Costars (New York City Bad Boy Romance) (30 page)

I open the door and Jace comes in, saying,
“You know, we’ve got to stop meeting this way.”

I smile and close the door behind him.

He compliments me on my hair, which is
shorter, lightly disheveled, yet still professional and black with just a tinge
of purple if the light catches it just right. This is one of my favorites.

“So, how was the traffic on your way
over?” I ask.

“It was fine,” he says. “You know, you
don’t have to call me through my agency.”

“I don’t have your home number, and this
isn’t exactly a medical emergency, so it doesn’t seem right to have the hospital
page you-”

“It’s just,” he starts and then hesitates,
“I charge less for my time as a doctor than I do as an escort.”

“Well, since I’m both your patient and
your client in your sex work-”

“I don’t have sex with my clients,” he
protests, but I couldn’t care less.

“I’m just saying, I think maybe it’s time
to discuss some kind of discount,” I snicker.

“Why me?” he asks. “You could have asked
for someone else, you could have called a different service. I’m your doctor.
That doesn’t bother you?”

“Does it bother me that you’re my doctor?”
I ask, adding an extra touch of
snark
to the
situation. “No,” I conclude. “It would bother me less if I didn’t have to have
a doctor at all, but we are where we are. So, what got you into medicine? And,
don’t give me the trite answer.”

“What’s the trite answer?” he asks
stupidly.

“You know very well what the trite answer
is,” I tell him.

“What if I did get into it to help
people?”

“Then you’re more boring than I thought.
Are you single?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, my secretary thinks there’s no way
a doctor who could pass for a rent-a-cock wouldn’t be married, but I think
you’re less predictable than that,” I answer.

“I would have thought that being a doctor
and an
escort
would have told you
that I’m not that predictable,” he answers.

“By the way, you’re taking me out
tonight,” I tell him.

“What?” he asks. “Why?”

“Well, you said that I could have called
another agency or simply asked for someone else, but at the same time, when you
got the call, you could have said that you couldn’t make it. You could have
given any number of excuses that would have gotten you out of coming here
without imperiling your job as a hired gun, if you’ll forgive the expression,
but here you are in my living room once again.”

I’m not going to lie: I’m having fun with
this.

“I guess I just thought that maybe — I
don’t know,” he answers.

“You thought what?” I ask.

“I came here tonight to tell you that we
can’t do this anymore,” he says. “I’m your doctor and-”

“Yeah, that’s boring,” I interrupt. “So,
why
did
you become a doctor?” I ask
again as I get out of my seat and collect my purse. “You can tell me on the
way.”

“I can’t go out with you,” he protests.

“The charge on my card would suggest
differently,” I answer. “Come on. We’re going to get you drunk and maybe, if
you’re a gentleman, I’ll let you take advantage of me later.”

“It’s stuff like that,” he says. “There
are rules against this sort of thing. We can’t-”

“Oh, calm down,” I tell him. “I’m not
looking to cost you your license. I’d just like to go out on the town with an
attractive man, if for no other reason than to get other attractive men to
notice just how
fuckable
I am.”

“You know, you talk like a sailor,” he
says.

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” I
ask. “I suspect that a lot of people are claiming a connection to maritime
sociology that they don’t actually possess.”

“It’s an expression. Anyway, I told my
girlfriend that I wouldn’t be gone long.”

“Oh, so you’ve got a girlfriend,” I tease.
“Isn’t it funny that you never mentioned that before?”

“Grace,” he says, putting his hands
together like he’s about to tell me that he ran over the dog that I don’t have,
“one of the common symptoms of
oligodendroglioma
is
personality change. I think it might be time for us to revisit your treatment
protocol.”

“Oh relax,” I tell him. “I’ve been this
kind of charming for as long as I can remember. If that’s not enough for you, I
have an office full of people that’ll tell you that I’m no different than I
ever was.”

“Have you had any other symptoms?”

“Like what?” I return.

“Anything out of the ordinary,” he says.
“Blurry vision, difficulty speaking or writing, headaches-”

“This conversation is giving me a
headache,” I tell him. “Does that count?”

“I’m worried about you,”

“Well aren’t you sweet? You know what you
can do to help me?”

“What’s that?”

“You can take me somewhere nice and
graciously step aside if I start flinging the fuck-me eyes at someone else,” I
tell him. “If it’ll make you feel better about going out with a patient as her
date-for-hire, I’ll even let you pay for the drinks.”

At least, he’s smiling now.

It takes a bit more convincing, but
finally, I get him out of my apartment and into a cab.

I ask the driver where I might find a bar
where I can make attractive men jealous with my date. She doesn’t give me a
clear answer, but we’re driving now, so I can only assume she knows just the
place.

Once we’re out of the cab, the driver is
paid and we’re in the bar, however, it becomes painfully clear that I should have
specified that I wasn’t looking for a dive.

Oh well, if anyone tries to get fresh
without my permission, I’ve got my own personal sex worker to jump in and save
the day.

“You never answered my question,” I tell
him.

“What question’s that?” he asks.

“Why did you become a doctor?”

“Well,” he says, “my dad was a doctor, my
grandfather was a doctor. To be perfectly honest with you, though, I don’t know
that that had as much to do with it as you might think.”

“What did? I mean, what convinced you to
rebel by doing the same thing that generations of non-British
Churchills
have done before you?”

“It was my mother,” he explains. “She was
sick a lot when I was growing up, and I was always the one that ended up taking
care of her while my dad was out with a revolving cast of nurses.”

I sip my orange juice. “I’m sorry,” I tell
him.

“It is what it is,” he says. “You know, I
don’t even know that it was necessarily that. I mean, it was, but I think it
was more that I wanted to prove, if only to myself, that a person could be a
doctor without being a lowlife.”

“And here you are selling yourself for
money,” I giggle.

“How many times do I have to tell
you-
”

“Oh, come on,” I interrupt. “You may not
swing your thing for cash, but from what I hear, you’re in the minority.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” he says.
“Sure, I’ve heard the same stories that you have, but I think there are plenty
of people like me who just enjoy going out and making a little money in the
process.”

“What does the old ball and chain have to
say about it?” I ask. “Or does she not know?”

“She knows,” he says. “It was her idea.”

“Oh,” I say wincing, “I’m sorry to hear
that.”

“Why?”

“Excuse me,” a burly man with a handlebar
mustache and a yellow bandana on his head says, tapping me on the shoulder.

“Yes?” I ask.

“I was wondering if I could buy you a
drink,” the man says.

I look at my reluctant date and smile.

“You can,” I tell him, “but I’ve got to
warn you. My friend here can get pretty jealous.”

The man looks Jace up and down and,
cracking his knuckles, the man scoffs and says, “I’m really not that worried
about it.”

“Do you hear that?” I ask. “He says he’s
not worried about it.”

“What are you doing?” Jace asks,
rightfully irritated.

I turn back to the man and say, “I
appreciate the offer, but I think I should pass.”

“He’s not giving you any trouble, is he?”
the man asks, referring to Jace.

Ah, the male quest for dominance. If they
had any perspicacity, they would have figured out a long time ago that no
matter what they do, women are always going to be the ones running the show.

“I think I’ll be fine,” I tell the man.
“Thank you again for the offer, though.”

“Yeah,” the man says, giving a death stare
to Jace. “You have a good night.”

The man walks away and I’m not sure if the
look in
Jace’s
eyes is relief or just more
irritation.

“You seem to enjoy messing with people,”
he says.

“It’s a hobby of mine,” I agree. “So, doc,
where were we?”

“You were saying sorry for the fact that
my girlfriend is the one that-”

“Oh,” I laugh, “right. Yeah, that’s got to
be hard for you.”

“What’s that?” he asks. “I think it’s a
testament to her trust in me that she’d be-”

“She’s got someone on the side. Do you
really think anyone would be so willing to have you go out on dates with an
endless string of at least occasionally attractive women that they’d actually
tell a good-looking doctor like yourself to take up whoring?”

“I’m not a-”

“Whatever,” I tell him. “I hate to be the
bearer of bad news here, but that
chicky
poo of
yours, she’s looking to ease her own guilt by telling herself that whatever
you’re doing when you go out on these dates has to be worse than anything she’s
doing.”

“It’s not like that,” he protests.

“All right,” I smile. “Just don’t be
pissed at me if you go home one night to find some other guy playing ‘just the
tip’ with your old lady.”

The expression on his face is much clearer
now. He’s pissed.

“You know,” he says, “I shouldn’t have
come here tonight. I think you’re lashing out because you’re scared or upset,
and I really don’t think that we should be doing this.”

“Oh, come on,” I tell him. “You can’t tell
me you didn’t think it was a little strange that she just comes up to you one
day and tells you that escorting really gets a bad rap and you should check it
out as a fallback position in case the whole oncology thing doesn’t work out.”

He reaches into his back pocket and pulls
out his wallet. He drops a twenty on the bar and says, “Good night.”

“Hold on,” I tell him, grabbing his arm.

“What?” he asks impatiently.

“I didn’t bring any money,” I tell him.
“Would you mind spotting me cab fare?”

He shakes his head and walks out of the
bar, leaving me to figure out how to get home. Luckily, I think I know just the
guy and he’s already making his way back over to my stool.

“You all right?” the man with the
ridiculous facial hair asks.

“I’m fine,” I tell him, “but I’m wondering
if I could impose upon you.”

“You what?”

“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I was wondering
if I could ask a favor of you.”

“Sure,” he says. “What do you need?”

I smile.

Before long, we’re back at my apartment
and I’m trying to figure out whether I want to offer the man a drink or whether
I’m in the mood to offer him something else.

“You know,” I tell him, “I’m in a bit of a
conundrum.”

“What’s that?” he asks.

Luckily, I’ve always been pretty good at
thinking on my feet.

“Well,” I start, “I’ve got another favor
to ask, and I’m not sure how you’re going to feel about it.”

“I brought you home, didn’t I?” he asks,
having gotten the exact wrong impression of what I’m about to ask him.

“I’m wondering if you might be willing to
help me wash something,” I tell him and coyly run my fingers through
not-my-real-hair.

He licks his lips and says, “I bet I could
help you out with that.”

“Great,” I tell him and give my wig a tug,
handing it to him.

Now, all I can do is hope that the guy
doesn’t have a fetish for bald chicks. If that’s the case, I might just have to
let him throw me a bone. After all, he would be breaking a whole lot of
stereotypes and I think that kind of chivalry is worth rewarding, even
if
he looks like a barrel-chested Doc
Holliday.

Fortunately, his eyes having become nearer
to perfect circles than one would think possible, I think I’ve made the right
move.

“You know,” he says, “I should really get
back to the bar. My buddies are waiting for me, and I’m supposed to be the
designated driver.”