Costars (A Standalone Romance Novel) (New York City Bad Boy Romance)

by Adams, Claire

  Ah, the rules. I couldn’t forget them.

  Where I’m going, what I’m doing tonight…it wasn’t my idea and it took Melissa a while to open me up to it as a possibility.

  You hear things all the time about people who do what I do for my second job and none of them were things that I saw as being compatible with my station as a doctor or as a man in a committed relationship.

  Unfortunately, with the way the interest is accruing on those student loans, I had to find something to fill in the gaps.

  “A bit heavy on the cologne, don’t you think?” Melissa asks. The fact that she’s asking from the other room is enough for me to wash my wrists and my neck until I can barely smell the stuff.

  I dry myself and button my shirt back up before I take one more look in the mirror.

  Sure, Melissa may have talked me into doing this initially, but the fact remains that I’ve come to love what I do. If nothing else, it’s a great way to disconnect from my day job.

  I walk out into the living room, but I don’t bother asking Melissa how I look. I just give her a kiss on the forehead and tell her that I’ll be back before too long.

  I’m an escort and I’m on my way to pick up my date.

  I know what you’re thinking, but I’ve never had sex for money. That’s not what I do; I’m simply good arm candy for single women who don’t want to go out alone.

  I don’t kiss and physical contact even on the level of holding hands or putting my arm around my client is a rarity. That’s not to say that I’ve never been propositioned by a client, but I’m content in my relationship.

  All right, maybe it’s been a while since I’ve been able to say that I’ve been “happy” in my relationship with Melissa, but I haven’t felt the need yet to risk everything—and I do mean everything—by sleeping with a client.

  Melissa is a beautiful woman and, what’s more, she’s intelligent. Even if she didn’t have the long, flowing blonde hair, the big blue eyes, the large—if fake—breasts, and the tight butt, I still would have fallen in love with her mind.

  The rest is just a perk: a very, very nice perk.

  She purses her lips as she looks down at her crossword, completely ignoring my lingering presence.

  This is how it goes before I head out for a job.

  The service sometimes springs for a town car, but it looks like I’m stuck in a cab tonight.

  I don’t have fancy tastes or anything like that; the problem is that the kind of transportation arranged is indicative of a client’s pocketbook. Town cars are generally somewhere in the middle of the road. Limousines, while one might think they’d only be requested by a wealthy client, are generally reserved for recently-eighteen-year-old girls looking for someone to take them to prom, and those ones never pay very well.

  The best of all possible worlds is when a client asks that I show up driving some exotic sports car, although I’ve only ever gotten that particular call a couple of times in the year that I’ve been doing this. Those are the clients with the deep pockets.

  Getting a call to pick someone up in a cab…I’m not expecting a big tip at the end of the night.

  I head downstairs and wait for my cab.

  The rules for tonight, just like any other night on the job, are simple.

  First, never am I to give any kind of physical contact other than incidental touching of the hands. Putting my arm around someone or allowing them to put their arm around me is extra, and that’s as far as it can ever go.

  Second, Melissa insists that I don’t have more than two cocktails on any given night while out on the job. I don’t know if she thinks people want to get me drunk to see what happens or what, but I’ve never been in a situation with body shots or beer bongs.

  Not since college, anyway.

  Third, if we have plans and I get a call, I don’t take the job. This one has never really been an issue, though, as we never seem to have plans anymore.

  Finally, at the end of the night, it’s my sworn duty not to tell her anything about what happened on the date — and I mean absolutely nothing.

  She doesn’t want to hear where we went or who I was with, she doesn’t want to know if things went well or went poorly. Despite this whole thing being her idea, she’s a little squeamish with the reality of it.

  I tried to tell her once a while back that the most anyone’s ever asked me to do is to escort them by the arm — that was a prom thing — but that itself was too much information for her.

  To be honest, I don’t know why Melissa suggested that I do this if she feels the way she does about it, but the extra money it’s bringing in has been enough to keep me going out when I get the call.

  The cab pulls up and the driver calls my last name out the window.

  “Yeah,” I answer and get in the back.

  I pull out the card on which I wrote the address and read it off to the driver.

  He starts the meter and we’re on our way.

  Tonight is supposed to be a low-key event. What Jenny, my agency contact — that’s not really her title, I just like referring to her like that — told me about the evening was that a young woman needed someone to escort her to “some minor charity event, or an opera performance or something.”

  Jenny’s not that great with details.

  When we pull up to the building, I’m a bit surprised that my client asked that I show up in a cab. I’ve never been inside, but I’ve lived in the city long enough to know this place is on the upper end of things.

  I get out and ask the driver to wait.

  He answers with the obligatory, “Whatever,” and I make my way to the door.

  The doorman stops me and asks where I’m going.

  I pull the card back out of my pocket and read off the name. “I’m here to pick up a Miss Miller,” I answer and he directs me to the elevator.

  “You’ll find her on floor fifteen, apartment 105,” the doorman says as I’m walking away.

  I wonder if my client’s just slumming it with the cab. It’s happened before, but if that’s the case, I really should have dressed down a little.

  Jenny really needs to get better with specifics.

  I get up to the apartment and pop a mint in my mouth before I knock on the door.

  “Just a minute!” the muffled voice from inside the apartment calls back.

  And so I wait.

  I wait for about five minutes before the door opens, but as soon as it has, I’m wishing I was somewhere else.

  The woman standing in front of me is a few inches shorter than me, probably 5’7” or 5’8”, with long, red hair in a loose up-do, emerald eyes, and pouty lips. She’s in a chic, but understated and tight-fitting black dress, just revealing enough to titillate the senses without being risqué, but none of that bothers me.

  What bothers me is that she’s been a patient of mine for a few weeks now.

  “Dr. Churchill?”

  “Grace?” I respond.

  “Oh, this is just great,” she says and throws her arms up before turning and retreating back into the apartment.

  I’m just standing in the doorway, not sure whether I should follow her in or make a mad dash for the elevator.

  “You may as well come in,” she says, so I do.

  The apartment is spacious and well appointed. Her chart says that she’s twenty-four.

  “So, what’s up?” she asks.

  “I’m sorry?” I ask.

  “I’ve got a date coming,” she says. “If you found an aneurism or something, would you mind just letting me know and getting out of here? I haven’t been out once since my last round of chemo, and I was really looking forward to trying out this wig. It looks real, doesn’t it? Here, feel,” she says and turns her head.

  I reach out and awkwardly feel her new hair, saying, “You know, I honestly wouldn’t have even known that it wasn’t yours.”

  “You’re just saying that,” she says. “My hair wasn’t this long when you were treating me, and I’m not a redhe
ad.”

  “Well, people do dye their hair,” I start.

  “Yeah, but their hair doesn’t usually grow six inches in a couple of weeks,” she says. “So, hurry up. Am I dying, or did you screw up the diagnosis and I actually just had some bad sushi, or what?”

  “It would have to be pretty bad sushi to cause a seizure,” I laugh, but my attempt at humor isn’t appreciated.

  “So, I’m dying,” she says. “That’s all right. I kind of figured that out when you started talking about ten-year survival rates. Well, thanks for stopping by to tell me, but unless there’s a solid chance I’m going to keel over at dinner, I think it’s probably for the best that you go.”

  So, the good news is that she doesn’t realize that I’m her escort, but I’m in a bit of a dilemma here. I can either come up with some fake medical information to give her and then quickly show myself out, or I can be honest about why I’m here.

  For the sake of my job—the day job, that is—it’s probably for the best that I try to find a third option, but I’ve got nothing.

  “Why don’t I wait with you?” I ask.

  “I don’t think so,” she says. “He shouldn’t be long, and I’d really rather not have him walking in here to find my oncologist. Although,” she continues, “you are quite the looker, and a doctor, no less. Maybe you waiting here with me is just the kind of thing I could use to make my guy jealous. Yeah,” she decides finally, “have a seat.”

  I chuckle and sit down. The laugh isn’t so much because I’m confused as it is that I’m trying to hide the fact that I’m a little scared of what’s going to happen here.

  The longer I stay, the more likely it’s going to be that she figures out what’s going on. At the same time, though, I’m not doing anything illegal and I really don’t have any other way to explain my presence here.

  “What time is he supposed to pick you up?” I ask, buying myself a little more time to think.

  “Any minute now,” she answers. “So, why are you here?”

  I guess I didn’t really buy myself that much time at all.

  “I was just in the neighborhood,” I tell her. “I thought I’d stop by and see how you’re doing.”

  “I’m fine,” she says, but stops. “How do you know where I live? I get that you’ve got that information at the hospital or whatever, but it’s kind of weird that you’d remember it.”

  “I didn’t,” I tell her. “I wrote it down.”

  With that, I hand her the appointment card Jenny gave me when I went in for my paycheck this afternoon.

  “Your name is Jace,” she says. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Notice anything else?” I ask, hoping it’ll click for her that the name of the escort the service set her up with is on the front of the card, but she just shrugs and hands the card back.

  “Nope,” she says. “You’re not just here to check up on me, though.”

  “No,” I tell her, “I’m not.”

  “Why, then? I didn’t think doctors here made house calls.”

  “I don’t. I mean, I have, but it’s usually a special situation.”

  “Seriously,” she says, “why are you here? You’re starting to freak me out.”

  I hand the card back to her and ask her again if she notices anything unusual about it.

  “That’s my name and address on the back,” she says. “Your name is on the front. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be looking at.”

  I’m getting cold feet about telling her, but I’ve stayed too long to simply duck out.

  “I’m your date,” I tell her.

  She looks up at me and then back at the card.

  “Marquis Escorts,” she reads. “You’re a hooker?”

  I have to laugh. “No,” I answer. “I’m an escort. Sex isn’t part of the business.”

  “That’s not what I heard,” Grace says, looking down at the card. “Well, do you want a drink or something?”

  She actually seems genuinely unaffected by me, her doctor—her oncologist, no less—revealing that I’m her hire-a-date for the evening.

  “I should probably go,” I tell her.

  “Why?” she asks. “It’s not like there’s going to be any slap-and-tickle going on and, I don’t know if you know this, but they had me pay in advance.”

  “I’m sure we could find someone else to stand in for me,” I tell her. “Being your doctor, I don’t really think it’s appropriate to-”

  “To what?” she asks. “Sell yourself for money to a patient?”

  “I don’t sell myself for money,” I explain. “I sell portions of my time and my presence for money.”

  “Wow, that’s got to be the most conceited way you could have put that,” she responds. “Are you sure I can’t get you a drink?”

  “That’s all right,” I tell her.

  “So, what got you into prostitution? Is it the whole anatomy thing?”

  “First off, I’m not a prostitute. Second, what do you mean ‘anatomy thing?’”

  “Well,” she says, “I would imagine that you see a remarkably high amount of disgusting things in your work. It would make sense for you to want to remind yourself that the human body isn’t all tumors and cancer.”

  “Where did you want to go tonight?” I ask, trying to change the subject, as she doesn’t seem too inclined to let me bow out of this gracefully.

  “I was going to have you take me out to an upscale bar around Tribeca, but I really don’t think it’d be such a good thing for us to be seen out in public together,” she answers. “It’d be fine for me, but isn’t this the sort of thing that doctors lose their licenses over?”

  “I don’t know that I’d lose my license,” I tell her, “but yeah, it probably wouldn’t be great for my career if we get recognized out on the town doing whiskey shots.”

  “Whiskey?” she asks. “You’re a sick, sick man. I’m making you a vodka tonic.”

  With that, she’s out of her seat and in her kitchen.

  So, what do I do now?

  I’ve always worried that I’d run into someone I know from work while out with a woman who’s not Melissa. It never crossed my mind, though, that I’d knock on a door and a patient would be on the other side of it.

  While being seen with another woman might not be the best thing to happen to me, being seen with a patient in a social context, especially one wearing a slinky dress topped with a necklace whose ruby pendant falls right at the top of her-

  “Here’s your drink,” Grace says.

  “Aren’t you going to have anything?” I ask.

  “I don’t drink,” she says. “I’ve heard it can kill brain cells and, from what I can tell, I need as many healthy ones as I can get.”

  “How are you doing with your treatment, by the way? I know we’re scheduled for a checkup-”

  “Oh,” she interrupts, “I’d really rather not talk about that right now.”

  “What would you like to talk about?”

  “I don’t know,” she says, “anything that takes my mind off the fact that I hired my oncologist to take me out on a night on the town, thus calling into question not only his credentials, but the fact that even when I try to pay for a date, I just end up with someone I’d have trouble seeing myself spending the night with.”

  “Well, as your doctor,” I start. I’m not surprised when she interrupts.

  “Oh, I know the ethical concerns,” she says. “Still, here you are. So, what are we to do with an evening that has so clearly gotten off on the wrong foot?”

  “I was hoping you might have an answer to that question,” I tell her.

  “Well,” she says, “since you’re here already, I did have one treatment question for you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “How long after a round of chemo do I have to wait before I can have sex?” she asks, and I take a long drink of my vodka tonic.

  “In a case like yours,” I answer, trying to put on the doctor hat and ignore how brazenly uncomfort
able this situation is, “while I would recommend waiting until after a round is over, there shouldn’t be too much to worry about, so long as you’re feeling up to it.”

  “So, if someone were to — how do I put this — stick his thing in me, it wouldn’t immediately fall off or anything?” she asks.

  I chuckle nervously. “No,” I tell her. “The main concerns that one might have depends a lot on how the chemo is administered, what the dosage is, and whether or not you practice safe sex, specifically with a condom. I would recommend waiting at least a couple of days just to be on the safe side, but — I’m sorry, why are you laughing?”

  She smiles. “I guess I’m just amused at the way this night has turned out. I had hoped the topic of sex would come up under a very different context, but it’s good to have the information all the same.”

  “You do know that most credible escort services prohibit their employees from having sex with clients, right?” I ask.

  “I guess I was just hoping yours was a less-than-credible service,” she says. “How’s your drink?”

  “It’s fine, thank you,” I answer. “You do know that nothing can happen between-”

  “Shh…” she interrupts. “I know that you’re my doctor and I know where that line is, although I must say you do look rather handsome in your suit. You do clean up very well.”

  “Thanks?”

  “You’re welcome,” she says. “So, how long have you been a gigolo?”

  “You know, I’ve never really been fond of that term,” I answer. “It doesn’t paint a pretty picture.”

  “I was going to use the phrase man whore, but you did make it pretty clear that you’re not a prostitute.”

  She’s toying with me and who could blame her?

  In a sense, to her, I’m representative of the oligodendroglioma in her brain. Her reaction toward me right now, if I had to guess, is her way of trying to regain some sense of control over her situation.

  I’m fine taking the hit.

  Speaking of taking hits…

  “You don’t mind if I light up, do you?” she asks, retrieving a small, square box from under her coffee table. “After all, you did prescribe it to me.”

  “I probably shouldn’t be in the room if you do,” I tell her. “Contact high and all that.”