Page 13 of Doll Face

She turned to look at Matteo, cocking her head as she waited.

“What?” he asked.

“Your turn.”

“Yeah, your turn,” Rocco taunted.

“You,” Matteo pointed at him, “shut up. And you,” he turned back to her and huffed. “I am twenty-seven, a Leo, born in Italy but raised here in Chicago, I don’t care about UFOs, and I have no favorite movie. Happy?”

She laughed, and then groaned as her cheek started to throb.

“So,” he continued. “Why are you working two jobs? And the truth.”

“Well, I have the coffee shop job for the crappy insurance and I work at the arcade to afford to live.”

“Is that what you’re going to do the rest of your life?” Matteo asked.

“The arcade? Hell, no. I used to like arcade games, and now I can’t stand them. Coffee I still like, though.”

“What are your long-term plans?”

She thought for a moment. Truthfully, she hadn’t really thought of the future, only concentrating on getting through each day.

“I don’t know,” she admitted softly. “I kinda live day by day. How pathetic is that?”

Matteo gently cupped her face. “You’re not pathetic, and I know you’ll find a path.”

She smiled.

“We’re here,” Rocco announced. He pulled up to a small brick building that had the classic Palladian design of symmetry, proportion, and balance. Each side of the building mirrored the other, with a pediment holding four pilaster columns. It screamed class and money, and her stomach dropped.

“When you said personal physician, I thought you meant stopping by his home to check my cheek out,” she muttered. “This is too much. Does he even take insurance?”

“I told you not to worry about it,” Matteo said.

Rocco opened up her door and held out his hand to help her out. As she stepped out of the car, she wondered what the hell she was doing. Why was she with these men who were used to money and prestige? This was such an entirely different world that, truthfully, it made her uncomfortable.

Matteo took her hand and led her into the clinic. Tasteful artwork hung on the walls of the waiting room. Patients sat on soft, buttery leather chairs. It was a far cry from her own doctor’s office which had cracked vinyl seats and rain splotches on the tiled ceiling that probably contained asbestos.

The receptionist looked Matteo up and down, then gave him a Chesire Cat smile. “Hello, may I help you?”

The little inflection in her tone gave the words a double entendre.

“Doc is expecting me,” Matteo said as he marched past her, opening the door that led to the rooms in the back.

“Wait!” the receptionist yelled. A moment later, she had grabbed Matteo’s arm.

He froze and glared at her. “Remove your hand before I break it.”

The woman blinked. “Oh. Um. You don’t have an appointment.”

“I won’t warn you again,” he snapped. “Remove your hand. You’re being extremely rude to my girlfriend.”

Macy raised her eyebrows in surprise, but she didn’t contradict his statement. His words, or possibly his tone, seemed to do the trick. The woman let go of Matteo’s arm and took a step back. Just then the man who must be the doctor stepped into the hall.

“Hey, Doc,” he said. “Thanks for meeting us. This is Macy.”

The tall, thin man had a balding head and wire-framed glasses. She relaxed immediately when she saw the gentle compassion in his gaze.

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