Page 7 of Baby Maker

Chapter Two

Keegan

“Dr. Russo, your two o’clock is here. Oh, and Megan called. Again.”

I glance up from my computer, catching the exasperated look on Alice’s face. The woman has the patience of a saint—a good thing as my office manager—but there is no love lost between her and the woman she aptly dubbed the drama queen from hell. Megan earned that nickname after only five minutes with Alice.

Unfortunately, neither the nickname nor the mannerisms have changed.

“I’ll call Megan and tell her to stop harassing you.” I run a hand over my jaw, chuckling.

“Better yet, tell her to stop harassing you.”

“Tell me how you really feel.”

“I’d better not do that,” Alice counters, her hand resting on the doorknob. “I’d like to keep my job.” With a wink, she closes the door behind her.

Alice is the big sister I never had, and even though I sign her paychecks, she’s had my number since day one.

She’s right about Megan, too. But there is something about Megan, of which Alice is unaware. No matter how vapid, shallow and tiresome the woman may be, she sucks a mean cock. She’s not half bad in the sack, either, when she isn’t three sheets to the wind on her prescription cocktail of choice.

She can’t function without those little pills, or so that’s her claim. Valium and martinis are Megan’s special diet, along with an ample serving of Botox injections. She thinks she looks fabulous. Personally, I find her frozen face a ghoulish mask of plastic perfection, never certain what emotion she’s feeling. Although, knowing Megan, she isn’t experiencing any emotion of real depth. That’s not in her wheelhouse.

But she’s got a killer body, even if her implants are a bit on the ridiculous side.

Another fun fact about Megan? She’s easy. I’m not implying that she’s a slut, although she likely wouldn’t say no to any man holding a Tiffany’s bag. She’s got the intellect of a flea. There are no intellectual conversations with Megan. She has no expectations. I buy her the occasional gift and pick up the tab at any number of eating establishments, and she’s good to go. Happy to be seen on my arm and not clamoring on about the triple threat—rings, marriage, and babies.

My work may specialize in creating happy parents, but I specialize in avoiding that box. That tightly sealed, constrictive, miserable box some folks term domestic bliss.

Megan knows this fact, and she has yet to argue with me on any of my points. My non-negotiable points.

Dialing Megan’s number, I kick back in the chair, propping my feet on the corner of my desk. I have a few minutes. My two o’clock appointment is early, and if Megan makes any more unwarranted phone calls to my office, she will be on the receiving end of Alice’s wrath. I’ve been there a few times. It’s a storm I’d rather not weather again.

“Baby, finally.” I swear, I can hear her hyaluronic acid infused lips jutting out in a pout. “Where have you been?”

“Work, Megan. Like I am every day. What’s up?”

“Gold or black?”

What the fuck is this woman blathering on about? “In regard to?”

“My dress for the dinner next week.”

“What dinner?”

“Keegey, you know what dinner.”

What I know is that I detest her nickname for me. “Megan, I’m too busy for this nonsense today. If you can’t come out and tell me what you want, it will have to wait until I’m finished seeing patients.” I realize that I’ve adopted the same tone with Megan that my mother used on me—when I was eight.

Megan, for her part, is undeterred by my stern voice. Like I said, not the brightest bulb in the pack. “The black one is shorter, but the gold one is so sparkly. I want to look pretty for you.”

I rub my brow, a headache brewing. The woman means well, and I believe she wants to please me, but I couldn’t give two craps what color dress she wears. Neither will the myriad of men ogling her at the dinner. “Go with the black.”

Her high-pitched giggle echoes through the receiver, cutting through my brain like a scythe. “That was my choice, too. Okay, Keegey, go back to work. I’ll see you tomorrow for dinner.”

“Can’t wait,” I mumble, disconnecting the call.

Why, seriously why, would anyone want to be attached to one person for the rest of their lives? I spend two or three nights a week with Megan, and I’m tempted to slice my own throat.

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