Page 247 of The Doctors Will See You Now

“So, what do you like to do in your free time, Harlow?” Barron asked after he took a hearty sip of his wine. He’d ordered us a third bottle of red—a Merlot, maybe?—to share with our meal, and he made a point to let me know every detail of its rare and vintage quality.

“Amazing,” my date said as he swirled his glass around and grinned. “I’m impressed by the legs on this one. Did you notice how the subtle tones of oak and chocolate liven your palate?”

Barron Alexander Conrad III—my date’s full, and let’s be real, very pretentious name—had been rambling on and on about the wine’s legs since the server left the bottle at the table. I literally knew nothing about wine. Tannic. Oaky. Full-bodied. Every word he spoke bled together into a single word in my mind: ostentatious.

When it came to wine, all I cared about was how many glasses it would take for me to get buzzed.

I fought the urge to roll my eyes and just nodded in fake agreement as I tilted the glass to my lips and finished off my first glass from this bottle.

First dates, man. I fucking hate them.

Hell, I loathed anything that could end up in a relationship in general. I wasn’t a commitment-phobe or anything like that. I just knew that long-term commitments weren’t my thing. I’d been burned once, and I’d learned my lesson. I’d spend the rest of my life keeping my hands away from the proverbial hot stove, thank you very much.

I forced a smile. At least, I hoped I was smiling. Do smiles taste like vinegar? If so, I’m definitely smiling. “Well…I stay pretty busy with work. And when I’m not working, I guess I enjoy going to dinner with my friends, reading, seeing movies, going to concerts…” Blah. Blah. Blah.

God, I sounded just as boring as Barron.

Why do I even agree to these things?

Because I needed sex.

I know. Believe me, I know.

But I really did need sex.

Short of swiping right on everything within a two-mile radius on Tinder, dates like these were the only option for a hookup, particularly the kind that ended in penetration, without donning clear heels and a belt as a skirt and hitting the street corner. Though, if this didn’t work out, that option was sounding more and more like it had merit.

It’s been too long, and I’ve reached the point where my daily masturbation sessions just aren’t cutting it.

I need a penis, guys.

“How long have you been with Gossip?”

I sighed internally. At both the sound of Barron’s too nasal voice and the ridiculous job I still called my own. “I guess it’s been about four years now.” Too fucking long.

Gossip was an online and print magazine, and I’d been on their payroll as a columnist for several years. The goal of the magazine revolved around digging, swindling, or bribing the firsthand scoop and juicy gossip from the rich and famous of the world, particularly the ones residing in New York City.

It was trashy and trope-y and just about everything you would expect from something titled Gossip.

Celebrities, as a rule, were all the same; they loved when we noticed them but hated us when we hung their dirty laundry out to dry.

Although, it should be noted, I wasn’t completely on the dark side like some of my fellow columnists in the industry. I only gave my readers mostly factual celeb news with very little embellishment. I followed the yellow-brick road to reality, even if I stepped off onto the grass every once in a while. Other conniving vipers ran around in the forest looking for the juiciest poison apple to plant in a celebrity’s hands.

With that said, I derived unmitigated pleasure from writing about some celebrity heartthrob who’d fucked his nanny while his wife was on a movie set thousands of miles away—his nanny having spilled the beans with proof—and I didn’t think that would ever change.

Of course, the same went for the cheating wives and the asshole celebs who treated their assistants and staff like shit.

To make a long story short, my job at Gossip had started out as a short-term plan after I’d graduated college and left an awful mess of a relationship, but somehow, it had turned into a career. Hell, at twenty-nine years old, when I looked back on my life, I wasn’t even sure why I was still working there.

Seriously? Why am I still there?

I stabbed my fork into the asparagus on my plate and wondered how I’d reached this place, making a career out of something I didn’t enjoy, and going on first dates with men like Barron just because I was that desperate for a penis. Good Lord, when I really thought about it, my life’s train had derailed off the motherfucking tracks.

As if on cue, Barron grinned from across the table and held his fork out toward me. “You need to try this,” he urged me, motioning the fork for emphasis, and I shook my head. “Just try it, Harlow. Their lobster is to die for,” he said and nodded toward the fork that was now two inches from my face as if I were somehow still questioning what he wanted me to do despite the step-by-step tutorial.

“Uh…” I grimaced once the fishy seafood smell hit my nostrils. “I’m not a big fan of fish.”

“But it’s lobster.”