“Is it wrong that I gave him his tetanus shot in the butt?”
My head whips up from the computer. “What? You gave him—”
Jade giggles and plops the chart down in front of me. “Kidding. But holy hell, did you see the tats on that guy? A body like that could leave you speechless. Oh that’s right … you were speechless.”
Focusing back on the monitor, I shake my head. “I was just distracted by the GSW that Ellis stole from me, that’s all.”
“Mmm hmm,” Jade hums with a smirk that matches my own.
*
The five mile commute to my condo in Lincoln Park takes twenty minutes to navigate in the massive crush of people, cars, and busses. Keeping with my normal routine, I strip then pull on my shorts and sports bra while listening to phone messages.
Darby, Cal wanted me to remind you about the fundraising dinner this weekend. I’ll send over your dress, and I can also arrange to have your hair and makeup done. Will Steven be picking you up, or shall I send a car for you? Call me, darling.
“Call me, darling!” Sarcastic contempt leaks from every cell in my body. Darling? Seriously, at forty-one, Rachel, my “stepmom,” is closer to my age than my father’s. I think that’s why she refers to him as Cal instead of my dad or father. She’s caught in the middle—not quite old enough to be my mother but young enough to be Calvin Carmichael’s daughter. What can I say? My father has Hugh Hefner Syndrome. He had it when he married my mom. She was twenty-two years his junior. He’s my father and genetically I’m programmed to love him, but Calvin Carmichael doesn’t have a monogamous bone in his body.
I hop on my bike and spin out my legs because I love exercising! Who doesn’t? It’s good for my heart and I love the neurogenesis, mood enhancement, and endorphin release. Just kidding! I do it because I love food as much as boots and skinny jeans.
To take my mind off the sweat and burn, I channel surf. Dating Naked is on; I roll my eyes at the stupidity of it. Speaking of stupid relationships, I remember to call Steven.
He answers on the first ring. “I’ve got thirty seconds, Darb, go.”
Yeah, that’s our sex life too—lucky me!
“Are you still planning on going this weekend?” I ask like I actually care … which I don’t.
“Oh crap! The fundraiser. I’m on call so I might have to miss it or leave if there’s an emergency. Is that a problem?”
I laugh. Fifty-thousand-dollar-a-plate dinner that your parents are paying for … Nah, it’s no problem for me. “Hey, you’re saving lives.”
“You know it, babe. Gotta go.”
Dr. Steven Ashby, sole heir to Ashby Communications, drives a yellow convertible Corvette and calls himself a metrosexual. That pretty much wraps up his personality. Our relationship is convenient and approved by both his parents and mine—well, my father and evil stepmother.
“Hey, Rachel, sorry I missed your call. Steven is planning on attending the dinner this weekend, so I’ll ride with him. However, he’s on call, but I have the know-how and resources to figure out my own transportation. I look forward to seeing the dress you picked out for me. Tell my father ‘hi.’ See you Saturday.”
I press End on my phone and crank up the resistance until my legs feel the fire. Skinny jeans, skinny jeans, skinny jeans. I hate lying, but with my family it’s necessary for survival. The truth? I’m not sorry I missed Rachel’s call, and I’m not looking forward to seeing the dress she picked out for me.
Rachel Hart founded Hart Designs in her mid-twenties. She has the look and the money my father likes. He has the clout and connections she likes. I may be bitter, but I’m not blind. She has insane talent and celebrities around the world flock to have her design one-of-a-kind gowns.
I have a closet full of them, mostly in hues of green. Rachel says purple, blue, and red are other suitable colors for my ginger hair and fair skin, but green is “stunning on me so why mess with perfection?” The problem is it feels too perfect. I have a Saint Paddy’s Day birthday, and I’m not sure if it’s because or in spite of it … I don’t like green.
After an intense, sweat-dripping workout and a shower, I inspect the reflection in the mirror with a scrutinizing eye, then I call Gemmie.
“Is this a 9-1-1 emergency?” she answers with her usual snarky attitude.
I laugh. “Yes, Gemmie, it is.”
“It wouldn’t have anything to do with the ritzy fundraiser this weekend, now would it?”
“You know me so well. I was going to do my—”
“Yeah, yeah, you were going to do your own hair until you took a break from saving the sin-filled city of Chicago one stab wound at a time and looked in a mirror. Then you realized there’s only one person who can transform your flaming mane into a work of art. Enter, yours truly.”