Escort (A Standalone Romance Novel) (New York City Bad Boy Romance) (5 page)

I fake dejection and say, “I can smell the
alcohol on your breath.”

“Yeah,” he says, “it’s not a hard and fast
rule, but I am the driver.” As he’s making his way out the door, he turns back
to look at me, standing here, wig in hand, and he says, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” I tell him. “I
understand.”

With that, he opens the door and walks
out.

I laugh a little as I toss today’s hair on
the arm of my couch, and I sit back, flipping on the television.

I’ll be honest, though; as impressed as I
am with my own quick thinking and the masterful way I was able to scam a ride
home with absolutely no payout, the reality hits me that that man with the
stupid curling tufts on his face decided I wasn’t up to
his
standards.

Sure, my various pieces work well enough,
but they’re not who I am.

Who I am right now is a woman who’s about
to start another round of treatment and whatever hair I would have left right
now, if I didn’t bother shaving it all, would probably be gone not too long
after it.

This is who I am and even the dirt bag
from the dive bar was put off by the fact.

Chapter
Four

Round Two

Jace

It’s already been a long day, and it’s
about to get even longer. Today is the day that Grace comes in for a checkup
and, assuming all is well, to get her next round of chemo.

I don’t know what to do with her; I really
don’t.

She comes into the office at around
four-thirty, and at first, we both try to pretend that we’ve never met outside
this hospital.

It doesn’t last.

“So, how’ve you been?” she asks.

At first, the question seems innocuous
enough, but the way her brow is rising and falling, it’s clear enough she’s not
asking to be polite.

“I’ve been fine,” I tell her. “Now, have
you noticed any side effects from the chemo?”

“A bit of nausea,” she says, “I haven’t
thrown up or anything, but I think that’s mostly to do with the weed.”

“Okay,” I tell her. “What about any other
symptoms?”

“I
have
been getting headaches,” she says. “They’ve been pretty minor, I guess, but
they feel different than they normally do.”

“How so?” I ask.

“I don’t know. Usually, I get headaches at
the base of my skull in the back, but this, it feels like it’s more internal if
that makes any sense.”

“All right,” I tell her. “It’s probably
nothing to worry about, but I’d like to get you in for an MRI today just to be
sure.”

“Yeah,” she says, “about that. I was
thinking that maybe you and I shouldn’t do this whole doctor/patient thing
anymore.”

“I’m sorry?” I ask.

I was actually considering saying
something along the same lines, but hearing it from her still catches me off
guard.

“Well,” she says, “I know you must think
I’m crazy or that the brain tumor’s got me acting all weird or whatever, but I
think, if I had to choose, that I’d prefer us to be able to talk like real
people, normal people. I don’t know that I want you to be my doctor anymore.”

“That’s certainly your choice,” I answer
hesitantly, “but there’s not a problem on my end.”

“Yeah, there is,” she says and even
without continuing, I know she’s got a point.

“What do you suggest then?” I ask.

“I like talking to you,” she says. “I
don’t know why, you’re a bit timid for my taste, but I think you and I have a
good rapport, you know, when we’re not discussing stuff growing in my head.”

“I don’t think that’s the best idea,” I
tell her.

“Why not? You said yourself that as my
doctor, it’s inappropriate for you to see me socially. If you’re not my doctor,
then what’s the problem?”

“It’s a problem,” I tell her.

“Well, then,” she says, getting up from
her chair. “If you’ll give me this month’s dose of chemical warfare and maybe
the name of a competent oncologist, I’ll be on my way.”

“I really would like to get you in for an
MRI,” I tell her. “There are good changes and bad changes. Sometimes the good
changes don’t feel good, sometimes the bad ones do. Regardless, anything out of
the ordinary, especially when it comes to something like headaches, can be a
sign that something’s not right.”

She sits back down. “You really do know
how to kill the mood,” she says.

“Yeah,” I answer. “So, let me call down
and I’ll see if I can get you right in. We should be able to fit you in
sometime in the next few hours or so.”

“In that case,” she says, “why don’t you
give me my prescription and I’ll just head downstairs and pop my first death
pill of the month? That way I can be nice and miserable for the brain scan?”

“I want to be your doctor, Grace,” I tell
her, and even I’m surprised at my candor as I continue. “You’re a pain in the
ass, and I’m not entirely sure you don’t have some kind of personality
disorder, but I think maybe you and I can help each other.”

She smirks at me and I make a mental note
to be less insulting the next time I’m trying to convince someone of something.

“I’m actually rather delightful when you
get to know me,” she says. “But what is this about us being able to help each
other? What do you get out of this?”

“It’s my job,” I tell her. “Whether you
think it’s trite or not, I really do enjoy helping people and I’d like to
continue to help you in whatever way I can.”

“Great,” she says, “in that case, I’ll
stick around to have my cells bombarded with a giant magnet while I wait for
the chemo to make me feel like I’m dying in the process.”

“What are you getting out of this?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“Just a minute ago, you were telling me
that you didn’t want me to be your doctor. You changed your mind pretty quick.
Why?”

“You said you’d like to continue to help
me in whatever way you can, and there is a way, outside of being a doctor that
I think you might be able to help me.”

“How’s that?”

“I like talking to you,” she says. “You’re
usually up on some moral high horse, but every once in a while, you show a
glimmer that you’re not quite as boring as you like to pretend you are. I’d
like to see what’s under the façade.”

“I
am
in a relationship, Grace,” I tell her.

“I know,” she says. “I’m not tearing off
my clothes and rubbing my nipples on your forehead. I’m just saying that I’d
like to get to know you more. You’re kind of…”

“I’m kind of what?” I ask when she trails
off.

She takes a deep breath. “Never mind,” she
says. “Are we doing this chemo thing or what?”

“I’d suggest you wait to take your first
dose until after you’ve had the MRI,” I tell her, “but I’ll go ahead and get
you the prescription now. Just head on down to the pharmacy and when you’re
done, relax in the waiting room and I’ll have someone come get you when it’s
time for your scan.”

“All right,” she says and gets up to
leave.

“Grace?”

“Yeah?”

“I like talking to you, too.”

She nods and walks out of my office.

I call down to radiology, but it’s not
going to be until at least tomorrow before I can get Grace in for her scan.
She’s my last appointment for the day, so I lock up my office.

I’m pulling my key out of the door and
telling my assistant, Yuri, that we’re done for the day when I see a familiar
face next to Grace.

“Melissa,” I smile. “What are you doing
here?”

“Nothing,” she says. “I just thought I’d
come by and surprise you.”

“That’s great,” I tell her and glance over
at Grace. “I just need to finish up with a patient, and then I’m ready to head
home.”

“Oh, we’re not going home tonight,” she
says. “We are going out on the town.”

“Are we?”

“Yeah,” she says. “I got some pretty big
news today and I feel like celebrating.”

“Wonderful,” I tell her. “I can’t wait to
hear about it.”

“I’ll be out in the car,” she says. “I’m
parked in my usual spot.”

“Sounds great, honey,” I say. “I’ll see
you in a few minutes.”

Melissa’s blonde hair bounces as she walks
away. Judging by that particular spring in her step, I’d say the chances of me
having a very good night are pretty solid.

I turn to Grace and tell her, “I called
down to radiology and they’re not going to be able to fit you in until ten
tomorrow morning. Does that work for you?”

“Not really,” she says. “I have a big day
plan of smoking pot and trying not to puke up my chemo. Is there any chance we
could do this next week?”

I never know when she’s serious.

“I really would like to get you in as soon
as possible,” I tell her. “If you’re worried about the effects of the chemo
tomorrow morning, why not just take your first dose after our appointment?”

“Yeah, it’s a little late for that,” she
says.

“You already took your first dose,” I say.

She shrugs. “I’m impatient. What of it?”

“Let’s try to get you in as soon as
possible,” I tell her.

She sighs and says, “Fine.” Her expression
changes into that familiar smirk. “So, that’s your old lady, huh?”

“That’s my girlfriend,” I answer, “yes.”

“She’s pretty,” Grace says. “Not a lot in
the ass department, but those tits have got to feel pretty good wrapped around
your-”

“Grace!” I interrupt.

Yuri, who had been gathering her things
and getting ready to leave, looks up at me. Then, with a smile, she turns to
Grace and says, “They’re fake. I’m sure too much pressure and those things
would pop like water balloons.”

Grace apparently finds this utterly
hilarious.

“Yuri,” I breathe.

“Yeah, boss?” she asks, joining in Grace’s
merriment.

“Go home, please.”

“Right away, boss,” she says and finishes
gathering her things.

“So, you’re a boob man, huh?” Grace asks.
“I’ve never really given it much thought, myself,” she says, “but I think if I
were to go the other way, I’d probably be more about the ass.”

“Me, too,” Yuri announces. “Isn’t that the
weirdest thing?”

“It’s uncanny,” I answer, deadpan.
“Goodnight, Yuri.”

“Goodnight, boss,” my loyal assistant of
almost two years, the woman who has never, not once smiled in my presence says
and, as the door’s closing behind her, I can hear her laughing her brains out.

“You’re a bad influence,” I tell Grace.

“I know,” she agrees. “Question is, how
long is it going to be before I rub one off on you?”

“I’m sorry, did you just say-”

“I’ll see you in the morning,” she says as
walks out of the office ahead of me.

I wait a minute so as to avoid what would
certainly be an awkward elevator ride with Grace and, when enough time has
passed that I’m sure she’s out of the hospital, I head out.

In the parking lot, I find Melissa’s car
easily enough.

She’s sitting behind the wheel, working
another crossword puzzle, and she doesn’t notice when I walk up to the driver’s
side door, so I knock.

Melissa rolls down her window and says,
“Get in.”

“What about my car?”

“We’ll get it later,” she says. “I really
just want to get the hell out of here. You know how I feel about hospitals.”

She’s been saying that for so long. The
problem is, if she ever
did
explain
exactly how she feels about hospitals, I must have missed it and too much time
has passed for me to ask about it now.

“All right,” I tell her and I walk around
to the other side of the car.

I get in and wait for Melissa to finish up
her crossword before she starts the car.

“So,” I say, “tell me about your day.”

“Oh, you are not going to believe this,”
she says. “Ty called me into his office this morning — I thought he was going
to chew me out for watching
House of
Cards
on company time, but he gave me a promotion! You’re looking at the
new regional sales director for
Symbio
Industries.”

“Congratulations!” I tell her. “That’s
wonderful news.”

“I’m going to be on the road a little bit
more, but this is really a big thing for me,” she says, trying to preempt any
possible argument that may arise from the fact that I’m about to go from seeing
very little of her to seeing even less of her.

For whatever reason, that eventuality
doesn’t really seem to bother me that much.

“I’ve got some plans for you tonight,” she
says and she puts the car in drive.

We’re on the road for about an hour before
I start to get a little anxious.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“You’ll see,” she says. “We’re almost
there.”

“All right,” I answer, but the drive just
continues to drag on and drag on.

Finally, she pulls off onto a dirt road
and we park on the far side of a tree, next to an open field.

“Where are we?” I ask.

“I have no idea,” she says, “but that’s
kind of the point.”

I’m about to ask what the hell she’s
talking about before her seatbelt is undone and she’s straddling me on the
passenger’s seat, breathing deep as she kisses me.

“Have you ever had sex outside?” she asks.

“Does a sun porch count?” I return.

“No,” she says and opens the passenger
door.

She climbs out, and I unbuckle my
seatbelt.

“I want you right here, right now,” she
says and, before I can answer, she’s got me by the top of the pants, pulling me
toward her.

Somehow, I manage to keep my balance, and
she’s already unzipping my pants.