Fake It All the Way

Chapter 2 - Sealed in a Shady Business Deal

Chapter 2 

THE HOSPITAL HALLS were empty of people other than a stray nurse or janitor. I could see why. It was such a dreary place to be on Thanksgiving.

The staff led us to the private VIP room on the top floor. Dr. Alexeev sighed again, with more disdain this time, as some doctors appeared and explained to us that Maxwell had suffered a broken leg, a bruised rib, and head trauma. They also presented us with a leather satchel with what looked to be business papers. The doctors said they were handing it to Dr. Alexeev because they weren't sure if Maxwell would be trusted to do any office work while he was still recovering from surgery.

The doctors solemnly told Dr. Alexeev that Mr. Weston would not be well enough to make any business decisions for at least a couple of weeks. When Maxwell first woke up, he didn't even know his own name. Now, at least, he was starting to understand that he was in a hospital and not a penthouse suite at the Pierre Hotel.

Dr. Alexeev waved the doctor's concerns away. "That boy's skull is so thick no amount of drugs or street races can kill him," she laughed to herself. The doctors didn't appear to think she was very funny. "Maybe run a syphilis panel on him. I heard that can also cause mental issues."

I laughed politely along with her. The doctors didn't. They exchanged glances with each other as though they were wondering if they had called the right legal guardian. Though, a quick glance at Maxwell's medical records told me he was 26 years old. No one should require legal guardianship at that age.

His mental age, well, that was another issue. I was only 24, but I felt decades older than the immature brat.

Who flips a Porsche while street racing on this side of the world? I thought only rich kids in Singapore did stuff like that.

Dr. Alexeev and I entered Maxwell's room to find Maxwell with his right leg in a cast. He was sitting up with a hospital blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a hobo. From Dr. Alexeev's jokes, I envisioned a sour-faced fatty with a shifty, villainous stare — the kind men acquired when they slept around too much. I bet a boy like Maxwell woke up puking on the men's room of seedy bars more times than I could count. He probably has a permanent imprint of the checkered tile of the Soho House bathroom on his forehead. 

I was wrong. Maxwell Weston was extremely good-looking. He was gorgeous even with all the bruises and nicks on his face and hands. His sandy blond hair and was wet with either sweat or rain. His eyes weren't those of a vapid playboy. He looked very sharp despite being drop-dead handsome. I suddenly understood why Dr. Alexeev treated him with such disdain.

He was the kind of boy that made women want to either love him or hate him. If his father looked anything like that, I could see why Dr. Alexeev celebrated Christmas every year with a toast to the maker of the plane that sent her ex-husband into a burning grave.

I didn't even like men (or women for that matter), and I couldn't take my eyes off the boy.

Maxwell Weston was the pinnacle of alluring male toxicity. His brow ridge was fierce and sharp; his jawline looked to be chiseled out of marble. There was an annoyed yet intoxicating look to his pure blue eyes, as though one wanted to believe that was some good in him despite everything one knew about him.

There was only confusion in his blue eyes as he stared at us.

"It's me, Ramona," Dr, Alexeev said with a biting edge to her tone. He didn't even look up at her as she spoke to him. I imagined that this was the way they spoke to each other in their family. "They called me out of my Thanksgiving dinner party because you were stupid enough to crash your Porsche. Do you want to end up like your parents, Maxwell?"