by Elle Casey
“Look who’s talking.” He frowns at me. “What’s the number? And what am I supposed to say?”
I hand him the slip of paper. “I don’t care what you say. Just get me an appointment.” I lean in and nudge him. “Just let it flow.”
He stares at me for a long time and then shakes his head, dialing the phone. “You are so much trouble. My mother warned me about girls like you.”
“That’s because we’re so much fun.” I rub my hands together. “Just get me that appointment, that’s all I care about.”
He stares at the sky as he waits for the call to connect. I know exactly when it does because his face instantly undergoes a complete transformation. He’s no longer the uptight salesman at Cartier. Now he’s …
“Yo, hey girl, whass-up? This is R.J., personal assistant for Shay Dee, big up-and-comer for G-Unit. I need to book her an appointment for a little assistance if you know what I mean. Got your number from a friend. A trusted source, yo.” He chuckles like he and this girl on the other end of the line are old friends.
My jaw drops open. He’s a street-smart rapper from the inner city, talking about someone, I have no idea who. I think she might be a rapper too.
After he listens for a few seconds he responds. “Just a little nip and tuck. I don’t like to do deets on the phone. You never know who might be listenin’, you know how it is. So what … the doc got any time for my girl or not?”
He nods a few times and smiles. That grin comes through in his voice. “That’s perfect. You’re gold, baby. Twenty-fo’ carat.” He pauses and then shakes his head. “Nah, I ain’t got time to accomp’ny her. She’s gettin’ ready for a tour and I’m up to my azz in the work, yo, but you know, she’s a big girl. She’ll be incognito, no worries. The paparazzi won’t bother you. They won’t even know she’s there. Maybe we can get a drink sometime.”
He gives me a thumbs up. “Wednesday, three o’clock. She’ll be there. And yo, no assistants or any bullshit like that. She sees only the doctor. She values her privacy and so do we, fo’ real.”
I hear lots of yammering coming from the other end of the phone, but I don’t try and decode it; I’m too busy swirling around the sidewalk in circles of happiness.
Ralph shuts his phone off and sighs heavily. “I can’t believe I just did that.”
I run up and clap him on the back. “You’re amazing! Thank you so, so, so, so much.” I hug him, carried away by my excitement. I just watched a master at work. He could totally be my twin, except for the fact that we look absolutely nothing alike.
He shakes his head and pinches the space between his eyebrows. “Please tell me that’s the last time I’ll ever have to do something like that.”
“Absolutely. No problem at all. You’re off the hook.”
He stops rubbing his eyes and stands up straight. “How much of your story that you’ve told me is true?”
I grin. “Pretty much none of it.”
He kind of collapses down in on himself and then laughs sadly. “I think we’re both going to hell.”
I start walking with him back to his store. “No, we’re not. Trust me. I’m doing everything I can to get my karmic balance back in line.”
“What about my karmic balance?” He stops half a block from the doors to Cartier.
I pat him on the shoulder. “Stop by Belinda’s New Age Wonders. We have some really great crystals and essential oils. I can fix you right up.”
He rolls his eyes to the sky. “God help me.”
Chapter Twenty-One
I’VE REALLY PULLED OUT ALL the stops. A trip to the Salvation Army store in Hell’s Kitchen has me totally tricked out. I have faux leather pants on in a nice, slightly skeezy snakeskin pattern, a hot pink blouse that’s completely see-through revealing a turquoise bra underneath, a white belted trench coat, and a baseball cap with giant sunglasses to complete the look. I put on a ton of make up and my hair is in a very messy bun. I look like the street version of Lindsay Lohan suffering the aftereffects of a serious bender. No one will doubt my star-status now.
Standing in front of the double wood doors of Doctor Oliver’s place has me nearly peeing my pants. I’ve never gone undercover before, but I am totally loving this. I keep my head down so they won’t see me too clearly in the camera. I have hives on my ass cheeks that no amount of scratching is going to fix, but I’m not going to let that stop me. Why? Because I’m Agent Double Oh Awesome, that’s why. Boom. Taking no prisoners today.
“May I help you?” the disembodied voice asks.
“Shay Dee here for Doctor O.” I practiced my street-rapper voice for two days straight. I sound so inner city right now.
The door buzzes and I have to really force myself to not dance over the threshold. I’m not really in yet. There’s still the bitch at the front desk to get past. Hopefully the snake venom lipgloss I found has puffed up my lips enough to make me unrecognizable. It sure is making my mouth itchy, so I hope it’ll be worth it.
I stop a few feet from the front desk. There’s an empty waiting room around me, and the girl in reception stands. She looks a lot less confident than she sounds over the speaker outside.
I tip my head down and look at her over my glasses, making sure to only move them the slightest bit. I don’t want to blow my cover.
“Yo,” I say before putting the glasses back up.
“Hello. Welcome to Oliver Cosmetic and Reconstructive Surgery Center. Can I get you a glass of water? Espresso? Tea? Tonic?” She laughs self-consciously. “Or beer, maybe? Wine?”
“Water,” I say, sounding as tough as possible. “The bubbly kind.”
She frowns for a split second but then goes back to acting like a bootlicker. “Please have a seat. I’ll be right back.”
“Make it quick,” I say in a bitchy tone. “I ain’t got all day.” I smack my gum for effect. Some of it sticks to my puffy lip, so I turn sideways to hide it.
“Of course.” The girl runs down a hallway as best she can in heels, and I can’t help but chuckle as I pull the gum off my face. Being famous is awesome when it comes to getting revenge. Who’s the mean-girl now? I would feel guilty, but she’s probably stuck-up all day long. I’m doing the world a favor bringing her down a peg or two.
I notice a stack of business cards on the desk and I reach over to grab a few, shoving them in my purse before she can return. I have no idea why. It’s not like I’m ever going to call this guy again, once I unload this ring on him. I back away from the desk and center myself in the room again.
She’s back in a flash with my Perrier and a glass. I ignore the glass and drop the bottle into my leopard-print bag, daring her to say anything about it.
She watches me for a second, looking like she’s about to say something, but then she disappears into some back area of the office. I take a seat in the waiting room. She comes into view at her desk a few seconds later and says, “Doctor Oliver will be right out.”
I nod, but say nothing. Instead, I focus on getting the perfect bubble going with my gum. It’s tough when my lips are twice their normal thickness and gooey with gloss.
A little while later, a door opens to my right. I stand, tucking my bag firmly under my arm as I turn to face the doctor. When I finally get a look at the man who spends way too much money on engagement rings, I nearly choke on my gum.
Holyyy shit. It’s him. Suit guy! Suit and a tie guy! Helen!
Chapter Twenty-Two
“YOU!” I SAY, BEFORE I can stop myself.
He holds out his hand. “Me. Yes. I’m Doctor Oliver.”
His smile is pure charm. His hair is slightly wavy. Blond highlights mix with the sandy brown color so naturally I know they can’t be fake. His hair is tousled just enough to be sexy and professional at the same time. His teeth are clean and white but not too straight. He’s tan like he does outdoor things but doesn’t visit a tanning salon. Basically, he’s exactly what I expected of a plastic surgeon to the stars. Bleck. Too perfect. I can’t help wondering if h
is nose is real. I search his face for scars, the telltale signs that his beauty is fake, but I find nothing. Dammit. I really wanted hating him to be easier than this.
He’s still smiling. “And you must be … Shay, is that right?”
I nod, pressing my lips together. I’m pretty sure I look like an ornamental carp, my lips are so swollen at this point. That gloss has gone into overdrive or something.
I’m really glad my disguise is still holding, though. The idea of having my real identity revealed in front of that receptionist woman who made me feel like a beggar at their door is very unappealing right now.
“Shay Dee, thass me. Thass my name.” I look past him into his office, trying to hint that I don’t want to hang out in the waiting room. This is what famous people do, right? Act all pushy, like they can get whatever they want, when they want it? Get me in that office, doctor full-of-himself.
He nods at his secretary and then turns sideways, gesturing for me to go ahead of him into his inner sanctum. “After you.”
I go in and quickly scratch the hives on my butt when he turns around to close the door behind him. A quick adjustment of my jacket and I’m as good as new when he turns in my direction again. He walks around to my left to take his chair on the other side of the desk.
I sit down and take in my surroundings. There are diplomas and certificates all over one wall. He went to Haaaarvard. Not surprising at all. He’s also board certified in several things. That’s good. I mean, not that I’m getting anything done, but if I were, I’d want my guy to have all kinds of board certifications.
“So, what brings you here today, Miss Dee?”
I try to think of how to start the conversation, but my mind draws a blank. I guess I never thought I’d get this far.
“You married?” I ask. I almost choke on my gum when the sentence bursts out, but then I quickly recover. This is actually an awesome question. My brain is obviously on auto-pilot, thank goodness. Now I can get the story behind the ring and satisfy my curiosity before giving it back.
“No, I’m single. But let’s talk about you…”
“Ever been engaged, maybe?”
He tilts his head and frowns at me.
Shit. I forgot to use my street accent. “Yo, you know, like almost with a ball and chain.”
Then I really do choke on my gum and have to bend over and cough it up to keep from dying.
The doctor is on his feet staring down at me. “Are you okay?”
I hold up a hand to calm him down. “Yeah, yeah, just got my gum stuck in my throat. So, you were saying…?”
“Are you married?” he asks me.
“Why? You interested?” I try to look sexy but judging from the expression on his face, I’m coming off more as deranged. Oops.
Trying to recover and act cool at the same time, I wave my hand in front of my face a few times. Then I stop immediately when I realize it looks like I’m trying to dissipate somebody’s fart-smoke.
“Just jokin’,” I say, my face burning red. Quick! Think of something to say! “I’m taken. But let’s get back to the conversation. You have a fiancée recently? Lost one, maybe?”
He doesn’t sit back down. Instead, he’s starting to look a little cranky. “Miss Dee, I think I’d prefer to keep the conversation about your reason for being here. What is it that I can do for you?”
I let out a big breath. Time to just finish this. So much for wanting to know the story behind the ring.
I pull my hat and my sunglasses off before leaning over and spitting my gum into the trashcan that’s sitting at the side of his desk.
“You!” he says, sitting down. Just as quickly, he stands. “Your name’s not Shay, it’s Betty!”
I hold up my hands like two stop signs. “Easy, there, Helen, don’t worry … I came here for a reason other than to be plowed over by you again.” I grab my bag and start fishing around inside it for the ring. “It’s in here somewhere…”
“No!” he yells, yanking a desk drawer open.
The next thing I know there’s a gun pointed at my face.
“Oh my god!” I squeal. “What the hell is your problem?!” I push my legs on the ground to try and move my chair back, but the adrenaline that’s blazing through my bloodstream gives me superpowers. The back legs of the chair stick in the area rug they’re on and that’s the end of me being a normal person. Instead of just scootching the chair away a little bit, I’m flying backwards, ass over teakettle.
Most of the contents of my purse are now sprinkled all over my chest, stomach, and face. There’s a tampon on my eye, a map of Manhattan on my neck, and the wad of tissues next to my face.
I grab the wad of tissues and hold it up straight toward the ceiling. “This is why I’m here, you freak!”
His head peeks over the top edge of the desk, along with the end of his gun. “You came to show me a dirty tissue?”
This is too ridiculous to be real. I’m no longer afraid of being shot by a plastic surgeon — and for the record, I can’t think of a more useless way to die — instead, I’ve shifted into annoyed.
“How can a person as stupid as you are possibly be a doctor?” I ask angrily.
“You don’t have a gun?”
“No, I don’t have a gun. What do I look like? A criminal?”
“Do you want me to be honest?”
I consider that for a second and remember what I’m wearing. “No. Lie to me.”
“You look … mostly harmless.”
I struggle to get up, but the only way to right myself is to roll sideways, taking the chair with me. All the crap that was in my purse goes with me and falls all over the floor.
When I can finally get on my hands and knees, I push the chair away and quickly gather my things and shove them into the purse — everything but the tissues.
Standing, I bring up my purse and drop it onto his desk. It makes a loud thump. I can’t look directly at him. I’m waaaay beyond humiliated at this point, and seeing his face will make me want to run. And I probably will run too, as soon as this ring is in his hand, because I can’t see how I’m going to get out of this without looking like a complete idiot.
Why did I dress up like a maniac and sneak in here? Why didn’t I just wait for him to leave for the day and talk to him in the elevator? Sometimes I worry about myself.
“So …,” he says in a conciliatory tone, “that’s quite a get-up you’re wearing.”
“Shut up.” I unwrap the ring and put it on his desk. Then I turn around, put the chair back on its feet, and sit in it. Now seems like a great time to continue with my earlier perusal of his walls, so I check out the other one to my right. There are pictures of the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building, and Central Park. I feel like I’m in the local Triple A office.
“What in the hell is that doing here?” he asks.
I finally look at him, and I’m surprised to see he’s pissed. Talk about ungrateful.
“I found it.”
He frowns at the ring, then he frowns at me. Then he frowns at the ring again and then at me.
I sigh, waiting for him to say something.
“What … I don’t … this isn’t …” He growls a little and runs his hand through his hair. Now it’s standing up on just one side, making him look like he recently had some great sex. I wonder if his secretary will think we were getting it on in here. It makes me want to do it, just seeing him like that. Obviously, I’m a glutton for punishment. A guy like him would use me up and spit me out.
Part of me wants to mess my hair up a little too just to keep her guessing, though. Then I remember that I already look like Lindsey Lohan, so anything could happen. I’m so going to give him a saucy wink when she can see us again.
Since he seems incapable of regular conversation, I try to make him feel more at ease. “You know, that’s exactly what I thought when I found it.” I grin. I’m so happy to be getting rid of this thing now. All of this humiliation is going to be worth getting back on Karma�
�s good side.
“You say you found it?”
“Yep. In a fountain. Not far from here, actually.” I tilt my head and stare at him very closely. “Did you put it there?”
“I don’t want it,” he says. He picks it up, crumples it into the tissues I used and holds it out at me. “Take it back.”
I’m not sure he’s understanding things, so I hasten to explain. “No, it’s yours. I looked it up. You bought it, so it’s yours, not mine.”
“You looked it up?”
“Yes, with the laser-etching on the stone. Cartier has a record.”
“A record? Cartier? They gave out my name to you?”
I frown. “You don’t have to say it like that. Like I’m some kind of maniac.”
He stares at me, his gaze running from my head to my feet.
“Fine,” I say, getting more pissed by the second, “I see your point, but this isn’t what I normally dress like.” I notice another escaped tampon on his floor, so I bend down to get it and have to crawl partway under the desk when I see another one while I’m down there. How many tampons does a girl need in her purse? Well, according to my purse, ten. If I’m ever locked in a subway car with nine other women and we all start spontaneously menstruating, I will be prepared. I’ll be a hero.
“No,” he says, “normally you dress like a hippy who’s an hour late to a peace rally.”
I stand up suddenly, tampons in hand, sending the chair backwards again. At least this time I’m not in it.
“Hey!” I point at him with a fist full of feminine products. “Watch it, bud! That’s just plain rude and totally uncalled for.”
He crosses his arms, the gun no longer in sight. “I’ve met you four times, and three of those times you’ve run smack into me without looking where you’re going.”
I want to laugh, but I’m too pissed. The sound that leaves my lips is some kind of crazy bird-bark.
“Ha! That’s called projection, buddy. It ain’t me, it’s you. Don’t try to put your shit on me. You’re the one who thinks he’s soooo important he doesn’t have to look where he’s going, even when he’s in a crowd of people in the middle of New York City!”
