Brent reins in his hilarity. “Don’t get me wrong, it sucks, but syphilis is cured with a shot—it could’ve been worse.” His voice lowers. “You wanna play, sometimes you have to pay. It happens to the best of us. I had a bad case of seafood critters once myself.”

“Seafood?” Sofia asks.

Stanton fills her in. “Crabs, baby.”

Her face scrunches up. “Ewww.”

Stanton wags his finger at me. “I told you one day that revolving pussy door was gonna pinch you.”

“Thanks for not saying I told you so.”

“Anytime.”

When he was single, Stanton wasn’t a monk. But his hookups were more of a slow burn. He dated. Had a solid stable of women he felt comfortable calling when he wanted to get laid.

I don’t roll that way. It takes too much energy, too much time. A woman’s mind and personality don’t turn me on. It’s her other parts that hold my attention.

I feel the need to defend myself. “It’s not like you two are so discriminating. I’ve seen some of the women you’ve fucked. Those were some pretty low bars.”

“I resent that,” Brent tells me. But his grin says he kind of doesn’t.

“At least I knew their names,” Stanton counters. “A little bit of their background, tastes, history . . .”

“Sure,” I argue, “ ’cause right after ‘Nice weather we’re having,’ a chick is gonna throw out, ‘Oh, FYI—I have syphilis.’ ”

Stanton thinks on that a moment, then shrugs. “She might, actually. You’d be surprised what you could learn if you took the time to talk to women. And even if she didn’t tell you, when you get to know a woman, you get a feel for what kind of person she is. That goes a long way in deciding who you don’t want to stick your dick into.”

I hate to admit he has a point, but he does. And I resolve in this moment—if my tests come back clean—to get to know the next woman I intend to stick my dick into. At least a little. So I’ll never—ever—have to deal with this shit again.

Sofia leans forward, bracing her elbows on the table. “Did you call your doctor?”

“Yeah. I have an appointment tonight.”

I avoid doctors like the bubonic plague. On some level I know it’s ignorant, but I think the stress of knowing you have a fatal disease kills faster than the disease itself. I’d rather not know.

Give me a sudden heart attack in the middle of a fantastic lay or argument in the middle of a courtroom any day. That’s how I want to go. Many, many years from now.

“You know what the worst part’s gonna be, don’t you?” Brent asks. The bastard is still grinning.

“This isn’t the fucking worst part?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. The celibacy, my good man. No fun times for you for probably about two weeks. Until the test results come back.”

“Two weeks? Are you screwing with me?” My dick aches at the idea; it might as well be two years.

He nudges my shoulder and I want to hit him. “Afraid not. You and Hanna are going to be monogamous for a while.”

My eyes squint, ’cause I have no idea what he’s saying. “Hanna who?”

He waves his palm. “Hanna Hand.”

3

Two weeks later

Brent was right. It’s been two of the longest, slowest weeks of my life. I’ve worked out so much I busted my weight bench. Hanna and I have been spending way too much time together. The sex is stale and she’s starting to get clingy. Time to kick her to the fucking curb.

I’m not a nympho, I don’t need to hump every night, but two weeks is a major dry spell. It hasn’t been pleasant—and neither has my mood. With every day that’s passed, I’ve become exponentially more unbearable. I’m tense. Short-tempered. On edge.

Essentially, really goddamn horny.

Stanton has taken to avoiding being in the office with me. The afternoon I threatened to rip his tongue out while he was getting frisky on the phone with Sofia may have had something to do with that.

And even though today is the day I’m hoping to end the fast, anxiety about my test results has me even more stressed out. Which is really bad news for the client who just stepped into my office.

Milton I-Can’t-Follow-a-Simple-Motherfucking-Direction Bradley.

Milton I-Got-Arrested-Because-I-Was-in-a-Car-That-Got-Pulled-Over-with-Ten-Bags-of-Heroin-in-the-Glove-Compartment Bradley.

The door rattles on its hinges as I throw it closed behind him and level my darkest glare at him. He puts his hands in his pockets and walks to a chair like he’s strolling through the park, not a care in the world.

Not today, dipshit.

As he slouches in the chair, I sit behind my desk and fold my hands to keep from punching him.

“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.”