11. Chapter 11
Jessica
Work is busy over the next few days, with my students taking a series of state-mandated, standardized tests. I always hate this time. The kids are stressed and irritable, which means they act out and get into more trouble than usual. Twice on Thursday I have to send a student to the principal’s office, one for threatening me and another for cheating. Normally, I pride myself on being an ally for them, an advocate, but sometimes they push me over the edge. Boundaries have to be in place so they don’t walk all over me. It breaks my heart, but I’ve learned the hard way that it’s best for me and for them.
I’m rushing to get ready on Friday night. My hair is still warm from the curling iron as I slip on the high heels West got to match my dress. They’re taller than I usually wear, at least five inches, but fit well enough that they’re comfortable.
Carefully, so I don’t fall, I gather up the skirt of my dress and make my way down what I’ve come to think of as my stairs.
West waits for me in the kitchen, leaning against the counter and scrolling through his phone with one ankle crossed over the other. He looks up when he hears the tap of my shoes on the marble floor. Once he sees me, the hand that holds his phone drops to his side, forgotten. His eyes widen, and for a minute he seems at a loss for words.
I feel the same way. He got dressed at the gym after he worked out, so this is the first time I’ve seen him in his black tuxedo with its clean white shirt and red tie. His hair is carefully styled, gelled back from his face so his strong jaw is emphasized. Black dress shoes and silver cufflinks finish his outfit.
“Nice tux,” I tell him, noting how his broad shoulders fill it out.
“Nice dress,” he responds, his voice lower than usual.
“It should be.” I unleash my grin and send him a wink. “You bought it for me.”
He chuckles at that, bowing his head to hide his smile. He holds out his hand. “Come on, funny lady.”
I take his offered hand and hold it, letting him pull me toward the front door. We stop to put on our jackets since it’s winter now. Cold air off Lake Michigan blows snow so hard it flies horizontally to strike the penthouse windows, creating a tap-tap-tapping sound. West has been lighting the fireplace in the corner of the room every night. I’ve enjoyed its crackling heat as I’ve snuggled under a fuzzy blanket, reading on the couch next to him. Now the fireplace is unlit. I spare it a glance before he closes the door behind us. Hopefully we’ll be back in time to sit beside it later this evening.
The drive to the Art Institute is quiet. West is nervous. I can tell from the way he grips the steering wheel tightly and how his shoulders hunch up close to his ears. Most people wouldn’t notice details like that, but when you live with someone who doesn’t like to communicate with words you learn to interpret their body language. To watch for the small signals that indicate their mood. I’ve done that with him. Studied him, searching for the key to unlock all the mysteries in that dark head of his.
Do you need to know me?
Yes. I’d like that.
We park and walk to the front entrance with me tottering slightly in my high heels. Right before we enter, West reaches out and clutches my hand. If I mentioned it, he would say it was just for appearances, but I know the truth. I work with kids every day. I can sense when they need the comfort of touch. When they crave a hug or a squeeze on the shoulder.
He may be a grown man, but I’m realizing more and more that there’s the hint of a child in him, underdeveloped and potentially neglected. Why else would he have been on his own by fifteen?
Tall signs labeled “special event” point the way to the conservatory. I come to a standstill when we walk into the room. It’s huge, with soaring ceilings made of repeating triangular panels of glass that come together to form a dome over our heads, the center of which is a large piece of stained glass, ruby red and faceted like a jewel.
It’s a true conservatory, filled along the perimeter with plants, including tall palm trees—a complete juxtaposition to the blowing snowstorm that we drove through to get here. Along with the palm trees, there are spiky ferns and tropical flowers, including hibiscus and bird of paradise. The air has a faintly humid feeling to it, like they pump moisture into the room to keep the plants healthy. I reach up to confirm it’s making the curls at the base of my neck spring up into even tighter spirals.
Round tables with red tablecloths and gold chairs are placed around the space, all oriented toward a large, raised stage with a microphone on a stand.
Using our joined hands, I point to it. “That’s where they’re going to sell you off like cattle, huh?”
West doesn’t laugh at that. He just looks grim and with a resigned sigh says, “Yeah. That’s it. They’ll do it during dinner. When everyone is sitting down to eat. That way the audience gets food, and I guess I’m their entertainment.”
Hoping to lighten him up a bit, I suggest we get a drink. We move through the growing crowd to the bar, where, as promised, there’s free alcohol. I choose a glass of red wine and West gets a gin and tonic. He’s just stuffed a couple of bills into the tip jar when the big-chested nurse from his office breezes up to us.
“Why, hello,” she purrs, her eyes bright and locked on me. “I know you from the clinic. What’s the name again? Jennifer? Jasmine?”
I open my mouth to answer, but West beats me to it.
“Jessica,” he tells her. “Jessica Jones.” His hand once again finds mine, maybe more for my sake this time. The woman reminds me of a shark, calculating and predatory. She stares with fascination at our intertwined fingers.
Gesturing to the woman, West tells me, “This is Tracy Jensen, one of our nurses and the wife of my partner, Jeremy.”
Wife! I don’t have to worry about her after all.
“Ah! Yes, Jessica. So nice to see you again.” Without hiding it, she looks me up and down. “What a pretty dress and your shoes go with it so well.”
“Thank you,” I tell her, tracking her hand, which has landed on West’s arm.
She squeezes it and tells him, “Jeremy wants to speak with you. Something about the Surgery Center merger.”
West frowns. Dismissively, he says, “I’ll talk to him about it later.”
“He said for you to come now. Dr. Barnet is speaking with him about it, and you know how hard it is to pin that guy down.” She squeezes harder.
West shakes her off with an irritated scowl. “Fine.”
“You can leave your pretty new friend with me,” she says to him. “I’ll take care of her until you get back.”
He opens his mouth to protest, but Tracy cuts him off.
“It’ll be fine. I promise not to bite her. Now hurry before Barnet takes off.” She makes a shooing gesture with her hands.
There’s indecision in his face as he glances from her to me and back again.
It’s petty, but I can’t stop myself from touching his arm—just to prove that I can. “It’s okay. You go. I’ll be fine,” I reassure him.
“Are you sure?” He’s frowning again, his brow so low it shades his eyes.
“Of course.” I give him a small shove away. “I can handle it.”
Right before he leaves, West leans forward and whispers, “She’s the wizard.”
His lips brush the shell of my ear when he says that, and I shiver, a tremor that rolls though my entire body. Tracy observes the interaction closely.
It’s impossible to miss how the crowd parts as West walks away. How the women, and even a lot of the men, stare at him admiringly. I stare too, until I can’t see him anymore. There’s a small ache in my chest with his absence.
“Almost two decades I’ve known West.” Tracy shakes her head, again looking me over. “Never seen him with anyone. No friends. No dates.”
“Really?” I ask her, curious to hear more. “That long?”
She swirls red wine in her glass. “My husband, Jeremy, went to medical school with him and then they did their residency together. Now they’re in the same practice. All those years, he’s only come out alone.”
I flush, feeling special that he chose me , then remind myself that this evening is for West’s benefit.
Not mine.
This isn’t even a real date.
“I was starting to think he was asexual, which would be such a waste of that gorgeous body, when he finally told me he likes a certain kind of woman.” She eyes me shrewdly, waiting for my reaction.
“What kind of woman?” I ask, wondering what that could mean.
A dominant? A submissive? Young or old?
The possibilities are endless.
A shrug of her slim shoulders, “He wouldn’t say. I’m surprised I got that much out of him. You know how he is.”
I sigh and nod because I do know.
She takes a sip of wine and stares at me over the rim of the glass. “He is incredible at his job, though. So smart and good in the OR. Do you know what he’s known for in the office? What he does best?”
I shake my head no and lean closer, curious to learn more about my sexy housemate.
“Mental health,” she says. “That man has a sixth sense for when one of our patients is struggling. He can spot postpartum depression a mile away. Makes three times more referrals to therapists and counselors than the rest of our physicians.”
“That’s amazing,” I say, remembering how West told me his theory about how helping moms is the best way to help kids.
“Is he good in bed?” she asks, giving me whiplash with her sudden change of topic. “Please tell me he is. All the ladies in the office have a bet that he’s fantastic.”
My shoulders stiffen. “I don’t think that’s any of your—”
She continues on as if she can’t hear me. “I mean, I love Jeremy, but he has a tiny dick.”
It’s a good thing my dress is red, so it hides the drops of wine that I spit out. “Ex—excuse me?”
Tracy explains patiently, “It’s like one of those little sausages in a can. What’re they called?”
“Vienna sausage?” I venture cautiously. Surely she’s not comparing her husband’s penis to a piece of lunch meat!
“Yes!” Tracy places her wine glass on a nearby table. “That’s it. How short are those?”
“Umm.” I hold up my hand and make a pinching motion with my fingers. “This small.”
She shakes her head sadly. “He tries, poor man, but there’s only so much you can do with a Vienna cock. How’s West? Hung like a horse?”
I have a sudden vivid recollection of West taking me from behind in his office. How the wood of his desk rubbed my cheek raw as he thrust into me. My face burns with the memory.
Tracy notices right away. “Aha!” she crows. “Knew it. Are you in health care too?”
“I’m a teacher. High-school math. I’m out at Southfield High.”
“Isn’t that in South Side? Like the bad part?”
I nod. “Yeah. It’s a Title One school, meaning most of the students are well below the poverty line.”
“Yikes. That sounds rough.”
“It can be, but I love the kids. They have so much potential. They just need help seeing it.”
Some of the sharpness leaves her features, making her appear softer, younger. “ Shit . You seem like a nice person, Jessica.” She turns to gaze at the space where West was a few minutes earlier. “I know it’s none of my business, but be careful. There’s something off about West. He’s always so fucking controlled. All these years and he’s never been upset, angry, or excited. Never lost his cool, and there’s something eerie about that.” Her expression is somber when she turns back to me. “It’s not normal. I think—”
“What do you think?” West interrupts, reappearing like he’s psychic and knew we were talking about him.
A twinge of surprise mixed with fear causes Tracy to startle. “Jesus! You scared me,” she cries out with her hand hovering over her chest.
West gives her a slit-eyed glare. “What were you saying?”
“Nothing! I—” Tracy’s next words are lost in the hiss of a microphone.
Together, we turn to the source of the sound. A white-haired man stands onstage. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announces. “Please take your seats. We’re about to begin the dinner and auction portion of the evening.”
There’s a shuffling sound as everyone gathers their cocktail glasses and goes to sit down. Right before we leave the bar area, Tracy’s eyes flick to West, who stands close to my shoulder. “See you at work on Monday, West.” She holds out her hand to me. “It was nice to meet you, Jessica.”
“You, too.” I shake her hand, which is cool and dry. My mind is still buzzing from our conversation.
Certain women.
Be careful.
Not normal.
What does it all mean?
West takes me by the elbow and guides me to our seat at a table close to the stage. He quickly introduces me to the other guests who sit there, a couple of pathologists with their wives and a radiologist with her husband. Their names and titles all merge together.
A stunningly handsome man saunters up. He comes to stand next to West. The contrast between them is so stark that it’s startling. West is all brooding darkness, but this new guy—he’s pure sunshine. Bright blond hair and big blue eyes. A wide grin on his face.
“Hey there,” he booms, shooting his hand out toward me. “I’m Parker. You must be Jessica. West told me all about you.”
I’m pretty sure my mouth drops open in shock as he shakes my hand, pumping it enthusiastically.
West has been talking about me?
Parker gracefully ignores my sudden inability to speak. “I’ll be sitting with you while West is up on stage. I’ve been given strict instructions not to touch you.”
“Don’t fucking touch her,” West growls quietly so that only Parker and I hear.
My eyes snap to Parker, expecting him to be angry or fearful, but Parker just laughs and socks West playfully in the shoulder. “Down, boy,” he teases West cheerfully. “Don’t worry. Your date is safe with me.”
I watch to see how West will react to me being called his date, but there’s no flicker of emotion in his frosty gray eyes.
Still grinning, Parker shakes his head at West. “Can’t believe Tracy finally talked you into this.”
West shoves his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, well, I can barely believe it myself.”
Parker laughs again, loud and unrestrained. “It’s your funeral, buddy. Just glad it’s not me up there.” He gives West a friendly smack on the back, the kind that athletes give each other after a particularly good play. I stare, fascinated by this display of intimacy between them. Tracy just told me West has no friends, but given the warm way Parker looks at him I think she might be wrong.
Not sure the feeling is mutual, though. West rolls his eyes at Parker, more annoyed than entertained.
We chat for a few more minutes, long enough for me to learn that Parker is a surgeon who works in the same hospital as West.
“Did you two meet there?” I ask, curious to know more. “In the hospital?”
“I’d just started working here,” Parker tells me. “Had no idea how to get around. The OR was paging me saying they’ve got a patient on the table. I’m rushing around, trying to find the elevator, when I run into this guy.” He hooks his thumb toward West.
West takes over, glowering from the memory. “ Literally ran into me. This asshole comes flying around the corner and knocks into me so hard we both fall down.”
“It was so funny,” says Parker.
“It was a mess,” interjects West. “I was carrying a bunch of old reports to medical records, and they scattered all over the place.”
“I helped you pick them up,” Parker reminds him.
Charmed by the story, I clasp my hands to my chest and gush, “Aww! It was a meet cute! You guys had an actual meet cute!”
Parker wrinkles his brow and asks, “What’s a meet cute?”
West answers, “It’s when the characters in a romance novel first meet in a cute way.”
“How the fuck do you know that?” Parker lifts his brows at West, incredulous.
“Never mind,” mumbles West. I swear he’s blushing. Quickly, he changes the topic. “I’ve got to get going.” West warns Parker, “Remember what I said. I don’t want to unmask all your secrets.” He lowers his eyebrows threateningly, and something unspoken passes between them.
Now it’s Parker rolling his eyes. “As if. Just go already. I told you, Jessica’s my bestie. She’s like a little sister to me.” He sidles closer and throws an arm around my shoulder.
West’s eyes narrow dangerously, but he doesn’t say anything. He just turns to me and sends me a questioning look. It’s an unspoken, Are you going to be okay?
I smile up at him. “Go raise some money for a good cause.”
Once West is gone, Parker proves that he takes his role as my caretaker seriously. He chats to me and carefully includes me in every conversation. I’m grateful for his attentiveness. I might be intimidated in this grand room surrounded by people I don’t know, but Parker is easy to talk to. Soon he’s got me cracking up with his silly jokes and sarcastic comments.
In the background the auction begins, with the white-haired man from earlier calling out the bidding. I can’t tell if he’s a real auctioneer or one of the physicians who’s been trained for the role. Most of the early bidding is on smaller things, such as gift certificates to a local restaurant, golf lessons, or a day at the spa.
We’re finished with dinner and working on dessert by the time that West takes the stage. He swaggers up there, looking cool and confident. If he really wanted to sell himself, he’d smile, but he doesn’t, just looks out over the crowd almost as if he’s bored. When his eyes meet mine, they hold for a second before moving on.
“Who wants a dinner date with this handsome man, Dr. Adam West? Shall we start the bidding at $1,000?” the auctioneer asks.
Immediately, a black-haired woman two tables over raises her hand. I lean around Parker to check out my competition. The woman must love the color purple because her pantsuit is made out of a purplish fabric. Her shoes and nails are the same color. “$3,000,” she bids.
Other hands are raised in rapid succession, all by other women in the crowd. Soon it’s at $10,000 for a dinner date with West. As the price goes higher, more and more people drop out from the bidding.
It’s down to the purple-loving lady and a younger blonde woman who sits over by the bathrooms.
“$10,000,” the auctioneer repeats for a second time.
“$15,000,” says the purple lady, her attention fixed on West with something like hunger.
“That’s Marsha Stussman,” Parker tells me in a whisper. “The hospital CEO.”
Oh, so that’s the administrator West was worried about. I’m so busy looking her over that I almost miss the auctioneer as he repeats, “$15,000. Going once. Going twice…”
West clears his throat loudly, and my head snaps his way. He’s pointedly staring at me with lifted eyebrows.
Shit!
I raise my hand like one of my students when they have to use the restroom. “Wait! I’ll pay 20. $20,000.”
The room hushes, and everyone looks my way. Maybe I should have offered $16,000 before jumping to $20,000, but heck, I haven’t done this before. I have no idea what I’m doing.
Even the auctioneer is befuddled. He takes his glasses off and wipes them before replacing them and peering at me. “$20,000?”
I nod yes, holding my head high. Let everyone be surprised. The truth is, I think West is worth the money. Plus, it’s not coming out of my pocket. Didn’t West say to spend as much as I need?