Page 11 of A Deal with the Devil

“I thought you’d prefer it.” I don’t take my eyes off the landscape as I respond.

“Yes,” he says, turning into a small cul-de-sac. “I wasn’t complaining. Just curious.”

We pull up to the gate of a Spanish-style villa, from which purple flowering vines hang heavy, and a huge orange tree dotted with fruit stands in the courtyard’s center. I’m not sure how long I’ll have to live here before I stop being thrilled by all the things that can grow in a warm climate.

“So, what will I be doing?” I ask as he pulls into the driveway. “I watched a doctor on ER perform a tracheotomy using only a ballpoint pen and a kitchen knife. I feel like I could pull it off.”

“Perfect.” He shuts off the engine. “Any tracheotomies are yours. Your job here, however, is to stay put. Anywhere I am, you are, even if she asks you to leave.”

He’s out of the car before I can ask why the hell she’d want me to leave.

A maid in uniform opens the door and leads us through empty rooms to the back porch, where a redhead in a nightgown waits, already sipping a glass of wine though it’s not quite nine in the morning. She looks up at Hayes like he’s the most delicious candy she’s ever seen, and when she envelops him in her arms, I suspect I know my role: designated cockblocker.

“Hello, Shannen,” he says smoothly, detaching himself. “Let me introduce you to Natalia, my assistant.”

It’s only when she turns to frown at me that I recognize her. She plays someone’s rich wife on a soap opera my mom watches, one of those characters that’s always faking pregnancies and buying people off to get her way. In real life, she seems more pathetic than evil.

“I thought it might just be the two of us,” she says, as Hayes applies numbing cream all over her face. “This is kind of a private thing.”

I can only assume, based on how brazen she’s being, that he slept with her at some point and she’s refusing to take a hint.

“Natalia is here to assist me,” he replies firmly. He casts a quick, uncomfortable glance my way. “And she’s signed an NDA.”

He refuses the glass of wine she offers and begins to fill syringes from several different vials. I’m not sure how he can tell them all apart, but he’s reassuringly confident as he draws them up.

“I’ll start with the Botox,” he tells her, “and give your lips a chance to get numb. Frown for me.”

He makes small marks with a pen—between her brows and above them—and then begins the injections.

I’m…not great with needles. I have to stifle my desire to shudder, but she’s so busy flirting with Hayes she barely seems to notice. Tiny dots of blood speckle her face, but she’s still hitting on Hayes as hard as she possibly can.

He finally gets to her lips. Even with the numbing cream, it’s clearly uncomfortable for her. I busy myself with an empty notepad, unable to watch. When he’s done, she looks at herself in the mirror. “Can’t you make them bigger?” she asks. Her gaze brushes over him and settles on his crotch. “Bigger is better, as they say.”

He gives her a tight smile as he begins packing his bag. “Not where lips are concerned, I assure you.”

“Come upstairs with me a sec,” she says, running a hand over his forearm. I feel an unexpected spike of irritation. How many times does he need to rebuff this woman’s advances for God’s sake?

“I’m sorry,” I interject, addressing Hayes, “but you’re already behind schedule.”

I see a hint of relief in his eyes and weariness as well. He apologizes to Shannen, and with his hand on the small of my back, guides me to the door.

“So, I guess she’s…an ex?” I ask once we’re back in the car. I feel proud of myself for calling her an “ex” rather than something a little more derogatory.

“I don’t ever sleep with patients,” he replies. “And I don’t ever treat people I’ve slept with.”

It’s a slightly more principled stance than I’d have expected of him.

“Then why do you accept patients like her at all?” I ask. “I’m guessing you make enough without them.”

“That you think there’s such a thing as enough,” he says, “explains a great deal.”

My lips purse as I fold my arms across my chest. “So does the fact that you think there isn’t.”

He shoots me a narrow-eyed glance before he turns back to the road. “Look, you continue to do your struggling actor thing and I’ll continue to make millions of dollars a year, and if our situations somehow reverse, then you can feel free to judge me.”

“I’m not an actress, struggling or otherwise,” I reply. “But I’m sorry if you felt like I was judging you.”

He says nothing to that, and I guess maybe he was right. I was judging him. And aside from the fact that he drinks more than he should and appears to enjoy sex with almost-strangers...I can’t say my criticism seems especially justified anymore. I’m not exactly thriving doing things my way either.