Escort (A Standalone Romance Novel) (New York City Bad Boy Romance) (12 page)

“Yeah,” she says, “me, too. Jace?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think, someday down the line that
we actually could go back to being friends?”

“Honestly,” I tell her, “I don’t know.
Even though we’re having this refreshingly pleasant conversation, there’s still
a big part of me that wants to start yelling and throwing shit. I don’t know if
it’s just instinct or what, but I think it’s going to take me a while to really
forgive you for everything.”

“That’s fair, I guess,” she says. “To tell
you the truth, there’s still a big part of me that wants to go back in the
living room and start tossing your shit out the window just so I can lock you
out when you go down to try to salvage what doesn’t get picked up by people on
the street.”

“I think we’ve been holding each other
emotionally hostage for a while, and I don’t know if we’re ever really going to
be able to get past that,” I tell her. “If it helps, though, I hope we can.”

“Yeah,” she says and smiles, “me, too.”

I finish making her breakfast and we eat
one last meal together. We don’t talk much while we’re eating and even less
while we’re waiting for the moving guys to show up, but all things considered,
I think things went pretty well.

The movers load everything up faster than
I would have expected, so when it’s time for us to say goodbye, it comes and
goes very quickly.

I don’t bother lecturing her, but I do
tell her not to let her heart get broken by someone who’s never going to make
himself completely hers. We both know what that’s like.

Now, as I’m closing the door behind her, I
can’t help but think of what she said about Grace.

How much
have
I been idealizing Grace and how much of what I feel toward her
is based on who she actually is?

Maybe there’s no easy answer to that
problem, but Melissa was right: that’s exactly what we were doing with each
other before we got together. “Look where we’re at now,” she said.

As I look out the window of the apartment,
it’s easy enough to see exactly where we are now.

I wasn’t lying when I said that I don’t
hate her, but after all we’ve been through, despite what wonderful friends we
used to be, I can’t look at her, even now from four stories up, without feeling
a mixture of anger and this sick feeling that I can’t quite put into words.

Is that what’s going to happen to Grace or
are we ever going to get even that far?

I guess there’s no use speculating about
it. The only thing I can do is see what happens and try to keep my eyes open.

Still, there’s a sour taste in my mouth
that was never there before, even when I first found the video.

I don’t know if I’m going to be able to
really trust anyone right now, even Grace.

It’s not her fault and, really, it’s not
entirely Melissa’s fault, either. It’s the result of the simple truth that I
don’t know how to be happy with the person I’m with.

It could be that that’s just the way I am,
that it’s never going to change. It could be that that’s the result of a
multitude of past failed relationships.

Either way, it’s there and I don’t see it
going away anytime soon.

Chapter
Eleven

Dr. Marcum

Grace

When Jace told me he’d set up a time for
me and his doctor friend, I was expecting something in a back alley or a
darkened parking lot. I wasn’t expecting to discuss perpetrating a fraud
involving a clinical trial over seafood on the bank of the river.

I haven’t talked to Jace in a couple of
days. Really, I don’t know what to say to the man.

A man comes over to my table and sits
down.

“Dr. Marcum?” I ask, but the man doesn’t
look up.

The waiter comes over and asks if
me
and my friend are ready to order, but I tell him we’re
going to need a few more minutes.

“Excuse me, are you Dr. Marcum?” I ask the
man across from me after the waiter leaves.

The man is reading a newspaper and
completely ignoring everything I have to say. Maybe I’m just not saying the
right thing.

“We’ve already got the scans,” I tell him.
“I don’t know what more you thought we should discuss, but I’m ready to hear
whatever you have to say.”

The man looks up at me for a moment, but
then turns back to his paper.

“I get that this is supposed to be a
covert op kind of thing,” I tell him, “but I really would appreciate some
guidance as to what to do next.”

“Excuse me, miss?” a man behind me says,
tapping my shoulder.

I turn around. “Yes?”

“Are you Grace Miller?” the man asks.

“Yes,” I answer. “And you are…”

“I’m Dr. Marcum,” he says. “I was under
the impression Dr. Churchill had told you who I was.”

I look across the table at the man sitting
there with his newspaper. He’s still ignoring me completely.

“Excuse me, sir?” I ask the man sitting
across the table.

The man looks up, cocks his head to one
side, and, with a loud burst, he says, “What?”

“We’re going to need that chair if you
don’t mind,” I tell him.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the man says, but doesn’t
get up. He just returns to his paper like I hadn’t said anything of consequence
at all.

I look up at Dr. Marcum, saying, “Maybe we
should find another table.”

“Let’s take a walk,” the doctor says.

“You know, I was really looking forward to
the sushi,” I protest as I rise to my feet. “I’ve heard that it’s spectacular
here.”

“Well, it appears that man is more than
willing to hold your table for you,” Dr. Marcum says. “I’d really prefer
discussing this in a more private venue.”

“What did you have in mind?” I ask as we
walk back through the restaurant.

“It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it?” he
asks.

“I guess so,” I answer. “Where would you
like to talk?”

“You know,” he says, “you ask a lot of
questions for someone planning what you’re planning.”

“Do I?” Okay, now I’m just screwing with
him.

He scoffs and we exit through the front of
the restaurant.

We continue along the sidewalk until we’re
walking on grass, no more than thirty feet from the river.

“Do you know what you’re getting yourself
into?” he asks.

“Dr. Churchill gave me a pretty good
idea.”

“Well, I don’t think a general idea is
going to cut it,” he says. “Now that you’ve involved me, I hope you’re aware my
license is at risk, as well.”

“I do realize you’re putting yourself in
quite a position, and-”

“Oh, I’m happy to do a favor for one of my
star pupils,” he says. “What I’m more concerned about is
you
and whether you actually possess the ability to apply discretion
when needed.”

“Dr. Marcum, I can assure you-”

“You were halfway to telling a deaf
stranger sitting across the table from you what you and Churchill have been
planning,” the man says, and I’m really starting to feel like a British secret
agent, circa 1941.

“I thought he was you,” I tell him.

“Yes, but you didn’t confirm that, did
you?” he asks. “I assume Churchill gave you my general description, did he
not?”

“He did not,” I answer. “What does
that-
”

“The man at the table is a friend of
mine,” Dr. Marcum says. “He was put there to see if you’d bother trying to
verify that you were talking to the right person or not and how much
information you would be willing to let slip in a crowded place. Needless to
say, you didn’t inspire much confidence, my dear.”

“I’m not your dear,” I tell him. “And, I
really don’t appreciate the spy games or whatever this is that you’re doing.”

Dr. Marcum laughs. “Oh, I think you’ll
find that with certain things, it’s best to know exactly what you’re doing,” he
says.

“What does that even mean?”

He stops walking and, in a hushed voice,
he says, “Look, you don’t know what these people are like. They’re all about
power,” he says. “That’s what gets them up in the morning and that’s what lulls
them to sleep at night. They dream about it, they fantasize about it. Power is
everything to them.”

“Who exactly are ‘them?
’”

“Administrators,” he says in his quietened
tone. “Administrators and doctors involved in clinical trials. Did you know
that less than a quarter of drugs that are tested in clinical trials are
actually safe to introduce into the human body?”

“No,” I answer. “Is that true?”

“No,” he says. “With a few exceptions,
there’s usually pretty good evidence to suggest that a drug is at least some
degree of safe before they’ll start testing it out on people.”

“Then why did you-”

He grabs my arms, giving me a slight shake
in the process. “Don’t you get it?” he asks. “We’re talking about getting you
into a trial where you don’t belong. You don’t have the history of the illness
required and Churchill says he’s not sure yet whether chemotherapy is going to
be effective for you. What you’re proposing — what you’re both proposing is
hitting these people where they make their money, and you know what they say
about money…”

“Money is power?”

“No,” Dr. Marcum says. “Knowledge is
power. You young people really need to learn your platitudes.”

“Dr. Marcum, I’m not sure where you’re
going with — well, any of this,” I tell him, “but if you’re having second
thoughts about-”

“No,” Marcum interrupts, releasing my arms
and turning to face the river. “I’ll do it,” he says, looking out over the
horizon. “I feel it is my duty to help those whom I’ve taught help people.”

“Dr. Marcum?”

“Yes?”

“Are you all right?”

“Here’s what I need you to do,” he says.
He turns to look at me, but he doesn’t finish the thought.

“What do you need me to do?” I ask.

“That’s exactly the kind of question you
should
be asking,” he says.

Okay, I think I can safely say this guy’s
a few kernels short of a cob.

“What I need you to do,” he says, “is I
need you to give me your scans — they have the altered dates, do they not?”

“They do,” I tell him. “They’re back in my
car.”

“Not now,” the doctor says. “You can’t be
too careful.”

“All right,” I say, wondering if this guy
is actually a doctor or just another plant like the guy at the table.

“Okay,” he says, “let’s go.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I don’t know
what’s going on, but I really don’t think that you’re the kind of person I want
to have involved in something like this. I appreciate your time, but it’s just
not going to work out.”

I start walking away, but before I’ve made
it ten feet, behind me I hear the doctor giving the slow clap.

I turn around and he’s standing there with
a smile on his face.

“Very good,” he says.

“You’re out of your mind,” I tell him.

“No,” he objects. “I was just having some
fun with you. Churchill told me that you were expecting some big subterfuge,
and I thought I’d make it happen.”

“You can’t be serious,” I say, searching
his face for any sign that this is just another ruse.

“In all seriousness, if you just get me
the scans, I think we’re good to go.”

“Who was the man at the table?”

“I just paid a guy in the restaurant
twenty bucks to sit at your table and ignore everything you said,” he answers.
“I thought it was a nice touch, don’t you?”

“This whole thing was seriously just an
act? You’re an ass,” I tell the doctor, but I’m laughing all the same.

“Churchill told me that he gave you both
the films and a flash drive with the digital files. Is that correct?”

“Yeah,” I tell him. “He also said that you
and I should get to know each other a little bit so if anyone asked one of us
about the other, we wouldn’t-”

“Sounds like Churchill’s the one who’s
getting paranoid,” Dr. Marcum says. “Do me a favor and tell me how much you
know about the doctors you’ve met throughout your life — Dr. Churchill
notwithstanding, of course.”

I think for a minute.

“Not that much,” I tell him. “The
conversation’s never really been that personal.”

“Exactly,” he says. “The only one in a
doctor patient relationship that has any substantial knowledge about the other
in any given situation is the doctor, and the information he has is almost
exclusively regarding the patient’s symptoms or their diagnosis. Churchill gave
me his notes on your file and, once I get those scans, I’ll have just about all
I need to know.”