Recently ending a failed engagement, Phillip Gordon is burying himself in work at this therapy practice to avoid dealing with his problems. Dr. Gordon isn't the typical, dull therapist. He has some unusual ways of addressing his patients' concerns. From anger management and infidelity to intimacy issues and marital woes, he always makes his clients feel better. Many of his female clients secretly refer to him as Dr. Feelgood; however, Phil's biggest challenge is making himself feel good again by letting go of his past. Between the problematic patients he counsels, the ridiculous antics of his co-workers and best-friends, and his constant bad luck with dating, he's trying not to lose his own mind. After all, he is Dr. Feelgood!
|Product dimensions:||4.10(w) x 6.60(h) x 1.00(d)|
About the Author
Christian Keyes was born in Detroit, Michigan. An experienced actor and singer, he has several movie and television credits on his growing list of accomplishments. His face has graced the cover of multiple national and online magazines, and his YouTube music videos have been viewed hundreds of thousands of times. He is a multi-talented man whose star is on the rise. His titles include Dr. Feelgood, Gravity, and Ladies Night.
Read an Excerpt
Dr. Feelgood: Carl Weber Presents
By Christian Keyes
Urban Books, LLCCopyright © 2016 Christian Keyes
All rights reserved.
The sun peeked through the blinds and landed on Phil's broad shoulders. He sat at his desk in his office, deep in thought. It was 4:30, Friday afternoon. The city streets and expressways were lined with cars full of people rushing to get home. Traffic was barely moving on every major street, and any expressway was a parking lot. The L.A. skyline was still strong, busy, and beautiful, leading to 2600 Olive Street, the building that housed the offices of therapists Dr. Phillip Gooden and Dr. Marcus Collins.
Phil clenched the muscles in his jaw, and the tension showed through the low but groomed beard he was sporting. He focused his intense brown eyes on the small, cherry-wood box in his hand. It reflected the light as he raised it up to get a better look at it.
There was no turning back now, he thought. Shit just got real, and he knew it would get even more so once Denise finally arrived. She was always late, but he didn't mind. She usually made a grand, or at least memorable, entrance when she did finally show up; and somehow, no matter how irritated he was by her tardiness, one flash of her million-dollar smile and the world was great again.
Phil leaned back in his chocolate brown leather desk chair and glanced at the rose-gold Meister watch that hugged his right wrist. He was getting more nervous by the minute, knowing that she would be there shortly. He stood up and assessed his appearance. The tailored, three-piece black DKNY suit he was wearing fit him like a glove — not too tight, just right. He looked like a professional athlete, standing a chiseled six feet, three inches tall and 200 pounds, with creamy peanut-butter skin.
Phil began to pace back and forth. "How will I ask?" he wondered out loud. "What if she says no? Maybe I shouldn't ask her today. Perhaps I should wait for a better time."
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and shook off the nerves. The knock on the door snapped him back to reality. Showtime.
"Just a second," he said as he hurried to the desk to hide the box in his drawer and sit down. Once he'd done so, he put on the façade of a cool, calm, and collected gentleman, knowing inside he was as nervous as a sinner in church on Sunday. "Come on in."
The office door cracked open.
Damn, he thought as Denise sauntered into the room with that "I know I'm late, but I'm beautiful, so it's okay" look on her face. And it was okay.
"Good afternoon, Dr. Gooden," she said as she pulled the door closed behind her.
Phil knew right away what she had in mind. She looked at him like lunch, with those big, pretty brown eyes of hers. A smile cascaded across her face as she slowly started undressing.
Phil's nerves vanished as if they hadn't consumed him just seconds ago. Denise had that effect on him, though. She could make him forget all about his troubles — and make him want to get into a little trouble with her.
"Lock the door," Phil said, and Denise did as she was told. She always did. It was one of the many things that Phil loved about her. She was such an accommodating and enthusiastic lover. Phil couldn't remember a day in the last several months that they hadn't made love, and him getting head was a daily thing. Who said black women didn't go down? They surely weren't talking about Denise. She met all of Phil's desires and then some. Why would he not want this forever, especially considering the fact that he loved her immensely?
Phil looked up and saw that she had slipped off her shirt and skirt and was now standing in a candy-apple red Victoria's Secret set. He liked the way that red looked on her — so good against her pretty brown skin. Those yoga and spin classes had been paying off. Denise had always had a nice shape, but now she was putting most of those Instagram models to shame. She was thick, like Louisiana gumbo; her stomach was tight, those thighs were right, and that ass looked like the letter P from the side.
Phil couldn't wait any longer to get a taste of the supper before him that had his mouth watering. He began to undress. Jacket first, vest, then his shirt and tie. He thought for a second about whether he should get completely naked. After all, he was at work and it was business hours. Then he remembered that he was the boss and this was his therapy office, so he continued stripping down to the suit in which he was born.
He kicked off his Ferragamo dress shoes, stopped, and motioned for Denise to handle the rest, which she did gladly. Denise, Denise. This woman never had to be told something twice. Sometimes she didn't even have to be told once. She just knew. That was the connection she and Phil had. It went beyond just her being able to finish his sentences. She always seemed to know what he needed, when he needed it, and how much he needed. Most importantly, she knew when he needed nothing at all but to be left alone in his own thoughts. It was like this woman was a part of his soul. This had to be what people meant when referring to a soul mate.
Denise unbuckled his pants, took them down and off, then stopped to admire Phil, her own personal Dr. Feelgood. A pharaoh tattoo on his right arm, fraternity letters on the other, and a one-foot cross tattoo on the left side of his chest, with the bottom of it pointing down to his sculpted six-pack. Noticing the sizable imprint in his boxer briefs, she kissed his abs, one by one, as she slid his underwear to the floor, liberating her prize.
Phil gathered Denise's hair behind her head and held it for her. She preferred it that way. She paid way too much at her weekly hair appointments to get it all sticky and messy. That virgin Remy was expensive.
The warmth of her mouth comforted Phil's manhood. The flickering of her tongue teased the sensitive nerves at the tip of his mountain.
"Shit," Phil whispered as Denise tasted him, savoring the moment, standing there in his office, buck naked, free, proud, loved, feeling like an Egyptian king.
He noticed that even though she knew he was too long to fit it all in her mouth, she still tried. Never one to be selfish, Phil lifted Denise to her feet — by her hair — kissed her deeply, and took off her crimson bra. He kneeled down, pulled her panties to the side, and began to lick her honeypot while she was still standing. She almost lost her balance a couple of times, and her legs got weak, so he sat her on the desk and continued his intimate conversation with her candy land.
Sensing that she was ready to climax, he stood up, pulled her to the edge of the desk, wrapped her legs around his waist, and entered her. The way she inhaled sharply was music to his ears. He loved that shit.
She was the best lover he had ever had, hands down, but it had been mutually beneficial. Phil had given her the first of many multiple orgasms. He'd made her squirt for the first time, and he had taught her many other things about her body. This was Fifty Shades, and he was Phil Grey.
What started off as a soft moan from Denise, which was a sensual whisper to Phil's ears, rose to a higher pitch. This alerted Phil that not only was her voice climaxing, but her body was about to climax too. Phil made it his business to hit the spots in his lover's tunnel that would bring about the light at the end of the tunnel, so to speak.
Her arms tightened around him, and her thighs held him in place — in the place right where she needed him to be in order to get hers off. The two were like a well-designed sculpture one could display on the mantel of a bedroom corner fireplace. A work of art.
They came together in that same position. With a light sweat glistening on both their bodies, their breathing slowed, in sync. Without moving too much, Phil just looked at her for a moment, admiring his woman.
She deserves it and she's worth it, he thought.
Now was the time. He reached in his top desk drawer and grabbed the box. While still inside her, he opened the box up, revealing an immaculate three-carat, princess-cut diamond ring with a platinum band. The afternoon sun made it glow, and when Denise saw it, she froze, absolutely speechless. Her eyes darted from the ring to Phil's face. He saw surprise, joy, and love.
"Marry me?" Phil asked. As with a poet about to read a poem during open-mic night, if the poem had to be explained beforehand, then the poet hadn't done something right in relaying his or her thoughts. Phil didn't need to go into some long spiel about how he wanted to spend the rest of his life with Denise. If he'd been doing things right, then she already knew. He said all that needed to be said with every look, kiss, and gesture. The ring and the question that accompanied it were simply confirmation.
Although surprise, joy, and love still rested on Denise's face, there was something else there, only Phil wasn't sure exactly what it was. He could see her reaching for words, unsure of what to say.
Finally she spoke, all the while staring at the ring. "Yes," she said.
Phil hoped that it was just the shock of it all. He chose not to pay much attention to her apprehension, because he was elated that she had said yes. He put the ring on her finger and kissed her hand.
"I am so madly in love with you. You know that, right?" he said while looking into her eyes.
"I know," Denise said and smiled, taking her eyes off the ring to look into her fiancé's eyes.
The intercom beep startled them both.
"Dr. Gooden, Dr. Collins asked me to see if you still wanted to meet with him before your next appointment." The familiar sound of Julie's voice filled the office. She was Phil's office manager, slash assistant, slash secretary, slash everything.
Phil pressed the button on the phone and responded. "Thanks, Julie. You can send him over in five minutes."
Phil glanced around and noticed that he and Denise were both still naked. "Better make that ten."
Denise finished dressing before Phil. As he dressed, she sat silently, staring at the ring on her finger while holding the cherry-wood box that had housed the ring in her other hand.
Stealing gazes at Denise without her even noticing, Phil no longer felt all the anxiety he had been feeling earlier. The weight had been lifted, and the most important decision of his life had been made and carried out. He felt relieved as he finished dressing himself.
"All we need to do now is pick a date," he said as he kissed her forehead.
She smiled, but didn't say anything. After a moment, Denise looked at her watch, then to Phil. "I have to go, babe."
That was it? I have to go, babe? At least in movies the women took a couple minutes to gush over how much they loved the ring and/or the man who had blessed them with it. Phil was secure in himself and his love for Denise, so he opted not to concern himself with those thoughts as he brushed them aside.
"Well, I need to get back to work myself. I'll see you at home later?" Even though Denise had quite a few things at Phil's house — her own side of the closet, a vanity table and dresser — she still hadn't given up her condo in their two and a half years of dating. That was definitely something they would have to discuss, but not now, of course.
"Thanks for lunch," he said with a smirk as he hugged Denise. He didn't immediately release her from the embrace. Instead, he held her, hoping that the exciting energy he felt, knowing that soon he'd be married to the woman he loved more than anything in the world, would transfer to her. When he did finally pull back away from her, he looked her in the eyes and said, "I love you."
"I love you too," she replied then turned to leave. She stopped at the door and looked back at Phil.
He waited for her to say at least one line from the movies. "I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you," or perhaps, "I've always dreamed of this day."
But she said nothing. She gave a soft smile, turned, and left, pulling the door slightly closed behind her.
Phil would have been a fool not to have noticed that Denise was acting a little out of character. He imagined this was all a shock to her, and this wasn't a movie. It was reality. So, he chalked her behavior up to the emotion surrounding the proposal. He was, after all, a psychologist, and the way she had acted could simply be explained by the pressure of the immense decision she had just made, coupled with the surprise of the proposal. Those two items combined with the powerful orgasm she'd just had made it was easy to see several logical possibilities for her reaction. Bottom line, she'd agreed to get married, and that was all that mattered. He smiled. He was happy; he was engaged. He was not going to allow his mind to drain fifty percent of the completely filled glass, leaving him to wonder and be torn over whether it was half full or half empty.
Phil straightened up his desk and wiped it down with a cloth. Then he sprayed some Febreze around the office, hoping to remove the pineapple-scented smell of sex in the air. Phil went into his private office bathroom and gave himself a quick wash-up. Afterward, he sat down at his desk and got back to work — or rather got to work. It was safe to say he really hadn't accomplished much that morning, anxious about his proposal to Denise.
Phil looked through the folder labeled Dr. Marcus Collins. It was his most recent assessment. He noted the subpar scores, lackluster performance, and the patient comments about him, none of which were good.
Right on cue, his colleague knocked on Phil's half open office door and walked in. Six feet two inches tall, dark-skinned, bald-headed and carefree, he looked like the brother that Morris Chestnut didn't know he had. Marcus's goatee was the only thing that was in order, though. His clothing definitely was not. He had on no tie or jacket, a stain on his untucked dress-shirt, and his pants looked like he had just taken a nap in them.
"Hey, Phil, you wanted to see me?"
"Yeah, grab a seat, Marc." Phil extended his hand to the chair on the opposite side of his desk.
Marc sat down in the chair. He looked like a student in the principal's office, as if he knew he had done something wrong but wasn't sure what he'd been caught doing.
"We have to talk about your latest evaluation," Phil started. "It wasn't wonderful ... at all." Marc wasn't just a fellow therapist working for Phil. He was also Phil's best friend, which made it hard for Phil to tell Marc that his work ethic wasn't up to par. Separating business from personal was easier said than done.
"Oh, it's all good. It's just one review." There was Marc with his nonchalant attitude. Clearly he wasn't unable to separate business from personal either. They were obviously in the workplace discussing business matters, but Marc had just replied nonchalantly, like he was shooting the breeze with one of his homeboys.
"It's not just one review, Marc. Of the four you've had, three have been bad. This looks bad on you. And me. The board is on my back about your performance here, so we have to turn this around. They gave me the financial backing to start this practice because they trusted me. I can't have them thinking I'm showing you favoritism because you're my boy. My reputation to run an unbiased business is at stake here. Another one of these below standard reviews and they're going to push my hand at suspending you, maybe even firing you."
Marc shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Can they do that?"
"Yes." Phil sighed and looked down at the review, shaking his head. "And I have to admit, it won't take much pushing on their part." He looked up at Marc, seeing the look of concern on his face, and feeling the sudden tension.
"We've been best friends for about ten years now," Phil said, "and I'm only telling you this because I don't want you to blow this opportunity. I know what you're capable of. That's why I went to bat for you with these guys to even get you in this office. They fought me tooth and nail because of your low GPA and lack of references." Phil nodded toward the papers before him. "And these reports have them looking at me like, I told you so."
Marc exhaled. "I feel you. I can tighten things up."
"Thank you." Phil stood and crossed over to Marc and dapped him, to let him know that he still had his back. The tension in the room lifted.
"You've got to do better, bro," Phil said sincerely, but something inside him knew that it wouldn't be long before Marc went back to his wayward behavior.
Phil thought back over the years that he had known his best friend. Marc had always been that way: nonchalant and lackadaisical. That was partly why they got along so well. They were exact opposites and seemed to balance each other out. Phil had always been the responsible one, always striving for good grades. Marc, on the other hand, had always done just enough to get by.
Excerpted from Dr. Feelgood: Carl Weber Presents by Christian Keyes. Copyright © 2016 Christian Keyes. Excerpted by permission of Urban Books, LLC.
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