The Boy Toy Read online

  The train and tram trip from Dandenong to Carlton took about an hour, giving Rory plenty of time to think. If last night with Samira and the way she’d opened up had been a surprise, this morning had blown him away. She’d come alive as they’d strolled the streets where she’d grown up, her enthusiasm rubbing off on him in a way he hadn’t expected. He didn’t get excited about much these days, beyond a sexy brunette who’d got under his skin.

  He couldn’t believe she was thirty-seven. Not that it mattered. He’d been out with women older and younger, and while he’d technically never dated anyone beyond a night or two, he knew none of them came close to Samira.

  It irked that they hadn’t arranged to meet up again when they parted. He’d hoped she’d say something, because he sure as hell wouldn’t. Not that he didn’t want to, but he’d become particularly tongue-tied at the station, wanting to articulate how much fun he’d had hanging out with her but lacking the words. But then she’d called, and everything had been okay. They’d both been flippant and teasing, but he knew she wouldn’t have called so soon if she didn’t feel the same buzz he did.

  Spending the night with her had been rare enough for him; hanging out for the entire “morning after” never happened. It had been the best date he’d ever had. It felt so natural, so easy, but that should make him extra wary. The more comfortable he felt with her, the higher chance he’d become a stuttering mess.

  Though he wasn’t a complete fool. If they continued to hang out like he wanted, he would slip up, and she’d learn his secret. If it happened after he nailed the Renegades audition, he’d feel better somehow, like he was more her equal. Because right now, with her job and her lifestyle and her age, she had it all over him, and he felt like he didn’t quite match up.

  And he hated feeling not quite good enough. He’d had enough of that shit from his dad.

  Samira would never deliberately do it, but first would come the pity, then the questions, then the changes: the waiting for him to complete sentences with the slightest hint of impatience, the occasional awkward glance away when he couldn’t get a word out, or the worst of them all, trying to finish a word or sentence for him. Fuck, he hated that the most.

  So while he had no clue where things stood with Samira, he’d stop overthinking it, and what better place to do that than the rec hall?

  Amelia wouldn’t be here today, though she dropped in occasionally on a Saturday afternoon like he did to build informal relationships with the kids. Building trust was the first step toward encouraging them to take part in the program once it was up and running. Being migrants and refugees, most of their parents hadn’t heard of speech therapy or they viewed health professionals skeptically.

  That was where he came in. If the kids bonded with him over shooting a few hoops or kicking a footy, and he opened up about his own therapy, they’d be more likely to welcome Amelia’s intervention when the time came.

  Pushing open the wire door that led to the courts, he spotted a motley crew of boys and girls aged from eight to sixteen. He knew most of them but spied a few new faces. Out of the group of eighteen, at least six kids could do with speech therapy. Two with stutters, four on the spectrum. Those kids tended to hang back and not engage with the others.

  He knew the feeling.

  It didn’t matter that he’d attended one of the best private schools in the city; kids still mocked the same the world over. It had been easier to shut his mouth than be ridiculed for it, and while he may have been tall and strong for his age when he hit his early teens, it didn’t make the bullies back off. If anything, they taunted more, hoping he’d lose his cool and end up fighting. He never had, but most days the punching bag in his workout room at home copped a beating.

  He’d been to these courts several times now, and most of the kids knew him, but that didn’t make them any friendlier. Considering some had come from war-torn countries and witnessed horrific atrocities, he didn’t blame them for their mistrust of adults in general. But he persisted because he wanted them to have every chance of treating their speech impediments.

  One of the kids, Davey, a boy of about nine, spotted him and waved. He felt sorry for Davey because Ds were particularly difficult for stutterers, so the simple act of introducing himself to anyone was tough on this kid.

  Rory strolled over to the outskirts of the scuffed court where a half-hearted game was in progress, the older kids jostling for position and shooting hoops.

  “Hey, Davey, how are you?”

  “G-g-good,” the kid said, avoiding his eyes like he usually did, as if ashamed of his affliction.

  “Shot any hoops yet?”

  Davey shook his head, taking any opportunity to use a gesture rather than speak. Rory had done the same at a similar age. It had infuriated his father. But what was the point of speaking when it would earn him a pitiful glance or a sentence finished by someone else? Later, in his teens, he’d let his fingers do the talking, the middle one in particular.

  “Want to join in the game?”

  Another shake of the head, but Rory caught the longing glance Davey sent the other kids. One of them tripped, and the others laughed uproariously, but it was good-natured as they helped the kid to his feet and continued playing.

  “Sure? It looks like fun.”

  Davey reluctantly dragged his gaze from the kids to focus it on him, and Rory hated the pain in his wide eyes. “I c-c-can’t c-call out for the b-ball. It t-takes t-too long b-b-because I t-talk like this. K-k-kids d-don’t like it.”

  Rory’s chest tightened, an ache that spread and made him want to rub it away. He knew the desperate yearning to be part of the gang but also the fear of being ridiculed that came with it.

  He’d had no friends at school and didn’t have any now beyond acquaintances from the movie industry. His fault, for deliberately distancing himself from anyone before they got too close, a relentless cycle of holding people at bay for fear of slipping up, stupid and self-flagellating, because real friends wouldn’t give a fuck if he stuttered or not.

  But it was all on him. His insecurities, his hang-ups. He knew he had to get past them, and in a way that was what spending time with Samira was about. She was easy to be with, and she liked his quietness rather than pushing him out of it. It gave him time to open up if he wanted to, and he liked having that choice.

  “You know Amelia can help with that, right? Once she starts her program, you should join.”

  Davey shrugged, disinterested, kicking at pebbles under his feet.

  “She helped me.”

  Davey’s gaze flew to his. “Really?”

  “Yeah, I stutter.”

  Davey’s eyes narrowed in skepticism. “No, you d-don’t.”

  “Yeah, I do. But I did a lot of speech therapy, and Amelia taught me loads of stuff, which means I can control it most of the time.”

  “Wow.” Davey visibly brightened, pulling his shoulders back, standing taller. “I w-want to t-talk like you.”

  “Work hard with Amelia and you can, buddy.” Emotion clogged Rory’s throat at the hope lighting Davey’s eyes. “Tell the others too, okay? Amelia’s really cool, and she has other therapists to work with her too.”

  “Will you b-be around?”

  He hadn’t intended to. Rory envisaged handing over the money and only popping in occasionally. But if his presence helped kids like Davey, he’d be here every week if he could.

  “Sure, I’ll drop in as much as I can when I’m not working,” he said, holding up his fist, waiting until Davey did the same and bumped it. “It’s going to be okay, mate.”

  And for the first time since he’d met this kid, he saw that Davey believed him.

  He liked bonding with these kids and giving them hope. But it would mean jack if he failed the Renegades audition and couldn’t come up with the ten grand Amelia needed.

  He already knew how important th
e audition was, but now more than ever he had to nail it. These kids depended on it.

  He wouldn’t let them down.

  Seventeen

  Samira may not believe in fate, but that old karma train had pulled into her station.

  She stared at the patient referral from an inner-city hospital; in particular, the referring doctor.

  Dr. Manish Gomes.

  Considering there couldn’t be too many doctors in Melbourne called Manish, she assumed this was either a cosmic joke or Manish’s way of getting her to contact him.

  The patient had postsurgical complications for a fractured tibia and had just left after an intensive session. She’d usually touch base with the referring doctor if a case was particularly involved like this one, but reaching out to Manish seemed like playing right into his hands.

  If this was a game, that was. Perhaps this was a coincidence? Busy doctors in city hospitals signed off on referrals all the time; it didn’t necessarily mean he’d wanted her to call him. Regardless, she never took shortcuts on patient care, and contacting Dr. Gomes would be the right thing to do.

  Blowing out a breath, she picked up the phone and dialed the number on the bottom of the referral. A direct line, considering it didn’t match the hospital number at the top of the form. Hoping to leave a message, she waited as it rang five times; voice mail would kick in any moment. After all, what were the odds of actually catching a doctor in his office on a Monday morning?

  Odds not in her favor, apparently, when he picked up. “Dr. Gomes speaking.”

  Her heart sank. She knew the voice. It was him. Mom’s Manish, the man of her dreams, whoop-de-do.

  “Hi, Manish, it’s Samira.”

  “Hey. So you got my referral?”

  So much for coincidences. He’d wanted her to call him, the rat fink.

  “I did, thanks. The session went well, but I wanted to touch base to see if you had any other concerns about the patient?”

  “No concerns, other than that you didn’t call me.”

  She bit back a grin at his low chuckle. She may not have a spark with this guy, but he had a knack for making her laugh.

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “You’re avoiding me, even though we agreed to be friends.”

  She had no response, other than hell yeah.

  “Mondays are manic here at the hospital, but I’ve got a forty-five-minute scheduling gap in an hour. Want to grab a coffee?”

  Samira glanced at her appointment calendar on the screen in front of her. She’d asked the receptionist to block out the afternoon to catch up on paperwork. Yet she hesitated. A guy saying he wanted to be friends and actually being okay with it tended to be miles apart. She’d been through it before, where they’d use friendship as an excuse to get into her panties.

  But considering her mom knew Manish, she doubted he’d be that underhandedly sleazy. Plus he didn’t give off that vibe. Besides, having a coffee with him would come with an added bonus: she could tell her mom about it and Kushi would lay off . . . for a day or so at least.

  “Sure. Where shall I meet you?”

  “There’s a café in Southbank about halfway between us. Bobbie’s. Do you know it?”

  “I’ll find it,” she said. “See you there in an hour.”

  “Great,” he said. “Now I know how easy it is to schedule a coffee date with you after one referral, I’ll be sending all my patients requiring physiotherapy to you in the future.”

  She smiled at his lighthearted flirtation. “You do that, buddy, but this is a one-off. I need a caffeine fix, that’s all.”

  “Keep telling yourself that, Samira.”

  With another chuckle, he hung up, leaving her staring at the phone, bemused. She didn’t think Manish would be persistent, as she’d already made it clear she wasn’t interested in him in that way. But maybe she’d given him the wrong idea in calling? If so, she’d set him straight. She had eyes for one guy at the moment, and despite only seeing him on Saturday, she wanted to see him again.

  On impulse, she picked up her cell from the desk. After her bungling call last time, she’d stick to texting this time. But when she glanced at the screen, a little red dot glowed above the “message” box. She occasionally checked her cell between patients but had been too busy all morning. It could be her mom or Pia or anybody, but her heart pounded as her thumb stabbed at the little green button and she spied Rory’s name above the message.

  Her lips eased into a smile as she read the first line: I MISS U

  The feeling was mutual, and she liked that he didn’t play games like some guys, who’d never admit they missed a woman they were dating in a million years. She read the rest of his text.

  U BUSY? I AM.

  BUT NEED TO T UP ANOTHER DATE SOON.

  I’M PINING 4 U.

  Samira unconsciously pressed a hand to her heart. It was the most romantic text she’d ever received, and she thought it was cute that he was far more eloquent in text than verbally.

  With a big grin on her face, she fired back an answer:

  MISS U 2.

  V. BUSY, WILL B IN TOUCH,

  ANOTHER DATE SOUNDS GR8.

  She deleted the two kisses at the end and settled for a loved-up emoji with three hearts floating around a blushing, smiling face, because that was her all over every time she thought about him; warm and fuzzy, like one of those cartoon characters from her childhood with hearts for eyes.

  Crazy, because he was all wrong for her. Kushi would not approve of Rory, and a small part of Samira wondered if that was part of the attraction? Before she remembered his startling blue eyes and his lazy grin and his stubble and his muscles and his very impressive . . . No, she liked Rory for a multitude of reasons beyond his obvious attributes.

  The sooner she had a quick obligatory coffee with Manish, the better, so she could rejig her calendar and fit in a very important date with the guy who’d piqued her interest without trying.

  * * *

  * * *

  Here you go, one skinny cappuccino.” Manish placed the takeout mug in front of her and sat opposite. “Sure I can’t tempt you with one of these?” He picked up a ginormous blueberry muffin and brandished it.

  “No, thanks, I’m good.” She picked up her coffee. “At least I will be once I drink this.”

  “Tough morning?”

  “Just busy. You know how it is.”

  “Yeah.” He grimaced. “We had a multiple-vehicle pileup on the Ring Road this morning, which meant ER went into overdrive.”

  “So you’re an ER doctor?”

  He nodded, those peculiar gray eyes clouding with worry and something else she couldn’t identify but looked a lot like guilt. “Yeah, it’s stimulating work, but you can’t save everyone, and that sucks.”

  His empathy made her like him a little more. She’d worked with many doctors over the years, and most developed a hardened shell to deal with the constant deaths they saw every day. But she glimpsed real emotion in his eyes, like he seriously cared.

  “You love your job.”

  The corners of his mouth quirked in a wry grin. “Guilty as charged. I’m married to my work, which is as good an excuse as any when my grandmother starts pushing me toward every eligible Indian girl in Melbourne.”

  She chuckled. “What does your mom think?”

  A shadow passed over his face, and he glanced away to stare at the Yarra River several feet from their riverside table. “She died not long after I graduated from uni, and Dad died when I was a kid, so Izzy, my gran, raised me.”

  So much for light coffee conversation. Samira had put her foot in it. “Sorry to hear about your folks. Does your gran know my mom?”

  He nodded. “She lives in Noble Park, so stands to reason they’d cross paths at the many interminable Indian dances.”

  Samira smiled. “We
re you dragged along to those as a kid?”

  “Hell yeah,” he said, his vehemence breaking the tension as they both laughed. “Izzy would dress me up in a suit complete with vest and make me dance with all the girls in their spangled salwar kameez. I hated it.”

  “The food wasn’t bad though,” she said, remembering that her passion for samosas often led her to wander through a giant town hall, watching dancers bounce around to Bollywood beats, on the lookout for leftover snacks on tables that she’d snaffle and scoff in the corner. “But the karaoke was the worst.”

  They laughed in unison, and once again Samira was struck by how nice this guy was. “So what’s this coffee date really about, Manish?”

  “Blunt, I like that.” Respect glinted in his eyes. “And my friends call me Manny.”

  “So sharing a coffee constitutes friendship?”

  “It does.” He picked up his takeout mug and tapped it to hers. “Here’s to a no-pressure, no-arrangements, no-hookup friendship.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” she said, taking a sip of her cappuccino but still thinking this guy was too good to be true.

  “Though I’m always up for reviewing our stance on the no hookup?”

  He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, and she laughed.

  “I’m seeing someone.”

  The moment the words tripped from her mouth, she realized how much she liked hearing them. Sure, she and Rory may not have stipulated exactly what was going on between them or established whether they were dating, but she’d like to, and saying it reinforced that.

  “Lucky bastard.” He took a giant bite out of his muffin, chewed, and swallowed. “Is he Indian?”

  “No.”

  He winced. “Sister, you’re in for a world of pain.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  They grinned, and she waited until he’d finished another bite before asking, “From your surname, I take it you’re Anglo Indian?”

  “Yeah. Mom and Dad were Anglo Indians from Goa. Izzy is Goan, too. I was born in Chennai; they migrated here when I was a few months old.”