longer.
“Normally ear augmentation runs around six thousand dollars for both ears. But since you’re a fairy, which complicates it, I’d say you could expect to pay around ten thousand.” Sam’s mouth dropped open. “You’ve gotta be kidding,” The doctor’s stern expression said he wasn’t kidding-not by a long shot. “Okay, great, let me take some time to think about it,” I said and stood. Sam was quick behind me. The doctor didn’t stand but gave us another frozen smile in compensation. “Hope to see you again soon,” he said. We showed ourselves out.
“Have you lost your mind, Dulce?” Sam asked as we left the building. “You can’t have that cretin operating on you. What a jerk! Ten thousand dollars?” I unlocked my car. “Yeah, he was a creep, wasn’t he?” “I’d say so. Please tell me you aren’t considering it.” I shrugged. “I can’t lie, Sam. I’ve been thinking about this for so long now.” She narrowed her eyes. “Even though you won’t admit it, I think this has everything to do with Jack.” “Well, let’s agree to disagree.” ###
Two hours later, I was back at home, replaying the events of the day in my head as I turned on my computer. Yeah, the doctor hadn’t been especially friendly, but I really wanted the surgery. I’d wanted it for years now and though Sam was convinced it had everything to do with my jerk ex-boyfriend, I wasn’t convinced. I mean, I’d disliked my ears before Jack was ever in the picture. But, Jack being the reason-or not-didn’t take away from the fact that the doctor was a jerk. Course, there weren’t any other ear augmentation specialists in a hundred mile radius of me. So, I was stuck between a Doc and a hard place.
I logged into my email, excited to see if any agents or publishers had responded to my query. As for the surgery, I pushed it to the back of my mind. There wasn’t a rush. I could decide later.
I had eighteen new emails in my inbox. My heartbeat raced. Upon further inspection, they were all agents and publishers. Wow. That had to be good, right? I opened the first one.
Dear Ms. O’Neil,
Thank you for your interest in Jones amp; Jones representing Captain Slade’s Bounty. Unfortunately, we don’t feel strongly enough about the work to offer you representation, but we wish you the best of luck.
Okay, so that was just one. There were seventeen more.
After getting to the fifteenth, I started recognizing a pattern-rejection. I opened the last email and sighed. Another rejection. At least this agent had ended the email by telling me historicals were out and the market was really looking for paranormals. Un-flippin’-believable. The phone rang. “Hello?” “Hi, Dulce.” It was Sam. “Thought any more about the ear thing?” “No, haven’t made up my mind.” “You sound bummed out.”
“I just got rejected by every agent and publisher I queried. One of them said historicals aren’t popular right now but paranormals are. Paranormals, I mean, come on. Who the hell reads those?”
“Sorry to hear it. Don’t lose faith though.” She paused. “Maybe you should write a paranormal.”
“I’m done. I put everything I had into that book and not one agent wanted to look at it. Maybe I’m just not cut out to be a writer.”
“Don’t feel sorry for yourself, Dulce. Maybe you just have to give the market what it’s looking for and it sounds like that would be a paranormal.”
“I have no interest in that. What would I write about anyway?”
Sam was quiet for a minute. “I know.” I could hear the smile in her voice. “Write a book about Bram. Everyone loves vampires, right?”
Hmm, If you want to succeed you have to be flexible, right? Maybe it would do me good to try another genre. “Yeah, that’s an idea,” I started, considering it. “He’d eat it up, I’m sure. His ego is already big enough as it is. Any bigger and it could take out a small family.” Sam laughed. “Okay, well I gotta run. Quillan wants something. Just wanted to check in on you.” I could hear Quillan talking with her. “Quillan says hi, and he’s stopping by after work tonight,” she finished. “Okay, tell him hi back and I’ll see him later. Thanks, Sam.” I hung up, pondering a book about Bram. Maybe it was worth a shot.
NINE
I didn’t think it was Quillan’s responsibility to buy dinner again, so I ordered a pizza.
“Ham and pineapple, my favorite,” he said, sinking his teeth into a slice.
I smiled-his stopping by every day after work was becoming comfortable. Today had only been the third time, but somehow it felt…right. The thought scared the crap out of me. What was I thinking? I was Quillan’s employee. And nothing more.
“How are the gremlins working out?” Quillan asked between bites.
I pulled my attention from the wall, where I’d been zoning out into space and daydreaming about all the things that could and would never be.
“So far so good. I haven’t seen them. Well, other than feeding them every morning.”
Quillan nodded, but his attention was glued to the floor. He took another bite, chewing slowly. There was something definitely bothering him. If he’d had laser vision, I’d have a sizable hole burned into my carpet right about now. “What’s up, Quill?” I asked, half wondering if I really wanted to know. He dropped the crust of pizza onto the plate. “I wanted to talk to you about something.” “Hmm?” “I overheard you and Sam talking on the phone the other day about a doctor’s appointment you had.” Mortification, embarrassment, and shame all took turns attacking my pride until I felt like a pile of self-consciousness. “That’s really none of your business.”
He nodded, but by the steel set to his lips, he wasn’t giving up. “I know. It’s not, Dulce, but I care about you and I thought I should tell you…you don’t need surgery.”
My face had to be bright red-the blaze of complete and total humiliation flooding my cheeks like red dye dropped in water. I wasn’t sure if it was anger or embarrassment.
“Well, I wish you hadn’t overheard our conversation, since it was private.”
“Have you made up your mind about it yet?”
“No.” I paused, pretending extreme interest in removing the lint from my sweatshirt. “And I really don’t want to talk about it.” I picked up my pizza, which suddenly seemed to weigh twenty pounds, and brought it to my mouth. I chewed but couldn’t taste anything, the aftertaste of shame still polluting my mouth.
Quillan took another bite of his pizza, and the silence in the room was telling. I put my slice back on the plate, feeling completely stuffed and more so… sick.
“You know the anesthesia could kill you or screw up your brain, right?” he finally said. “We can’t handle that sort of stuff, Dulce. We’re not like humans.”
I sighed. “Quill…”
“Just indulge me for a minute, Dulcie, please.”
No, I'd indulged him long enough. The subject was closed. It was my decision and damn anyone who wanted to change my mind. “The anesthesia will be fine.”
Even though I spoke with assurance, I wasn’t convinced. The risks of complication had always been the foremost reason I hadn’t gone through with the surgery. But Quillan’s doubts didn’t need company.
He shook his head. “Our bodies aren’t meant to handle harsh human sedatives. It’s a huge risk.”
I stood up and dropped my pizza slice into the trashcan, wishing I could dump the conversation as easily. My eyes fell to the view outside my window as I searched for the gremlins, hoping to focus on something else.
“Is that all you have to say?”
“Why are you doing it?”
Quillan’s voice came from behind me. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying not to think about the fact that he was standing so close. His crisp aftershave hit me like a truck and I closed my eyes. After a second or two, I forced my eyes open and turned around. He stood maybe two inches from me, the heat of his breath searing my neck. I took a step back.
“Why do you think I’m doing, er, thinking of doing it?” I quipped, but he didn’t respond. “Because obviously I don’t like my ears.”
Quillan’s jaw tightened. “It’s not because some guy wants you to do it?”
Leaning against the kitchen counter, I turned my back to him and gazed outside the window again, much preferring the view to the stubbornness in Quillan’s eyes. “I’m doing it for myself. I just happen not to like my pointed ears, and I think if they were…normal looking…” “You’d be prettier? Maybe happier?” The sarcasm in his
