Page 25 of Dr. Weston

Stewart

Meet you at Hanover Air Park

9:15 p.m.

Porter

Trying to arrange a car to meet us in D.C. Just clarifying what’s on the agenda.

9:17 p.m.

Broadie

We’re headed for The Devil’s Playground

CHAPTERTEN

BROADIE

“Hell, if you four aren’t a sight for sore eyes.” I chuckle as I walk into the VIP section of The Devil’s Playground. My friends Max, Becket, Devon, and Gianni stand, and we do the usual greeting of bro hugs with slaps on the back before settling in. “I never realized how much I counted on our monthly meet-ups until we missed a couple.”

“Yes, three months is way too long. From here on out, unless one of us is either in jail or in the hospital,” Gianni pauses, then points to the physicians in the bunch, “as a patient,” he clarifies, “we make a deal. Once we hit sixty days without getting your asses here, we call an emergency session.”

“Easy for you to say. You practically live here.” I laugh.

“Last I heard, you owned a private jet, just like me,” Gianni jibes in his thick Italian accent before grabbing my shoulder and giving it a playful shake. I’ve missed this guy. How I got lucky enough to call this crew my friends, I’ll never know.

Gianni Black is an enigma. I’m not sure anyone truly knows where Black’s money comes from. He’s probably richer than all of us. I have my suspicions he could be somehow tied to some underground family crime organization, but I don’t want to let my mind go there. My security detail has attempted to vet him with limited success. Stu’s convinced Gianni Black isn’t his real name.

Regardless, this man has my allegiance until someone convinces me there’s a reason he shouldn’t. I’ve learned in my forty-two years on the planet a lot of your success comes from your mental game. I focus on the positive wherever possible, envision what I want for myself, and go after it. But the biggest key over the years has been listening to my gut. Call it what you will, signs, signals from the universe, but for me it’s my barometer for what and who I put my trust in. And it hasn’t let me down yet.

“How’d you get here so fast?” I ask Becket.

Becket Ryan lives in the western portion of Richmond, on the other end of town from me. He’s a wildly successful Obstetrician Gynecologist at St. Luke’s who’s worked there for several years, but only after making billions on a patented ground breaking lubrication he invented during medical school. Apparently, it reduces the discomfort older women experience as they approach menopause, allowing them to enjoy intercourse. Many can even achieve an orgasm for the first time in years. Becket definitely did his homework. Who knew this demographic could drive sales of his product into the billions?

I’m shocked he still works, given how successful he’s been. But much like me, I think deep down he enjoys his work. His office is littered with photos of all of the babies he’s delivered. Becket swears he does it because he’ll never have pictures of his own hanging there, but I think he’d make an incredible father one day. Hopefully, that happens once he’s gotten his priorities straight, unlike me.

Yet at thirty-six, Becket is a self-proclaimed, lifelong bachelor. He and Slick Willy are the big playboys in our group, hence his nickname, Dr. Love. You’d think the owner of a sex club would be getting all of the action, but Gianni Black has more willpower than one man should be allowed.

“Truth? I was already here. Gianni and I started sounding the call about thirty minutes after I arrived.” I bet Becket and Slick Willy spend a lot more time here than the rest of us.

“Fucker,” I growl. “You guys could’ve given us a little more notice than that. Poor Bedrock is missing out.

Derek Hart, or Bedrock, as we refer to him, is a cardiologist. He attended Stanford and Johns Hopkins for his residency and fellowship programs. I believe he may have been introduced to the Devil’s Playground while he lived in the D.C. area. He hasn’t worked at St. Luke’s for very long. I’m pretty sure he was looking for a fresh start after his wife’s death when he moved to Hanover.

“You forget it isn’t as easy for some of us to break away from the job. We can’t just bring our laptop along like Max,” I taunt.

“That was your fault for going into medicine. Maybe you should think about that new concierge plan. You know, where you pick your clients, and they have to pay a huge retainer to have access to you.”

“That system doesn’t work as well for surgery as primary care, dipshit. Unless you live in California, people aren’t signing up for multiple surgeries per year.”

“Yeah, I don’t think I want to make that work for my field. Women typically only come in once a year for a pap smear or to schedule a mammogram. If they need a concierge plan for their gynecological care, I might have to refer them to the health department.” Becket shudders. “I don’t want to think about what would require enough visits to be worth seeing me at their beck and call unless they’re pregnant.”

“I don’t know what you girls are whining about. G here works more hours than anyone,” Devon says. The four of us look out across the brilliant red lighting of the club as scantily clad beauties meander about, some with trays of drinks and others with cigars. Within minutes, we’re all bursting out laughing.

William Devon Sly is the oldest among us, but the newest to our group. It was only the five of us for many years. But Gianni introduced us to Dev last year when he moved into the area.

Devon is a unique personality. His wealth is a combination of old and new money. He inherited millions from his family, who own a chain of boutique hotels. His grandfather is British, and the majority of the hotels are located in the UK. Yet, Devon’s father went rogue and married an American girl, much to their chagrin.

---