by John Locke
“Around here he’s called ‘The Miracle,’ and for good reason. Thirty-two hopeless cases. No fatalities.”
“I don’t like him!” Jordan says.
“I don’t either,” Bruce says. “In fact, I hate his guts. But he’ll find a way to save Lainey.”
“How could he stand there and say there’s no hope?” Will asks.
“It takes the pressure off him to be perfect.”
Nurse Sally pipes in, “The truth is Doc Box ain’t fit to be in the company of man nor beast. The good Lord pulled every ounce of useful goodness outta that man at birth, and stuck a lump of coal where his heart should be.”
“But?” Jordan says.
“But he’s the one you want in that room with Lainey, because he never gives up. He’ll fight the devil to save your child. And he will save her. But after he does, leave him be. Don’t go looking for him. Don’t try to thank him.”
“Why?”
“This ain’t a celebratin’ sort of man. You’ve seen him at his best, not his worst. Trust me, you’ll do well to leave him to his lonely miserableness.”
Jordan and Will grudgingly sign off on the surgical procedure, and for the next six to eight hours, I reside in hell.
Of course, Lainey Sue died.
VIII
LAINEY SUE DIED several times on my table, but with her walnut-sized heart in my skilled hands, she came back to life again and again. You’d think this kid was Joan of Arc, the way she fought so valiantly! I got into it like I always do, hurling blood-curdling insults at my colleagues, my hospital, Lainey Sue, her innards, her parents, and even Calfee Coffee, which I actually like.
By the time it was over the nurses were sobbing with joy, and I’d gone through my entire repertoire of oaths and cuss words at least six times, having used them in every possible combination.
My hands were cramped beyond use, my nerves frayed, and the tendons in my back and neck were twisted and gnarled like Gordian Knots from the mental and physical exhaustion that comes from total concentration while standing in a precise position for hours at a time. Like always, the pain in my head felt life-threatening.
On the table, Lainey Sue was resting quietly, pink and fit.
Nurse Janet gushed, “What an amazing little girl! She absolutely refused to die!”
To me she said, “I’m filing a grievance against you for sexual harassment and verbal abuse.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “You’ve worked with me before. You know how I am.”
“Never again. I’m done.”
“We just saved a life here. Do you really care about a few cuss words?”
“You’re getting worse.”
“How?”
“You’re a complete psychopath. You called me the C-word. You barked like a dog.”
“Which C-word?”
“All of them. You called me things that didn’t even make sense.”
“I was in a zone!”
Nurse Margaret said, “She’s right. I’ve never heard such vile language. You should be ashamed of yourself!”
She shook her head. “And the things you said to that poor child? And the names you called her?”
She crossed herself.
Then said, “You cursed like a drunken sailor, speaking in tongues.”
IX
HOURS LATER, DESPITE the warnings, Jordan Calfee tracked me down in my office, threw her arms around me and said, “Omigod, you saved my daughter’s life!”
Jordan had looked beautiful that morning. But now, standing in my office, she was positively radiant.
“Dr. Box! Gideon! You’ve given us a beautiful, healthy baby to raise!”
“Who let you in to see me?”
“Your secretary.”
“Lola? Seriously?”
“Your fee, whatever it is, isn’t enough. How can I possibly repay you?”
She seemed sincere.
I said, “Would you consider a blow job?”
Jordan paused a moment, as if her ears momentarily betrayed her. Then she slapped my face full-force, stormed out of my office, and reported me to Administrator Luce. She followed that up with a written statement to the hospital’s board of directors, effectively earning me a four-day suspension and six months’ probation.
We all would have preferred a harsher ruling, but there were two patients in the cue who would die if I’m not on duty when they’re strong enough for surgery. One is Lilly Devereaux, whose parents, Austin and Dublin, offered to donate a wing to the hospital if I save their child’s life.
Since Lilly’s surgery will likely take place in five to seven days, the board voted to suspend me for four days, which would give them time to bribe our existing nurses to work with me, or hire new ones away from our competitors.
Secretary Lola said, “Now you’ll have time to see Shelby Lynn.”
“Who?”
She handed me a letter and said, “It’s from the stack of fan mail I placed on your credenza last month.”
“I’ve got fan mail?”
“You do.”
I look at the letter. “You’ve read this?”
“I read them all. It’d do you good to read them, too.”
“Why’s that?”
“You’re loved by many.”
“Right.”
Lola shrugged, left the room. I sat down, read the letter, then went home and booked the next flight to Cincinnati.
1.
Cincinnati, Ohio.
Thursday, 9:15 p.m.
Firefly Lounge.
“DUDE!” WILLOW SAYS, approaching. “Where’ve you been all my life?”
She stops two feet away, wearing a smile and very little else.
“Glenlivit 21, thirty bucks a shot, right?”
I glance at the dark amber liquid in my glass, then back at her.
She says, “We don’t serve many of those. By the way, I’m Willow.”
“Chris,” I say. “Chris Fowler.”
She laughs. “We don’t use last names in here, Chris.”
I nod.
“You’re in the chair,” she says. “Will I do?”
“Sure.”
Of course she’ll do. Willow’s by far the class of the place. The problem is she knows it.
She flashes me the smile that earns more in tips than hookers get for a toss. It’s a spectacular smile, well worth the fortune her parents must’ve spent on braces a few years back.
I wonder how proud they’d be to see Willow giving lap dances.
She hikes a leg over mine, taking care not to injure me with her five-inch stiletto. Her panties, blood-spatter red to match the shoes, hug her crotch so tightly they could pass for spray-on. Her cropped tee is bright white.
She’s on my lap now, facing me, our eyes two feet apart. Mine black, hers, goldenrod.
I sip my drink. “Want one?”
“What, a Scotch?”
She laughs. “I wouldn’t know it from lighter fluid.”
I place the drink on the table beside us.
Willow says, “You want me facing, or turned away?”
“Facing. I like your smile.”
“Then we’re good.”
She closes her eyes half-mast, pouts her lips, shows me her sultry look.
“You ready?” she purrs.
“What, no music?”
“DJ’s cuing it. I could’ve waited another thirty seconds, but you’re too cute. One of the other girls might’ve stolen you.”
Right, stolen me.
Because I’m so cute.
To keep the conversation going I ask, “What do you drink?”
“Vodka cranberry.”
“Can I buy you one of those?”
“Not here. You know, it’s—”
“Against the rules?”
She laughs. “Against the law, actually.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’m underage. For liquor, anyway.”
“Seriously?”
“I know,” she
says. “Weird, right?”
The music starts. Willow arches her back, lifts her chin, lowers it, raises it again, licks her lips seductively, then removes her top.
“Show time,” she says.
She puts her hands high over her head and gives her tits a shake. Then leans into me, brushes her nipples across my lips and says, “You like that, sugar?”
“I do. Thanks.”
She gives me an odd look and does that boobs-across-my-lips thing again, expecting me to kiss them, but I don’t.
I picture her ten minutes from now, telling her friend, Cameron about it. She’ll say, “See the older guy in the corner? Black jeans, t-shirt? I was grinding him just now, really working it. I rubbed my tits in his face and asked if he liked it, and guess what he said?”
Cameron will shrug.
“He said, ‘Thanks.’”
They’ll laugh, probably snort a line.
Cameron will ask how much I tipped.
“Two hundred.”
“No shit?” Cameron will say.
Next time they come out, I’ll completely ignore Willow and signal Cameron to come over. They’ll exchange a glance, but really, what can Willow do? She can’t claim I’m her customer if I ask for someone else.
It’s just that no one, especially Willow, expects me to ditch her for Cameron.
If Willow’s a solid eight, Cameron’s a barely-five. But she’ll do her best, and hope to earn a Franklin, or at least a Jackson. I’ll compliment the hell out of her, act like I’m really into it, then I’ll pretend to have an accident. They love it when that happens. Builds their confidence, makes them feel sexier than the others.
I’ll tip Cameron four hundred for a twenty dollar lap dance.
All part of the plan.
Cameron will tell Willow I came in my pants and gave her four hundred bucks.
Willow won’t understand. She’ll flirt, try to get my attention. But I’ll ignore her, break her confidence.
Women want what they can’t have. Even dancers like Willow, who think they’re hot shit.
The music ends, and I hand Willow the two hundred.
She smiles and says, “Thanks, Jimmy.”
“Chris,” I say.
Willow smiles and tosses her head the way pretty women do when they know you want them. She walks away, confident my eyes are on her ass.
Thanks Jimmy, she’d said, all matter-of-fact.
Like it’s every day she gets two hundred bucks for a lap dance.
In her mind she’s got me right where she wants me.
I can’t wait to see her face when she hears about Cameron’s tip.
2.
“OH MY GOD, you were incredible!” Willow gushes, three hours later. “Best sex I ever had!”
I’m lying.
I mean, yeah, we had sex, and I did my part, but Willow was barely involved.
She’s lying on the bed, on her side, her back toward me. When she’s sure I’m done, she moves forward till I slide out of her. She sits up, wipes herself with the bed sheet, and turns to watch me remove the condom and set it on the nightstand.
She regards it with disgust. Then gives me the same look.
Makes sense.
She’s eighteen, I’m forty-two. It is disgusting.
From her perspective.
I prop a pillow beneath my neck and settle in to relax, but catch her looking away, and take the opportunity to suddenly lift my head and kiss her boob.
She recoils when she realizes my lips touched her skin. Now she’s glaring at me to show how she feels about the unwelcome assault.
I lean back onto the pillow and stare at her in the lamplight. This is where I’d tell her she’s beautiful, if I thought she gave a shit what I thought.
She is beautiful, though.
“Mind if I light one?” she says.
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
Willow frowns. She’s not happy, but she’ll get over it. She’s two grand richer than she was ten minutes ago.
“Is this what you do?” she says.
“What?”
“Go from club to club, trolling for sex?”
“I would if I could. But my wife rarely leaves town.”
“She’s not coming home tonight, is she?”
“No. She won’t be home till noon tomorrow.”
“You don’t act like a first-timer,” she says.
“I’ve been to clubs before, but never asked anyone to follow me home.”
“I’m honored,” she says, sounding anything but.
Willow’s making small talk, waiting it out. She’s been paid a huge sum for ten minutes of talk, five minutes of sex. She figures I expect an hour for my cash, and she’ll mentally calculate it before attempting her escape.
“You got a boyfriend?” I ask.
“Yes.”
She’s telling the truth. She and Bobby Mitchell live together in an apartment on Dillingham. She doesn’t know I know this. Mitchell is a local tough guy. Hangs out at Shady’s Bar & Grill, a block from their apartment.
“You love him?” I ask.
She frowns. “Can we talk about something else?”
She regrets fucking me. Wishes she could just leave and put this behind her. But two grand’s a lot of money for her to ditch me less than twenty minutes into the date. And even though she hated every minute of the sex, it’s crossing her mind this could be an easy way to make some serious coin whenever my wife’s out of town.
“I’ve never done this before,” she says.
“I believe you.”
I do believe her. Willow doesn’t fuck well enough to be a hooker. As a lap dancer she earns enough to put gas in her car, food and drugs on the table, keep Bobby happily unemployed, the bills paid, and the landlord at bay.
Which puts her head and shoulders above the women I’ve dated.
She may be a lap dancer, but she’s classy. She only wound up in bed with me because I manipulated her. I kept flashing money and pressing her buttons and managed to turn the entire evening into a competition between her and Cameron, one that Willow’s ego refused to let her lose.
“I shouldn’t have done this,” she says, gathering her clothes.
“You needed the cash.”
She steps into her panties, pulls on her jeans, dons her sweatshirt.
“Bad decision,” she says.
“Don’t beat yourself up about it,” I say. “It was only a few minutes out of your life.”
“I could get fired,” she says, trying to make me feel guilty. Like she’s the first lap dancer who ever fucked a client.
She’s dressed now, sitting on the bed, staring into space.
I know what she’s doing, reliving the events of the evening, trying to figure out how it got to this point.
She turns to look me in the eyes. It’s starting to hit her, the way I played her tonight.
“Nice job,” she says. “Asshole.”
“You’re taking this awfully hard,” I say.
“I feel like a fool.”
“Willow. You’re adorable. Sweet. Beautiful.”
She says nothing.
I add, “This has been an honor for me.”
“I hate myself,” she says. “I want to vomit.”
I sit up and say, “This is too much. I was hoping for an encore, but it’s clear you’ve had a change of heart. How about you and Cameron switch places?”
Cameron jumps up from the over-stuffed chair where I’d paid her five hundred to sit and wait.
Willow says, “Are you serious? You want to fuck my friend?”
“I do.”
“Then fuck you both! I’m leaving!”
To Cameron I say, “If you can talk your friend into waiting another fifteen minutes, I’ll give you three thousand dollars. I would’ve given Willow the extra money, but she’s had second thoughts.”
“Fuck you!” Willow shouts. She grabs her purse, starts stomping off.
“Willow?” Cameron says, her voice pleadi
ng.
Willow stops, sighs, and turns around.
“What?”
“Please?” Cameron says.
Three grand’s enough to change Cameron’s life. For a woman with her looks, it’s three months of lap dances. Willow knows this, and they’re friends. But for Willow, it’s just one more humiliation. Her cheeks are in flames. She’s angry as hell. Had no idea I was good for another three grand tonight, and realizes she just pouted it away.
When Willow speaks, it’s to me. “You expect me to sit here and watch you fuck my friend? For more money than you paid me?”
“You don’t have to watch,” I say. “But you have to stay in the room.”
Her withering look incorporates the full monty of teenage attitude. “You don’t trust me?”
“It’s not personal. I don’t know you well enough yet.”
“You just fucked me!” she says.
“Yes. But we agreed you only did it for the money. I’m not calling you a thief, but wouldn’t you agree more women would steal a man’s money than fuck him for cash?”
Willow’s look says I’m a cockroach to her. She’s furious. So pissed, her body’s shaking.
Realizing how close her friend is to leaving, Cameron’s in full panic mode. She crosses the floor and whispers in Willow’s ear.
I know what she’s doing, offering to split the money. Fifteen hundred for not having sex is a pretty good deal. Willow agrees, and reluctantly crosses the floor to the comfy chair. She curls up in it and flips me the finger, then leans her head on one of the massive arms and closes her eyes.
Cameron waits for all this to transpire, then turns toward me and approaches the bed. When she’s three feet away she plants her feet and starts swaying slowly, from side to side, shows me a goofy grin, and starts to strip.
They all do that.
I don’t care how old they are, first time a woman strips in front of you, she’ll get a goofy grin on her face and sway her hips like she’s moving to music.
Usually the routine works for me, but Cameron’s all arms and legs, tall, and skinny as hell. Except for her hair, she could be Popeye’s girlfriend, Olive Oyl. And though it’s an odd comment to make about a lap dancer, movement doesn’t become her.
So I focus on her hair.
Thick, shoulder-length, brown, with auburn highlights.
