Chapter Four Grant
Chapter Four
Grant
I watched Layla jog her way to my car from across the street, cheeks flushed, hair dancing in the wind, tits so perky they made me want to kill myself, knowing I’d never again witness such flawless beauty.
She looked a lot like that actress Kat Dennings.
My crush from adolescence. Curvy in all the right places, with a trim waist, pale, smooth skin, and huge blue eyes.
Her hair—naturally dark brown, dyed green—was criminally soft.
She was the kind of hot to convince you to get rid of her dead boyfriend’s body and then lie about it under oath.
I pitied all the fathers in her class. The moms too.
But mostly, I pitied myself, because our relationship was the equivalent of taking one bite of a really good dessert, knowing you’ll be denied the rest of it.
She was more or less the only person I’d sacrifice a decent parking spot in the city for, which was why I’d driven here instead of making her recite her night in front of a random Uber driver.
“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.” She landed in my passenger seat, then slammed the door behind her and leaned to give me a peck on the cheek.
Her lips were ice cold, but they still shot a zing of warmth through me.
I tilted one eyebrow up. “Grant is fine. God is just my stage name in bed.”
“Is it, now?”
I shrugged, playing it cool. “James Dean was taken.”
She snorted, fishing out something from her purse before handing it to me. “Here. I found a Frost Tropical Mango Gatorade at the convenience store while I was hiding from wandering wedding guests behind the stale-nuts aisle. Apparently, they’re rare.”
I’d been obsessed with Gatorade since my residency days. Tried almost every flavor on the market, including this one. I unscrewed the cap and took a pull. “I love it when my fans are generous.”
“Whatever. The only reason I remembered is because I file into memory everything you tell me, hoping one day it’ll be your credit card details.”
Layla and I had been casual for almost a decade. About a year before our best friends, Chase and Maddie, got married. We never took it to the next level because my work as an oncologist meant I clocked in eighty-hour weeks at the hospital, and because she was outrageously allergic to commitment.
“So, where do you wanna eat? Please say McDonald’s.” She winced. “My bank account is about to file a restraining order against me after I gifted my parents a second honeymoon to Paris for Christmas.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t eat at a wedding.” I shook my head, flicking the signal as we headed to my place. “I thought that goes against your belief system.”
“Didn’t get to that part, remember? But the appetizers at the reception were . . . not appetizing.”
“Criminal.”
“And eighty percent of the animals they were made out of still had their full faces intact.”
I shuddered. She had a way with words. She also had a way with my dick. It was depressingly fun to spend time with her, because she was laid back and funny, even in instances like this, when her life seemed to detonate in a spectacular fashion.
“I’m soooo hungry.” She chewed on the edge of her thumbnail.
“Eating your own dead skin won’t do the trick. I have dinosaur nuggets at home, though.” I kept the processed, gross food especially for her.
“Say less. And ketchup?”
I jerked my chin in a nod.
“A Heinz bottle? With all the added sugar and sodium?” She was giddy.
And fun. And alive. So alive it made me momentarily forget about all the death around me.
About informing people, day in and day out, that their cancer was terminal.
Untreatable. Of watching the human spirit break.
Again and again and a-mother-fucking-gain. And somehow remain sane in the process.
“What am I, an amateur?” I huffed. “Dream bigger, kid.”
“What could be better than . . . oh, don’t tell me . . .”
Our eyes met when I stopped at a traffic light. A cocky grin tugged at the corner of my lips. “I keep all the extra take-out ketchup in the fridge.”
“You’re joking.”
“I never joke about fast-food chain condiment packets.”
“Those taste the best.” She tipped her head back and closed her eyes, relishing this information. “Do you also have the buffalo ranch dressing?”
I speared her with a domineering look. “Naturally.”
“If you’re trying to seduce me, Grant Gerwig, I want you to know that it’s working.”
“Seduce you?” I pretended to choke on my Gatorade. “I thought you were a sure thing. Why else would I let you pull me out of a date and give up a good parking spot?”
“You were on a date?”
She did a double take, realizing I was wearing the beige Henley she said made me look like Chris Evans. “You should’ve said! I didn’t mean to interrupt you. Can you drop me off at mine? It’s five minutes away, and then you can go back to yo—”
“Nah, the moment has passed.” I finished the dregs of the Gatorade before screwing the cap back on. “I mean, she’s great, don’t get me wrong. But it was too busy and too loud. I’d rather spend my time hanging out with you.”
“Taking a woman on a date on Valentine’s Day is a statement,” Layla said.
“She had tickets to Six and asked if I wanted the extra ticket. She didn’t want to take any money, so I booked us a restaurant.”
Jessica, my colleague, was intelligent, sweet, and adequately beautiful.
But she was also very obviously not Layla Schmidt.
She wasn’t quick witted, sarcastic, nauseatingly good with children, even better with adults, spontaneous, naturally curious, and—as far as I was aware—able to deep-throat me for ten minutes straight to an orgasm.
It was a no-brainer. I’d choose five minutes in Layla’s company than immortality with anyone else.
“I have to compete with Six and a restaurant? Way to peer pressure a lady.” Layla sighed melodramatically. “Now I have no choice but to give you a happy ending tonight.”
“You were going to give it to me anyway.”
“True.” She popped the overhead sun visor and checked her teeth in the mirror, running her tongue over them. “You give great dick. And honestly? I kind of don’t hate you, you know, for a man.”
“You sure know how to make a guy blush. Are we going to talk about what happened in there?” I jerked my thumb behind my back as we wove through the heavy Valentine’s Day traffic.
“Nope,” she said, popping the p. “This is my safe place.” She gestured to her surroundings. “And I want to actively forget what happened back there, because I sure as hell will be reminded of it when Kellianne returns from her honeymoon next week.”
But I wasn’t about to let her drop the subject. We never talked about anything remotely serious, a way to keep the boundaries of our casual situationship intact. So the fact that she’d called me tonight, of all nights, and not her billion and two other friends, was telling.
“What the hell did he do to make you hate him so much?” I kept my tone light, casual. “Kill a baby or something?”
Layla wasn’t the kind of woman to hate on anyone other than actual mass murderers. Even then, she had an I-can-fix-him energy.
She flinched, like I’d hit her with the words. “I told you to drop it. You’re like a dog with a bone . . . r.” She smirked devilishly, trying to mask her discomfort.
“That bad?” I tilted an eyebrow.
“Worse. Now please, let’s change the subject.”
Well, well, well. Douchebag McJerk had left more than a surface-level scar on her soul. I filed it into memory in case I died young and needed someone unbearable to haunt into insanity.
I dragged a hand over my mouth as I flicked the signal right to enter my tree-lined street. “Did I tell you I’m training for a half-marathon? Started last week.”
“Hmm.” She smiled, but she seemed a trillion miles away since I’d brought up her ex. “That’s exciting.”
I wasn’t sure what he’d done to her to make her like this, but I was glad I didn’t know his name or address. I’d be breaking my Hippocratic oath and sixty-nine other laws as I relieved this guy of his breathing duty.
“What else? My family is planning a big ancestors’ trip to Germany. My mother’s trying to rope me into that one.” I tapped my chin. “Oh, and I got offered a position at the Mayo Clinic.”
“Wait, the one you’ve been vying for?” Layla squeaked, covering her mouth. Leave it to this gem of a woman to light up because of someone else’s achievements. “The one in Minnesota? With the cutting-edge immunotherapy thingy? That you’ve been wanting to shift to full-scale with your patients?”
“Whoa, you do remember every single thing that comes out of my mouth. I’m almost tempted to hand you my credit card just for that.” I slid into a parking spot almost a full block from my brownstone and killed the engine, smirking.
“Shut up. That is amazing.” She swatted my chest, her face lighting up like a Christmas tree. “Congratulations.”
Layla unbuckled and quickly rounded the car.
I got out, and she threw her arms at me in a tight, warm hug that felt like a recharge station.
We stayed like this until my erection reminded her that my new position wasn’t the only thing I was excited about.
My body might’ve been a little less hideously reactive if we didn’t meet up only once a month or so.
Layla slowly pulled away, beaming up at me. “I’m ready for my dinosaur nuggets now, handsome.”
I circled her waist, pulling her into me. “Only if you give the chef a kiss.”