Against the Ropes

by Sarah Castille

  Charlie whistles and looks away from the fierce scowl I shoot in

  his direction.

  “I can take the bus,” I protest.

  “You can pick me up,” Big Doris booms.

  “I’ll pick you up.” Charlie pats her shoulder and she shrugs him off.

  Dr. Drake’s lips curl into a smile. “Excellent. Mr. Brown, you can

  take Doris, and I’ll take Mac.”

  “No, I—”

  Charlie cuts me off with an exasperated groan. “He won’t bite, Mac.”

  Dr. Drake winks. “Not unless she asks nicely.”

  Chapter 14

  Are You My Girl?

  .....

  Hi Max

  Hi baby. I’m back. I’ll pick you up after work

  Have 2 cancel. Work function tonight **sniffs**

  Work on Thursday night?

  Charity event for the hospital

  I’ll come

  Invitation only

  I’ll get one

  You’ll distract me. No Max allowed

  **frowns**

  U need 2 learn some new text expressions like **smiles with understanding**

  **frowns**

  See you 2morrow?

  No. Tonight

  After the charity event?

  Now

  .....

  Inspiration hits me. I run over to the doorman and ask him to take my

  picture with my new phone. He poses me by a potted palm and I fan

  out the floor-length silver dress Amanda loaned me. I should have worn

  higher heels but three and a half inches is my limit. I turn sideways so

  Max can see the dress has no back—daring, even for Amanda.

  “You look good enough to eat,” the doorman says, when he returns

  my phone. I wish I could keep him when we move back to our house.

  I check the picture and smile. I don’t look too bad. The dress hugs

  my curves, and with the help of Amanda’s magic curling tongs, I have

  created a hint of a wave in my hair. I am a movie star version of myself.

  Maybe once Max has seen me all dressed up, he’ll forgive me and meet

  me afterward. Or maybe I’m just playing with fire.

  I e-mail the picture to Max and wait.

  I wait and wait. Maybe he isn’t checking his e-mails. Maybe it

  didn’t go through. What if he doesn’t like it? Maybe I’m deluding

  myself about how I look.

  A black BMW pulls up in front of the building. Dr. Drake honks

  twice and then exits the vehicle. He is drop-dead gorgeous in his tux,

  and from the way he is walking, all swagger and rolling hips, he knows

  it. I step out the door and he stops in his tracks. He throws a theatrical

  hand over his heart and falls to his knees.

  A smile ghosts my lips. Okay. He’s mildly amusing, good looking,

  apparently hot in bed, and for some strange reason hot on me. And yet

  all I can think about is Max and why he didn’t e-mail me back.

  Two hours of schmoozing at the Regency and I’m ready to call it a

  night. I have solicited donations from politicians, businessmen, phi-

  lanthropists, and the cream of San Francisco society and all with Dr.

  Drake’s hand plastered to my bare back in a gesture that is at once

  solicitous and overly familiar.

  Dr. Drake is called up to the stage, and I gratefully drop into one

  of the circular, red benches scattered throughout the Lodge Room. The

  Heart 2 Heart fund-raiser is in full swing. I lean back and admire the

  open beam ceilings, dark paneled walls, and stained glass windows. The

  room has the feel of a gothic church. I almost expect someone to sit at

  the huge pipe organ and play a hymn.

  I ease my aching feet out of my shoes and rub them through the

  plush carpet, while Dr. Drake arranges the charity hearts on tables at

  the side of the stage. The creativity of the heart donors is astounding:

  big hearts, little hearts, six-foot tin can hearts, and tiny sequined hearts;

  hearts made of concrete, glass, wood, metal, and paper; painted hearts,

  video hearts, even a photo of a real heart mounted in a silver frame.

  My favorite is a picture of a heart, painted with three red brush strokes,

  and the words “My Heart” penciled in the corner. Likely it was made

  by one of the children in chronic care, but it could also be one of the

  multimillion-dollar hearts donated by famous artists.

  Dr. Drake waves me over. I slip on my shoes and join him at

  the tables along with Charlie, Big Doris, and the assorted other staff

  members he roped into helping tonight.

  When everyone is assembled on the stage, Dr. Drake clears his

  throat. “One by one you will select a heart and walk it down the runway,

  doing everything you can do to heat up the bidding. It’s easier if you

  choose a heart that speaks to you. Make sure everyone can see it. Show

  it at every angle. We will have a screen projection behind you. If you like

  being in the spotlight, this is your chance to shine. Pose, blow kisses,

  dance, sing—do whatever it takes, and remember, sex sells. This is for a

  great cause so give it all you’ve got.”

  “What about you?” I ask. “Will you be parading around the stage

  with a heart in your hand?”

  Dr. Drake’s eyes gleam. “Full of fire tonight, aren’t we?”

  “Heh, heh, heh.” I try to dampen my laugh in case anyone thinks

  we’re together, although after playing sex toy for him this evening, I

  doubt my efforts will have any effect.

  “Don’t fear, beautiful,” he chuckles. “I’ll be on that stage and the

  female patrons will be beating each other back to get what I have to

  offer. Arms raised, Dr. Drake rolls his hips in a circle and then thrusts

  them forward and yells, “Boom! One hundred thousand dollars for

  Doctor Drake’s heart.”

  I inelegantly snort a laugh. The crowd disperses and Dr. Drake

  holds out an arm to help me down the stairs.

  “You liked that, did you?” he murmurs.

  “It was mildly amusing. I dare you to do it on stage.”

  A grin splits his face. “Don’t you know I can’t resist a challenge?”

  His eyes soften. “You are a challenge. We would be good together, and

  you just can’t see it. We share a passion for healing, a sense of humor,

  and a conservative world view—”

  Conservative? Him? With clothespins and hot sauce and medical

  instruments being used as sex toys?

  “And a distaste for violence,” he continues. “What could be

  more perfect?”

  “Max.” The name drops off my lips before I can stop it.

  He cocks his eyebrow. “Your surly friend from the bar? He’s too ag-

  gressive, too controlling for you. I thought I’d have to take him outside

  and teach him how to treat a woman. You need someone who will

  respect you, treat you with kindness, and nurture you.”

  Does tying a woman to a motorcycle and leaving her alone in the

  dark count as nurturing?

  “Like you?”

  He leans forward and brushes his lips over my ear. “Like me.”

  Twenty minutes and three speeches later, the first heart is auctioned

  off for a paltry two thousand dollars. The next one fetches only nine

  thousand, and the one after that only ten.

  “This doesn’t bode well for the rest of the auction,” Dr. Drake

  grumbles. “Last
year the bidding started at twenty-five and went up

  from there.”

  “Doris is up next,” I soothe. “Maybe she’ll get the bidding going.”

  Big Doris selects a twisted metal heart covered in barbs. How ap-

  propriate. She shuffles to the front of the stage and holds it in the air.

  Her Jell-O green suit glows under the stage lights.

  Silence.

  Sucking in her lips, she spins around and then walks up and down

  the runway. Still no bids.

  When her face tightens and her bottom lip trembles, a queasy

  sensation rolls through me. I raise my hand in the air and pray Sergio

  doesn’t ask for even more money. “Five hundred dollars.”

  Dr. Drake looks down at me and smiles. “You have the biggest

  heart of anyone I know, but I can’t let you spend money I know you

  don’t have.” He waves his hand in the air. “One thousand dollars.”

  Big Doris looks over and her eyes widen. She flashes Dr. Drake a

  relieved smile and parades up and down the runway flogging her iron

  heart. With Dr. Drake’s nudge, the bidding picks up and voices fill

  the air.

  Big Doris’ heart sells for three thousand dollars. She leaves the stage

  with a smile on her face. Charlie is up next. Almost unrecognizable in

  an ill-fitting, polyester tux, he works the stage with the grace of a bear

  on a trampoline, and his giant balloon heart is auctioned off for a cool

  twenty-five thousand.

  “Why won’t they go over twenty-five?” Dr. Drake rakes his hand

  through his hair. “We need to spice things up.” He stalks over to the

  tables and scoops up a giant, heart-shaped crystal vase. “Ladies,” he calls

  into the audience. “Not only are you bidding for this priceless item by

  an artist unknown, you are bidding for dinner with me. I am a single,

  unattached, surgeon with an empty heart.” He holds the vase aloft and

  winks at the audience.

  A collective gasp fills the room, as he struts down the runway, his

  hair and teeth glowing like one hundred suns.

  “Fifteen thousand.”

  “Twenty.”

  “Twenty-five.”

  Dr. Drake tucks one hand in his pocket. He prances. He spins.

  He smiles. His sharp black tux and Ken-doll good looks are a winning

  combination. The bids ratchet up at dizzying speed. When they plateau

  at thirty thousand dollars, Dr. Drake puts down his heart and eases

  his jacket off his shoulders. The band bursts into a jazzy rendition of

  Joe Cocker’s, “You Can Leave Your Hat On.” Women scream. A fit

  of giggles overtakes me. Dr. Drake spins his jacket around his finger

  and tosses it into the audience. The jacket hits Penny from Radiology

  square in the face. She hugs it to her head and her muffled shrieks are

  swallowed by the frenzied crowd.

  As the band plays, Dr. Drake loosens his bow tie and unbuttons

  his shirt to his naval. He eases it open. Dear God. He has an amazing

  body—all tight abs and toned muscles. No wonder Amanda let him

  into her inner sanctum. He flexes. His pecs ripple. Penny faints. The

  crowd goes wild. My stomach aches, but I can’t stop laughing.

  “Fifty thousand dollars,” a woman’s voice booms through the

  room. The music squeaks to a halt.

  “Fifty going once,” the auctioneer calls. The audience takes a col-

  lective breath. Heads turn, seeking out the bidder.

  “Going twice.”

  The room stills.

  “Sold to the woman in the lime green suit. Please come to the stage

  to collect your prize, or should I say, prizes?” the auctioneer chortles.

  Dr. Drake poses at the front of the stage holding the heart aloft.

  The audience parts and Dr. Drake’s smile fades when Big Doris

  climbs the stage and wraps her arms around him. Handing out green

  slips must pay better than I thought.

  After Dr. Drake’s performance, the bidding heats up. My painted

  heart on canvas goes for thirty thousand dollars, and a feather boa heart

  brings in a staggering forty-two thousand dollars. Dr. Drake joins me at

  the side of the stage, seemingly recovered from his recent shock, to tell

  me I’m up next.

  “How did she afford you?” I cannot contain my curiosity.

  Dr. Drake grimaces. “Her father is here. Some hotshot banker.

  Wanted to buy his baby girl a present.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “Think you can beat me?” He gives me a wink and hands me a

  vodka shot. “If you want to make the same dinner offer to spice things

  up, I’ll foot the bill.”

  “I’ll see how my heart does without any spice.”

  We clink glasses and I shoot my bolt of liquid courage before taking

  to the stage to survey the remaining hearts. I walk up and down beside

  the table twice but nothing calls to me. I am about to choose something

  at random, when a sparkle catches my eye. I push aside a velvet cushion

  heart and pull out the necklace peeking out from underneath. Wow! A

  huge heart-shaped ruby mounted on a diamond-encrusted heart and

  suspended on a gold and diamond chain. No way is it real. Something

  like that would be worth millions of dollars. I figure it has to be quartz,

  but still…I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. If it hadn’t been hidden,

  I’m sure it would already have been auctioned.

  I wipe my palms down my dress before I take to the runway, holding

  the necklace in my hand. I try to banish all thoughts of Big Doris from

  my head. The necklace is so pretty. Someone has to bid.

  Dangling the pendant from my hand, I turn so the cameras can

  project the image on the screen behind me. Then I smile.

  “Five thousand.”

  Darn. Even I know the necklace is worth more than that. Taking

  a deep breath, I swing the necklace from my finger and saunter down

  the runway.

  “Ten thousand.”

  “Twenty.”

  “Twenty-two.”

  Twenty-two is a long way from fifty, and with Dr. Drake smirking

  in the corner, I need to do something to heat up the bidding. I saunter

  to the auctioneer and tell him to announce that I, too, will offer myself

  as a dinner companion.

  My offer receives cheers and applause, a few whistles, and one catcall.

  I put my hand on my hip, spin around and wiggle walk to the back

  of the stage giving everyone a good view of my backless dress.

  “Thirty thousand.”

  Looking back over my shoulder, I give the audience a wink and

  then spin again and pose with the necklace laid against my chest. A

  smile tugs at my lips. This is kind of fun and in Amanda’s dare-to-bare

  dress, I’m feeling the magic.

  “Forty thousand.”

  “Forty five.”

  “Forty eight.”

  The bids continue to climb. The more I wiggle, the faster they rise.

  By the time they hit sixty, I’m sweating like I’ve spent an hour in the gym.

  “Seventy-five thousand dollars,” Dr. Drake shouts from the floor.

  He looks up at me and winks.

  My face freezes mid-smile. Nononononononono. Seeing him at

  work is one thing, but going on a date with him when he’s made his

  intentions clear is another. And what about Max?
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  “Seventy-five thousand going once,” the auctioneer calls.

  Dear God, please let someone else bid. I’ll be good. I won’t gossip. I

  won’t think mean thoughts about people. I’ll call my parents every day.

  “One hundred thousand,” someone shouts.

  Saved.

  “One-twenty-five,” Dr. Drake counters.

  No. Bad Dr. Drake. Sweat trickles down my back. My heart thuds

  against my chest. No. Please. Not an evening with Kink on a Stick. I

  like my toes unsucked.

  “One-fifty.”

  I roll my hips like a catwalk model, and I walk up and down the

  runway, imagining I don’t have quite as many curves. By the time they

  reach two-fifty, my stomach has twisted itself into such a knot I may

  never eat again. Where does a surgeon get two hundred and fifty thou-

  sand dollars to throw away?

  “One million dollars.” A deep, rich voice cuts through the crowd.

  Gasps from the audience. A sharp inhale of breath from Dr. Drake.

  A small sigh of relief from me.

  “Well, I can’t beat that.” Dr. Drake throws up his hands and shrugs.

  “One million once,” the auctioneer calls. “Twice.” He pauses

  and the crowd holds a collective breath. “Sold for one million dollars.

  Would our generous benefactor please step forward and collect your

  prize? Your contribution will help fund our new neonatal cardiac ward

  and we would all like to show our appreciation.”

  I would like to know who thinks this heart is worth one million dollars.

  Or maybe, I already do.

  A low murmur builds, rolling from the back of the room, gaining

  momentum as the crowd parts. I hold my breath, and a space clears at

  the front of the stage.

  Max.

  He looks up and catches my gaze. My eyes glisten with happy tears.

  My lips part and my grin stretches from ear to ear. He strides toward

  me, breathtaking in his sleek, black tux, thick hair still slightly damp

  and curling at his temples. When he reaches the stage, he closes the

  distance between us, taking the steps two at a time until he is standing

  in front of me.

  He takes the necklace from my outstretched hand. “Mine,” he whispers.

  “Yours. A million times over.”

  He reaches behind me and fastens the chain around my neck. His

  fingers brush lightly over my bare skin and a tiny shiver races down my

  spine. My hand flies to my throat to touch the most expensive piece of