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“You don’t have a dentist?” Chris asked.
Joq thought about his annual check-ups with Anna Hernandez in her pristine office in Toorak for over ten years; even with her two brief stints on maternity leave, she’d remained his dentist.
“Retired,” Joq said.
Chris rested his hand on Joq’s hip, drummed his fingers. Joq swore Chris had some kind of sixth sense for his lies and half-truths, but fucked if he was getting into it.
“Use mine,” Chris replied and rolled away to grab his phone.
“I can get my own,” Joq said, suddenly wanting nothing more. He wanted his own dentist on his own insurance plan, his own place that was all his, his own furniture, utensils, and fucking cat. He had all of the above, but it suddenly felt imperative he get up and go back to it all.
Chris stopped him with a hand on his hip. Joq was about to tell him firmly but calmly he’d see him later when Chris’ hopeful yet cautious smile stopped him.
“He’s really good, I promise,” Chris said.
Joq deflated in the face of that smile. He prattled off his insurance company.
“He probably takes them,” Chris replied and typed something into his phone. “Should be able to get first available.”
“Just give me the contact.”
Chris hesitated. “He’s got a waitlist.”
“Oh,” Joq nodded and went back to his phone. “This won’t wait.”
“But he’ll fit me in, promise,” Chris was smiling again.
“I can get my own.”
Chris’ phone pinged.
“It’s five in the morning,” Joq said because surely that wasn’t the dentist.
“He’s got one of those services,” Chris mumbled looking at his phone. “Eight.” He tossed his phone back on the bed and got up. “I’ll get you some painkillers.”
Joq watched the planes in his bare back shift as Chris scooped his pants off the chaise at the end of the bed, his eyes dropping to the firm muscles of his ass before it disappeared under the material.
And he was out the door, his footfalls soft on the wooden floorboards as he went down the stairs.
Even if he had a service, how would it know to fit Joq in to an already packed schedule?
Chris smiled at him when he came back with a glass of chilled water and some, “Panadeine forte,” he said as he dropped them in Joq’s open palm. “Hurt my back skiing last year.”
Joq’s tooth and jaw throbbed and he decided it wasn’t worth asking about the dentist or the ski trip.
Three hours later, he was sitting in the waiting room, the pain dulled, the dentist greeting him personally and replying effusively when Joq thanked him for squeezing him, “Anything for Chris. If you can give me a minute to set up?”
Joq nodded and tried to smile, but it hurt.
The dentist disappeared and Joq picked up the top magazine—a shiny copy of the Financial Times.
He had to blink a few times at the cover photo.
It was Chris.
Christopher McLachlan to be specific.
What in the fuck was Chris doing on the cover of the Financial Times looking incredible and foreboding in a three-piece suit?
