To The Bone

Chapter 11

Her voice leads you to a different street, another doorway. It's darker and quieter in here than the last place. The bottles lined up on the back-bar shelves glitter with dusty colored light.

She's a silhouette, alone at the bar, posed for you.

She gives you a quick smile when you walk up next to her. She's in her late twenties, thin, wearing a tank top and jeans. She's probably been hit on several times already tonight, by men and women both. You look better than most of what she sees.

You order a glass of wine, a Clos Pegase merlot this time. Then you admire the bracelet on her right forearm. It wraps around, a silver and turquoise snake crawling up her skin. The silver seems liquid, but not from the room's light. From her.

"Where'd you get it?" you ask.

"In LA. It's Navaho."

You touch it, feeling her warmth shoot up through it into your finger.

"It looks alive," you say. She smiles again and tosses her hair.

She tells you she's from the Midwest. She's been traveling, working part-time here and there, crashing with people she meets. Her name is Lynn. You tell her a name, too, and let her know right away that you're a doctor.

Her eyes flicker. That could mean drugs.

She chatters on, but you listen past her words to what her voice is telling you in your head – what has hurt her all her life. She's almost pretty, but her chin recedes, and her nostrils flare at the tip.

You'll start with a rhinoplasty – remove a little cartilage from the base of each nostril, then tighten them together. Then implants in the mandible to move the chin bone forward. When it's finished, her face will have a beautiful balance. She'll wish you'd found her years ago.

"Are you really a doctor?" she asks teasingly. Are we really talking drugs?

"Really." You show her your medical license, making sure she also sees plenty of credit cards and crisp cash.

Then you lean close, lips just brushing her ear, and say very quietly, "Look, we're both grown-ups. Let's not be coy. I like to party, and I've got a whole pharmacy at my clinic."

She doesn't say anything, doesn't even look at you, but it's just what she wanted to hear.

"Why don't we talk it over in my car?" you say.

You're parked several blocks away, and the two of you don't talk much on the walk. She's wondering whether she made a bad move.

But when she sees the car, her eyebrows rise.

"Nice," she says.

You unlock the passenger door for her. As she's getting in, you press a folded hundred-dollar bill into her palm.

"Just a little fun money," you say.

She acts surprised, even offended. "This isn't really what I do. What do you – you know – want from me?"

"Maybe you can help me with a fantasy."

"Well, maybe," she says warily. "But nothing weird, okay?"

"Of course." You start the engine. It has a smooth, reassuring purr.

"You mind if I smoke?" she asks.

"Go ahead."

She takes cigarettes from her purse and lights up, then relaxes back into the seat. This is looking good. There's money and drugs.

You're a doctor. You can give her what she wants.