4. Lex
4
Ms. Martinez was prompt; I’d give her that. Helen had only just walked out the door and climbed into her car when Charlotte arrived. They met each other in passing and there was no doubt in my mind that Ms. Martinez read too much into the visit. I had Victor get the door, and my suspicions were confirmed as she watched me descend the staircase and pull my polo on over my head. Her eyes pored over my bare chest for that brief second, though I may have moved more slowly than normal.
“You’re on time.”
“Are you surprised?” she asked, nodding at Victor as he left the two of us at the bottom of the stairs. Charlotte’s eyes swept out over my living room and she seemed mesmerized. It was a sight for anyone who’d never been here before—nine hundred square feet of cavernous delight. The ceiling rose to the height of the second-floor ceiling, an open staircase along the entire north wall, while the entire south wall was glass from floor to ceiling, displaying Biscayne Bay in all its glory. “Woah…” she muttered, but under her breath.
I heard her.
“Would you like a drink?” I asked as I headed into the living room. A decanter of whiskey sat on the end table next to the white leather sofa facing the view, left there after my visit with Helen.
“Uh, sure?” she said, but she didn’t sound sure. She followed me deeper into my home, but her starry-eyed expression never shifted. It was all normal to me, maybe a little overdone. But what else was I supposed to do with bucketloads of money? Even giving 50 percent of my profits away to charities left me with more than I could spend.
I took Helen’s used glass and walked toward the liquor cabinet to exchange it for a clean one and Charlotte asked, “That belonged to your lady friend?” I glanced at her and thought I noticed some disappointment in her eyes, but her friendly smile discouraged me from commenting on it.
“Helen, yes…” I set the glass down and filled two tumblers with a few fingers each, then turned and handed her one. I’d gotten in the bad habit of taking patient appointments at my home in the interest of helping them maintain their privacy. What I was certain Charlotte assumed was a booty call was nothing more than Helen stopping in for her follow-up and me changing out of my work clothes into something more comfortable for this evening. But I never corrected or confirmed that suspicion.
“This is incredible. Your home is…lovely.” She seemed awestruck, and had I been as egotistical as the tabloids said I was, I’d have gloated a little. Charlotte sipped her drink and I nodded at the couches, gesturing with my glass of alcohol.
“We should sit.” I moved that direction and again she followed, though instead of joining me on the couch she sat in the white leather wingback chair and cradled her tumbler in both hands. Her purse awkwardly dangled from her shoulder, hanging on the arm of the chair.
“I must say, I was impressed.” I took a sip while her eyebrows rose and her lips pressed against her glass. “You have to be a tough weed to keep your place in the garden.” My backward compliment gave her pause for a second and a hint of animosity flashed in her eyes before she smiled.
“Thank you. I don’t like to be pushy, but I do believe this interview will be a great thing.” Everything about her was attractive, from her perfect full figure to her pouty lips—always in a pleasant smile—and even the way her short dark bob framed her round dimpled cheeks. Women like Helen, of whom Charlotte seemed to be jealous, had nothing on her. They weren’t my type. But this woman seated on my chair, staring at my body as I walked down those steps only moments ago, she was ticking every box on my list.
“So what on earth could you want with me? Honestly, I’ve looked you up and you don’t even seem to have a name yet, but your articles are well written.”
Her cheeks flushed, the way they had in my exam room. It was arousing. It made me wonder if any of her other body parts flushed like that too.
“Honestly, I think the tabloids paint you in a negative light, and I think the legitimate press misses the importance of who you are as a person by focusing on only your work. I think the world should see the real you. The man behind the surgical mask.” Her drink was almost gone, but I didn’t want to interrupt this dialogue to get up and refill it.
“The man behind the mask?” I wasn’t sure if she wanted to know that man. The man I showed other people wasn’t really me. Inside I was nothing but a bitter, cranky old man who’d grown up with a rotten family and no ability to give or receive real affection. I wore “professionalism” like a mask the way my patients faked their real appearances.
“Yeah, you know, the type of guy you are when you’re at home.” She gestured around my living room, but her eyes focused on my face. “Everyone gets to see the famous, wealthy doctor. No one gets to see Alexander.”
“It’s Lex,” I told her, and then I set my glass down on the table between us and leaned forward. “And there’s a reason no one gets to see that. With the amount of press I receive, I like to keep my personal life on the down-low.”
Charlotte finished her whiskey in one gulp and set the glass down, then reached into her purse and produced a notepad and pen. Poised to write, she asked me, “Are you interested in sharing about your childhood? Or your love life? A lot of times people really enjoy stories like that.”
She seemed anxious, hand shaking, eyes blinking rapidly. I got the feeling there was more depth to the question about my love life than she let on. Was she asking because she was interested in finding out if I was single? Or just for the story. She was a hard read.
“Not particularly.” My love life was not a topic to discuss—at least not for the paper. Women came and left, mostly just left. I’d tried relationships but they never worked out. At times, I blamed my focus on my career, my patient load, those sorts of things. But even in times when business was slow, whoever I happened to date never stuck around more than a few dates. It made my confidence low in that area, and my sex life very much non-existent. Like I said, a grumpy old man with a rotten upbringing.
“Okay,” she said, regrouping and coming at me with a new angle. Her smile still dazzled me, but I found my sullen expression in the reflection of us in my back window. “How about we talk about your college years, how you chose plastic surgery.”
My college years were even worse. It wasn’t a good time for me at all. I wrestled with a drinking problem, yet aced my classes, and I’d been a womanizer—maybe to the point that it was the root of all those rumors the gossip-mill tabloids pushed so often.
“How about we talk about you…” I leaned forward, planting my elbows on my knees and lacing my fingers together. Charlotte stiffened and straightened a little. She shrugged and furrowed her forehead briefly then chuckled nervously.
“I’m here to interview you though.”
“Tell me where you’re from.” Her warm complexion hinted that she wasn’t of European descent like myself, but I couldn’t quite place it. And while it was probably inappropriate for me to put her on the spot, I enjoyed watching her squirm.
“I…uh… My parents immigrated to the United States when my mother was pregnant. I am a first-generation American but my cultural heritage is Guatemalan.” She flicked her tongue over her lip and smiled again; those dimples popped out and made me want to touch them.
“Ah, I see…a dreamer.”
“Yes,” she continued, still seeming on edge. It was very abnormal for me to be so forward with a reporter, but this wasn’t just any reporter. She’d manipulated her way into my office for an appointment to get this scoop, and what she’d done to my dick the other day had piqued my interest in furthering this strange rapport we’d developed.
“I want to speak for marginalized groups in our society like my parents who are trying to finish their naturalization process.”
I chuckled and sat back, stretching my arms along the back of the sofa. The buttons on my shirt strained, the shirt separating slightly, and her eyes went straight to the slight peek of chest hair popping out near my collarbone.
“So why me? I’m not marginalized. I’m probably the farthest thing from that.”
Her flustered expression told me she was just as attracted to me as I was to her, which made for a bit of interesting chemistry building in the air.
“Uh, that’s furthest, not farthest. And I have to start somewhere.” She peeled her gaze off my chest and met my eyes again. “I just need to get my name out there. When I have the influence, I plan to use it to speak for those who need a voice in the media.” The way her chin jutted out defiantly in such a proud way made me believe she would absolutely do that someday. She was one of those people who don’t stop until they have what they want. I was too.
And the insult of being used to further her career didn’t even faze me, though I noticed she seemed to cringe as she said it. I didn’t mind if folks rode my tailwind. I wasn’t too arrogant to kick them off. At one point I had lived for this attention, the crowd following me. I knew it was because I had “mommy issues,” as some women liked to point out. I never got the attention from my parents that I needed so I soaked up the popularity in the media. Recently, however, the negative press had made me realize I’d been living and dying off the attention. I had to change that.
“Well, I’m honored you think I can give you that voice.” I raised my eyebrows and pointed to my most spectacular achievement framed on the wall—a newspaper clipping. “I save lives, you know. I suppose if that’s not worth talking about, what is?”
I expected to get a rise out of her, a nasty comment about boob jobs or tummy tucks not saving lives, but she was the picture of serenity. As if the flustered wanton minx who couldn’t take her eyes off me was gone, replaced with a hyper-professional fem-dom who had one thing in mind—getting the story. The shift in her demeanor also impressed me.
“Can you explain how plastic surgery saves lives?” Her pen was at the ready, millimeters away from the yellow note pad which was eager to receive my answer. I’d practiced this one a million times, but somehow it felt hollow this time, like she deserved better from me. And yet, it marched off my tongue like the good soldier it was, to do battle on my behalf. I had to get ahold of these defense mechanisms or I’d never gain anyone’s true attention.
“Well, I don’t just do boob jobs. Reconstructive surgery for post-cancer patients, like breast-cancer survivors, gives them their life back. And the face transplant I?—”
“But don’t you mostly do facelifts on aging celebrities?” She interrupted me.
I was taken aback by that, annoyed and frustrated. My pre-practiced speech always got the media what they wanted, and I never had to say much more than that. I found myself floundering and sputtering for words.
“Well yes, but I?—”
“And how does changing someone’s appearance save their life?” This time she wasn’t even looking at me. She was scribbling on her pad some illegible chicken scratches that annoyed me.
“I think you have me all?—”
“Dr. Hartman, I want to paint a different picture, so to do that you have to give me better answers.” Her eyes met mine and I almost snapped and bit her head off. “The people want to know the man behind the mask, not the celebrity doctor that touched Lina Joel’s boobs.”
I bolted to my feet with a scowl on my face and blurted out: “Sometimes being a doctor isn’t about what you do, it’s also about what you don’t do. Like not chopping off the perfectly gorgeous tits of a twenty-something who doesn’t like how big they are.”
Charlotte blanched and stared up at me, swallowing hard. Now I’d made her speechless, but in order to do that I had to come across as the monster the media had made me out to be years ago.
I sighed and walked to the window then turned and looked back at her. She held her empty cup in hand, sipping nothing from it. I should have offered her another drink and now I felt bad, but she pushed me to this.
Her hand seemed to start working again, jotting down more notes on her pad, and then she stood and shoved the notepad back into her purse. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I have enough for this first piece… I’d like to come back if I may, at another time. My boss wants me to do a four-part series.” As she spoke she walked past the couches toward the front door, and I rounded the perimeter of the room to meet her before she got to the entryway.
“Please, stop. I apologize. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.” I tried to reach for her hand, but it was an amateur move. I had just offended her deeply. Other than subject and reporter, we had no relationship. Physical touch probably wasn’t warranted, which was evidenced by her backing away and staring at my hand. “Honestly, what I do is really complex and there’s a lot to it. I’d be happy to explain, if you’ll stay.”
I didn’t want her to leave. I actually enjoyed the back-and-forth. No woman had ever been able to match me toe to toe, or best me for that matter. This woman ticked more than my boxes. She seemed like a red thread of destiny tied to my pinky, like the fates ordained our meeting. I liked her spunk, and I’d given her a bit too much of my darkness.
“I think that’s enough for tonight, thank you. Dr. Hartman.” She continued on toward the door and I followed, anxious to see if she might come back another time.
“Charlotte, please…”
She turned around with her hand on the doorknob and smiled politely. This ever-positive, ever-happy woman was unfazed by my rude behavior? But how?
“That’s Charlie, thank you.”
“We can do this again, Charlie. But I’d like to do it at my house. I don’t have time at the office, and I’d hate for the paparazzi to chase you around in public.” I held my breath, hoping she’d agree to the invitation. Yes, it was for the story, and maybe she saw right through it to my ulterior motive of just seeing her again, but I didn’t care. I waited like a high schooler with a crush, hanging on to the thread of hope she’d agree to it.
“Do you want to see me for the story? Or for my ‘gorgeous tits’?” Her sardonic question left me reeling and my dick swelling. Snarky and feisty—what a little vixen, even with that tepid smirk.
“Why not both?” I asked, letting a smirk of my own cross my features.
“Goodnight, Dr. Hartman,” she said, opening the door and walking out. I didn’t stop her this time, but I did stand in the open doorway and watch that tight butt of hers sway with each step as she walked toward her rental car and climbed in.
I swore she looked back at me as she drove away, and it only made my dick swell more. So maybe I hadn’t gone too far. Maybe this was just the beginning of something deeper.
After all, she was going to come back…