a hell of a tag 
team.”

“Of course. You could pass the condoms out, and I could make up for your 
shortcomings.”

I glare at him, wishing like hell I’D said that; Jimmy looks at me and flashes a smile, his deep-dimpled REAL one this time and right then and there I forgive the smart-ass 
bastard. He laughs softly, and begins to get up.

“Come on, Greg, it’s late. Both of us are going to be a little hung over tomorrow. Go 
home, masturbate, sleep it off and I‘ll see you in the morning.”

I get up, a little stiff in more ways than one, and brace myself with the cane. The drugs 
have filed off the edge of pain and I’m not as bad off as I might have been. I get out my 
wallet and pay—damn it, I’m really off my game if I’m doing THAT.

Jimmy falls into step beside me as we walk out of the bar; the chill is refreshing after the 
humid closeness inside. I take a deep breath.

“She set us up, you know.”

“I know,” Jimmy sighs.

“Some day we’ll have to return the favor,” I add. Jimmy claps my shoulder laughing 
softly as he turns for his car.

“Fairy tales can come true—“ he snorts, and heads off into the darkness while I fish my 
keys out and think again about Cuddles, naked. About screwing her while Jimmy 
watches us. About watching Jimmy do the same. It’s shockingly sweet, and I’m a little surprised at how arousing the images are, how intimate and powerful.

Crap. I’m not gay. I’ve never had any attraction to men in a sexual sense; I’ve seen 
enough plumbing in my line of work to know I’m firmly, nay, rigidly het. But the thought watching my best friend make love—my two best friends making love—and being a 
PART of that---

--Because they WANT me there--

Damn it. I pull up my collar; it’s going to be a long night.




 

                                                                                                                                                                                        Between the Boys 2



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