“Dr. Marcum, I can assure you-”
“You were halfway to telling a deaf stranger sitting across the table from you what you and Churchill have been planning,” the man says, and I’m really starting to feel like a British secret agent, circa 1941.
“I thought he was you,” I tell him.
“Yes, but you didn’t confirm that, did you?” he asks. “I assume Churchill gave you my general description, did he not?”
“He did not,” I answer. “What does that-”
“The man at the table is a friend of mine,” Dr. Marcum says. “He was put there to see if you’d bother trying to verify that you were talking to the right person or not and how much information you would be willing to let slip in a crowded place. Needless to say, you didn’t inspire much confidence, my dear.”
“I’m not your dear,” I tell him. “And, I really don’t appreciate the spy games or whatever this is that you’re doing.”
Dr. Marcum laughs. “Oh, I think you’ll find that with certain things, it’s best to know exactly what you’re doing,” he says.
“What does that even mean?”
He stops walking and, in a hushed voice, he says, “Look, you don’t know what these people are like. They’re all about power,” he says. “That’s what gets them up in the morning and that’s what lulls them to sleep at night. They dream about it, they fantasize about it. Power is everything to them.”
“Who exactly are ‘them?’”
“Administrators,” he says in his quietened tone. “Administrators and doctors involved in clinical trials. Did you know that less than a quarter of drugs that are tested in clinical trials are actually safe to introduce into the human body?”
“No,” I answer. “Is that true?”
“No,” he says. “With a few exceptions, there’s usually pretty good evidence to suggest that a drug is at least some degree of safe before they’ll start testing it out on people.”
“Then why did you-”
He grabs my arms, giving me a slight shake in the process. “Don’t you get it?” he asks. “We’re talking about getting you into a trial where you don’t belong. You don’t have the history of the illness required and Churchill says he’s not sure yet whether chemotherapy is going to be effective for you. What you’re proposing — what you’re both proposing is hitting these people where they make their money, and you know what they say about money…”
“Money is power?”
“No,” Dr. Marcum says. “Knowledge is power. You young people really need to learn your platitudes.”
“Dr. Marcum, I’m not sure where you’re going with — well, any of this,” I tell him, “but if you’re having second thoughts about-”
“No,” Marcum interrupts, releasing my arms and turning to face the river. “I’ll do it,” he says, looking out over the horizon. “I feel it is my duty to help those whom I’ve taught help people.”
“Dr. Marcum?”
“Yes?”
“Are you all right?”
“Here’s what I need you to do,” he says. He turns to look at me, but he doesn’t finish the thought.
“What do you need me to do?” I ask.
“That’s exactly the kind of question you should be asking,” he says.
Okay, I think I can safely say this guy’s a few kernels short of a cob.
“What I need you to do,” he says, “is I need you to give me your scans — they have the altered dates, do they not?”
“They do,” I tell him. “They’re back in my car.”
“Not now,” the doctor says. “You can’t be too careful.”
“All right,” I say, wondering if this guy is actually a doctor or just another plant like the guy at the table.
“Okay,” he says, “let’s go.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I really don’t think that you’re the kind of person I want to have involved in something like this. I appreciate your time, but it’s just not going to work out.”
I start walking away, but before I’ve made it ten feet, behind me I hear the doctor giving the slow clap.
I turn around and he’s standing there with a smile on his face.
“Very good,” he says.
“You’re out of your mind,” I tell him.
“No,” he objects. “I was just having some fun with you. Churchill told me that you were expecting some big subterfuge, and I thought I’d make it happen.”
“You can’t be serious,” I say, searching his face for any sign that this is just another ruse.
“In all seriousness, if you just get me the scans, I think we’re good to go.”
“Who was the man at the table?”
“I just paid a guy in the restaurant twenty bucks to sit at your table and ignore everything you said,” he answers. “I thought it was a nice touch, don’t you?”
“This whole thing was seriously just an act? You’re an ass,” I tell the doctor, but I’m laughing all the same.
“Churchill told me that he gave you both the films and a flash drive with the digital files. Is that correct?”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “He also said that you and I should get to know each other a little bit so if anyone asked one of us about the other, we wouldn’t-”
“Sounds like Churchill’s the one who’s getting paranoid,” Dr. Marcum says. “Do me a favor and tell me how much you know about the doctors you’ve met throughout your life — Dr. Churchill notwithstanding, of course.”
I think for a minute.
“Not that much,” I tell him. “The conversation’s never really been that personal.”
“Exactly,” he says. “The only one in a doctor patient relationship that has any substantial knowledge about the other in any given situation is the doctor, and the information he has is almost exclusively regarding the patient’s symptoms or their diagnosis. Churchill gave me his notes on your file and, once I get those scans, I’ll have just about all I need to know.”
“If this is just a big waste of time, why’d you come?” I ask.
“I needed the scans,” he says. “I’m sure I could have gotten them from Churchill, but I did think it would be in both of our interests to be able to describe one another should such an unlikely question arise during your clinical trial.”
This whole morning has been one big mindfuck of wasted time.
“Is there anything else, then?” I ask.
“Not really. I do want to tell you to just not give too much information. Only answer the question they ask you, don’t elaborate unless you need to and stick to your story. I really don’t think I’m ever going to be contacted, but in case I am, Churchill gave me a rundown of your faked history, so there shouldn’t be any problem.”
“All right,” I say and we start walking back toward the parking lot.
“Do me a favor and try to make sure Jace doesn’t lose perspective on what he’s doing,” Dr. Marcum says.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s always had a soft spot for people he finds interesting, probably because they’re so few and far between. Whatever it is about you, he thinks of you that way,” he says. “Unless he’s changed drastically since I knew him in college, he will be willing to throw away his livelihood just to make sure you get your chance at a better prognosis.”
“Isn’t that what he’s already doing?”
“In a way,” Dr. Marcum agrees, following me through the parking lot toward my car. “But if it comes down to a choice between you leaving the trial early and him losing his license, he’s more than likely going to choose the latter. He’s a gifted doctor,” Dr. Marcum says. “It would be a shame to see something like that happen to him.”
“Do you think that’s really going to happen?” I ask.
“I don’t know, but Jace has always loved being the hero to his friends, and especially the women in his life.”
We get to my car and I pop the trunk.
“You know,�
� I tell the doctor, “it did seem a little weird that he had me put everything in a black briefcase, but given the fact that the two of you wanted to pull your little spy crap on me, it makes a little more sense now.”
I pull the briefcase out of the trunk and hand it to the doctor.
“All right,” he says. “It’s been nice meeting you.”
“Dr. Marcum?” I ask.
“Yes?”
“What’s the worst that could really happen to Jace and me if someone finds out what’s going on?”
“I think you already know what your friend is looking at,” he says. “I suspect the question you’re really trying to ask is what could happen to you if you go through with this.”
“I guess,” I say. “Jace and I never really went over that.”
“I’d say worst case scenario, they’d kick you out of the trial and disregard any of your results as you don’t fit the trial criteria,” he says. “You’re really not the one taking the big risk here.”
I don’t know if he meant for that to sting, but it does.
“Okay,” I say. “Thank you for helping us.”
“It’s always nice to have someone owe you a favor,” Dr. Marcum says. “I only wish I could have gotten a video of your reaction when you thought I was a paranoid loon. Really, it was quite spectacular.”
“Well, thanks again,” I tell the doctor and give him a smile.
“Before you go,” Dr. Marcum says, “could I ask one thing of you?”
“What’s that?”
“Never mind,” he says and starts walking away. “It’s really none of my business.”
“What?” I ask.
He stops and turns back to face me. “Remember what I said about his soft spot. Churchill’s always been an idealist, and that extends to the people in his life — the ones he finds interesting, anyway. People like you, that is. He’s not an easy one to really know, but once he lets you in, he has a tendency to leave himself open to all kinds of disappointment.”
“I don’t know what you’re asking of me.”
“Just do me a favor and don’t lead him on,” he says. “If you don’t feel about him the way he feels about you, don’t pretend like you do. I’ve seen the poor young man hurt more by the people he admires than by anything else. If it weren’t for his idealism, I’d dare say he’d be bulletproof.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I tell the doctor. “Thanks again for all your help.”
“Really,” he says, “it’s nothing. Just uploading a few things here and slipping a file with some notes and scans there and my part in this is over. Just remember, don’t let them know what you’re doing or all will be lost!”
“Oh, will you get out of here?” I smirk.
“I just wanted to get one more of those in,” he says and then he just walks away.
Well, that was easy enough, kind of.
I don’t know what Dr. Marcum thinks my motivations are with Jace or what Jace might have told him about me outside of my oligodendroglioma, but I’m getting the feeling that something might actually happen here.
The question is, am I ready for it?
* * *
Jace asked me to meet him after I was done with Dr. Marcum, but I think I’ll let him sweat for a while. After all, he was apparently the brains behind the whole con at the restaurant.
In my mind, I’m trying to convince myself that even if Jace and I were to start something, it’s not like we’re in a serious relationship or anything.
The problem is, despite the fact that we’ve only shared one interrupted kiss, with the time we’ve been spending together and especially with his willingness to put his career on the line to give me a shot at a better prognosis, if things do start happening, we’re kind of going straight from zero to seventy-five miles per hour right out of the gate.
I may have mixed a couple of metaphors there.
Anyway, I’m not sure if I’m ready for that kind of commitment.
Shit. And I was directly involved in helping him leave his girlfriend.
Okay, maybe Dr. Marcum had a point. Still, it’s early and nothing has really happened yet. Maybe we can find a way to compartmentalize the other stuff and if things take a romantic turn, then we can just see how it goes from there.
I finally give Jace a call and let him know that I’m done with his mentor and ask him where he’d like to meet. He says he can be to my apartment in twenty minutes, so that’s the plan.
Okay, I’m in my head about this and that’s never a good thing for me. I tend to overthink things to the point that I lose any ability I may otherwise have had to find the best course of action.
Maybe this isn’t such a bad thing. I have spent a fair share of my masturbatory time fantasizing about what it would be like to have someone to wake up next to in the morning.
With that said, it’s been a while since I’ve been in a serious relationship, and I’m not sure that I’d know what to do with one if it fell in my lap.
I get back to my apartment before Jace arrives, and I decide to just sit back and think things through before he gets here.
I’m just sitting down when the knock falls on my door. “Fucking hell,” I say under my breath.
I open the door and Jace walks in, saying, “I hear you had quite the morning.”
“Yeah,” I answer. “I hear you had something to do with that.”
“I suppose I did,” he says. “Well, I know how much you were looking forward to some deep throat action-”
“Excuse me?” I interrupt.
“Deep throat,” he says. “You know, Mark Felt, the Watergate scandal.”
“Oh,” I laugh.
It’s apparent when it dawns on him what I was thinking, but he doesn’t say anything about it.
“So, how’d it go?” he asks. “Did you get him the briefcase and everything?”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “I think we’re good to go.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he says. “You’ll go in for intake on Monday. They’re going to go over your medical history with you, but that shouldn’t be too big a hassle if you don’t-”
Maybe it’s the wrong move, but I can’t stop myself.
My arms are around him and I’m kissing him the way he was kissing me. When I pull back, we’re both smiling.
“You know we’re breaking about a dozen ethical codes of conduct,” he says.
“Yeah, that doesn’t seem to have been a hurdle for you so far,” I tell him and kiss him again.
I’m kissing him again and unbuttoning his shirt while he runs his fingers over my back. Maybe we shouldn’t be doing this, but if anything, that just makes this moment all the more enticing.
I pull his shirt open and slip it down his arms, kissing his muscular chest.
He’s warm against me, but I feel a chill as he pulls my shirt up and over my head. Then, with a simple move of his fingers, my bra is dangling from my elbows. I drop my hands and let it fall to the ground.
I press myself against him, taking in his warmth as he lowers his lips to mine again.
This is something I’ve wanted for a while now, and with as much teasing as I’ve given him about it, he finally knows how serious I am.
I reach down and unzip his pants and I crouch, slipping his boxers down. I run my lips over the flared ridge of his erection and run my tongue over the bottom of his shaft.
He lets out a slight gasp as I take him into my hot mouth, and I’m reveling in the clean, if salty, taste of him.
I take my hand and jerk the base of him as I coddle the rest of him with my mouth and tongue. He’s just as big as I’d imagined he was, and I can feel his pulse between my lips.
“That’s it,” he says, “just like that.”
It’s good to know he appreciates what I’m doing, but I’m hoping this doesn’t turn into one of those interminable one-sided conversations where I’m just supposed to agree with everything he says.
I don’t mind some dialogue; I’d just prefer to h
ave more than a yes or no part of it.
Fortunately, at the moment, he seems to be content enough just to take in the sensation of my mouth as I take him a little deeper.
It’s been a while, but my tried and true technique comes back without effort, and I run my tongue along the underside of his cock as I pull back. I switch hands and lift him a little as I slowly, gently massage his sac with my tongue, taking each of his stones into my mouth, one and then the other. My hand is running over his dick, and he’s shaking a little as he stands with a single hand on my shoulder. I run my tongue from his sack up his length and take him into my mouth once more, delighting in the feeling of such an ovation as this.
Finally, I kiss his stomach and, as I rise again to my feet, I kiss every inch of his abdomen and chest on my way up.
“So,” I say, putting my arms over his shoulders.
“So,” he says back.
“Are you going to take my pants off and stick that thing in me or what?” I ask, giving him the puppy dog eyes.
He chuckles. “I think I can do that.”
“I certainly hope so,” I tell him. “Otherwise, this has been a lot of build up for nothing.”
He smiles and kisses me on my mouth, my cheek, and then my neck.
His strong hands move tenderly down my body and settle on the front of my pants.
He pops open the button and pulls down the zipper, and I move my hips side to side to encourage my pants to fall.
In nothing but my customary thong now, I give him a quick peck on the lips and grab his cock.
“You’re coming with me,” I tell him and lead him by the shaft into my bedroom.
I didn’t make my bed this morning, but that couldn’t matter less as I guide him forward until he’s standing, facing me with his back to the mattress.
It only takes a moderate push for him to fall backward and, before he has a chance to bounce, I’m on top of him, running myself over him, feeling his throbbing member against my clit and over my silent lips.
“If you’d be so kind as to reach into the nightstand and open the box of condoms inside, we can get right to work,” I tell him.
“Work?” he asks with a chortle.
Costars (A Standalone Romance Novel) (New York City Bad Boy Romance) Page 38