Deviant Souls

By Amanda Wilhelm

Once I saw her, I had to have her.

Sam McIntyre had it all. Brilliant surgical career. Wealth. The begrudging respect of the best in the profession. Everything except someone to share it with.

Terri is young, beautiful and a bit naïve. So what if Sam is a little possessive, a little pushy? Sam knows more about the world, about life, than Terri does. Of course Sam is going to make most of the decisions.

They look like the kind of couple everybody envies. The big house. The fabulous weekend getaways. The fast track to marriage and a family. As far as anyone knows, everything is perfect. And Sam will do whatever it takes to keep it that way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amanda Wilhelm
• Release date: Apr 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781733185158

Book preview

Prologue

Please state your name for the record.

Terri McIntyre.

Your full name.

Teresa Annemarie McIntyre.

Some shuffling of papers. Then questions, lots of questions. Finally, the question I was expecting.

Do you remember the first time?

The first time what?

The first time Sam hit you.

I hesitate.

We know Sam hit you, we’ve seen the pictures.

No, I say.

We know this is hard.

I don’t say anything.

We know how hard it is.

I love Sam.

No one’s saying you don’t.

CHAPTER 1

I take a drink off the tray, raise it to my mouth and take a tiny sip.

Do you really need to taste it? Neil says, laughing. It’s Dom you know. Two thousand and eight I think.

I laugh along with him. It wouldn’t be anything but the best, it always is.

No, I guess not, but I better pace myself. This is work, after all, I reply.

Uh-oh, she’s glaring, Neil says. We better mingle.

We better.

We turn away from each other. I scurry towards the sitting area, Neil heads towards the bar. My stomach tightens up. The business relationship I have with Roberta’s firm makes me a lot of money. At my request she even structured it to divert part of my fees to the charity I founded and run.

As I approach the group of women I get that feeling I always do at these quarterly open houses. I just find them depressing. My best days are when I operate for free on people who really need my services. But if I didn’t do this job, I wouldn’t be able to help anyone.

I finish the glass of champagne as I approach the circular sofa surrounding the firepit. The new clients always gravitate together. Then the old ones check them out before swooping in—another thing that depresses me after all these years. The faces change but nothing else really does, ever.

Evening ladies, I say.

A waiter swoops in to take my empty glass. He offers me another. I decline. I see the new clients sizing me up. It was too warm for a jacket tonight but I see them taking in my cufflinks (platinum), my shoes, my hair, all of it. T-shirts and jeans are more my style, but when you’re part of Roberta Roberts’ (that was her ex-husband’s name but she kept it, I’ve never asked her maiden name) mega divorce services conglomeration your attire needs to match the clients’ expectations.

Are you one of the lawyers? one of the women asks.

Oh no, I tell her. I’m the surgeon.

Oh, she says, and takes another swig from her drink.

Mai tai, if I’m not mistaken. The summer parties always have tropical drinks, although the bar is fully stocked for whatever anyone might want. All top shelf of course.

Who was that guy you were talking to?

I look where she is pointing.

Oh, you mean Neil? He’s the yoga instructor.

Neil is also required to look the part, minus the dress shirt. He’s clothed head to toe in Gucci. I know because he told me, when we met in the driveway walking in, a half hour before the clients were supposed to arrive. I suspect Neil would want to wear designer clothing even if he didn’t have to. Luckily working for Roberta he can afford it. He tells me he has a pretty big Instagram following. Not quite large enough to merit free stuff from the designer labels, but I think that’s his ultimate goal.

I knew they had a surgeon, another woman says. But I don’t know.

All the services we offer here are optional. Stylist, interior design, life coach, I say, suppressing a smile. Life coach is Roberta’s euphemism for psychologist. It’s just for your convenience.

Except for the lawyers, the first woman says. "They’re not optional."

She stands up abruptly, so abruptly her drink sloshes around violently, enough to splash out of the glass onto her hand.

Here, Katrina says, handing her a napkin. It’s okay. We’ve all been there.

The woman wipes off her hand, then sinks back into her seat. For the purposes of the party, Roberta had emailed pictures to all of the staff and a brief description of the new and prospective clients. This one I would have pegged anyway, without any help. That’s what working here does to you. She doesn’t want a divorce. She wants her husband, her marriage, her life back, exactly how it was before the evening her husband came home and announced he was leaving.

The reason Roberta has all of us on staff is to ease you into the next phase of your life. We’re all here to help, with anything you need. I say this with the smoothness I still can’t believe I possess, but practice makes perfect.

That was the firm’s mission statement, in a nutshell. More than a nutshell. Anything You Need was the tagline for the business, on all the literature and advertising. The truth was that, twenty-five years ago—perhaps longer—Roberta had been shrewd enough to notice that the more money up for grabs in a divorce, the more likely the soon to be ex-wife was going to want to upgrade every aspect of her life including her appearance. Some did it through diet and exercise, thus the registered dietician on staff and the gym out back, which had once been a very nice stable. Some clients preferred the cosmetic surgery route. That’s where I come in. It was rare that a client wouldn’t come around to the idea of at least a little laser resurfacing given the large and very flattering photos that were posted in just about every room at the firm. But I had clients who came in knowing they wanted the boob lift, with or without augmentation. Usually all but the naturally extra well-endowed clients went bigger and if they wanted the breasts they always wanted the tummy tuck.

Roberta had seven lawyers on staff, three women and four men. They were all sharks. She liked her legal team blood-hungry, right down to the paralegals and the legal secretary. In addition to Neil the yoga guru there were three personal trainers. Clients could work out in the gym free of charge during office hours or arrange a personal session for an additional fee. The staff tried their best to schedule depositions to end a half hour before the afternoon kick boxing class, which clients were encouraged to try. As long as the firm was still on retainer the gym was available. Roberta issued keycards and was very anal about shutting off the passcode access, if the bill hadn’t been paid or the retainer allowed to lapse.

Dr. Sam did my boobs, Katrina says. And they are fabulous. You put them in the book, right, Sam?

The book’s anonymous, Kat, you know that, I say, playing along. I give her a wink for good measure, then I turn away.

Katrina, or Kat, as she insisted on being called, had kept her contract with the firm for over six years. She is the most senior client currently and has a weird air of superiority about it. I knew from Neil she was at the gym five days a week. Roberta’s monthly fee was higher than the most expensive gym in the county, which was saying something, but Katrina’s ex was paying for it. In return for his legally obligated generosity Katrina did her best to drag him into court at least once a year. I suspected that once their youngest kid turned eighteen the former Mr. Katrina would come after his ex-wife with all the firepower—in the form of legal services—that he could muster, which would be substantial. Whether that would shut her up for good, I doubted. If I had to guess, I would say she probably knew it was coming, and was looking forward to it.

Luckily for me I’m very good at my job. Katrina’s boobs will stay early twenties firm and perky long enough for me to be long gone from the firm. When I started working for Roberta every spare dime I made went to paying off my loans. Then I started saving as much as I could. I live rather frugally. When I said t-shirt and jeans I meant Old Navy not Gap and certainly not Gucci. I hate shopping, especially for clothes, I loathe it. The firm’s stylist sets me up with five or so new outfits a season. They probably assume I also wear them when I’m not at work. I don’t.

My car is another story. Roberta couldn’t make me buy something more firm-appropriate. Instead, she added a clause to my contract and gave me her old BMW to use, when she upgraded to a newer model. She even had it repainted silver, which she said was more fitting for a surgeon. Everyone knows no one who works for the firm is allowed to drive a white car, except for her. On the weekends or when I work at the hospital I drive my Prius.

Once not long after I had started with the firm I got an emergency page. We were on pagers back then. I wasn’t on call that day but the hospital was hoping I could make it in to help. A kid came in with severe facial injuries. He had been in the front seat, even though he was all of six years old and wasn’t supposed to be (it had taken all of my self-control not to lay into the mother about that). They had been on the thruway and a huge chunk of frozen snow had flown off the top of a truck right through the car’s windshield. That first surgery took over eight hours. Since I wasn’t on call, I didn’t have my garage pass or hospital ID with me. That was the last time I ever made that mistake. Oh, the look on the security guard’s face when I signed in.

Dr. Mac? he said, with a tone that implied he wasn’t sure.

At the hospital I’m Dr. Mac, short for McIntyre.

I didn’t blame him for not recognizing me. I don’t bother with styling my hair when I’m working at the hospital. I was also self-conscious about the fact that my outfit probably cost more than he made in a week, if not two or three times as much.

That’s me, I said breezily. Long story, but I have an emergency surgery to get to.

He handed me a temporary badge without another word.

I missed my afternoon consultations at the firm that day but Roberta was cool with it. She sent huge bouquets and apologies, then she personally called the women to rebook their appointments. Roberta told them that she only wished such tragedies like the one I had been called away for didn’t have to happen to anyone. She added that she was sure all the clients understood that we had to share Dr. Sam whenever such a need arose, dreadful as it was. When I saw the clients for their rebooked appointments, every single one of them said they hoped my emergency patient had made a full recovery, or some sort of variation on that sentiment. I had murmured thanks, prepared to cite patient confidentiality if they pressed me for details, but none of them had.

Ten more years, maybe fifteen, I’m thinking, as I make my way across the patio. Roberta calls it The Lanai. I can’t call it a lanai, not even in my head. This is Jersey, one of the very nicest parts of New Jersey, but still Jersey, not Maui. Every summer, Roberta has a family pool party, for the clients. I had gone once. After that I tried to be on call for the weekend of that particular event. I had the strange feeling the lifeguards were there just as much to enhance the adults’ experience, as for the kids’ safety. The adults-only functions I can’t avoid.

Could I do this for ten more years? Would five be enough, to save enough? Maybe seven? Seven and a half? I’m crunching numbers furiously in my head when I see her.

She’s coming out of the house. The firm operates out of the home where Roberta’s own marriage had ended and she still keeps a suite upstairs, for late nights. There had been some objection in town, about a business in a residential area, but the mayor had intervened on Roberta’s behalf. I guess Her Honor appreciated the way her own divorce was handled. The neighbors eventually acquiesced, maybe because some of them assumed they too would need Roberta’s services sooner or later. In deference to the exception made there is only one official business listed. Everyone who works for Roberta is an employee. Roberta doesn’t care if we operate a separate business off site, but poaching actual clients, from the firm, would not be tolerated. She never said that, to me or anyone else, but she didn’t have to. I assume her wrath would be formidable. When she was hiring me I explained the work I wanted, or needed to do, on the side. She never had a problem with it and never takes a dime from those patients. She also allows me to see standard cosmetic surgery patients at the firm, as long as her clients get top priority, and she gets her cut, of course. The arrangement has worked well for both of us, for more than twenty years now.

Once I notice the catering girl, emphasis on girl, I can’t take my eyes off her. I guess she’s early twenties. Her clothes, standard white shirt and black pants, are maybe a half size too small. When she turns and I catch a glimpse of her profile, she takes my breath away. I examine breasts all the time, always with a clinical eye. Now my clinical eye was telling me hers were what every woman who came to me wanted. I spend the rest of the party keeping half an eye on her. Once I think I catch her looking at me and I smile. Her eyes widen briefly then she turns away. When Roberta is climbing the stairs to retire for the night, I feel it is safe to slip off to the kitchen.

The catering staff is busy cleaning up. They barely glance at me as I walk in. I’m sure they just want to get out of there, overtime or not. The clock on the microwave says twelve forty-seven. I had learned very early on to never schedule surgery for the day after one of Roberta’s little soirees as she calls them.

The girl isn’t there. I go into the garage. Roberta’s Seven Series positively gleams, reflecting what little light there is. I can see the catering van parked just outside the open door. As I walk out into the still somewhat humid June night, I see her inside it. I run to stretch a hand out to her.

Thanks, she says, as she jumps down. She pulls her hand away immediately, and disappointment bubbles up inside me. Wait, aren’t you one of the lawyers? she asks.

Surgeon, I say. Everyone here calls me Doctor Sam.

Surgeon? she says. Her confusion is obvious. I thought...never mind.

What?

Isn’t this, she says, lowering her voice and leaning towards me. I catch a whiff of her scent, amplified, I’m sure, by the hours she had spent running around all evening. It is like a drug, the way she smells. I want to kiss her so badly, right then. I feel it everywhere, how badly I want to kiss her, to touch her, to have her.

What? I say again.

It’s hard for me to get the word out, my heart’s beating out of my chest.

I thought, isn’t it, divorce, or something?

I’m not here to talk to you about the firm.

I learned long ago, to just lay it out there. I don’t expect her to be interested. But I prefer to know right away, if she isn’t. I can go home and fantasize about her, even if it could never be. The one thing I never want to do is waste my time, if it isn’t going to work out.

You’re not? she says.

No, I say. I came out here to meet you. To see if you’d be interested. In me.

She looks around.

My boss, she says. I’m not supposed to talk to anyone. Just serve.

I pull out my phone and quickly type in my password.

Just put your info in here, I say. I’m already opening up a new contact. What’s your name?

Terri.

I type that in and pass her the phone. She puts the rest of her info in, then passes it back to me. I save it immediately, but before I can say anything else we hear the door to the kitchen open.

Go, she says frantically, and gives me a little shove.

I race around the van and out to the front of the house. I can’t resist, I have to text her as soon as I get in my car.

Thanks for giving me your number, I hope I can see you again real soon.

I send the text and leave. Halfway home she replies. At least I assume it is her replying, I don’t check my phone while I’m driving, ever. Working at a trauma center does that to you. I want to pull over and read it, but as I’m looking for a place to stop a big yawn comes over me. I know then I’d better just head home. As soon as I get home and turn the car off I grab my phone.

I’d like that.

It’s followed by a smile emoji. I hate emojis, but it is only one and for the chance of getting my hands on that body I’d tolerate a lot more than one emoji. I sit there for a couple of minutes and finally think nothing ventured, nothing gained.

It’s late. Is it okay if I call you tomorrow? I’ll ask you out properly then.

I head into the house. I haven’t even made it to the stairs before she responds.

Okay.

I’m at the top of the stairs when I think of it. I text her again.

Would you send me a picture? For your contact page.

I leave the phone on the nightstand as I go into the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face. I hear the phone ring when I’m putting my moisturizer on. (You can’t look at the effects of aging on the skin, day in and day out, for decades, and not think it’s essential, and that goes double for sunscreen by the way.) Hopeful, I strip down to nothing before I crawl between the sheets and pick my phone up. I look at the selfie she sent. She has undone a couple more buttons on her shirt, before taking it. Staring at the full, round tops of her breasts, my heart starts racing again. There’s no maybe about it, she’s into it.

Thank you, I type. I’ll call you tomorrow. I want to take you somewhere nice. Really nice.

I turn off the lamp and set the phone down on the table. I wait a couple of minutes but the phone stays silent. Maybe she’s already asleep, I think, turning my head to the empty side of the king-sized bed. Then I slide my hands down my body to begin what is absolutely going to be the best part of my evening.

CHAPTER 2

I wake up and immediately grab my phone.

Nothing.

Nothing?

Nothing, nada, zilch.

I’m disappointed, to say the least. I don’t understand. I was sure Sam was the one.

And then Sam texted me. Asked for a picture. I should have thought about it, but it was late and I wanted to send it right away. I should have sent one of my favorite selfies. One of the oh-so-natural ones, that took forty-five minutes to an hour to get right.

Instead I unbuttoned my shirt, shoved my boobs up as high as I could. Totally slutted it up. I blew it. Sam is never going to text me.

I look at my phone. It’s nine o’clock. Surely a surgeon is at work by now.

I drag myself to the bathroom and sulk in the shower until Matt starts pounding on the door.

What? I yell.

I got to pee.

Oh, Matt. I say. Fine, go ahead.

I close my eyes and rest my head against the wall. The shower curtain is solid, but I’m not taking any chances. I have no desire to see or even hear him peeing. Gross.

I wait until he’s done, then I turn off the water.

Ter, he says, through the door, just as I grab my towel.

What now?

If he tells me he needs the bathroom again, oh no, gross, gross, double gross.

You got a text.

I did?

I wrap myself in the towel and race out of the bathroom. Matt has to jump out of the way as I cross the hallway.

I pick up my phone, holding my towel around me with my other hand.

It’s Sam!

I’m really excited, of course.

Matt laughs.

Sam! Thank God! he says in the squeaky voice he uses to make fun of me. He’s waving his hands in the air and everything.

Oh shut up, I say, as I open the text. A date, I tell Matt, Saturday.

For that I get a thumbs-up.

CHAPTER 3

More wine? the sommelier asks.

I nod and point to Terri’s glass. He tops that one off first,