Damn, he’s good-looking. Twisting cinnamon-flavored floss through his veneers, Dr. Suave’s admiration flicks from his blindingly white teeth to the ripple of sinew in the muscles of his spray-tanned forearms. Rings glint from every one of his fine, slender fingers—healing hands, Mother calls them—and sparkle pin-points of reflected light in the vanity mirror above the spit sink. A cosmetic dentist of the first order, he above most knows the importance of good dental hygiene; particularly for the handsome, as Dr. Suave himself was, and—
“They’re waiting for you on 3, Doctor.” a tinny voice chirps from the corner of his fashionably upturned lab jacket. He ignores the plastic pager, carefully working the weathered strip through the back set of molars before dropping the string to the floor. Smoothing an errant hair, he smiles at his reflection, locating and pushing the neon green button by feel rather than looking away from the mirror.
“Did you reserve the two o’clock Tee time for me this afternoon at Privileged Putts?” he asks his collar, turning to view his profile from the left.
“Of course, Doctor Sub-Par.” the disembodied voice replies.
“Did you pick up my Armani from the cleaners?” his head swivels to the right.
“It’s been addressed, Dr. Squeaked-By. They’re ready for you on 3.” Dr. Suave frowns for just a moment, Botox preventing this foolishly impulsive expression from marring his visage. The new receptionist would have to work on her ass-kissing skills…
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