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

by Adams, Claire

  “It’s an expression. Anyway, I told my girlfriend that I wouldn’t be gone long.”

  “Oh, so you’ve got a girlfriend,” I tease. “Isn’t it funny that you never mentioned that before?”

  “Grace,” he says, putting his hands together like he’s about to tell me that he ran over the dog that I don’t have, “one of the common symptoms of oligodendroglioma is personality change. I think it might be time for us to revisit your treatment protocol.”

  “Oh relax,” I tell him. “I’ve been this kind of charming for as long as I can remember. If that’s not enough for you, I have an office full of people that’ll tell you that I’m no different than I ever was.”

  “Have you had any other symptoms?”

  “Like what?” I return.

  “Anything out of the ordinary,” he says. “Blurry vision, difficulty speaking or writing, headaches-”

  “This conversation is giving me a headache,” I tell him. “Does that count?”

  “I’m worried about you,”

  “Well aren’t you sweet? You know what you can do to help me?”

  “What’s that?”

  “You can take me somewhere nice and graciously step aside if I start flinging the fuck-me eyes at someone else,” I tell him. “If it’ll make you feel better about going out with a patient as her date-for-hire, I’ll even let you pay for the drinks.”

  At least, he’s smiling now.

  It takes a bit more convincing, but finally, I get him out of my apartment and into a cab.

  I ask the driver where I might find a bar where I can make attractive men jealous with my date. She doesn’t give me a clear answer, but we’re driving now, so I can only assume she knows just the place.

  Once we’re out of the cab, the driver is paid and we’re in the bar, however, it becomes painfully clear that I should have specified that I wasn’t looking for a dive.

  Oh well, if anyone tries to get fresh without my permission, I’ve got my own personal sex worker to jump in and save the day.

  “You never answered my question,” I tell him.

  “What question’s that?” he asks.

  “Why did you become a doctor?”

  “Well,” he says, “my dad was a doctor, my grandfather was a doctor. To be perfectly honest with you, though, I don’t know that that had as much to do with it as you might think.”

  “What did? I mean, what convinced you to rebel by doing the same thing that generations of non-British Churchills have done before you?”

  “It was my mother,” he explains. “She was sick a lot when I was growing up, and I was always the one that ended up taking care of her while my dad was out with a revolving cast of nurses.”

  I sip my orange juice. “I’m sorry,” I tell him.

  “It is what it is,” he says. “You know, I don’t even know that it was necessarily that. I mean, it was, but I think it was more that I wanted to prove, if only to myself, that a person could be a doctor without being a lowlife.”

  “And here you are selling yourself for money,” I giggle.

  “How many times do I have to tell you-”

  “Oh, come on,” I interrupt. “You may not swing your thing for cash, but from what I hear, you’re in the minority.”

  “I don’t think that’s true,” he says. “Sure, I’ve heard the same stories that you have, but I think there are plenty of people like me who just enjoy going out and making a little money in the process.”

  “What does the old ball and chain have to say about it?” I ask. “Or does she not know?”

  “She knows,” he says. “It was her idea.”

  “Oh,” I say wincing, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Why?”

  “Excuse me,” a burly man with a handlebar mustache and a yellow bandana on his head says, tapping me on the shoulder.

  “Yes?” I ask.

  “I was wondering if I could buy you a drink,” the man says.

  I look at my reluctant date and smile.

  “You can,” I tell him, “but I’ve got to warn you. My friend here can get pretty jealous.”

  The man looks Jace up and down and, cracking his knuckles, the man scoffs and says, “I’m really not that worried about it.”

  “Do you hear that?” I ask. “He says he’s not worried about it.”

  “What are you doing?” Jace asks, rightfully irritated.

  I turn back to the man and say, “I appreciate the offer, but I think I should pass.”

  “He’s not giving you any trouble, is he?” the man asks, referring to Jace.

  Ah, the male quest for dominance. If they had any perspicacity, they would have figured out a long time ago that no matter what they do, women are always going to be the ones running the show.

  “I think I’ll be fine,” I tell the man. “Thank you again for the offer, though.”

  “Yeah,” the man says, giving a death stare to Jace. “You have a good night.”

  The man walks away and I’m not sure if the look in Jace’s eyes is relief or just more irritation.

  “You seem to enjoy messing with people,” he says.

  “It’s a hobby of mine,” I agree. “So, doc, where were we?”

  “You were saying sorry for the fact that my girlfriend is the one that-”

  “Oh,” I laugh, “right. Yeah, that’s got to be hard for you.”

  “What’s that?” he asks. “I think it’s a testament to her trust in me that she’d be-”

  “She’s got someone on the side. Do you really think anyone would be so willing to have you go out on dates with an endless string of at least occasionally attractive women that they’d actually tell a good-looking doctor like yourself to take up whoring?”

  “I’m not a-”

  “Whatever,” I tell him. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news here, but that chicky poo of yours, she’s looking to ease her own guilt by telling herself that whatever you’re doing when you go out on these dates has to be worse than anything she’s doing.”

  “It’s not like that,” he protests.

  “All right,” I smile. “Just don’t be pissed at me if you go home one night to find some other guy playing ‘just the tip’ with your old lady.”

  The expression on his face is much clearer now. He’s pissed.

  “You know,” he says, “I shouldn’t have come here tonight. I think you’re lashing out because you’re scared or upset, and I really don’t think that we should be doing this.”

  “Oh, come on,” I tell him. “You can’t tell me you didn’t think it was a little strange that she just comes up to you one day and tells you that escorting really gets a bad rap and you should check it out as a fallback position in case the whole oncology thing doesn’t work out.”

  He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. He drops a twenty on the bar and says, “Good night.”

  “Hold on,” I tell him, grabbing his arm.

  “What?” he asks impatiently.

  “I didn’t bring any money,” I tell him. “Would you mind spotting me cab fare?”

  He shakes his head and walks out of the bar, leaving me to figure out how to get home. Luckily, I think I know just the guy and he’s already making his way back over to my stool.

  “You all right?” the man with the ridiculous facial hair asks.

  “I’m fine,” I tell him, “but I’m wondering if I could impose upon you.”

  “You what?”

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I was wondering if I could ask a favor of you.”

  “Sure,” he says. “What do you need?”

  I smile.

  Before long, we’re back at my apartment and I’m trying to figure out whether I want to offer the man a drink or whether I’m in the mood to offer him something else.

  “You know,” I tell him, “I’m in a bit of a conundrum.”

  “What’s that?” he asks.

  Luckily, I’ve always been pretty good at thinking on my feet.


  “Well,” I start, “I’ve got another favor to ask, and I’m not sure how you’re going to feel about it.”

  “I brought you home, didn’t I?” he asks, having gotten the exact wrong impression of what I’m about to ask him.

  “I’m wondering if you might be willing to help me wash something,” I tell him and coyly run my fingers through not-my-real-hair.

  He licks his lips and says, “I bet I could help you out with that.”

  “Great,” I tell him and give my wig a tug, handing it to him.

  Now, all I can do is hope that the guy doesn’t have a fetish for bald chicks. If that’s the case, I might just have to let him throw me a bone. After all, he would be breaking a whole lot of stereotypes and I think that kind of chivalry is worth rewarding, even if he looks like a barrel-chested Doc Holliday.

  Fortunately, his eyes having become nearer to perfect circles than one would think possible, I think I’ve made the right move.

  “You know,” he says, “I should really get back to the bar. My buddies are waiting for me, and I’m supposed to be the designated driver.”

  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.