Perfect Flaw, page 8
“She’s quite a character.”
“She’s what my mother would have referred to as a prickly pear.” They laughed but were quickly hushed by Laura. “Listen,” Demetre said. “What are you doing after work?”
“Dr. D,” Laura said, tapping her wrist. “Clients are waiting.”
Demetre tilted his head back—“Thank you, Laura”—then he goggled his eyes at Angelo.
“I’ll let you get back to Violet.” Then Angelo had a thought. “Come to think of it, you really should send her to a dermatologist. It’s always best to err on the side of caution.”
“I’ll handle Violet Trautman,” he said. “Come by later, after you’re done for the day. I’ll show you how to use the blue light laser.”
Angelo stood there, feeling a thrum of excitement, but only in the way a harmless office flirtation causes a frisson of pleasure. “Is that the one you use to treat scars?”
Demetre reached up and ran his finger along Angelo’s cheek. “I wouldn’t change a thing on that face. Don’t let anyone try to change you.”
Angelo crept down the stairs after his last patient. The office was dark and shadowy. “Hello?”
Demetre called out. “I’m in here.”
Angelo headed down the dimly lit corridor and pushed open the door. Demetre was reclined in his chair, bare feet up on his desk with two cucumber slices over his eyes. Angelo laughed. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“No, come in.”
“I wish I had brought my camera,” he said, easing into a chair. “This would make a great advertisement for SkinDem.”
Demetre sat up, popped off the cucumber slices and blinked repeatedly as though he’d just walked out of a dark movie theater. “Ah, that feels so much better. Even with the eye shields, I know the laser light is wreaking havoc on my eyes.”
“Is that the blue light laser . . . the one you’re going to show me how to use?”
Demetre waved away his words and opened the bottom drawer of his desk. He poured two glasses of bourbon and slid one over to Angelo. “Congratulations, I heard you passed your boards.”
“Thank you.” Angelo tipped his cup and drank.
“Besides, you’re a fucking doctor,” Demetre added. “I’m not going to teach you how to operate a laser like some trained monkey. Stanzione should be ashamed he even suggested such a thing.”
Angelo stared confusedly. “I thought you’d agreed.”
“I know he’s your boss and all, but he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
“So, you’re not going to train me to use the blue light laser?”
“Angelo, if you want to learn how to remove hair then I’ll be happy to show you, but I’m not going to force you to do something because of some bullshit scheme Stanzione cooked up.”
“What about the medical spa?” Angelo asked. “I thought you were all in.”
Demetre rubbed his chin. Angelo detected mischief in his eyes, and for a moment he wondered if Demetre was pulling his leg.
“So, what did you think of Violet?” Demetre asked, navigating away from the topic of the medical spa. “Some piece of work, right?”
“She’s a colorful woman.”
“That she is,” he said, holding the cup to his lips before taking another swallow. “Her ex-husband, not Sam, the one before, owned a chain of stereo stores in Phoenix. After he died, she inherited everything and sold them off to PC Richards. You know how much that old bitch is worth?”
“I can’t imagine.”
Demetre snapped his fingers. “Hey, are you accepting new patients?”
“You’re not thinking of pawning Violet Trautman off on me?”
“No, she has an arsenal of doctors already,” Demetre said, laughing. “I do have lots of attractive male clients I can refer to you.”
Angelo took another sip instead of responding. The warm syrupy taste coursed through his body so that he felt flushed. Starting with you, I hope, Angelo wanted to ask.
“Oh, that’s right,” Demetre said. “You’re not looking for love.”
“I never said that.” Angelo cocked his head from side to side, cracking his neck. “I said, I’m currently not dating anyone. Besides, it’s unethical to date patients.”
Demetre walked behind Angelo and began massaging his shoulders. “Why so tense? Now that you’ve passed the boards you should feel relieved.”
Angelo sat up. It was disconcerting to feel Demetre’s strong hands kneading his muscles like they were clay.
“I am relieved,” he said right before he moaned with pleasure. “It’s these damn shoes . . . I have a blister.”
“Come with me.” Demetre grabbed the bottle and walked into an exam room. “Take off those shoes and lie down.”
The cushiony, leather-upholstered exam table was nothing like the outdated ones in the exam rooms upstairs. Angelo kicked off his shoes and removed his socks, dusting the black lint off his feet. Demetre poured them another round.
“Here,” Demetre said. They drank shots in unison. Demetre took the cups and set them aside. Pulling up a stool, Demetre ordered Angelo to lie back. “Let me see your foot.”
“Seriously?” Maybe it was the bourbon or the utter relief he felt now that he had the boards behind him. Angelo let out a long exhalation of air and propped up his feet.
“Well, you have a blister on your heel,” Demetre said, opening a drawer. He removed a packet, tore it open, and squeezed the ointment on his finger. Angelo sank into the cushion as if he were set in gelatin. All at once, he felt like he was floating.
“How does that feel?” Demetre asked as he applied the ointment to Angelo’s blistered heel.
“Like heaven.”
With Demetre kneading his thumbs into the sole of Angelo’s foot, the tension faded.
“It’s those cheap shoes,” Demetre said. “You should spend a little of that hard-earned money and buy better shoes. Your feet will thank you in the end.”
Angelo didn’t respond. He was lost in the swell of the bourbon and the tingling running up his leg. He was neither insulted by Demetre’s comment nor did he believe he was referencing his impoverished upbringing. At that moment, he didn’t care about anything other than being touched.
“You have to take better care of yourself, Doctor.” Demetre moved on to Angelo’s other foot. “You want to end up a nervous wreck like Steven?”
“Steven is stressed out by all the changes,” Angelo said. “Plus, Laura gets under his skin.”
“Steven is a shelter dog. Cute. Sad. Eager to please. Except he has no identity. It’s like Stanzione rescued him from certain death, and from that moment on, Steven ceased being an individual. Tell me, what do you know about him other than being a control freak?”
“I know he likes to paint,” Angelo declared proudly.
Demetre chuckled. “You mean the trash art?”
“See, you do know something about Steven.”
He leaned in, leering down at Angelo. “I wouldn’t hang that shit in my waiting room.”
“Those pieces upstairs are Steven’s?”
Demetre cocked an eyebrow. “Original trash art by Steven.”
Angelo sat up, his head spinning. “I told Steven to get rid of them. Fuck. I called them tacky. Why did I say that?” Angelo cringed as his spirits sank further, recalling Steven’s wounded expression when he told him the paintings were tacky.
Demetre’s eyes were bright with relish. “Don’t ever stop being honest. The truth is brutal but necessary.” He poured them another round. “Come on. Drink up. Let’s toast to Steven, the shelter dog and his trash art.”
“Now, you’re being cruel,” Angelo said. “Stanzione doesn’t treat Steven like a dog. They’ve been together fifteen years. Okay, so maybe there’s a power imbalance in Stanzione’s favor, but that doesn’t mean they don’t love each other.”
Demetre jerked up. Feet planted firmly on the floor. “You think Steven and Tony are really in love?”
“Yes, well . . . .”
“They sleep in separate beds.”
“Well, how would I know that?” Angelo asked.
Demetre sat back down, grinning like he’d just beat Angelo in cards. “You know, for a doctor you’re not very observant.”
Angelo stood up quickly. For a moment, he felt wobbly. “I am very observant. I observe people all the time.” Without realizing, he had doused his shirt in bourbon.
“Okay,” Demetre said, reaching up to grab several paper towels and handing them to Angelo. “So, Dr. Observant, you think Steven and Tony are really in love?”
“Yes, I do,” he said petulantly as he blotted his shirt.
When Angelo looked up, he was met by Demetre’s eyes, studying him narrowly. “Tony is so miserable he looks perpetually constipated, and disguised under that strip of AstroTurf he calls hair and buried under that armor of artificial muscles is a sad little fairy his macho Italian father rejected years ago. But instead of realizing how lucky he is, how fucking amazing his life could be, what does the great Stanzione do? He bitches and moans and whines. And at the end of the day, he drags that poor little shelter dog home with him and projects all that anger and frustration upon him, throwing scraps of food on the floor when he’s done eating so that Steven can chew them. Does that sound like love to you?”
Angelo clenched his cup with his teeth and began a slow clap. “That was poetic and harsh.”
“I only speak the truth.” Demetre stood up and took a bow. “Kid, if you learn anything in life it’s that in order to survive you have to be indefatigable if not indestructible. When that bitch, Kathleen Eichhorn, refused to make me partner, even though I was doing most of the work, I saved my money and bought a laser. Now I own my own company, and every single one of my clients followed me. Having a Park Avenue address was the next step. I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I had to fight for everything I have, and I would do anything to keep it.”
“So, where does the medical spa fit in?” Angelo asked.
“Forget the spa,” he said quickly. “What do you want? What are your dreams?”
Angelo cleared his throat. The conversation had veered from casual and celebratory to serious and interrogatory. “I don’t know.”
“Bullshit. Everyone has dreams.”
So, drunk, he said the first thing that came to mind. “I hope to become partner one day.”
“Good.” Demetre drew a deep breath. “So, you have a goal in mind.” Angelo hoped that Demetre would leave it at that, but then he said, quite softly and without inflection, “And you think Stanzione is going to let you become his partner one day?”
“Yes,” he said timidly. “Why not?”
“Face it, kid,” Demetre said, chuckling, snidely. “He’s never going to give you that.”
Angelo shook his head, fiercely. “We have a deal.”
“Oh, so you signed a contract?”
“No, it was a verbal agreement,” Angelo said. “I had to pass the boards first.”
“And Stanzione said he would make you partner?”
“It was implied.”
Angelo suddenly felt like Demetre knew more than he was letting on. Assessing his responses as though he was taking mental notes.
“Why do think Stanzione hired you?” Demetre asked.
“What kind of question is that?”
Demetre sat there grinning, a look of amused pity on his face. “I’m not here to burst any bubbles, but the truth is that Stanzione doesn’t do anything unless there’s something in it for him. Why didn’t he hire someone already board certified? Did you ever think about that?”
“Yes, Stanzione said he hired me because he knew I’d work harder than any of those board-certified candidates.”
“Or perhaps it’s because they asked for too much money, or maybe he picked you because you’re young, cute and eager to please.”
Angelo gaped at him for a wounded second. “Are you implying that I’m a shelter dog like Steven?”
“Are you?” Demetre asked. “I don’t know you well enough yet.”
“I refuse to eat anyone’s scraps.” Angelo sat up, insulted. He picked up his socks and proceeded to put them back on.
“Guess I hit a nerve,” Demetre mocked. “I’m sure you’re making more money now than you ever made in your life, but eventually, as the years pass, you’ll realize just how much Stanzione has been screwing you, and bitterness will fester inside you until you grow as old and miserable as him.” There was a long pause. Angelo fought to hide the hurt and confusion he was experiencing. “That’s enough shop talk for one night,” he said turning amiable and charming again. “We have bigger fish to fry.”
“What?”
Demetre leaned forward. The V of his scrub top buckled to reveal the deep cleft of his chest swathed in tufts of dark hair. “Listen to me,” he said, clutching Angelo’s knees. “Appearance is everything, and while you are an attractive man, you dress like a high school teenager attending the freshman formal.”
“You’re being cruel again.”
“Don’t act wounded. I’m just being honest. I believe you have dreams. You set your sights high and landed in a very good place, but what happens next depends completely on you. Being better than who you are sometimes means pretending to be someone you’re not. You’re a Park Avenue doctor. You should be eating caviar, not burgers from a bag, and dating princes not policemen.”
“Fuck,” Angelo said. He’d forgotten about his date with Jason. Angelo froze like a cornered mouse.
“Yeah, fuck him. Just don’t date him.”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Angelo shouted, standing up. How could he have forgotten? It didn’t seem possible that a dinner date with Jason had slipped his mind like forgetting to call someone back. Was Demetre right? Was Angelo not as observant as he thought he was?
“What is it?” Demetre asked.
“I have a date with that cop tonight.”
“Cancel it.”
“Wait. What?” He couldn’t deny that was exactly what he wanted to hear from Demetre, that somehow it made his actions excusable. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not?” Demetre asked. “Text him right now.”
“I’ve blown him off once already.” The hope he felt about this burgeoning relationship with Demetre felt worth it—like a microscope gone into focus—new and refreshing and with endless possibilities.
“You’re a doctor,” Demetre said, grabbing Angelo’s hips. He pulled him until their faces were so close Angelo could smell the bourbon on Demetre’s breath. “Tell him something came up at the hospital. Tonight, we celebrate like kings. The day after tomorrow, you and I have unfinished business.”
The next morning, Angelo woke up sticky and peevish, replaying events of the night before, as much of them as he could remember. He cringed at the thought of himself lying on Demetre’s exam table, slobbering like some moony-eyed drunk girl, his voice cloying and breathy. Angelo was disgusted and panicked. He jumped out of bed, ran into the bathroom, and threw up. Afterward, he stripped off his underwear and took a shower. He let the water envelope himself, but his body refused to relax under its calming stream. His stomach clenched, he vomited again. Brown saliva clung to his lips.
By the time he arrived at the office, Steven and Laura were conversing in the stairwell. It looked as if Laura was complaining. Her shoulders were practically touching her ears. As soon as they saw Angelo, she stopped talking and darted down the stairs like she’d forgotten to turn off the oven. “Morning,” Angelo said, walking to his office.
Steven followed and closed the door behind him. “Apparently there was a little party here last night.”
Angelo’s stomach convulsed. “What do you mean?”
Steven slid into the chair and leaned forward like a neighbor bursting with gossip. “When I got here this morning, I noticed the lights were still on downstairs. So, I went to turn them off, and that’s when I smelled the smoke.”
“Smoke?”
“Yeah, so I checked all the rooms, and wouldn’t you know, one of the exam rooms looked like there was a frat party: empty bottles of booze, cigarette butts and the worst smell of cigarette smoke.” Steven’s voice trailed off long enough for him to shiver with disgust. “I swear it’s like a saloon down there. So then, I came up here and guess who I find sleeping on Tony’s sofa?”
“Who?”
Steven glowered dramatically. “Demetre.”
“What!”
Steven put his finger to his lips and jerked his head toward Stanzione’s office. “Tony’s meeting with him right now. When I woke Demetre, he said that he had worked late and didn’t want to drive back home to New Jersey. Said he was worried about falling asleep at the wheel. I was like, oh yeah, working late, huh. Then I called Tony and told him he’d better get over here right away.”
From down the hall, Laura called. “Ste-ven? Ste-ven?”
He rolled his eyes ferociously. “Back here, Laura.”
She opened the door a crack and wedged her face in. “I’m sorry to bother you, but do you have any more Lysol?”
“I’ll be right downstairs to help. Don’t worry, we’ll get rid of the smell.”
Laura pouted with exasperation. “This is why I hate basement offices. No windows. Now it truly feels and smells like a dungeon.” Then she disappeared, but Angelo could still hear her whining from down the hall.
“I’d better go help her,” Steven said, getting up.
“Wait,” Angelo whispered. “What do you think Dr. Stanzione is going to do?”
Steven shrugged. “He’s not happy, but it’s not like Demetre broke the law.”
It was then the door to Stanzione’s office opened. Demetre came out, hands in his pockets, bobbing along with a springy walk. Stanzione followed behind him. When he saw them staring anxiously, he stepped inside Angelo’s office and closed the door. “We had a long talk,” he said, gripping Steven’s arms. “Demetre apologized, and he understands that if it ever happens again, he’ll be asked to leave.”
“She’s what my mother would have referred to as a prickly pear.” They laughed but were quickly hushed by Laura. “Listen,” Demetre said. “What are you doing after work?”
“Dr. D,” Laura said, tapping her wrist. “Clients are waiting.”
Demetre tilted his head back—“Thank you, Laura”—then he goggled his eyes at Angelo.
“I’ll let you get back to Violet.” Then Angelo had a thought. “Come to think of it, you really should send her to a dermatologist. It’s always best to err on the side of caution.”
“I’ll handle Violet Trautman,” he said. “Come by later, after you’re done for the day. I’ll show you how to use the blue light laser.”
Angelo stood there, feeling a thrum of excitement, but only in the way a harmless office flirtation causes a frisson of pleasure. “Is that the one you use to treat scars?”
Demetre reached up and ran his finger along Angelo’s cheek. “I wouldn’t change a thing on that face. Don’t let anyone try to change you.”
Angelo crept down the stairs after his last patient. The office was dark and shadowy. “Hello?”
Demetre called out. “I’m in here.”
Angelo headed down the dimly lit corridor and pushed open the door. Demetre was reclined in his chair, bare feet up on his desk with two cucumber slices over his eyes. Angelo laughed. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“No, come in.”
“I wish I had brought my camera,” he said, easing into a chair. “This would make a great advertisement for SkinDem.”
Demetre sat up, popped off the cucumber slices and blinked repeatedly as though he’d just walked out of a dark movie theater. “Ah, that feels so much better. Even with the eye shields, I know the laser light is wreaking havoc on my eyes.”
“Is that the blue light laser . . . the one you’re going to show me how to use?”
Demetre waved away his words and opened the bottom drawer of his desk. He poured two glasses of bourbon and slid one over to Angelo. “Congratulations, I heard you passed your boards.”
“Thank you.” Angelo tipped his cup and drank.
“Besides, you’re a fucking doctor,” Demetre added. “I’m not going to teach you how to operate a laser like some trained monkey. Stanzione should be ashamed he even suggested such a thing.”
Angelo stared confusedly. “I thought you’d agreed.”
“I know he’s your boss and all, but he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
“So, you’re not going to train me to use the blue light laser?”
“Angelo, if you want to learn how to remove hair then I’ll be happy to show you, but I’m not going to force you to do something because of some bullshit scheme Stanzione cooked up.”
“What about the medical spa?” Angelo asked. “I thought you were all in.”
Demetre rubbed his chin. Angelo detected mischief in his eyes, and for a moment he wondered if Demetre was pulling his leg.
“So, what did you think of Violet?” Demetre asked, navigating away from the topic of the medical spa. “Some piece of work, right?”
“She’s a colorful woman.”
“That she is,” he said, holding the cup to his lips before taking another swallow. “Her ex-husband, not Sam, the one before, owned a chain of stereo stores in Phoenix. After he died, she inherited everything and sold them off to PC Richards. You know how much that old bitch is worth?”
“I can’t imagine.”
Demetre snapped his fingers. “Hey, are you accepting new patients?”
“You’re not thinking of pawning Violet Trautman off on me?”
“No, she has an arsenal of doctors already,” Demetre said, laughing. “I do have lots of attractive male clients I can refer to you.”
Angelo took another sip instead of responding. The warm syrupy taste coursed through his body so that he felt flushed. Starting with you, I hope, Angelo wanted to ask.
“Oh, that’s right,” Demetre said. “You’re not looking for love.”
“I never said that.” Angelo cocked his head from side to side, cracking his neck. “I said, I’m currently not dating anyone. Besides, it’s unethical to date patients.”
Demetre walked behind Angelo and began massaging his shoulders. “Why so tense? Now that you’ve passed the boards you should feel relieved.”
Angelo sat up. It was disconcerting to feel Demetre’s strong hands kneading his muscles like they were clay.
“I am relieved,” he said right before he moaned with pleasure. “It’s these damn shoes . . . I have a blister.”
“Come with me.” Demetre grabbed the bottle and walked into an exam room. “Take off those shoes and lie down.”
The cushiony, leather-upholstered exam table was nothing like the outdated ones in the exam rooms upstairs. Angelo kicked off his shoes and removed his socks, dusting the black lint off his feet. Demetre poured them another round.
“Here,” Demetre said. They drank shots in unison. Demetre took the cups and set them aside. Pulling up a stool, Demetre ordered Angelo to lie back. “Let me see your foot.”
“Seriously?” Maybe it was the bourbon or the utter relief he felt now that he had the boards behind him. Angelo let out a long exhalation of air and propped up his feet.
“Well, you have a blister on your heel,” Demetre said, opening a drawer. He removed a packet, tore it open, and squeezed the ointment on his finger. Angelo sank into the cushion as if he were set in gelatin. All at once, he felt like he was floating.
“How does that feel?” Demetre asked as he applied the ointment to Angelo’s blistered heel.
“Like heaven.”
With Demetre kneading his thumbs into the sole of Angelo’s foot, the tension faded.
“It’s those cheap shoes,” Demetre said. “You should spend a little of that hard-earned money and buy better shoes. Your feet will thank you in the end.”
Angelo didn’t respond. He was lost in the swell of the bourbon and the tingling running up his leg. He was neither insulted by Demetre’s comment nor did he believe he was referencing his impoverished upbringing. At that moment, he didn’t care about anything other than being touched.
“You have to take better care of yourself, Doctor.” Demetre moved on to Angelo’s other foot. “You want to end up a nervous wreck like Steven?”
“Steven is stressed out by all the changes,” Angelo said. “Plus, Laura gets under his skin.”
“Steven is a shelter dog. Cute. Sad. Eager to please. Except he has no identity. It’s like Stanzione rescued him from certain death, and from that moment on, Steven ceased being an individual. Tell me, what do you know about him other than being a control freak?”
“I know he likes to paint,” Angelo declared proudly.
Demetre chuckled. “You mean the trash art?”
“See, you do know something about Steven.”
He leaned in, leering down at Angelo. “I wouldn’t hang that shit in my waiting room.”
“Those pieces upstairs are Steven’s?”
Demetre cocked an eyebrow. “Original trash art by Steven.”
Angelo sat up, his head spinning. “I told Steven to get rid of them. Fuck. I called them tacky. Why did I say that?” Angelo cringed as his spirits sank further, recalling Steven’s wounded expression when he told him the paintings were tacky.
Demetre’s eyes were bright with relish. “Don’t ever stop being honest. The truth is brutal but necessary.” He poured them another round. “Come on. Drink up. Let’s toast to Steven, the shelter dog and his trash art.”
“Now, you’re being cruel,” Angelo said. “Stanzione doesn’t treat Steven like a dog. They’ve been together fifteen years. Okay, so maybe there’s a power imbalance in Stanzione’s favor, but that doesn’t mean they don’t love each other.”
Demetre jerked up. Feet planted firmly on the floor. “You think Steven and Tony are really in love?”
“Yes, well . . . .”
“They sleep in separate beds.”
“Well, how would I know that?” Angelo asked.
Demetre sat back down, grinning like he’d just beat Angelo in cards. “You know, for a doctor you’re not very observant.”
Angelo stood up quickly. For a moment, he felt wobbly. “I am very observant. I observe people all the time.” Without realizing, he had doused his shirt in bourbon.
“Okay,” Demetre said, reaching up to grab several paper towels and handing them to Angelo. “So, Dr. Observant, you think Steven and Tony are really in love?”
“Yes, I do,” he said petulantly as he blotted his shirt.
When Angelo looked up, he was met by Demetre’s eyes, studying him narrowly. “Tony is so miserable he looks perpetually constipated, and disguised under that strip of AstroTurf he calls hair and buried under that armor of artificial muscles is a sad little fairy his macho Italian father rejected years ago. But instead of realizing how lucky he is, how fucking amazing his life could be, what does the great Stanzione do? He bitches and moans and whines. And at the end of the day, he drags that poor little shelter dog home with him and projects all that anger and frustration upon him, throwing scraps of food on the floor when he’s done eating so that Steven can chew them. Does that sound like love to you?”
Angelo clenched his cup with his teeth and began a slow clap. “That was poetic and harsh.”
“I only speak the truth.” Demetre stood up and took a bow. “Kid, if you learn anything in life it’s that in order to survive you have to be indefatigable if not indestructible. When that bitch, Kathleen Eichhorn, refused to make me partner, even though I was doing most of the work, I saved my money and bought a laser. Now I own my own company, and every single one of my clients followed me. Having a Park Avenue address was the next step. I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I had to fight for everything I have, and I would do anything to keep it.”
“So, where does the medical spa fit in?” Angelo asked.
“Forget the spa,” he said quickly. “What do you want? What are your dreams?”
Angelo cleared his throat. The conversation had veered from casual and celebratory to serious and interrogatory. “I don’t know.”
“Bullshit. Everyone has dreams.”
So, drunk, he said the first thing that came to mind. “I hope to become partner one day.”
“Good.” Demetre drew a deep breath. “So, you have a goal in mind.” Angelo hoped that Demetre would leave it at that, but then he said, quite softly and without inflection, “And you think Stanzione is going to let you become his partner one day?”
“Yes,” he said timidly. “Why not?”
“Face it, kid,” Demetre said, chuckling, snidely. “He’s never going to give you that.”
Angelo shook his head, fiercely. “We have a deal.”
“Oh, so you signed a contract?”
“No, it was a verbal agreement,” Angelo said. “I had to pass the boards first.”
“And Stanzione said he would make you partner?”
“It was implied.”
Angelo suddenly felt like Demetre knew more than he was letting on. Assessing his responses as though he was taking mental notes.
“Why do think Stanzione hired you?” Demetre asked.
“What kind of question is that?”
Demetre sat there grinning, a look of amused pity on his face. “I’m not here to burst any bubbles, but the truth is that Stanzione doesn’t do anything unless there’s something in it for him. Why didn’t he hire someone already board certified? Did you ever think about that?”
“Yes, Stanzione said he hired me because he knew I’d work harder than any of those board-certified candidates.”
“Or perhaps it’s because they asked for too much money, or maybe he picked you because you’re young, cute and eager to please.”
Angelo gaped at him for a wounded second. “Are you implying that I’m a shelter dog like Steven?”
“Are you?” Demetre asked. “I don’t know you well enough yet.”
“I refuse to eat anyone’s scraps.” Angelo sat up, insulted. He picked up his socks and proceeded to put them back on.
“Guess I hit a nerve,” Demetre mocked. “I’m sure you’re making more money now than you ever made in your life, but eventually, as the years pass, you’ll realize just how much Stanzione has been screwing you, and bitterness will fester inside you until you grow as old and miserable as him.” There was a long pause. Angelo fought to hide the hurt and confusion he was experiencing. “That’s enough shop talk for one night,” he said turning amiable and charming again. “We have bigger fish to fry.”
“What?”
Demetre leaned forward. The V of his scrub top buckled to reveal the deep cleft of his chest swathed in tufts of dark hair. “Listen to me,” he said, clutching Angelo’s knees. “Appearance is everything, and while you are an attractive man, you dress like a high school teenager attending the freshman formal.”
“You’re being cruel again.”
“Don’t act wounded. I’m just being honest. I believe you have dreams. You set your sights high and landed in a very good place, but what happens next depends completely on you. Being better than who you are sometimes means pretending to be someone you’re not. You’re a Park Avenue doctor. You should be eating caviar, not burgers from a bag, and dating princes not policemen.”
“Fuck,” Angelo said. He’d forgotten about his date with Jason. Angelo froze like a cornered mouse.
“Yeah, fuck him. Just don’t date him.”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Angelo shouted, standing up. How could he have forgotten? It didn’t seem possible that a dinner date with Jason had slipped his mind like forgetting to call someone back. Was Demetre right? Was Angelo not as observant as he thought he was?
“What is it?” Demetre asked.
“I have a date with that cop tonight.”
“Cancel it.”
“Wait. What?” He couldn’t deny that was exactly what he wanted to hear from Demetre, that somehow it made his actions excusable. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not?” Demetre asked. “Text him right now.”
“I’ve blown him off once already.” The hope he felt about this burgeoning relationship with Demetre felt worth it—like a microscope gone into focus—new and refreshing and with endless possibilities.
“You’re a doctor,” Demetre said, grabbing Angelo’s hips. He pulled him until their faces were so close Angelo could smell the bourbon on Demetre’s breath. “Tell him something came up at the hospital. Tonight, we celebrate like kings. The day after tomorrow, you and I have unfinished business.”
The next morning, Angelo woke up sticky and peevish, replaying events of the night before, as much of them as he could remember. He cringed at the thought of himself lying on Demetre’s exam table, slobbering like some moony-eyed drunk girl, his voice cloying and breathy. Angelo was disgusted and panicked. He jumped out of bed, ran into the bathroom, and threw up. Afterward, he stripped off his underwear and took a shower. He let the water envelope himself, but his body refused to relax under its calming stream. His stomach clenched, he vomited again. Brown saliva clung to his lips.
By the time he arrived at the office, Steven and Laura were conversing in the stairwell. It looked as if Laura was complaining. Her shoulders were practically touching her ears. As soon as they saw Angelo, she stopped talking and darted down the stairs like she’d forgotten to turn off the oven. “Morning,” Angelo said, walking to his office.
Steven followed and closed the door behind him. “Apparently there was a little party here last night.”
Angelo’s stomach convulsed. “What do you mean?”
Steven slid into the chair and leaned forward like a neighbor bursting with gossip. “When I got here this morning, I noticed the lights were still on downstairs. So, I went to turn them off, and that’s when I smelled the smoke.”
“Smoke?”
“Yeah, so I checked all the rooms, and wouldn’t you know, one of the exam rooms looked like there was a frat party: empty bottles of booze, cigarette butts and the worst smell of cigarette smoke.” Steven’s voice trailed off long enough for him to shiver with disgust. “I swear it’s like a saloon down there. So then, I came up here and guess who I find sleeping on Tony’s sofa?”
“Who?”
Steven glowered dramatically. “Demetre.”
“What!”
Steven put his finger to his lips and jerked his head toward Stanzione’s office. “Tony’s meeting with him right now. When I woke Demetre, he said that he had worked late and didn’t want to drive back home to New Jersey. Said he was worried about falling asleep at the wheel. I was like, oh yeah, working late, huh. Then I called Tony and told him he’d better get over here right away.”
From down the hall, Laura called. “Ste-ven? Ste-ven?”
He rolled his eyes ferociously. “Back here, Laura.”
She opened the door a crack and wedged her face in. “I’m sorry to bother you, but do you have any more Lysol?”
“I’ll be right downstairs to help. Don’t worry, we’ll get rid of the smell.”
Laura pouted with exasperation. “This is why I hate basement offices. No windows. Now it truly feels and smells like a dungeon.” Then she disappeared, but Angelo could still hear her whining from down the hall.
“I’d better go help her,” Steven said, getting up.
“Wait,” Angelo whispered. “What do you think Dr. Stanzione is going to do?”
Steven shrugged. “He’s not happy, but it’s not like Demetre broke the law.”
It was then the door to Stanzione’s office opened. Demetre came out, hands in his pockets, bobbing along with a springy walk. Stanzione followed behind him. When he saw them staring anxiously, he stepped inside Angelo’s office and closed the door. “We had a long talk,” he said, gripping Steven’s arms. “Demetre apologized, and he understands that if it ever happens again, he’ll be asked to leave.”
