“What did I tell you?” I ask him.

“It wasn’t mine.”

My voice gets lower. Sharper. “What. Did I. Tell you?”

His eyes drop, like he’s a submissive dog. “You told me to stay home, but—”

I hold up my finger. “There is no but. I told you to keep your sorry ass home, and you’re too much of a fucking idiot to listen.”

He stands up, his face turning from white to an angry pink. “You can’t talk to me like that! My father pays your salary.”

I stand too—and I’m a lot scarier at it than he is. “Sit. Down.”

He does. I stay standing. “I did just talk to you like that, asshole. And lightning didn’t strike me, so get over yourself. As for your father, no, he doesn’t pay my salary. But even if he did, I wouldn’t hesitate to call you the stupid, dickless moron you are.”

He gets more flushed with every word.

I sit back down, my tone turning more philosophical. “Do you know what happens to boys like you in prison, Milton? Wealthy, pretty, sweet-smelling boys?”

And he goes from pink to pale in no time flat.

“Unless you have a secret fantasy about getting your ass torn apart, you need to get it through your thick skull that the only thing standing between you and a cellmate named Chewbacca is me.”

He finally looks frightened.

“And because it’s my job, I’m going to keep your undeserving ass out of prison whether you want to cooperate or not. Got it?”

He nods and smartly keeps his mouth shut.

“Now—are your fingerprints on any of the heroin bags?”

He shakes his head. “No. I never touched them.”

Perfect. Chances are I’ll be able to work around his latest arrest.

I take out a business card from my top drawer. “When you leave my office, go straight to this address.”

He examines the card. “What is it?”

“It’s a monitoring company. They’ll fit you with an ankle monitor that will tell them if you leave your house. If you do, they’ll notify me.”

He opens his mouth to argue.

“Not a fucking word, Milton. This is your last chance—you screw this up, it’s plan B all the way.”

“What’s plan B?” he asks, like it’s an option he’d rather consider.

“I beat the ever-loving shit out of you. You can’t get into trouble if you’re in traction.”

He swallows so hard, I hear it. “O-okay,” he stutters. “For real this time, I’ll listen.”

My expression remains stony; I’m not giving an inch. “For your sake, you damn well better.”

• • •

Two hours later, I’m in an exam room at my doctor’s office, sitting on the table with that stupid paper crinkling under my beige slacks. I check my watch. He’s late. As if my mood wasn’t black enough, I really hate to be kept waiting.

With nothing better to do, I glance around the walls of the room. Framed medical certificates from Yale, a poster on proper hand-washing technique, an advertisement for the flu shot, and a reminder to get your prostate exam.

Just shoot me now. Put me out of my misery.

And for the thousandth time in two weeks, I swear I’ll never find myself in this position again. No more nameless hookups. No more jilted girlfriends with self-esteem issues looking to lose themselves in a stranger fuck. From here on out, it’s dating only. I’ll get to know them. I’ll become goddamn choosy, no matter how unappetizing it sounds.

Finally the door to the room opens, and in walks an unfamiliar face in a white coat. Light brown hair, tiny dark eyes, a smooth chin that appears to have never met a razor.

He looks fucking twelve.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

He glances up from the file in his hands, smiling. “Good morning, Mr. Becker, I’m Dr. Grey.”

I fleetingly look at the door, expecting his father to walk in behind him. “You sure?”

Good-natured teeth flash. “Yes, I’m sure I’m a doctor. I’m new to the practice. Dr. Sauer had a family emergency so I’m covering for him today.” He turns a page in the file, scanning the contents. “Before we discuss your test results, let’s go over the recommended protocols for safe sexual intercourse, including condoms, spermicidal lubricants, birth control—”

I hold up my hand. “Let’s not. I’m good with all that. Just give it to me straight—are my results good or bad?”

• • •

I raise my bottle of beer, clinking it against the three raised glasses. “Clean as a whistle.” I haven’t smiled this much since I won my first case. I’m practically giddy, for Christ’s sake. My cheeks are getting sore.

“Congratulations,” Sofia tells me happily.

“Healthy, wealthy, and wise,” Stanton says. “Here’s to stayin’ that way.”

“Damn straight.” I take a drag from the bottle. I don’t usually drink at lunch—and I never get drunk, even on the weekends. I’ve always associated being wasted with weakness, a lack of control, hazy thoughts, and regrettable actions. But this is a special occasion.

“So what’s your plan now?” Brent asks. “As if I didn’t already know, you randy bastard. I’ve seen the way you’ve been leering at poor Mrs. Higgens. Desperate much?”

I flip him off. Mrs. Higgens is pretty much the only female in my radius who’s exempt. Which leads me to my next question. “So . . . what’s the typical schedule with the whole dating thing? How long before one gets to the actual fucking?”