Honey

by Jenna Jameson

  Following Denison’s nod, Marc looked over to the lanky, red-haired attending chatting up Mrs. E. L. Elmhurst, a prominent socialite and professional do-gooder. Too bad Vandeveer hadn’t pursued his true calling: PR. Jared Vandeveer was a malpractice suit in the making. Just the month before, he’d botched a simple percutaneous tracheotomy and the patient had nearly hemorrhaged to death. The next time they—the hospital and whatever ER patient was unfortunate enough to come under his care—might not be so lucky.

  He turned back to Denison. “But he’s—”

  “Tut, tut, when it comes to your attending, hear no evil, speak no evil. Say what you will about Jerry, he’s a hell of a fundraiser. Do you want that expanded trauma unit or not?”

  “Of course I do, sir, but—”

  Denison’s hand descended on his shoulder. “We’re all on the same team, Marc. We just have different roles to play. Now go do your part in pitching us.”

  “But sir, I’m not sure I’m cut out for—”

  “Stop being so goddamned modest. You’re one of my most promising protégés to come along in the last decade. We need you front and center, not hanging back in a corner like some goddamned wallflower waiting for someone to ask you to dance.”

  “Yes, of course, sir.” Marc shifted toward the party in progress and that’s when he saw her—her—Honey Gladwell, breezing in on the arm of her date.

  Jesus fucking …

  Marc might not give a shit about clothes—he didn’t give a shit—but not caring wasn’t the same thing as being an ignoramus. His mother and aunt both had watched “What Not to Wear” religiously for a decade. He’d studied for his boards with Clinton and Stacy tsk-ing in the background. It was inevitable that something had rubbed off, if only by osmosis. The LBD—Little Black Dress—was widely considered to be a female wardrobe staple, but Honey Gladwell wore hers, a strapless floor-length sheath, like she’d invented it. Fitted black evening gloves reached above her elbows, accentuating the opalescent creaminess of her pencil-thin arms. A triple collar of pearls wreathed her slender neck and her hair was swept away from her face and piled high, no doubt to show off the caramel-colored highlights. She looked stunning and expensive and untouchable, though Marc suddenly wanted to touch her, and not in a doctor-patient kind of way.

  But even amidst the rush of blood to his penis, which wasn’t only standing at attention but growing in girth, his brain still managed to work. Gorgeous though she was, something still felt … off. The look she pulled off wasn’t only styled—it was carefully, even meticulously curated. Seeing her here like this, in a social setting rather than a clinical one or, God help him, her wrecked apartment, Marc felt as though several pieces to the jigsaw puzzle of “Who is Honey Gladwell?” fell pre-fitted into his palm. Seeing her styled to near air-brushed quality, the bruises faded without any discernible trace, the arm freed from its cast and sling, all the framed film posters in her apartment made sudden, stunning sense. Audrey Hepburn. The legendary film actress was more than an idol set upon a pedestal and worshipped from afar. Honey was channeling her in a big, big way. Chic short bangs and piled high hair, liquid eyeliner, and that artfully modulated accent that bordered on British—it was all a put-on, an act. Well, maybe not entirely. That reed-slender body, that confident carriage, that pearlescent complexion that seemed almost to shimmer—those traits could be helped along but not outright faked. And though both women had big, brown eyes, Honey’s standout feature was her “upside down” mouth, the top lip extending beyond the bottom. Barring cosmetic surgery, those distinctive lips would always keep her from pulling off clone status. Any plastics guy who so much as considered messing with that mouth deserved to have his license yanked—and his scalpel-hand severed.

  It should take you exactly four seconds to cross from here to that door. I’ll give you two.

  He’d Googled her comeback line. Sure enough, it had turned up on a site of famous film quotes, in this case Breakfast at Tiffany’s starring Audrey Hepburn as Holly Golightly, a young country girl who decamps to New York City, where she reinvents herself as a stylish party-girl pseudo escort. Marc recalled seeing the movie poster hanging in Holly’s apartment.

  Holly Golightly, Honey Gladwell—could it be coincidence that “Honey’s” name was so similar to that of Hepburn’s signature screen character?

  Marc didn’t really believe in coincidence.

  He darted Denison a swift, sideways look but fortunately the senior physician didn’t seem to connect the battered young woman of three weeks ago with the self-possessed stunner who strolled in on the arm of her date dressed as if she’d just come from the Met Ball and carrying herself as though she owned the room and everyone in it.

  His regard veered to the sandy-haired WASP in Brooks Brothers by her side, and he felt his smile slip. “Who’s that?”

  “Andrew Winterthur, senior partner in a private equity firm, Hamptons set, old money, comes from a cadet branch of the Carnegies.”

  Andrew … Drew. The owner of the castoff cufflink and, it seemed, of Honey Gladwell’s hide. Not a hedgie but near enough; otherwise Marc had been right on the (old) money, straight down to the single-malt swilling.

  The dude might have the blood of robber barons coursing through his veins, but Mendel’s Black Box had gotten in at least one good shot. He was short. Maybe not Tom Cruise or Mel Gibson short, maybe not exactly a lawn ornament, but still short. Marc guessed five foot eight, tops, and likely that owed to his shoes having lifts. Despite all the patients Marc had seen since, he could rattle off Ms. Gladwell’s triage vitals as though they were his own. She stood five feet six inches in her bare feet and her current stilettos must jack her up another three inches at least. The result brought her about an inch—or two—taller than her date. For an egomaniac like Andrew—Drew—Winterthur, being surpassed by a woman, especially his woman, even in such an inconsequential physical way, must really rankle.

  Marc’s attention swung back to Honey Gladwell, specifically to the slender stem of her very elegant, very kissable, very snap-able neck. Imagining the well-heeled dirt bag’s milk-white mitts wrapped around it sent a rush of adrenalin shooting through him, raising every primal protective instinct he’d carefully buried to Code Orange. His heart rate ratcheted. His palms dampened. And his cock—God, his cock was so full and thick, so hot and hard, so aching and thrumming he felt like it might defeat his zipper and burst out of his pants at any moment.

  Before he knew it, he heard himself blurt out, “I’ve got this one.”

  Denison’s tanned face registered surprise. “Are you sure? He’s a big fish, and you haven’t gotten your feet wet yet. Maybe Vandeveer would be a better—”

  “I’ve got it.”

  Leaving Denison in his dust, he pushed a path toward Honey and Winterthur, grateful for his unfashionably baggy suit pants with their pleated front—someday he’d remember to take them in for altering—which hopefully hid his boner.

  Reaching them, he pasted on a smile. “Good evening, I’m Marc Sandler, one of the ER doctors here.” He stuck out a hand in Winterthur’s vicinity, mentally replacing it with a fist. Towering over the punk, he’d never been happier about being six foot two.

  Even though his overt focus was on Winterthur, he managed to steal a sideways look at Ms. Gladwell. He wasn’t the only one who needed to work on a better game face. A hotspot of pink appeared on both her cheeks. Her lower lip quivered ever so slightly and her breathing hitched, bringing the tasteful glimpse of creamy cleavage into greater prominence. Was she really so surprised to see him here? Certainly she must have known running into him tonight was a distinct possibility.

  “Whassup doc?” Winterthur finally reached for his hand, enfolding it in a ridiculously crushing grip. Or at least it was probably meant to be crushing. Little dude always trying to measure up—Marc knew the type.

  “I was on duty three weeks ago.” He paused, waiting for rec
ognition, and shame, to dawn.

  It didn’t. Bleary eyes met his. “Expecting a medal?”

  Jesus, what a jerk.

  “Drew!” Honey gasped. Swiveling to Marc, she sent him a pained look of apology.

  Only she wasn’t the one who should apologize. The way she jumped to take responsibility for her boyfriend’s in-your-face rudeness galled Marc, but then again her behavior fit the profile. Like so many women in her situation, she’d probably been browbeaten, not to mention beaten-beaten, into believing everything but the weather was her fault.

  He focused on Winterthur. “A medal, hardly, certainly not for doing my job.” Not even when that job involved patching up women in the wake of their men’s meltdowns.

  For the first time since walking up, he looked Honey Gladwell over, a direct, headlong stare, no subterfuge. The eye was healing nicely, the bruise on the cheekbone beneath cleverly concealed with cosmetics. The classic red lipstick she’d selected must mean her mouth had returned to its normal size; that it really was that lush and wide and wonderfully shaped with a top lip slightly longer than its mate. That sexy mismatched mouth sealed the deal. The prettiness he’d suspected weeks ago wasn’t prettiness at all. It was beauty.

  Marc switched back to the son of a bitch, sizing him up. The clammy handshake, heightened color, and perspiration filming his upper lip all suggested an addict looking for his next fix. Given the frequency with which his focus seesawed between the two service bars, Marc would bet that his drug of choice was alcohol.

  A moment later Winterthur confirmed it. “Jesus, who does Honey here have to fuck to score us some beverages?”

  “Drew!” she said again, this time in a high whisper, her mortified gaze flying to Marc’s and then falling to their feet.

  The asshole chuckled, confirming that his penchant for torturing came with a verbal component as well. After several scotches there was no telling how raunchy—or violent—he might get. Unfortunately sons of bitches like this one had too much savvy to blow up in public. They did their damage behind the scenes where the only witness was too beaten down and scared to talk. Conjuring scenarios for how the evening might end sent ice water shooting through Marc’s veins, the psychological equivalent of throwing ice water on his erection. Crazy as it was, he couldn’t keep from fantasizing about scooping up Ms. Gladwell and carrying her away. She was only a hundred pounds and change. He’d bench pressed that much plenty of times.

  But women like Honey Gladwell didn’t let regular guys like him go all Neanderthal on them. No, you’d better have an expense account in the high six-figures and the right address if you expected to fuck, or fuck up, a woman like her. He thought of his Washington Heights two-bedroom and choked back a bubble of sour laughter. Women like Honey Gladwell might take a walk on the wild side from time to time, they might live on the edge somewhere between perennially and occasionally, but they absolutely did not venture above 96th Street—never, no way. Born and bred in New York, Marc knew the score. Women like Honey Gladwell weren’t looking for white knights.

  They were looking for sugar daddies.

  “Sorry, Honster, but I’m running low on patience. That server I saw earlier must be taking the biggest dump of his life.” He turned back to Marc. “Mind entertaining my friend for a few while I score us some drinks?”

  His friend, not even his girlfriend, but then again he was, technically speaking, married, judging from the hammered gold banding his left ring finger. “It would be my pleasure,” Marc replied, fastening his focus on their mutual “friend.”

  Seemingly satisfied, Winterthur turned back to Honey. “Want anything, babe?”

  She hesitated. “Champagne, please.”

  The server Marc had earlier seen butlering glasses of sparkling wine and chardonnay did indeed seem to have vanished. Snaking lines had formed in front of both service bars. With any luck, Winterthur had a substantial wait ahead.

  He snorted. “I’m guessing this is more of a Cava crowd, but I’ll see what I can scare up.”

  She waited for Drew to move beyond earshot and then leaned in to say, “So, doctor, we meet again.”

  Marc started, belatedly realizing she’d beaten him to breaking the ice. He hadn’t figured her for the initiator, especially considering the circumstances of their first meeting. But that glowering gaze left no doubt that Ms. Honey Gladwell was not about to stand for being compartmentalized into the narrowly circumscribed role of “victim.” That she actually was a victim, both of Winterthur and of her own dubious life choices, suddenly seemed, if not beside the point, certainly tangential to it. Honey Gladwell was a victim—but the stubborn tilt to that chin and the sparks shooting from her brown eyes assured him she was a hell of a lot more.

  “Look, about the other day—”

  “You should know I hate snoops.”

  Jesus, she’d done it again, not just preempted him, but cut him off. What was next? Pull the knife out of the Brie and brandish it to his balls? Shove a discarded champagne cork up his ass? And seriously, snoops? What was up with the vintage vocabulary?

  “I wasn’t … that is, I’m not a snoop. I’m a doctor.” At this rate he wouldn’t be one for much longer. “I was concerned for your well-being. If I gave you the wrong impression or made you feel uncomfortable in any way, I’m sorry.”

  The look she sent him could have frozen water. “I suppose this is the point at which you’re going to ask me not to say anything. Don’t worry, I’m not planning to … so long as you let it go. Understood?”

  It really was true. No good deed went unpunished. He’d tried to save her and because of it she had him by the balls.

  “Okay, deal.”

  He had no choice. She was an adult woman, apparently fucked in the head but technically of sound mind. If she wanted to stay with someone who periodically pulverized her, neither Marc nor anyone else could make her do otherwise. As Denison repeatedly pointed out, he couldn’t save everyone. For now he changed the subject—sort of.

  Jerking his head toward the bar, he said, “So that’s him, huh? Mr. Single Malt?”

  She cast a disparaging downward look at the Stella in his hand. “If you mean my boyfriend, then yes, he is.”

  Marc took another swallow—from the bottle—the warm beer sliding down his suddenly dry throat. What was it about Honey Gladwell that had him feeling as though he was once more that awkward sixteen-year-old trying to strike up the courage to ask one of the popular girls to the junior prom?

  “Finance guy, huh?”

  She lifted her chin, swollen no more but delicate and softly rounded. “Drew manages one of the highest yielding hedge funds in the city.”

  She made the pronouncement with obvious pride. The bastard might have beaten her badly enough to land her in the ER, but it was obvious to Marc that she was still a long way from cutting him loose, if indeed she ever did.

  “Good for him.” He slid his gaze over her, not overly long but long enough. “You look nice, by the way.”

  That was a lie. She didn’t look nice. She looked amazing.

  The compliment won him a small smile and a flash of dark, doe-like eyes. “Thank you, by the way.”

  “Your arm should still be in the soft cast, though. You shouldn’t stop wearing it until you’re fully healed.”

  “I do wear it, just not … tonight.”

  “Doesn’t really go with the dress, I guess.”

  She sent him a fleeting smile. “No, it doesn’t.”

  “Hey, you wouldn’t want to grab a cup of coffee sometime, or maybe a cappuccino? You look like more of a cappuccino drinker.” Whoa, where had that come from? So much for playing things safe.

  “Tea, actually.”

  “Okay, tea then. What do you say?”

  She sent him a suspicious look. Dropping her voice, she said, “If you think you can persuade me to file some sort of … repo
rt, you’re—”

  “Barking up the wrong tree, sure, got it. Let’s just say I don’t feel like we ever got to finish our conversation the other day.” Given how skittish she was, the soft sell was definitely the way to proceed.

  “Oh, I assure you, Dr. Sandler, I finished.”

  He thought again to her snappy comeback and found himself fighting a smile. “Okay, in that case, let’s start a new topic thread: art, music, film—your pick.”

  “Do you really expect me to believe you want to go out to just … talk?”

  “It’s coffee—okay, tea—not a marriage proposal, and why not? You’d be doing me a favor. Other than blood relatives, everybody I know works in some capacity in this hospital. You’d be helping to broaden my horizons.”

  She cast a quick glance across the room to Winterthur, thankfully still stuck in line. “Does it somehow escape you that I have a boyfriend?”

  “A boyfriend with a wedding ring and an itchy backhand—yep, I totally see where you’re coming from. You wouldn’t want to let a gem like him get away.”

  “If you’re going to simply insult me—”

  “I’m not insulting anybody. Okay, well maybe the sadistic cheater you’re seeing, but otherwise we’re good. So what do you say to coffee—oops, I mean tea? Think of it as striking a blow for independence. If he asks who you’re meeting, you can say I’m your very good friend, Marcie.”

  Dark brows drew upward. “Marcie?”

  “What, I don’t strike you as a Marcie? C’mon, you’re hurting me, girl.”

  Her full mouth twitched. “A Marguerite, maybe, but you’re definitely no Marcie.”

  “Marguerite, I can live with it. So it’s settled. You and Marguerite are meeting up for your weekly tea talk … say, tomorrow at two?”

  She hesitated. Considering the circumstances, anything other than an outright refusal had to be a positive sign.

  “The Starbucks on Park is pretty close to you.”

  What looked a lot like fear flared across her face. “Not there.”