Costars (New York City Bad Boy Romance) (29 page)

“Nope,” she says. “You’re not just here to
check up on me, though.”

“No,” I tell her, “I’m not.”

“Why, then? I didn’t think doctors here
made house calls.”

“I don’t. I mean, I have, but it’s usually
a special situation.”

“Seriously,” she says, “why are you here?
You’re starting to freak me out.”

I hand the card back to her and ask her
again if she notices anything unusual about it.

“That’s my name and address on the back,”
she says. “Your name is on the front. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be
looking at.”

I’m getting cold feet about telling her,
but I’ve stayed too long to simply duck out.

“I’m your date,” I tell her.

She looks up at me and then back at the
card.

“Marquis Escorts,” she reads. “You’re a
hooker?”

I have to laugh. “No,” I answer. “I’m an
escort. Sex isn’t part of the business.”

“That’s not what I heard,” Grace says,
looking down at the card. “Well, do you want a drink or something?”

She actually seems genuinely unaffected by
me, her doctor—her oncologist, no less—revealing that I’m her hire-a-date for
the evening.

“I should probably go,” I tell her.

“Why?” she asks. “It’s not like there’s
going to be any slap-and-tickle going on and, I don’t know if you know this,
but they had me pay in advance.”

“I’m sure we could find someone else to
stand in for me,” I tell her. “Being your doctor, I don’t really think it’s
appropriate to-”

“To what?” she asks. “Sell yourself for
money to a patient?”

“I don’t sell myself for money,” I
explain. “I sell portions of my time and my presence for money.”

“Wow, that’s got to be the most conceited
way you could have put that,” she responds. “Are you sure I can’t get you a
drink?”

“That’s all right,” I tell her.

“So, what got you into prostitution? Is it
the whole anatomy thing?”

“First off, I’m not a prostitute. Second,
what do you mean ‘anatomy thing?’”

“Well,” she says, “I would imagine that
you see a remarkably high amount of disgusting things in your work. It would
make sense for you to want to remind yourself that the human body isn’t all
tumors and cancer.”

“Where did you want to go tonight?” I ask,
trying to change the subject, as she doesn’t seem too inclined to let me bow
out of this gracefully.

“I
was
going to have you take me out to an upscale bar around Tribeca, but I really
don’t think it’d be such a good thing for us to be seen out in public
together,” she answers. “It’d be fine for me, but isn’t this the sort of thing
that doctors lose their licenses over?”

“I don’t know that I’d lose my license,” I
tell her, “but yeah, it probably wouldn’t be great for my career if we get
recognized out on the town doing whiskey shots.”

“Whiskey?” she asks. “You’re a sick, sick
man. I’m making you a vodka tonic.”

With that, she’s out of her seat and in
her kitchen.

So, what do I do now?

I’ve always worried that I’d run into
someone I know from work while out with a woman who’s not Melissa. It never
crossed my mind, though, that I’d knock on a door and a patient would be on the
other side of it.

While being seen with another woman might not
be the best thing to happen to me, being seen with a patient in a social
context, especially one wearing a slinky dress topped with a necklace whose
ruby pendant falls right at the top of her-

“Here’s your drink,” Grace says.

“Aren’t you going to have anything?” I
ask.

“I don’t drink,” she says. “I’ve heard it
can kill brain cells and, from what I can tell, I need as many healthy ones as
I can get.”

“How are you doing with your treatment, by
the way? I know we’re scheduled for a checkup-”

“Oh,” she interrupts, “I’d really rather
not talk about that right now.”

“What would you like to talk about?”

“I don’t know,” she says, “anything that
takes my mind off the fact that I hired my oncologist to take me out on a night
on the town, thus calling into question not only his credentials, but the fact
that even when I try to pay for a date, I just end up with someone I’d have
trouble seeing myself spending the night with.”

“Well, as your doctor,” I start. I’m not
surprised when she interrupts.

“Oh, I know the ethical concerns,” she
says. “Still, here you are. So, what are we to do with an evening that has so
clearly gotten off on the wrong foot?”

“I was hoping you might have an answer to
that question,” I tell her.

“Well,” she says, “since you’re here
already, I did have one treatment question for you.”

“What’s that?”

“How long after a round of chemo do I have
to wait before I can have sex?” she asks, and I take a long drink of my vodka
tonic.

“In a case like yours,” I answer, trying
to put on the doctor hat and ignore how brazenly uncomfortable this situation
is, “while I would recommend waiting until after a round is over, there
shouldn’t be too much to worry about, so long as you’re feeling up to it.”

“So, if someone were to — how do I put
this — stick his thing in me, it wouldn’t immediately fall off or anything?”
she asks.

I chuckle nervously. “No,” I tell her.
“The main concerns that one might have depends a lot on how the chemo is
administered, what the dosage is, and whether or not you practice safe sex,
specifically with a condom. I would recommend waiting at least a couple of days
just to be on the safe side, but — I’m sorry, why are you laughing?”

She smiles. “I guess I’m just amused at
the way this night has turned out. I had hoped the topic of sex would come up
under a very different context, but it’s good to have the information all the
same.”

“You do know that most credible escort
services prohibit their employees from having sex with clients, right?” I ask.

“I guess I was just hoping yours was a
less-than-credible service,” she says. “How’s your drink?”

“
It’s
fine, thank
you,” I answer. “You do know that nothing can happen between-”

“Shh…” she interrupts. “I know that you’re
my doctor and I know where that line is, although I must say you do look rather
handsome in your suit. You do clean up very well.”

“Thanks?”

“You’re welcome,” she says. “So, how long
have you been a gigolo?”

“You know, I’ve never really been fond of
that term,” I answer. “It doesn’t paint a pretty picture.”

“I was going to use the phrase man whore,
but you did make it pretty clear that you’re not a prostitute.”

She’s toying with me and who could blame
her?

In a sense, to her, I’m representative of
the
oligodendroglioma
in her brain. Her reaction
toward me right now, if I had to guess, is her way of trying to regain some
sense of control over her situation.

I’m fine taking the hit.

Speaking of taking hits…

“You don’t mind if I light up, do you?”
she asks, retrieving a small, square box from under her coffee table. “After
all, you did prescribe it to me.”

“I probably shouldn’t be in the room if
you do,” I tell her. “Contact high and all that.”

“Suit yourself,” she says and stuffs a
glass pipe. “Keep your seat,” she says. “I’ll take it in the other room. My
tolerance is still pretty low, so I won’t be long.”

“All right,” I tell her, and she walks out
of the room.

Okay, my theory before: if she was just
trying to befuddle me to empower herself in an otherwise helpless situation,
I’m not sure this is the way she’d go about doing it.

But what do I know? I’m not that kind of
doctor.

I pull out my phone and send a quick
message to Melissa, telling her that I’m going to be home early.

I don’t have any concrete reason as to
why, but I’m getting the feeling that Grace doesn’t have that many people she
feels she can talk to about what’s going on.

Maybe she’s just acting out; maybe it’s a
personality change from the
oligodendroglioma
.
Regardless, while I don’t see myself staying too much longer, I no longer feel
the need to just cut and run.

It’s less than a minute from the time I
heard the door to the other room shut and the time I hear it open again.

“You weren’t kidding,” I tell her.

“What?”

“Your tolerance must really be low if
you’re out and back that quick.”

“I’m not a stoner,” she says. “So, let’s
talk.”

“All right,” I respond. “What would you
like to talk about?”

She sits down on the couch next to me and
pats my knee, saying, “So, what’s it like being a streetwalker? Does it pay
well?”

Chapter
Three

The Five-Letter Word

Grace

“It was your doctor?” Margaret asks in a
loud voice.

“Be cool, Mags, damn,” I respond. “Yeah,
it was my doctor. Nothing happened. If anything, I’d say he was more freaked
out by the situation than I was.”

“So, you two didn’t end up, you know…”

“Did I permit him to storm the gates of my
Bastille?” I ask.

“I have no idea what that means, but the
way you ask makes me think I want to say yes,” she answers.

“No,” I tell her. “We just talked for a
while.”

“Are you going to see him again?”

“Yeah,” I scoff, “I’ve got an appointment
at his office this Thursday.”

“You’re not keeping him as your doctor,”
she protests.

“Why not?” I ask. “Neither of us planned
for what happened and what he does in his personal time is really none of my
business.”

“Oh my God,” she gasps, “you
like
him!”

“Will you stop?” I ask. “What the hell are
we, teenagers?”

“Isn’t he married?”

“How would you know if he was?”

“I wouldn’t,” she says, “but it stands to
reason that a handsome doctor would have to be married.”

“It’s not like when we were younger,” I
tell her. “Doctors aren’t the pinnacle of the quest for dick anymore.”

“You talk like a sailor, you know that?”

“Have you ever heard a sailor talk?” I
return.

“No,” she answers.

“Trust me, they don’t talk like that,” I
tell her. “Besides, doctors get paid shit nowadays with all the malpractice
insurance and all that shit. If you’re looking for someone in the medical
field, go with someone who works for a drug company or an insurance company.
Sure, they’re generally scum, but they’re the ones with all the money and
power.”

“My father works for a drug company,” Mags
says, missing the point.

“Whatever. But yeah, thanks for setting me
up with the one male escort that not only didn’t, but never would turn my one
into a zero.”

“If that’s some new kind of dirty talk,”
she says, “you’re really going to have to let me borrow the dictionary because
I don’t have a clue-”

“Never mind,” I interrupt. “So, John’s
really staying on?”

Along with being my friend, Mags is also
my secretary. She likes to be called a personal assistant, but the way her face
goes that shade of you-bastard-pink every time I use the “s” word, I find it
difficult to refer to her as anything else.

“Yeah,” she says. “At least, until we know
how the new fall lineup’s going to pan out.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever
heard,” I tell her. “Wasn’t he being forced out because of something or
another?”

“That’s the scuttlebutt,” she says, “but
it looks like he’s not too worried about it anymore.”

“Scuttlebutt?” I ask. “And you’re telling
me that my terminology is opaque.”

Really, I just said that last part in
hopes that she doesn’t know the word and would give her classic fake grin and
wide eye expression that she thinks, for some reason, isn’t a billboard every
time she doesn’t know a word.

There it is.

“Opaque means that something is difficult
or impossible to see through. In this case, it could be said to mean that it’s
simply unclear,” I explain and wait for the series of too-quick head nods and
assertions that she does, in fact, know what the word means.

“I know what it means,” she says, and I’m
wondering how she’s managed to stave off whiplash this long.

“What do I have after lunch?” I ask.

She pulls her planner from her purse and
looks through it.

“It looks like you’ve got a teeth cleaning
at four,” she says.

I’m waiting to hear what else I have, but
it’s been a growing trend that there’s not much what else
to
have.

“Seriously?” I ask. “We were moving
forward with Ainsley and the board. Are you really telling me that there’s
nothing else on the schedule?”

“Oh, you’re right,” she says, tapping the
page of her planner with her finger. “Your mother called and wanted to make
sure that you haven’t quit your job and started doing porn. She told me that
she’d call back around two o’clock.”

“Ah, Mom,” I yawn. “I really do have to
figure out a way to get her to lose my number.”

“Good afternoon, ladies,” Mitch, one of my
boss’s bosses says, approaching our table.

“Hey, Mitchell,” Mags says, and I don’t
hide the rolling of my eyes.

Mags, my dear sweet Margaret, secretary
extraordinaire of mine, has a thing for old money. By old, I don’t mean that
the money’s been in the family for generations. I mean that she loves the idea
of marrying some rich bastard and having him die just after he puts her in his
will.

So far, it hasn’t worked, but she
has
had a lot of disgusting nights that
I’ve had the displeasure of hearing about over the last year or so.

“Mr. Young,” I say, as always making a
conscious effort to avoid cringing at the irony of a man of his rather advanced
age having a surname like that, “we were just talking about what our next step
should be in approaching our expansion.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t trouble yourself about
that too much, dear,” he says. “We’ve got some of the best people working on it
as we speak.”

You son of a bitch,
I
am the best people — person, and this whole thing was my idea,
you wrinkled, old fuck.

“That’s good to hear,” I smile. “You know,
I’ve got some great ideas that I’d like to run by you sometime when you’re not
too busy. In fact, I think we might be able to increase our presence in the
Midwest for less than we’ve got budgeted for-”

“That’d be great,” Mr. Dickhead answers.
“Margaret, I was wondering if you might be able to help me with something in my
office.”

I’m thinking about puppies and unicorns
and trains crashing into orphanages to fight the urge to vomit at the thought
of what’s about to happen between the two of them.

“I’ll be right there,” she tells him.

“You know,” I say, “Mags and I have a lot
of work to do this afternoon, but I’m sure we could get Daniel from accounting
to give you a hand.”

“You know,” Mr. Young says, “as I think
about it, I think I might have a few minutes this afternoon to discuss your
ideas. You always do have the best insights into these things, after all.”

“Have Mags put you in my book when you’re
done with her,” I tell him.

Yeah, that’s right you old leech. I know
what’s going on here, and I’m not above light blackmail to make sure I benefit
from it.

“Will do,” he agrees nervously.

Mags gets up from her chair, and I could
swear that the front of her blouse just got a little tighter from her nipples
hardening at what, to anyone else, would be a thoroughly scarring experience.

I’m starting to think she’s just into guys
that look like her grandfather.

In her defense, though, I’ve seen her
grandfather and he made me forget that Sean Connery ever existed.

Ah, Mr. Young, if only I were fifty years
older…

When I get back to my office, I pop a
couple of ibuprofen and look over my personal schedule. It’s grim.

I don’t know if people aren’t calling
because they’re trying to be respectful of my recovery or whether they think me
unfit. Either way, this can’t keep happening.

Sooner or later, people are going to start
asking why Grace Miller hasn’t been pulling her weight and I don’t think
telling them that I’m being shut out is going to be an excuse that changes
anything for the better.

Even if my coworkers and my bosses are
trying to do the nice thing, if this doesn’t change, it’s going to cost me my
job.

I pick up the phone.

“John Parker.”

“Hey, John, it’s Grace Miller. I was
hoping you had a minute,” I say.

“Sure thing, Grace. What’s up?”

“I just wanted to inform you that I’m
going to go ahead and pull the trigger with Mitch this afternoon, and I wanted
to give you another chance to come on board,” I tell him.

What I’m doing right now is picking a
fight, but it’s a fight that needs to happen. If I’m not stirring the pot, I’m
getting lost in the background, and there’s no quicker, more effective way of
marking my territory than directly challenging my own boss.

“I really think you’ll want to reconsider
that,” John says. “I know you’ve been going through a bit of a time recently,
but that’s no reason to roll out a scorched earth policy.”

“This has nothing to do with what
happened,” I tell him. “You know what my position is and what it has been for a
long time, and frankly, I don’t see the point in waiting when we’re losing
every single day.”

“We’re not losing, Grace,” he says.
“Listen, I’ve got a meeting. We’ll discuss this later.”

“Fine,” I tell him. “I’ll let you know how
my meeting with Mitch goes.”

“You will not.”

“Fine, I won’t tell you how-”

“You’re not going above my head, Grace,”
he says. “I know this is your pet project, but I swear to God, if you go behind
my back and defy me, you’re going to wish you never got that second interview.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I tell him.

“Grace,” he says again.

“It’s going to come up, John. That much is
out of my hands now. I’ll pull my punches a bit, but I’m not just going to sit
on this forever. I’ve been cultivating relationships in some of our more
prominent potential markets, and we both know how long those relationships last
without plenty of cash flow.”

“We’ll discuss it later,” he says. “For
now, bring it up if you have to, but as far as anyone else knows, you’re just
spit-balling. Noncommittal is the word.”

“I’m not sure that it’s the proper word,
but I get it, John,” I answer.

“You know what?” he asks. “I think maybe
it’s time you go back to calling me Mr. Parker.”

I hang up the phone and smile.

To the untrained eye, it might appear that
I just landed on my boss’s shit list. The truth, on the other hand, is that
I’ve been on my boss’s shit list pretty much since I started working here and
it’s from that position that I’ve always been able to affect the greatest
amount of change.

If nothing else, I have a feeling that I’m
going to start getting phone calls again here really soon.

*
       
*
       
*

My meeting with Mitchell Young goes
everywhere but anywhere, but the point was never progress. Mitchell Young and
John Parker are, on most things, of the same mind and I want it to be clear to
anyone who’s paying attention, anyone that either of these men talk to on a
day-to-day
basis, that
I’m not fucking around.

If nothing else, I’ve just saved my job,
even if I will end up having to wait a little longer to get what I want from
it.

Right now, though, I’m sitting on my couch
at home, snuffing out my amateur attempt at a joint and wondering why I still
have yet to figure out that I should just have a glass of water waiting on the
table for me so I don’t have to make the arduous trek all the way into the next
room to wet my mouth.

My next round of chemo starts before too
long, and I’m already dreading it.

I’m not sure if I’m getting in a capsule
the same stuff that others get in their veins, but what I do know is that if it
weren’t for pot, something which I’ve never had the slightest inclination to
even try before all of this, the hell of chemo would be a lot darker.

Even with my little green friend, though,
I’m not looking forward to round two.

The nice thing is that, as a decently paid
professional, I’ve been able to quite literally change my hair on a daily
basis.

This is one of those times where it would
be really nice to have a friend that I’m not employing, but I don’t have any of
those. Working an average of eighty hours a week isn’t particularly conducive
to interpersonal relationships.

So, I get up the courage to make my way
into my kitchen, I pour myself a glass of water before realizing that I bought
bottled water for just such an occasion and I go back into the living room and
gargle a moment before I pull out my phone and dial the number.

It’s a short phone call.

I sit and veg out to some old episodes of
The Golden Girls
for a while before
there’s a knock on my door.

“Just a minute!” I call and make sure all
my smoking gear is put away, and I spray some air freshener just to cover any
lingering smell. I’m not doing anything illegal; I am a patient with a valid
prescription for a serious medical condition. Still, people can be so
judgmental.