That Guy Read online

  Being the responsible party for the flying needle embedded into a hefty nurse’s arse was not a great start to my second week of rotation either. I think our professors and the other students knew immediately that a scalpel and Melinda Grant should never be allowed in the same room together.

  The upside: Karma made sure that flying prick found the butt of the meanest nurse to walk the halls of the Presbyterian University Hospital. And for this, I was grateful.

  With two paracetamols sliding down my throat and an ice pack on my head, I fetch Fletcher, the neediest cat I’ve ever known, some tuna in spring water for his dinner. I tip it into his bowl. His tongue laps in mid-air as he attempts to catch tuna flakes in free fall.

  “Chew your food. Fletcher, chew.”

  He hoovers his meal down like he hasn’t eaten in more than a week.

  “Or don’t chew. Do what you want, Fletch. You do anyway.”

  I shift in the small space of the kitchen until I’m facing the sink. I rinse the empty tin, and as I do, I can’t shake the feeling of being a fry fish swimming hopelessly in the vast sea we call life.

  When will things change?

  I press my palms against the bench I not long ago bashed my head on and scan the unit. Plain white walls I’ve yet to decorate even though I’ve been in this apartment for two years now. There are no photos displayed, only quaint furnishings placed around the rainbow rug Nana Violet left me in her will. I never liked that rug. In fact, I used to roll it up and stuff it under her couch when I visited her as a child. It’s hideous and faded, but I can’t seem to part with it, because every time I look down, it reminds me how much I loved my nana. How easy my youth and my life were before tweenhood and young adultness snuck up on me. Nana’s rug is the part of her she left behind for me, and it’s a piece of my life and history at a time I felt free.

  The matte grey recliner pushed up against the rug’s frayed edges calls my name when I come to shift my eyes. The book on its armrest only intensifies this summoning. I drag my feet the short distance until I drop exhausted in the chair and curl up into a ball, instantly grabbing the paperback and flicking through page after page.

  Romance novels—how I love them. I wish I could fold myself into a small piece of origami sometimes and slip into the pages where I could live the lives of the characters filling them.

  If only.

  Click, click.

  The lock on the front door turns over. I flash my vision towards the sound for a second, then dismiss the need to wait for his entry, focusing my attention back to the fight occurring between Delilah and Hugh in this addictive read.

  “Hello, sugar dumplings. Daddy’s home,” Chris calls out with the most feminine tone a male can possess. The door slams shut.

  “You know you don’t live here.” I’m all attitude in my welcoming. “One bedroom and all.” I point at the wall behind me when Chris comes into view, the wall which separates the bathroom and the bedroom from the remainder of the place.

  I lay the novel down onto the small circular table beside my recliner, the recliner situated by the only window I have in this entire unit. Well, the single window apart from the box fan-sized one residing in the bedroom and the bathroom.

  Chris suddenly giggles.

  No man should giggle, but Chris does. And it sounds like a hyena on crack. He says his many lovers find this to be an endearing quality, but for me, it’s plain annoying.

  Sexcapades and Chris: He juggles multiple suitors at once, and he’s laid more men in the past year than I have in my entire sexual life. Chris’s giggle brings all the dicks to the yard, as he often says. It seems mine makes them turn and run away from the milk bar.

  How does he do it? Churn out man after man? Give his entire heart to someone he’s just met only to allow it to be crushed over and over? He won’t admit it, but Chris loses in love all the time even though he’s convinced himself love is not something anyone should want to attain.

  “What ya doing, sugar?” he says with a Southern drawl.

  I wish he would drop these short-spurt accents he adopts. “I was reading.”

  “Oh.” A hint of a smile touches his lips. “So I bought you a little something to cheer up your sad-as-fuck face.” He holds a pink gift bag in front of his chest with one hand while his other hand is placed on his hip at the same time as his head tilts to the side.

  I can’t see through the bag. Initially, I’ve no idea what could be inside since no store label is displayed. But then I have a feeling, this realisation, that this gift being delivered by Mr Fairy, Fuck All the Men in Australia has something to do with a conversation we shared about a week ago. My suspicion grows even more firm when his manicured eyebrows suddenly sit a few centimetres from my face. They wiggle up and down over the top of his enormous Bambi sized green eyes.

  “Are you wearing mascara again?” I mumble.

  “No, doll face, I’ve had my eyelashes tinted. You should try it.” He pecks my cheek with his sticky glossed lips as he drops the bag onto my lap. “Open, open. I think you’re going to love.” His voice reaches an impressive Oprah giveaway pitch on the word love. “Why are you so glum all the time? You sure know how to take the sparkle out of the world, Miss Sad, Hasn’t Had the ‘D’ in a Millennium.”

  I sigh right as Chris shuffles his bony butt down beside mine in the chair. He wraps his long scrawny arm around my shoulders. His blond Justin Bieber hair brushes against my cheek. “I love you, Minty Mindy. It will all be okay if you open the bag.”

  “Fine.” I smile, peeling back the straw like handles. I already know a new friend is waiting inside for me. One which probably requires batteries and slips between one's legs.

  I wasn’t wrong. I’m never wrong when it comes to gifts from Chris.

  “Isn’t he won-der-ful?” Chris draws out every syllable as though this is the most beautiful piece of machinery he’s ever laid eyes on. In all seriousness, it’s probably the only piece of machinery he knows the ins and outs of. “Um, the rainbow colouration was necessary because he’s a dream. A fantasy. Eight speeds of pure delight.”

  “Chris, you can’t buy me a vibrator.”

  “I can, and I did. What are friends for if they don’t help their besties find their happy places somehow? Now maybe you’ll smile, and these frown lines currently growing deeper and deeper right here …” He runs his finger around my lips. I smack his hand away. “… these might disappear.” My left eye spreads wide due to his fingers parting it. “Girl! You need to use the moisturisers and cleansers I buy for you.” He sighs. “You could not survive without me.”

  Chris is right about one thing: I couldn’t survive without him.

  “Get your hands off my frown wrinkles, you crazy man.” I bat his hand away again and stand. “Thank you for your generous gift. I’ll add it to the other purchases you supply me with, shall I?”

  “Use it,” he growls as he wiggles into the centre of the chair before crossing one leg over the other. “Trust me, babe, it’s so good.”

  “You bought one of these for yourself, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, hon. Oh, sugar tits. Oh, Minnie Moo. I have six. In six different colours.” His hands frame his face in the perfect Vogue pose. “Look at me. I know my products. I ain’t no amateur when it comes to bedroom playtime.”

  I can’t help but giggle. There’s one thing I can say about Chris: he’s pure entertainment.

  “Of course, you do.” My smile broadens.

  “So tell me.” His tone fills with curiosity. “Did you sign up for the online dating site I was telling you about?”

  “Um … so … no.”

  He chuckles. “I thought not. I took the liberty of doing it for you.”

  My jaw drops. Chris didn’t. He wouldn’t.

  Yes, he would. It’s Chris. Chris knows no boundaries.

  “Run along. Get your laptop. I think you’re going to be chuffed with my creation.” He flutters his eyelashes. “You already have two spankings, a kiss, and a lick o
f the lips.”

  “A spanking? A kiss? A what? Are you speaking English?”

  “Oh, you’ll see.” He wiggles his eyebrows, then uncrosses his legs before standing. “Give me a minute.” He disappears as quickly as he spoke. I can only assume he’s raced off to get my laptop.

  I slump my shoulders. My head follows suit. Today has not been a good day for me. First, there was my shopping trip debacle with the hottest guy I’ve ever laid eyes on, and the shoplifter status that came with the stolen cake still resting on my bench. Then a gift of a rainbow-coloured vibrator to rid me of my apparent misery. Now, this. Can today finally wrap me up in a large quilt and smother me to death?

  There’s a flash of pink, the pink colouration of Chris’s T-shirt whizzing by me. “Sit, sit.” He pats the fabric pillowtop of the chair he’s pulled out from under the two-seater dining table. “Come see what I’ve done.” My assumption was correct. The screen on my laptop goes from black to lit in seconds.

  I don’t move. Instead, I take a long inhale and let out an even longer exhale.

  “Holy crap. You have even more spankings. Oh, that guy is nice-looking. I can see it. I can see it.” Chris suddenly holds his hands out in front of his face, moving them like a picture frame he’s trying to capture me in. “Yes, I think this will be a good match.”

  “Stop.” I shake my head. “I don’t want to do online dating.”

  “Mush phush. You don’t know what’s good for you. I do. Come now, and sit.”

  Reluctant, I drag my feet towards him. Oh, boy!

  Chris’s arm wraps around my shoulder when I sit. He moves the laptop a fraction until I see the full screen. He scrolls the arrow, clicking away until a picture of me fills my vision.

  I’m wearing a lot of make-up, more than I usually would. My blue eyes are bright and alive, my blonde hair falls over my shoulder, and I’m smiling. I’m actually smiling.

  My lips lift.

  “You’re such a beauty,” he whispers.

  “Where did you get this photo?”

  “My birthday bash last year. Look at your tits in this picture. They’re busting out of your top. I’ve heard straight men love the boobs, so I found the bustiest picture I had of you. Voila.” He flicks his hands to the side, as one would when on a diet infomercial showcasing a new health product. Have I just become an online product for the opposite sex?

  “It’s a good picture of me.” I’m surprised I like it. I’m not usually a fan of photographs of myself.

  “Girl!” Chris’s lips purse. “You’re all types of fine.”

  “Pffft.” I’ve never seen myself as attractive, but in this photograph, with all my happiness displayed, I don’t look half bad.

  “Okay, so, this is your description. Give it a read and tell me what you think,” he says, clapping.

  Name: Melinda Renee Grant

  Born: October 2nd, 1988

  Age: Twenty-nine

  Hair: Blonde

  Eye Colour: Blue

  Height: 165 cm

  Occupation: Doctor

  I stop reading and twist my head until I’m staring at Chris. “I’m not a doctor anymore.”

  “You’re still qualified. You’re still Dr Grant.”

  “It’s lying. I don’t want to lie.”

  “You’re still a doctor—you’re just not a practicing doctor.”

  “And we both know why.” I hitch my eyebrows high on my forehead.

  “Stop.” He places his hand on my arm. “Just keep reading.”

  I take a long inhale and turn my vision back to the screen.

  Hobbies: Reading, dancing, and meditation.

  Likes: Cold, rainy afternoons curled up with a book. Picnics. Dancing on the beach. Romance films. Go-carts. Pool. Barbecues, and the stars.

  Dislikes: Smoking and almost all physical activities.

  I laugh. It’s true. I’m not one for hiking, fishing, camping, exploring, or exercise.

  Admires: Christopher Joseph Grandy. My best friend.

  I flick my vision in Chris’s direction. “Really? You? You couldn’t put Audrey Hepburn, Jane Austen, or Oprah Winfrey? It’s gotta be you?”

  His smile touches his eyes. “I’m way better than those people.”

  “And you have many tickets on yourself.”

  “If you don’t love yourself, then who will?”

  I smack his chest.

  “What? I’m honest.”

  I shake my head, turning my attention back to the screen.

  About: I’m quiet, shy, and well-educated. I like the subtle and small things in life. I’m easily pleased, low-maintenance, and looking for love. I’m not interested in casual hook-ups or one-night stands.

  “That’s it? This is all you put about me? I’m more than these things Chris. Aren’t I?” I look at Chris, deflated and unsure of my own attributes. Am I more than what he’s detailed on this site?

  “Of course, you’re more than this. Stop with the sad eyes already. Mindy, nobody’s going to read a long-winded spiel, mm-kay? Trust me. It's going to bring all the men to your milk bar.”

  “Chris!”

  “What? It will. Straight men love the milk bar.”

  I roll my eyes. “So what now?” I twist a strand of my hair around my finger as nervousness bubbles away in the pit of my stomach.

  “Now we look through all these gentlemen, and the one lady who sent you a big smooch. I guess I should add you’re not a lesbian in there somewhere.” He giggles, seemingly to himself. “We check out who’s responded, then I’ll teach you how to use the site.”

  This site. I shift my vision to the headline at the top of the screen.

  Romance Gold.

  The perfect way to find the one you’ve been searching for!

  “I’m not so sure,” I remark, continuously reading the name of the site and its tagline.

  “You’re going to love it.”

  Love finding love? I highly doubt it. I can’t talk to men, and men don’t talk to me. Well, except for the piece of eye candy at the grocery store earlier tonight. Something about that guy was different to most of the men I’ve met, yet I can’t quite put my finger on what. Who was he? Will I ever see him again? I bite my lip. Hopefully not. The last thing I need is a reminder that people like me want things they can't have.

  Chapter Four

  Nightshift. How I hate working nights. I’d much prefer to work throughout the day, but my workplace operates twenty-four hours, and nights are when most of the action happens … when most of our bookings for following days, weeks, and months are confirmed.

  My job: To pencil in appointments for our many escorts. To make sure all bookings are entered, and instructions for the meetings are communicated to the employees.

  Our cliental: Wealthy, high-end, straightforward, money-making businessmen and women.

  There’s no love involved in these appointed hook-ups. There’s no illusion of a future revolving around two-point-five children, a dog, and a little girl’s dream house. It’s piles upon piles of hundred-dollar bills and bustling schedules. Being perfectly presentable, showing up on time, and giving the client all he desires is a must. I guess it’s like online dating, but a millionaire’s version, for hook-ups and see-ya-laters.

  Working here at Kit on High fascinates me even though I can’t say I enjoy it in any way, shape, or form. I stumbled into the job after replying to an online ad. It had little information about the actual profession I’d be walking into, just a request for a receptionist. I still, after answering these phones for the past two years, can’t fathom how two people can put on a show of attraction and fondness when they barely know each other. It’s even harder to comprehend when you consider most of these meetings take place in luxurious venues in rooms packed full of people and always end in a sexual encounter.

  Ring, ring, ring.

  I shift the microphone attached to my headset in front of my mouth before pressing the accept button on the console situated beside the computer. “Welcome
to Kit on High, you’re speaking with Mindy. How can I be of service?”

  “Good evening, Mindy, it’s Matthew Muller. How are you, sweetie?”

  “I’m great, Mr Muller. Another booking?”

  “Please. You have such a beautiful voice. I wish I knew what you looked like.”

  I roll my eyes. Matthew says these exact words to me every time he calls to make a booking. He’d be less than impressed if he saw what I looked like, though. “Mr Muller, you’re very kind. Now, your booking, how can I help?”

  “I’d like Callie for an event at the end of October. Is she free?”

  “Date and time please, Mr Muller?” I click the mouse now cupped under my hand, bringing up Callie’s calendar.

  “Yes. I need Callie from five p.m., Friday, the twenty-ninth, until ten a.m., Sunday, the thirty-first. Can this be arranged?”

  “I will check. Please give me a moment.” I scroll down the page to find Callie’s slot for the requested dates only to spy the weekend highlighted in orange, which means a tentative booking has already been placed. I read the name: Matthew Muller. Callie would have created this booking herself because the only person who can add a tentative booking is an escort herself. It’s lucky for Matthew that Callie did because every other day up until the end of December in her schedule has already been allocated to a client. “Callie will attend, Mr Muller.”

  “Perfect.” He sounds relieved, which is strange because I’d not noticed his tone was tense prior to him saying this.

  “What requirements would you like me to note for your appointment?”

  There’s a long pause.

  “It will be a weekend on the water. Many string bikinis are a must. And an evening gown for a function on the yacht Saturday night. I’ll supply the necessary lingerie and jewellery.” He pauses. “I want Callie to wear red. Red looks so radiant against her pale skin.”