Notorious D.O.C. (Hope Sze medical mystery) (24 page)

Tucker closed his book and beckoned over
a tubby guy. "Excuse me, sir. Would you mind taking our picture? No,
facing the Formula One track, if that's okay. Yeah. Awesome."

And so our day was immortalized in a
photo, him looking gorgeous and casual, me smiling despite my acute awareness
of his hand burning my hip through my board shorts.

Chapter
23

I'm
not from Montreal.

Most
people here don't care. They're not too big on outside geography.

When
the richer Anglos go on vacation, they head to Vermont, Ottawa, or the Eastern
Townships for day trips. They fly out to L.A., the Caribbean, or Europe for
long trips. They don't give much of a shit about the rest of the country unless
it's Toronto or Vancouver.

That
made it easy for me to disappear and reappear in Montreal. They have no idea
where I'm from and it makes no difference to them. I'm white, I'm clean, I'm
educated, I speak English and okay French. Good enough.

I
needed a new I.D., though. So I stole a few until a hit the jackpot. The age
was off by a few years, but the picture looked close enough. I scored a
driver's license, Medicare card, social insurance card, two credit cards,
Interac, even some shit like the auto club and a hospital card. All nice and
easy to reroute to my new address.

Plus
I was legal to drink, 'cause the drinking age was only eighteen here. Not that
I ever let it stop me before, but it was cute to have real, legal ID—even
if wasn't actually mine.

I
met a lot of interesting people.

I
made up a lot of good stories that even I started to believe.

It
rocked until—well, I never thought I'd get fucking busted by Dr. Laura.

That
was when I really started up the death-row plan for the good doctor.

It
wasn't that hard to convince people to help. My new ID paved the way for some
good friends. You just have to know how to ask.

***

After I mentioned I liked round things,
Tucker took me inside the Biosphere. That is,
la Biosphère
. As we approached, I asked, "Are we allowed? Is
it actually another ecosystem in there?"

He laughed. "That's the
real
Biosphere. This is a water
museum."

It was indeed a museum dedicated to
water. A fountain trickled to the right of the entrance. I paused to read a
sign just inside the door. "Hey, Buckminister Fuller built this."

"Makes sense. He was the sphere
guy."

"Yeah, but I did a science project
on the molecule Buckminister Fullerene. They call it the bucky ball."

His forehead crinkled.

"You know what I'm talking about? A
spherical carbon molecule? It was in—oh, now I can't remember the
journal. I'm sure we could look it up. They even make a desk toy based on
it."

He slid his arm around my waist and
rested his chin on my head. I stiffened a little, noting the feel of his chest
against my back and his breath ruffling my hair, but we both pretended not to
notice.

He said, "Actually, I'm kidding you.
I do remember that."

"Really?" I craned my neck to
see him behind me.

He dropped a kiss on the top of my head.
"Yeah. Obviously we were meant to be together." And then, before I
could react, he let go first, theoretically to pay admission into the museum,
but I had my suspicions.

I could hardly concentrate on the museum
displays, even though I liked the outfits made out of recycled materials, from
batteries to salmon skins. Tucker pointed at a dress made out of light bulbs
and copper wire and said, "I could see you in that."

"It's transparent," I said.
Wire doesn't leave too much to the imagination.

He just grinned.

They say women are the ones who play
games, but some guys know exactly what they're doing to keep you in suspense.
When we ended up back at the gift shop in the lobby, I decided to take control.
"I'm going to buy you a present."

"Not necessary."

"Just a little something." I
held up the world's ugliest belt, made out of woven tetra-pack strips. This one
was white, and polka-dotted by pictures of miniature oranges.

Tucker backed up a step like the belt
hurt his eyes. "You don't have to."

"Hey, you paid the admission."

"My pleasure. You don't owe me
anything, including this—" His eyes darted to the two museum guides
at the front desk, well within earshot, with no other customers to
serve—"fine belt."

I cackled to myself. I couldn't imagine
any guy looking hot in this thing except maybe RuPaul. "Prove to me that a
Montreal guy can carry it off."

"It'd look better on you."

"After you show me how it's
done." I slapped the belt down on the counter and one of the girls rang it
up before Tucker could open his mouth again. I think they were ecstatic to sell
the first one in this millennium.

Tucker wrapped the belt around his
forehead like it was a bandanna. "You like?"

"I like," I purred and kissed
his cheek. His skin was slightly rough against my lips.

He turned to look at me. His brown eyes
were so close and intense that somehow it turned the joke on me.

I drew back. He let me, but he looped the
belt around my waist as if it were another arm holding me.

"I'm not into S&M," I said,
trying to make a joke.

"That's what all the girls
say," he answered, pulling the belt back and pretending to whip it against
his palm.

I retreated to a safe distance and
averted my eyes. Time to make another joke. "You could call Rihanna."

"You know, she keeps texting me.
Good idea." He looped the belt through his shorts. "Think this will
get her going?"

I giggled. "Definitely." That
belt was about as sexy as dentures and beige loafers.

We fell into step on the way to the
metro. While we waited for the next train, he said, "Not only am I a
fashionisto—is that a word?"

"It is now."

"But I can cook. Did you know that,
Buffy?"

"I did not."

"I'm going to make you dinner next
week. Wednesday okay with you?"

A train screeched into the station. I
raised my voice. "Why Wednesday?" Part of me hoped today's non-date
would keep on rolling after dark.

His brown eyes were shrewd. "Neither
of us are on call and I can't wait 'til the weekend."

We hopped on to the metro car. I didn't
have to look at him while I asked, "How about tonight?"

"Prior engagement."

"Oh." I sank into the nearest
seat and pretended to study an ad for the Montreal Botanical Gardens. I said to
it, "Well, I was sick of you anyway."

"It was the belt, wasn't it?"

I nodded glumly. "All part of my
devious plan."

"I'll walk you home anyway."

We walked in awkward silence. Tucker
whistled "Who's That Chick?" while I unlocked my apartment door. The
notes echoed down my hallway. I paused with the door open, wondering if I
should invite him in or if he had to hustle off to "Rihanna."

He gestured me through the door. "My
journey ends here. I had a wonderful time, Hope."

Me too. So why did I suddenly feel choked
up? I must have PTSD or something. I tried to smile. "Yeah, that was fun.
Have a good time tonight."

He pulled me into his arms. I closed my
eyes and raised my chin. He brushed his lips against mine. His lips were warm,
firm, and soft. He lingered for just a second, long enough for my lips to part,
but he turned his head. "Any more and I'll never leave." Even as he
spoke, his arms showed no sign of loosening.

"So don't."

"It's business. You'll respect me in
the morning."

Before I could object, he kissed me again
and stepped away, pointing at the bag. "Feel free to check out my
drawrings." He faked an English accent.

All of a sudden, I was sick of his 'Man
of Mystery' tease routine. "I'd better thank you, then." I grabbed
his face and kissed him, hard enough that his emerging stubble abraded the skin
around my mouth. Our tongues danced and I wrapped one leg around his. When he
half-groaned and dove deeper into the kiss, weaving his hands through my hair,
I responded just for a minute before tearing my lips away. His hands slid down
to my ass, trying to keep me there, but I stepped back forcefully.

With any luck, he'd follow me in.

We eyed each other. We were both
breathing hard and fast. Even in the dim light of my hallway, I could see his
pupils were dilated.

I raised my eyebrow in a challenge.
Should he stay or should he go now?

He tipped an imaginary hat to me.
"You're good."

I nodded. I felt good.

"I'll call you tonight."

Obviously not good enough.
"Sure." I smiled sweetly, but I had to stop myself from slamming the
door. I did throw the bolt with unnecessary force and even bolt the tiny latch
into the floor. His loss.

To distract myself, I opened the backpack
and pulled out my notebook.

Just inside the front cover, I found the
sketch of me. Two things struck me right away. One, I wished my thighs were
thinner. Two, I recognized how my eyebrows were drawn together in a slight
frown.

Ugh. It was like a train wreck. But the
more I examined his drawing, the more I stared at my own eyes. They were
intense, almost hypnotic with suppressed emotion. Slowly, I noted the sweetness
in the curve of my cheek, the positively sexy bow to my lip and the grace in my
neck. My hands were clasped and my legs crossed, superficially ladylike, but my
shoulders were open and a mischievous smile lurked in my lips.

I'm not art expert, but somehow, Tucker
had transmitted his feelings for me through the drawing.

I didn't feel as abandoned anymore.

I touched the corner of the paper softly,
almost reverently.

Chapter
24

I sat down at my desk and pulled Henry on
his feet, his arms raised in victory over his head. I could not stop staring at
that drawing.

Did I deserve a guy like that?
 
A guy who could draw, a doctor who spent his
spare time teaching himself different languages and who would work his old
psych contacts just to help me out?

What about Ryan spending his vacation and
his hard-earned cash armoring my apartment and building a computer model for
Mrs. Lee? I'd bought him a thank you present online, some cuff links made out
of Lego men, but it seemed so inadequate.

Too much thinking. I got myself a huge
glass of water and checked my voice mail messages.

"Hi, it's Mom. Dad is back from his
trip to Toronto, but Kevin has a cold and I'm not feeling so good. I don't know
if you want us to come visit or not—"

I forwarded to the next message. Only my
mother would ask if it was okay to visit me with a cold, when every day I
usually saw about a billion colds, flu, stomach viruses, and other infectious
diseases.

"Hi, it's Mom. Dad has a cough, too,
maybe from the airplane. You remember, he flew to Chicago the week before? I
don't know why, such a funny time to get a cold, I hope it's not anything. You
know, with global warming, I worry sometimes."

That explained why my family wasn't all
over me, the way they had been for my week off recuperating. The little-girl
part of me wished they could have stayed here longer. My mom would make
congee
like I was the one with a cold.
My father would pat the couch and ask me to watch TV. Kevin would offer to play
the violin or to do math homework with me to cheer me up.

On the other hand, by the end of last
week, I was more than ready to escape my tiny apartment and get back to work.

My mother was still talking.
"...Grandma was saying you saw Ryan this week. His grandmother told
her." Pause. "I don't know if you want to say anything about
that."

My father's voice rumbled in the background.
I couldn't make out the words, but his chiding tone was obvious.

"Okay, okay, Dad. It's none of our
business. I'm just saying, if you wanted to talk."

My father murmured again.

"Okay, never mind, forget I said
anything. Are we still talking tomorrow, or are you on call? Wait, Kevin wants
to talk, even though he's sick. Okay, pick up the phone, Kevin."

Kevin's cough exploded into the
recording. "I'm sick. My head hurts. My nose is all runny, mostly clear,
but yellow, too. I can't wait until I start coughing up stuff. That's pretty
cool. But Mom's been making me take lots of cough medicine, so maybe I
won't."