Dr. Stud

by Jess Bentley

  And it's taking me ages to figure out a way to write about it. I don't even know how much I've gotten into my notes, but some of this is impossible to describe. I spent a long time explaining getting ready for the bar, getting to the bar. How I flirted and cooed, not even understanding who I was talking to…

  Not understanding who I was kissing!

  Oh my God, the humiliation! The look on Dillon's face. Was it hurt? Not exactly. Amusement, I think. He was amused.

  At first I was insulted by his smug reaction, but then Emmet was there almost immediately. And the blogger, to boot. I felt Hannah's offer slipping away from me. The sense of urgency was dire, but if I couldn’t tell the difference, could the blogger?

  So, what on earth possessed me to kiss Emmet right after I kissed Dillon? Not even knowing if the blogger had seen both of us?

  It was an insane chance. Absolute craziness. And if there are pictures, the whole deal is going to be blown to pieces before we even really get started. This character I’ve invented could get the authentic me into real trouble.

  So that's what I am waiting for. That's what I expect to happen at any moment, but after two days nothing has happened. Which means no one knows but us, so far.

  Apparently, we got away with it.

  Not even Hannah knows. And as soon as I think that, my phone starts to buzz. Her cute little freckled face shows up on my screen, a picture from a kayaking trip we took when we were only sixteen. Her hair clings to her cheeks in wobbly, ruddy strands. She had just got her braces off and couldn't stop smiling. She was gorgeous.

  “Hello?” I answer, trying to seem completely alert and not as though I've been lounging on my sofa for two days, stuck between terror, reflexive oversleeping, and the stubborn, breathless waves of lust that burn inside and refuse to leave me.

  “Hello yourself,” she says curtly, her voice distant and terse. I know she's not looking at the phone. I know she probably even forgot the call was being connected as soon as she got it up to her cheek. She's quite easy to distract these days. I guess she has a lot on her mind but it is annoying.

  “Yep,” I answer, slightly obnoxiously. I’m going to make her figure out why she called instead of just handing her the information. If she needs to talk to me that badly, she could at least marshall her attention long enough to form a sentence.

  “Oh, yeah… hi, Bella,” she says in a softer tone as I sense her trying to pull herself together. “I was just checking in, I suppose. How are you? Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, everything is fine,” I chirp avidly. I don't want her to worry. I don't want her hovering all over me anyway. She can be a real micromanager and I like to be left alone.

  I hear her breath puffing out through her nose. She's irritated that I’m making her work for this conversation. Tough cookies.

  “So… I thought you'd send me an email or something. Some kind of update. How was your date?”

  “With Emmet?”

  “Yes, with Emmet,” she huffs. “How was your date? Where did you go again? The margarita bar?”

  “No, no, Japanese whiskeys.”

  “Oh, yes… it’s so hard to remember what everyone is drinking these days.”

  “Did you know that you can spend seventy-five dollars on a shot of whiskey?”

  “Seventy-five dollars,” she repeats vaguely. “That's the cheap stuff, Bella. You could spend a lot more than that.”

  I bristle, instantly put off by this. I don't know why. It shouldn't matter to me that I didn't get the absolute most expensive shot of Japanese whiskey in the entire fucking world during my fake date, right? But still. The last thing I was expecting to hear was the phrase “the cheap stuff.”

  I am not cheap. Common, perhaps. Basic, maybe. But not cheap.

  “Well, we were just there for a minute. I'm sure we were just getting started, but we were interrupted.”

  “Interrupted? By what?”

  Now she's interested.

  “Oh, you don't know? Didn't your blogger do his… blogging or whatever?”

  She snorts, the noise like an abbreviated, disappointed cluck. “No, Bella. He declined to file a report. You want to know why?”

  “Um, he didn't do it? Get any pictures?”

  “Yeah, he said you guys ran away from them. He said some bouncer wanted to beat him up. Is that what happened?”

  “No, not exactly…” I reply uncomfortably, quickly reassembling the timeline in my mind. Actually, I suppose he had a point. But beating him up? Surely that’s an exaggeration. “He just looked kind of shady, like he was just snooping or something. And I guess Emmet didn't want him following us so…”

  “And Dillon was there.”

  That is a statement, not a question. So the blogger must've told her something, at least.

  “Yeah, he was there. They spend a lot of time together, so what? I planted a big wet juicy one on Emmet, in full view of that guy’s camera. He should've been able to give you the goods.”

  “You're missing the point,” she sighs, clearly aggravated with me. “I don't necessarily care about the pictures. There will be a million pictures. I want the story. You have a mission, and terrifying some dude who lives in his mother's basement is the opposite of that mission, you understand?”

  I roll my eyes silently.

  “Bella, I'm serious,” she continues. Her testy tone of voice is starting to grate on my nerves. “We don't have that many days to make this right, so I need you on point at every opportunity, you get me? Or, as I mentioned, there won't be a Riordan Publishing for you to even work for.”

  Jeez. “Yeah, I heard your threat the first time,” I remind her tersely. “Are you going to call me up every day just to repeat that?”

  “Hey, I'm doing you a favor!” she shoots back, her voice getting louder and louder. “Did you forget that? You need this too, or you wouldn't be doing it.”

  “No shit, Hannah! I wouldn’t be doing this at all if I didn't need to. You don't need to try to remind me every day that you have life or death control over me, okay? To tell you the truth, your drill sergeant act is getting a little old. I'll do what I said. Get off my back!”

  My heart is racing, the sound of blood rushing in my ears. I don't want to fight with her. I don’t want to fight with anyone. Come to think of it, I don’t want to ever even raise my voice to anyone. That’s one of the nice things about being single.

  But suddenly the stakes seem very high. I need to be heard, or everyone is going to just roll right over me.

  We take a few moments, saying nothing. Both of us are probably struggling to calm down and regain control of the situation.

  “I'll do what I said,” I repeat in a much calmer voice. I don't want to say I'm sorry, because I don't think I have anything to be sorry for. But I still hope that she can hear the half-assed apology in my voice and doesn't try to make me say it out loud.

  “Yeah… I know you will,” she says in a softer voice too. There is a half-assed apology somewhere in her voice as well. “When are you guys going out again?”

  “I was just about to find out. Today or tomorrow. Do you have other bloggers on the way?”

  “Of course I do,” she sighs, her voice already distant and distracted again. I guess she thinks this conversation is over. “Just text me the details as soon as you have them. We will try again. It'll be fine. I know how determined you are.”

  That last little bit sort of irritates me all over again, with its condescending praise, but we say our goodbyes without another pissing match. She knows how determined I am? Yeah, obviously she does, since she’s using it all to her advantage. I guess her power in the situation is not exactly under question.

  But when we were kids, we were equals. I even had the upper hand sometimes. I've never gotten used to this idea that she runs my life. She holds the cards in this game, and she can make or break the deal at any time. Usually, I don’t have to think too much about it. But right now, I can’t shake it.

  In fact, I prob
ably take a lot of liberties, never coming into the office, never pitching my stories ahead of time to an editor. Everybody else has to ask for permission for their story ideas, but I just write what I want within reason, submit it, and it always gets published. Nobody else has that kind of leeway with the rules. And I know it's because of her that I'm granted that latitude.

  But I guess I thought my special treatment made me way more equal to her than I actually am. And yeah, she's the CEO. So I guess it makes sense.

  But I've seen her in her underwear. And not the good kind. Granny panties and period panties and laundry day panties. I’ve seen her without makeup and during some very bad acne breakouts.

  I've seen her through bouts of the stomach flu. I remember when she had braces. I remember when she had a completely ridiculous haircut, when her mom thought she could use dog clippers to just clean up the bottom, all those frizzy ends at her neckline. I've seen her through all of that, and I would never breathe a word about it. But it does sort of even the playing field, doesn't it?

  Or, I suppose it doesn't. Not really.

  Maybe it never did.

  I stare at the front of my phone for just a minute. I need to make a plan with Emmet. What am I supposed to say? That I'm asking him out? Again? Why doesn’t he contact me instead? Men.

  I have to be sure to point out that detail in my book, how these guys do not seem to think that they need to make romantic gestures. In fact, I'm not sure they understand what romance really is. Everything's just another form of business deal. Like arm wrestling, or a game of checkers.

  Finally, I come up with just making a move, any move.

  Me: when are you free for next meeting?

  I squint at my phone as the sending message changes to a timestamp.

  He answers me almost immediately, and I can't help but notice that my heart rate picks up a little bit.

  Emmet: tomorrow night. 6:30 PM. Navy Pier helipad. Wear something easy to slip out of.

  Helipad? Does that word mean what I think it means?

  Well, he may not know romance, but he sure knows how to whip up a spectacle.

  Something like excitement rises in me. What will I wear?

  Chapter 31

  Dillon

  “What are you doing with your hands?”

  I pick up my hands and look at them. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  Emmet rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. I think I like his shirt better than mine. When he crosses his arms it opens at the collar, showing off his pecs. My shirt is not showing off my pecs. Goddamnit. Next time.

  “You’re doing something weird with your hands.”

  “I’m not doing anything weird with my hands. You’re imagining things.”

  “Well, you’re pacing,” he scolds me.

  “I'm not pacing,” I reply, forcing my feet to stop moving and stuffing my hands into my pockets. “It’s just that she's late, is all.”

  “Who gives a fuck if she's late?” he rolls his eyes. “It's not like we’re going to leave without her.”

  I just take a deep breath and squint down the long walkway. Tourists and business people brush past each other without even looking, hundreds of them. Maybe a thousand, even. It's one of the prime times of the day, when people who actually work on Navy Pier collide with people who came here to gawk at it. To ride the Ferris Wheel. To go through the museum.

  Frankly, it's a stupid place for a helipad. I like the one on top of our building, of course. That’s where Emmet wanted to go, but I wanted to make sure they were seen, as per the agreement. If it were up to him, they’d just spend every moment alone, maybe take off to the desert. I need to keep them on track. If this works, it’s best for all of us. He should get that through his thick skull.

  So here we all are, almost being seen. Actually, nobody could see us unless they look up since the helipad is on a raised platform surrounded by shrubs and trees and vines and shit. The curving stairway that leads up here is almost hidden. You would have to know it was here to even find it.

  An unfamiliar heart-shaped face pops up ten feet below me, then tips to the side. I look at it curiously, wondering how she got there.

  “Hello?” she smiles, tucking a long, straw-colored strand of hair behind her ear. “Can you throw down a ladder for me or something? Is there some kind of pirate secret code or something?”

  “This is a private area,” I answer, scowling and shading my eyes with my hand. Her face disappears, reappearing moments later at the bottom of the staircase.

  “Well, yeah, that's the idea,” she remarks as she climbs the stairs, shouldering her heavy bag behind her. “I guess that's how I got the exclusive.”

  “Oh, okay… and you’re from?”

  “HuffPo, usually,” she shrugs, flicking a business card between her fingers like it is some kind of magic trick. She pushes her sunglasses up on top of her head, revealing pretty green eyes and a pert, freckled nose.

  “Yeah, okay. HuffPo. Come on up, I guess,” I shrug, standing aside. Necessary evil.

  She mounts the last few steps and looks around, pushing her chin out and nodding appreciatively at the helicopter, the waiting pilot, and Emmet who's leaning nonchalantly against a post over there. That's one of his favorite poses. He thinks people think it looks natural. It does not look natural at all.

  I look down at the card in my hand. Melody Parker. That’s a good name for a writer, I suppose.

  “So, when is she getting here? The mystery lady?” she asks, slowly looking away from Emmet’s ridiculous posturing.

  “Any moment, I guess,” I answer, irritation creeping into my voice. Now it looks somewhat humiliating, like some broad is making us wait. Which is true, but I certainly don't want it to look that way. “I think she had to take a quick meeting with Oprah or something,” I add, trying to cover quickly.

  Melody quirks one eyebrow at me. “Oprah is back in town? She was just in Monaco yesterday, I think. You sure?”

  “Monaco? Yeah, well,” I grumble, looking away and feeling stupid in a way that's about to make me angry. “Well I guess she… oh, here she is now.”

  Melody steps back, her eyes growing wide. “Bella?” she gasps, automatically walking forward with her arms out. Bella takes her in a quick, friendly hug that people use when they already know each other, but not well enough to go on a vacation together. The business casual friend.

  “Melody!” Bella coos, tossing her hair over one shoulder.

  I wonder if she practiced that. It really does look stunning with her thick, mahogany hair fanning out behind her, just this side of a slow-motion glamour shot. I'm totally impressed.

  “Well this is a surprise!” Melody exclaims, barely concealing the bitter envy in her voice. “Hannah ordered me to rush right over here to catch the scoop, but I never expected, um, you!”

  Bella just smiles, dazzling her with a blinding flash of white teeth. She doesn't say anything, and I'm even more impressed. Melody’s sideswipe insult would've put most people off their game entirely, but Bella is going to let her smile do the work.

  Wow. I kind of want to cheer.

  “So, um… well, can I ask a few questions?” Melody babbles, her frustration clear. She whips out her phone and holds it up, using it as a recording device.

  Instead of answering, Bella tips her head to the side, looking over Melody’s shoulder. She lifts her hand and waves her fingertips, sucking in her breath and holding it in a completely convincing schoolgirl crush kind of way.

  “Oh, excuse me, won't you please?” she mutters breathlessly as she completely steps around Melody and begins walking across the yellow painted concrete of the helipad. Emmet leaves his pose and walks toward her, arms out. His smile is charming and camera ready.

  “Well, shit,” I hear Melody mutter under her breath as Emmet and Bella fall together, kissing slowly and tenderly as though joyfully reuniting.

  Frankly, this act is getting on my nerves more than a little bit. But I can’t look away
either. I imagine myself as Emmet, kissing those sweet lips and remembering her hungry mouth against mine at the restaurant. Remembering my tongue inside her, surrounded by Chanel No. 5. She’s so pure. I’ve never met anyone like her.

  Melody casts her eyes to me sidelong. “So, I guess I will just ask you. How long have they been dating?”

  I put on a pair of sunglasses just in case anything shows on my face. Despite being a bit of a Romeo, I have never been a good liar. Not much practice, as I don’t have to lie. I’m Dillon fucking Riordan, for chrissakes.

  But also, I can’t stop watching them cuddle and kiss, and Melody doesn’t need to see that. I remember Bella’s taste precisely… that sweet, spicy nectar. I should be over there, kissing her too. Not talking to whoever the fuck this is.

  “Oh, this has been going on for a few weeks. I can’t believe they kept it quiet this long, can you?” I say, congratulating myself on my apparent authenticity.

  “Well, I guess that is quite a scoop then!” Melody shrugs, probably weighing her jealousy against the value of the information she has just been given. Just like clockwork, her greed wins out.

  “And do you approve, Dillon? I know you like to keep… very close tabs on your brother’s relationships…”

  She steps closer to me, angling the phone toward my face. As I watch, she draws her lower lip between her teeth, wetting it with the back of her tongue.

  “Bella's really been good for him,” I nod, very nearly adhering to the truth. “You might say he’s a changed man. I've never seen him so serious about someone so fast. It's almost boring, if I’m telling you the truth.”

  “Ha!” she laughs, tipping her head back and baring full rows of even, white teeth. “Oh, come on, you Riordan boys could never be boring. I'm sure there's something absolutely wicked about those two, right? He can't be going totally goody-goody, honestly, can he?”