Dr. Stud

by Jess Bentley

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Extended Epilogue

  Deleted Scene

  About the Author

  Also by Jess Bentley

  Preface

  Bella

  Who would have thought that I, Bella Cage, the serious and virginal Bella Cage I might add, would ever be in a menage? Much less have my own happy ever after with two gorgeous, handsome beasts of men?

  If you asked me a year ago if I thought I’d even have a boyfriend by now, I would have laughed in your face. Then I’d have gone back to the cozy spot on my couch and opened the computer. I would’ve tamped down my loneliness with work, and later that night, given my vibe a bit of a workout.

  But — sometimes magic will play its part in your life, when you least expect it.

  When we grow up, we think fairy tales are just that, children’s stories, but the truth is, fairy tales come from our lives. Don’t we all have a wicked witch in our midst at one time or another, even if she’s doesn’t have green skin or isn’t decked out in a pointy black hat? Maybe we don’t even notice for a while, since we’re fooled by the fact that she drives a Ferrari instead of riding a straw broom.

  And don’t we all have our temptations, the dark roads into murky forests where we know we shouldn’t go, but against all odds, that’s exactly where we find ourselves? Magic is all around us — it just looks different these days than we ever were led to expect, so we miss it.

  Perhaps the most surprising and exciting thing: when two handsome, strong, sexy, hard beasts are involved, fairy tales are anything but children’s stories.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself. Read on to find out what happened to me once upon a time…

  Chapter 24

  Bella

  This is how I like to spend my morning. Sitting here in my robe with a cappuccino in one hand, breathing in. The small table in my bedroom is strewn with lipsticks and eyeliner pencils, pots of shadow in too many hues to count. The browser is open to my stats page and I watch, almost in real time, as the clicks are recalculated on my latest article.

  120,000 shares. 96,000 tweets.

  This is good. This is really good. And it's a nice way to start my morning, because this article, entitled 19 Ways Your Mascara Isn't Doing You Any Favors, is the last one of many. Too many. No more makeup bargain comparisons, no more lists of sex positions. No more “most embarrassing moments” or “fun and crazy facts about vintage hairstyles.” I’m finally through with all of that.

  I’m going back to serious personal journalism with a wave of loyal followers and a healthy bank account. It’s not just my passion, it was supposed to be my job. After I won that Reinert Fellowship, everybody wanted me. I could have had my pick of jobs in publishing, writing essays or screenplays, even. But I came to work with my bestie from middle school, and social media came along, turning everything on its head. The whole industry.

  I should be grateful I still have a job — and in some ways I am, definitely — but I hate these fluff pieces. I hate that Hannah insists that I keep writing them, even more. But even I have to admit that they sure do get great stats. I’ve got two million Instagram and Twitter followers and a half million subscribers on the TurnPost main site. That makes me “influential,” they tell me.

  I think it’s weird. None of those people realize that 90% of my job is sitting at home in my jammies talking to my computer. They wouldn’t even give me a second look if they could see me in real time right now. Unless it was a look back to make sure the crazy lady wasn’t following them.

  I sit here for another minute, nearly done with my makeup but thinking I could stick around to see the stats click over to 121,000 shares. That could totally happen. Then I’ll be able to leave for my meeting, already feeling pretty good about myself.

  I really needed this one to hit the mark, and it did, but it was kind of a surprise. You wouldn't think that mascara was something people felt deeply enough about to share, but it turns out this is just one of those unspoken frustrations every woman has. Tubes that run out too fast, layers that don't thicken up. Black smudges under your eyes just as you're talking to somebody you really want to connect with. You're talking to them, and they are really meeting your eyes. Really connecting, really listening to you. Or so you think, until you catch a glimpse of yourself in the tiny mirror next to your monitor in your cubicle. Thumb-shaped smudges of black ring your eyes that must have accumulated while you weren't paying attention. This conversation you're having, this deep conversation with all the connection and whatnot? No. They were just looking at you and your makeup malfunction. It’s a disaster.

  That’s how mascara can let you down. There are also eighteen other ways, if you’re counting.

  Somehow, this dumb listicle turned into a statement about how no matter what we try to do, someone else's failure is always jumping in the middle to mess everything up. I wonder why...

  So I struck a nerve, which is every writer’s goal, right? You don't always know what is going to happen, but sometimes some effortless observation will plop down onto the page and other people will let you know that they really needed to hear that.

  Like here, in hard numbers: 120,560 shares on Facebook. That's how many people felt like their mascara — just that one humble accessory — had really screwed up their lives too, come to think of it.

  Come on, 120,561.

  But it's getting pretty late. I need to get going and I'm not getting up to 121,000 quite fast enough, so I set the ceramic mug down on the desk and slip out of my robe, absentmindedly picking my Calvin Klein sheath dress off the chair and pulling it carefully over my newly-waxed legs. As I zip up the side zipper, I see the stat tick over to 120,802. Oh, this could happen.

  Come on. Just one hundred and ninety-eight more people who love me, and I can get out the door with confidence. Go grab the future by the balls, like they say.

  Today's the day! No more listicles! No more lifestyle pieces!

  I execute a little fist pump in the mirror, twisting to one side and then the other, checking out my figure. Does this look like the dress one wears to one's triumphant comeback meeting? I think it does.

  My long brown hair falls in even waves over my shoulders, acceptably shiny and healthy looking. Some of the Kevin Murphy products that I was sent in the mail really helped with my split ends. Despite what my mother always told me, with that bossy quaver in her voice, the expensive stuff really does do a better job.

  I walk around my queen-size bed, pulling the pink satin comforter neatly back up to the pillows. There's no sense in leaving a bed unmade, I suppose. I may not have anyone to impress, and heaven knows nobody but I will even see it, but it's just something I do for myself.

  But as I catch myself out of the corner of my eye in the mirror, my un-shaped locks are maybe too immature for this meeting. I need something a little more kick ass. Something between sexy head librarian and lady pilot.

  With a decisive twist and a few bobby pins, I roll my hair up into a high bun and pin it, tucking the dark ends deep into the shape. I figure this hairstyle will survive most of the day, too, even if it's a little breezy outside. I keep my article’s stats in the corner of my eye as I line my lips in a serious shade of beigey-mauve and then fill in with a sophisticated red from a small sable brush.

  Another nice thing about writing lifestyle pieces is all the free, high-end makeup they've sent me. Every brand from Urban Decay to MAC to Bvlgari would just magically appear at my front door with charming little notes suggesting I drop their names into my next list. Preferably in a flattering way.

  And I'll miss that, I truly will. Swag is pretty compelling. But the chance to get back to writing, really writing, is too good to pass
up. There are a hundred thousand kids fresh out of college every week, it seems. Or, they probably didn't even go to college… they probably just started blogs when they were in middle school… and they could do this job better than I do. I know that. I feel them chasing me down like some kind of invisible swarm. At any moment, they could totally overtake me, drowning me with the sheer chatty, hip, trendsetting volume of them. I would drown under the Instagram filter of the moment, hashtagged right out of existence.

  But they can't do everything I can do, or at least I hope not. Experience should count for something, right? That's what I keep trying to tell myself, anyway. Sometimes it's not the freshest voice or the newest slang. Sometimes it's experience or wisdom… or some other bullshit excuse I make up.

  I stand up, slipping my bare feet into these ridiculously awesome Louboutin heels. I want to whisper to them. You, my darlings, I will miss you most of all. When the swag stops flowing to the door of my Greystone, when I'm back to being my real self who doesn’t give product endorsements, I will miss you very, very much.

  I glance up. There it is. 121,000 shares.

  No! 121,047!

  With an optimistic smirk, I snap the laptop closed and drop it into my Hermès knockoff, heading for the door and ready to start this day winning.

  The parking garage is almost abandoned when I arrive, since I’m showing up during the hours between oh-you-are-late and let’s-go-grab lunch. Hannah said I could borrow her parking space, which is great. I don’t actually have parking privileges since I am never here. And I hate parking downtown because thirty-five dollars just for leaving my car somewhere an hour enrages me.

  The attendant waves me under the liftgate when I hold up my ID card. Hannah must have called down to let them know I was coming. Feeling quite special as I drive slowly up the curving concrete ramp, I smile to myself with satisfaction. Everything is lining up nicely.

  No more fluff pieces. I sigh happily.

  The executive level is quite posh compared to the other two. Every space is lit, ensuring only the most sophisticated purse-snatchers would even dare to try. I roll around, squinting into the concrete voids until I find the placard of my boss and longtime friend, Hannah Bonham.

  It’s right next to the elevator too. Some people get the best perks.

  I practically skip to the elevator, one step away from dancing when I get inside. But the camera that is surely trained on me is discouraging. I give it a wink though, just to let out some of my excitement. Probably some security guard will get a charge out of it.

  Hannah holds up one finger when I walk into her office as she continues to type with her other hand. She nods in concentration, murmuring into the phone little sounds of agreement. Squinting at her computer screen, she takes notes about the conversation while she continues agreeing repeatedly and profusely with whomever is on the other end of the line. I shift from foot to foot, trying not to stare at her.

  Her ginger hair is swept up into a complicated, boho braided crown that swims around her head like a slightly descended halo. Now that it's midsummer, she's mostly given up on shoulder pads and today is wearing a jade green, silk surplice top that makes her peachy complexion glow competitively. Her skin is so flawless it looks like she's dusted with flour. Even her freckles appear perfectly painted on.

  She jerks her chin at me slightly in approval as I lower myself into the le Corbusier chair in front of her desk. I drop my bag quietly on the floor next to me and pull out my laptop, trying not to make any sound that could be overheard on her conference call.

  Which does not seem to be going especially well.

  “Uh huh,” she says for the thousandth time so far, but it doesn't really sound like an agreement, it sounds like a retreat. It seems like she's being chased away, and that's just the sound she makes as she's running.

  Metaphorically running, of course. I am a writer, after all. Metaphors are what I do.

  Finally, she sighs. “Okay. Okay, yes,” she nods emphatically, though they can't see her at all. “Well, thank you. Yes, okay. You bet. Thanks very much.”

  She stabs the front of her cell phone to disconnect the call and rips the Bluetooth out of her ear, then drops her head back and stares at the ceiling with her mouth open for a few seconds.

  “You okay?” I venture to ask.

  Without looking at me, she says, “Sure.”

  Comically, she lets her arms and legs go all loose for just a second, like a marionette that's just been granted a momentary reprieve. She looks wounded. Slightly gawky, a little bit less composed.

  That's the Hannah I remember from middle school, from softball games and debate club and fundraisers. The one who was constantly growing out of her clothes, shooting up like a beanpole, as her mother always said. Too long, too gawky. She grew out of her clothes so fast, they always seemed just a little obscene. Too tight around the places that grew fastest. Prone to bunching up and exposing her navel, that sort of thing.

  But just look at her now, the CEO of Riordan Publishing. Badass boss lady overseeing three publishing imprints and a dozen online magazines, including TurnPost. She barely ever shows anyone that it takes even the smallest effort on her part. Who knew all of that would come from that awkward beanpole? Must have been some fairytale-quality magic beans.

  “You want to talk about it?” I offer.

  Normally she says no, that I wouldn't understand. First of all, she's probably right about that. Second of all, I have a feeling it's not terribly interesting anyway.

  But to my surprise, she says: “Oh my God, I am so fucking screwed."

  I giggle a little, knowing that this is the kind of language she uses only in front of me now. To everyone else, she's the frighteningly beautiful dragon lady who would never defile her own perfectly-lined and lipsticked mouth with a swear word of even the most innocent kind. She looks like Nicole Kidman twenty years ago, with a little dash of Lana Turner and Bette Davis thrown in for good measure. She barely even uses contractions, much less words like fucking or screwed. It's just for me.

  Because I'm special. Because we’re friends.

  “Oh, it can't be that bad, can it? I’m sure you’ll come out on top. What's going on?” I ask her.

  She sits up in her chair, leaning forward and mashing her palms on the desk. For a few seconds, she seems to examine the back of her perfect hands, her perfect nails, her beautiful, long bones. I can feel her plotting, planning. Strategizing. After a little while, she lifts her head and squints at me.

  “Bella, I'm going to need you to go on a date.”

  My mouth pops open with a tiny, surprised noise. Pop.

  “Wait, what?”

  “And then write about it.”

  My heart starts beating faster.

  “But I thought —”

  She looks at me, pressing her lips together hard. “Yeah, I know. I'm sorry. Now's not the time.”

  I take a deep breath. I can tell she's got a lot going on and is probably not one hundred percent focused on my needs or my life at this moment. That tells me I need to move very carefully through this conversation.

  “You’re telling me now's not the time for me to get back to personal journalism? Essays? Pieces that... mean something?” Even that last is a bit too far. A little too accusatory.

  She nods tensely. “It's not forever. I promise.”

  I swallow over what feels like a sudden swelling in the back of my mouth. “But, Hannah, we talked about this, right? That mascara piece has almost a hundred and thirty thousand shares on it, right? I mean, did you see?”

  “Oh, I saw it! And congratulations!” she says enthusiastically. I swell under her praise. It really is a good number, I know she knows that.

  But her expression immediately changes. She holds her hand up, like she's balancing a fact in her empty palm. “See, that's why you are the perfect person for this. You have unmatched reach. People listen to you. When you do this piece, it'll really have an impact for us.”

  I feel a gri
m smile forming on my lips. I really thought my popularity numbers were going to get me out of this fairly humiliating job, not bury me deeper in it. I feel so stupid.

  “I don't know if I really want to do this anymore. I think that I would be so much better for you if I went back to writing, you know, the deeper stuff. I mean anybody could do —”

  “No,” she interrupts me, almost coldly.

  I feel like I’m not really the first thing on her mind. Not the real me — not the childhood friend. I’m just a soldier in her battle, a piece on her gameboard.

  “It's got to be you,” she continues. “I just… I can’t think of anybody else that is even in the league. You’re perfect. Only you, Bella. You know what I mean?”

  “Not really?”

  I feel my face getting hot. Disappointment is sloshing through me, filling me like a sloppily poured beverage. Something sour. Something served at the wrong temperature.

  She sees it too. I see her shoulders slump a little bit and she softens. She stands up and comes around to the front of her desk, dropping into the chair next to me and slapping me lightly on the knee.

  “You’re sweet,” she begins again, more gently.

  “What are you talking about? You want me to go out on a date because I’m sweet?”

  She nods, waiting for me to get the drift. What does sweetness have to do with —

  “Wait a second,” I groan, putting it together. “You want me to go on a date because I’m a… because…”

  “Because you won’t fuck him, yes,” she nods emphatically.

  “Jesus, Hannah. That’s a little cynical.”

  Hearing her say fuck especially in this context puts me on edge. I may be a virgin, but I have a pretty open way of speaking compared to her. It’s my “trucker mouth,” as my grandma used to say. But if she’s talking like this, she must be unusually frustrated. Still my virginity should be off-limits. She doesn’t own me.