At least he’s smiling now.
It takes a bit more convincing, but finally, I get him out of my apartment and into a cab.
I ask the driver where I might find a bar where I can make attractive men jealous with my date. She doesn’t give me a clear answer, but we’re driving now, so I can only assume she knows just the place.
Once we’re out of the cab, the driver is paid, and we’re in the bar, however, it becomes painfully clear that I should have specified that I wasn’t looking for a dive.
Oh well, if anyone tries to get fresh without my permission, I’ve got my own personal sex worker to jump in and save the day.
“You never answered my question,” I tell him.
“What question’s that?” he asks.
“Why did you become a doctor?”
“Well,” he says, “my dad was a doctor, my grandfather was a doctor. To be perfectly honest with you, though, I don’t know that that had as much to do with it as you might think.”
“What did? I mean, what convinced you to rebel by doing the same thing that generations of non-British Churchills have done before you?”
“It was my mother,” he explains. “She was sick a lot when I was growing up, and I was always the one that ended up taking care of her while my dad was out with a revolving cast of nurses.”
I sip my orange juice. “I’m sorry,” I tell him.
“It is what it is,” he says. “You know, I don’t even know that it was necessarily that. I mean, it was, but I think it was more that I wanted to prove, if only to myself, that a person could be a doctor without being a lowlife.”
“And here you are selling yourself for money,” I giggle.
“How many times do I have to tell you-”
“Oh, come on,” I interrupt. “You may not swing your thing for cash, but from what I hear, you’re in the minority.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” he says. “Sure, I’ve heard the same stories that you have, but I think there are plenty of people like me who just enjoy going out and making a little money in the process.”
“What does the old ball and chain have to say about it?” I ask. “Or does she not know?”
“She knows,” he says. “It was her idea.”
“Oh,” I say wincing, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Why?”
“Excuse me,” a burly man with a handlebar mustache and a yellow bandanna on his head says, tapping me on the shoulder.
“Yes?” I ask.
“I was wondering if I could buy you a drink,” the man says.
I look at my reluctant date and smile.
“You can,” I tell him, “but I’ve got to warn you. My friend here can get pretty jealous.”
The man looks Jace up and down, and, cracking his knuckles, the man scoffs and says, “I’m really not that worried about it.”
“Do you hear that?” I ask. “He says he’s not worried about it.”
“What are you doing?” Jace asks, rightfully irritated.
I turn back to the man and say, “I appreciate the offer, but I think I should pass.”