Page 4 of A Deal with the Devil

I cross the room to pull it off the printer. Though Hayes generally has one surgery day and one in-office consult day a week, his claim to fame—the part not involving his dick, anyhow—is what occupies every weekend and any free weekday: house calls. Celebrities don’t want to risk getting photographed with a bruised and bloody face, so Hayes goes to them, making home visits like some pioneer doctor, albeit one who focuses more on inflating lips than amputating limbs.

He frowns when I hand it to him. I have no idea if that frown is my fault or the schedule’s, but Jonathan did warn me Hayes is extra cranky on house call days.

Which are almost every day of his week, so Jonathan could have just said he’s always extra cranky, for the sake of efficiency.

He rises. “There’s a woman upstairs. Make sure she leaves after she gets up.”

My jaw falls open. I suppose this is one of the things he referred to so obliquely yesterday. “You don’t want to, you know, say goodbye to her?”

He raises a single, imperious brow as he reaches for his coffee. “Why would I, when I’ve got you to take care of it for me?”

“And how exactly am I supposed to get her out of your house? Is there a firearm available, perchance?”

I hear a soft grumbly noise which may be a laugh or is perhaps his way of saying shut the fuck up without actual speech. “Just take her to breakfast,” he replies, like a man who’s done this a thousand times before. “It’s best to never end things on the property, in case they refuse to leave. Oh, and send her some flowers.”

My eyes roll so far back I’m worried they’ll get stuck that way. “What should the note say?”

He shrugs, rising. “I don’t know. You’ll come up with something, I’m sure.”

“Don’t expect a call,” I suggest.

He rubs his forehead. “How silly of me, thinking you might be able to handle that one detail without guidance. Just thank her for a lovely evening or something.”

“Fine. What’s her name?”

He stops in place, staring at me while he thinks, as if he expects the answer to appear on my forehead. “Lauren?” he suggests. “Or Eva?”

“Are you seriously telling me you don’t even know the name of the woman you inserted your penis in last night?”

His gaze lands on my mouth for one long moment and then flicks away as he releases a slow, controlled breath. “Are you seriously telling me I can’t ask you to do one goddamn thing without hearing your opinion about it?”

I guess he has a point, but I can’t seem to let it go. “I just can’t imagine you don’t actually know her name.”

“I only date women who know to expect nothing from me,” he says, turning to leave. “Learning their names would create false expectations.”

“I’ll make sure she’s gone,” I reply, frowning as he walks away. It’s exactly the kind of bullshit I’d expect him to say. I just didn’t expect him to sound quite so…unhappy about it.

* * *

The housekeeper, Marta, arrives an hour later. We met yesterday but didn’t have the lengthiest conversation, given my knowledge of Spanish is entirely gleaned from watching Dora the Explorer with my niece, which isn’t particularly useful in my current situation. I don’t recall a single episode where Dora has to tell Boots the Monkey there’s a naked woman upstairs.

“Senorita,” I say, pointing toward the second floor before I mime sleep, pressing my face to a pretend pillow. “Dormir.” She seems to understand. Odds are, it’s par for the course around here.

I give Lauren/Eva a few hours to sleep, hoping she might leave the house all by herself, but when that fails, I give up and go to Hayes’s room. Unlike the rest of the house, his bedroom looks pretty lived in right now, between all the clothes on the floor and the completely naked blonde in his bed. I step carefully in her direction—I really don’t know what I’d do if I stepped on a used condom. Amputate my foot, most likely.

“Hey,” I say when I reach her. “Lauren? Eva?”

There is no response.

“Abby? Gwyneth? Dame Judy Dench?”

I clap my hands. There is still nothing. I start to wonder if she’s dead, which is when my writer’s brain runs away from me. I see it all flash before my eyes: realizing she’s stiff, reaching for the phone to dial 911 and having Hayes’s voice answer on the other end. “I knew you couldn’t be trusted,” he’d say, as a gate comes down, locking me in. “I warned Jonathan you’d fail the test.”

I reach out and shake her shoulder, increasing my volume until I’m practically yelling.

She finally raises her head. Makeup is smeared all over her face and Hayes’s expensive sheets.

“Why are you yelling at me?” she murmurs.