Escort (A Standalone Romance Novel) (New York City Bad Boy Romance) (42 page)

As
I’m almost around the table and now close to the waiter, I lean toward him and
promise him twenty bucks if nobody spits in my food.

The
waiter smiles and walks away.

I
bend down and give Kristin a hug.

“Have
you been in to see the doctor yet?” I ask.

“Oh,
I don’t think that’s going to be necessary,” Jed answers. “I know pretty much
everything there is to know about natal care and birthing.”

That’s
easily one of the most disturbing things I’ve ever heard.

“I
didn’t know you went to medical school,” I tell him, standing back up,
releasing the hug.

“I
didn’t,” he says.

“Paramedic
training?” I ask. “Mid-
wifing
—or would that be
mid-husbandry? That doesn’t sound right.”

“No,”
Jed says.

“Have
you had kids?” I ask.

“No,”
he answers, “but I do have five brothers and sisters.”

“Jed,
we’ve talked about this,” Kristin says. “I’m going to the doctor.”

“I
don’t see why,” he responds, playing with the tuft of hair beneath his bottom
lip. “All you have to do is make sure you’re getting enough vitamins and try
not to overexert yourself.”

“I
think Kristin’s right,” I chime in, “I’m sure you’ll be a big help, but she
needs a doctor to help her through the process.”

“She
really doesn’t,” he says. “Medical practice is just a big racket anyway. My mom
never went to the doctor and she lived a good, long, healthy life.”

“Jed,
your mother was always sick,” Kristin says. “I don’t even know how tall she was
because she was always bedridden with something or another.”

“Prepositions,”
Jed corrects.

“Whatever,”
Kristin says. “If it’s a boy, we’re thinking of naming him Percival.”

Neither
Jed nor my sister appreciate the loud, albeit quick burst of laughter that
escapes my lungs.

“I’m
sorry,” I say, trying to force my smile down. “Why Percival?”

“It
was my grandfather’s name,” Jed says. “It’s a great name with a rich history.”

“I
don’t know,” I tell him. “That just seems like something you name your kids if
you’re living in the eighteen hundreds. I don’t know that many
Percivals
walking around today.”

“That’s
the problem with you people,” he starts, although what he means by “you
people,” I can only guess at, “you’re always thinking that if something’s not
already popular, there’s no value to it. I think a name should be picked
because it’s a good name, not because everyone else’s kid has that name—and
where in the hell is our meal? I must have asked that waiter to check on it
about half an hour ago.”

“Three
minutes,” I correct. “What are you going to name the kid if it’s a girl?”

“That’s
one of the things I wanted to tell you,” Kristin says. “I know that you and I
have had our ups and downs or whatever, but I really think that we’re getting
past all that. I wanted to name her Jay-Jay, after you.”

And
now it’s awkward.

I’ve
already told her, earlier in this conversation, that I hate the moniker Jay-Jay,
but this is a rather sweet act.

“Why
Jay-Jay?” I ask. “I mean, I’m very flattered, but if you wanted to name her
after me, why not just go with Jessica.”

“Well,”
Kristin groans, motioning her head toward Jed.

“It
just seems too old-world to me,” he says. “I mean, I hear the name Jessica and
I think of some woman in the renaissance posing nude for Da Vinci.”

“Did
Da Vinci paint a lot of nudes?” I ask.

“It
just doesn’t have that modern feel to it,” Jed says.

“Whereas
Percival is hot off the presses,” I snicker.

Jed
glares at me, but fortunately, my phone just beeped, so I don’t have to look at
him.

The
message reads, “Some friends and I are having a party this weekend, and I was
wondering if you’d like to go with me.”

Hot
blood, cold sweat.

“Are
you all right?” Jed asks. “You look rather peaked. I hope it’s not that flu
that’s going around town.”

“What
flu?” I ask, trying to get my mind off the bombshell on my phone.

“There’s
always a flu,” Kristin answers, rolling her eyes.

“You
should get yourself checked out,” Jed says.

“Prepositions,”
Kristin mumbles. She said it quietly, but the look on her face is one of
absolute victory.

“Would
you excuse me for a minute?” I ask.

“Sure,”
Kristin answers. “Want me to go with you?”

“No,”
I tell her. “I don’t think that’s going to be necessary.”

As
I’m walking away, I can hear Jed somewhere behind, telling me to wash my hands.

A
party? I don’t even know this man and already he’s asking me if I want to go to
a party with him?

I
guess it’s not all that outlandish. We have been talking for a while, and we do
seem to get along really well.

Opening
the door to the bathroom, I walk over to the sink and splash some water over my
face.

I’ve
been out of the game too long.

The
guy didn’t ask me to marry him or bear his children. He just asked if I wanted
to go to a party and I’m on the verge of a panic attack about it.

My
phone beeps again.

I
dry my hands and look at the message.

It
says, “I hope that’s not too forward, but my friend, the one that gave me your
number, he’s the one that’s throwing the party. I thought it might be a nice,
low-
pressu
”

I
wait a minute for the rest of the thought.

The
phone beeps and the message continues, “
re
way for you
and I to get to know one another a little better.”

“I
don’t know,” I write back and look up into the mirror to see my mascara running
from washing my face. I add, “I’m not sure that I’m really ready to start
something serious with anyone right now.”

“Keep
it together, Jessica,” I whisper to myself.

“I’m
almost done!” some woman, apparently in one of the stalls, calls out.

I
just grab a paper towel and clean myself up as best I can before going back out
to the restaurant.

My
phone beeps.

The
message says, “I’m not saying we should move in together or anything. I just
thought it’d be nice to have a conversation with you face to face.”

This
might not feel like such a momentous decision if it weren’t for the fact that I
felt a bit of a spark with Eric in the store the other day.

We
didn’t talk about it or anything, but I know he felt something, too. Maybe
that’s just wishful thinking, though.

“Can
I bring my sister?” I write.

The
only problem with taking Kristin is that I’m going to have to think of some
plausible reason why Jed can’t possibly join us.

I
would just go with the truth and tell Kristin that her boyfriend or whatever
the hell he is to her is a whiny know-it-all and that he annoys the crap out of
me, but that didn’t go over so well the last time I said something similar to
her.

The
phone beeps.

The
message reads, “That seems only fair.”

I
give myself one more look in the mirror and take a deep breath, steeling for
myself for the train wreck that is dining with my sister and Jed.

Chapter Twelve

Placing Bets

Eric

“It’s
the fucking boss lady?” Alec asks.

“Will
you keep your fucking voice down, she might be here already,” I tell him. “She
doesn’t know it’s me, but yeah, I’m sure it’s her.”

“What
are the odds on that one?”

“I
have no idea,” I tell him. “What do you know about the sister?”

“Sister?”
he asks. “Whose sister?”

“Jessica’s,”
I tell him. “She’s bringing her sister. You know, the one who gave
her
my number?”

“Oh
right,” Alec says, “the sister. I really don’t know, man. I know she’s a little
high-strung, but get a drink or two in her, and yeah, I don’t really pay that
much attention to Irene’s friends.”

“What
do you think I should do?” I ask. “Do I tell her that it’s me on the phone or
do I try to pull some Cyrano de Bergerac shit and go all covert about it?”

“I
think I understood about half the words there,” Alec says. “What the hell are
you talking about?”

“I
don’t know,” I start. “Things are starting to thaw between her and I in the
real world, and I’m not sure that I want to try to mix the two relationships
this quickly by telling her that I’m the guy she’s been texting all her dreams
and aspirations for the last however long.”

“You
don’t have the nose for it,” Alec says.

“What?”
I ask.

“I
was just fucking with you on the Cyrano thing. I’ve seen Evita.”

“What
the hell are you talking about?” I ask. “What does Evita have to do with—look,
I don’t know what to do here, and I’d really appreciate some advice.”

“Eric?”
a familiar voice calls.

I
grit my teeth, grin and turn around.

“Jessica,”
I say. “What are the chances of us ending up at the same party?”

“I’d
say they’re pretty high,” Alec mumbles, and I elbow him in the ribs.

“I
know,” she says. “You’re Alec, aren’t you?”

“Yes,”
my friend, the one who knows enough about the story of Cyrano to remember the
nose, but still somehow thinks he was a character in Evita, answers. “This is
actually my party,” he says.

“You
two know each other?” the woman standing next to Jessica, I can only assume her
sister, asks.

“Yeah,”
Jessica says. “These two did some work in the store for me.”

“So,
where’s your friend?” the sister asks.

“Friend?”
Alec responds, not straining any muscles by acting stupid. “
Oh
,” he answers, “the one with the phone
number.”

“…yeah,”
the sister says. “He invited us. I think he really wants to meet Jessica. Do
you know where he is?”

“No,”
Alec answers. “He just called and said he might not be able to make it.
Something about bad clams, I don’t know.”

While
Jessica and her sister are looking at each other, I sneak another elbow into
Alec’s ribs.

“He
might show up later, though,” Alec adds, not helping in the slightest.

“All
right,” the sister says. “We’ll hang around for a bit.”

The
two walk off and Alec and I smile and wave.

“What
the hell are you doing to me?” I ask him. “Bad clams?”

“I
thought it would give you the option of ‘showing up’ later if you decide you
want to come clean with her,” he says.

“Could
you do a favor for me and think about that for just a moment?” I ask.

“What?”
he asks. Then it hits him. “Right,” he says. “You can’t ‘show up’ because she’s
already seen you.”

“That’s
right,” I tell him. “Now, I’m either the guy who just stood there and didn’t
bother telling her I’m the one she’s trying to meet, or I’m the guy on her
phone with food poisoning from eating fucking bad clams!”

That
last part comes out a bit louder than I meant, but the music and general
cacophony cover it well enough.

“What
are you going to do?” he asks.

“Before
or after I bury you in the desert with only your head above the sand so the
vultures can pluck your eyes out while the rest of you turns into a raisin?” I
ask.

“After,”
he answers, not missing a beat.

I
sigh.

“What
can
I do?” I ask. “I can’t just go
over there and tell her that I’m the one on the phone. Although I’m pretty sure
she’d buy the fact that you’re an idiot, I have no way to account for the fact
that I didn’t say something at the time.”

“You’re
right man,” he says. “You really should have said something.”

“Do
you have anything to drink?” I ask.

“Sure,”
he says, “keg’s in the back, just like when we were kids.”

“When
I come back, I’m going to explain to you everything that’s wrong with what you
just said,” I tell him and walk toward the back.

Beer.

I’ve
never really understood beer.

It
seems to me that if you’re going to drink something with alcohol in it, you’d
either want something that tastes good or something that gets you fucked up,
maybe both. Beer always seemed to me to be neither.

Still,
I’ve watched enough television to know that when people are stressed and don’t
know what to do, they drink.