Pulse (11 page)

Chapter 13

MIA

Aimee was
sipping a strawberry wine cooler and watching some random television show when
I closed the door behind me.

“What's
up?” I asked. “You okay?”

“Just
checking in,” she said mildly. She turned the TV off, sat up, and stretched.
“What have you been up to?”

My skin
prickled. I couldn't tell what was going through her head. She tilted back the
wine cooler, took a sip, then set the bottle down on the coffee table.

“I was at
the library,” I said, tossing my purse on the floor. “I wanted to see what my
hours were going to look like next week.”

The worst
part about paranoia is that you believe incessantly that those around you are
completely aware of all your secrets; you walk around with them inked on your
skin, like a tattoo.

But as I
grabbed a spritzer from the fridge and turned to her again, she seemed relaxed.
She believed me.

Still,
there was something distinctly incredulous lingering in her eyes.

“Fun,”
she said. “Well, no worries. I just got here.”

“What's
up?” I asked.

“Graduation
is Friday,” she said. “And I need a new dress.”

“Anthropologie?”
I asked from my room, peeling off my sundress and sifting through the mess of
clothes on my floor (I really needed to start folding things) in search of
something to wear. “Is your new beau going to be there? What's his name,
anyway?”

“Eric,”
Aimee said. Standing in the doorway, she arched her back as if striking a pose,
her blonde hair falling to the small of her back in soft waves. She looked
vaguely on edge. “You're wearing yesterday's clothes.”

My
stomach dropped. I had no choice but to whip up some kind of BS answer. I was
getting good at that lately; to the point I didn't even want to begin dwelling
on it.

“Laziness,”
I quipped. “Besides, the dress is new. Is it weird to wear something twice in a
row?”

She knelt
down, picked up the dress, and her eyebrows fell slant.

“It
smells like a bar,” she mumbled.

I didn't
know what to say to that, so I pretended not to hear her as I tied my hair up
into a ponytail, threw on some eyeliner, and wondered if that flushed look on
my face was linked to my literally having been fucked or due to the impending
feeling that I was about to be, figuratively.

Scraping
together what little I had, I bought myself a simple, lilac-colored dress that
cut off right above the knee; the sleeves were lace, and it was appropriately
conservative. Aimee, after trying on a dozen dresses, settled on a navy-blue
slingback that danced against her hips as she walked. She had such an
effortless sway to her step – I sort of envied it.

We had
lunch outside, even though it was overcast, and I was pretty certain that
impending rain was hanging in the clouds. Humidity made everything more
miserable.

I pecked
at my plate of garlic and rosemary chicken, twirling the pasta round my fork
and forcing myself to take a bite. Aimee sipped her Strawberry Margarita
quietly.

“So what
happened with Evan the other night?” she finally asked. “I'm just going to say
it: I was kind of upset that you just left. I know you needed to call your mom,
and I hope she's alright and everything, but you just disappeared. It's like
whenever we do anything together, suddenly – poof! - you're gone, out of
nowhere.”

“I'm
sorry,” I said. And I was. I really was. “I know I've been distant lately. I
just have a lot on my mind.”

“I get
it,” she said, though the words seemed skewered in the opposite direction – she
didn't get it. Not at all. “But what happened with Evan, Mia?”

“He's
with a new girl,” I told her. “Why would I want to waste my time trying to fix
something when he's already involved with someone else? Why risk it?”

She
nodded, and I cold practically hear the subtle
click
. I had chosen the
right words.

“Why did
you leave?” Aimee pressed. “And where did you go?”

“I went
home,” I told her. “I picked up a ride with some Uber driver.”

Lies. All
of them.

Aimee
blinked, took another sip of her drink, then pressed her lips together. She
wore this dark lipstick that left a stain on the clear straw.

“Okay,”
she said, then added: “How long have we been friends?”

“Five
years now.”

“Five
years,” she agreed. “You know if there was something going on, you could talk
to me, right?”

“I know
that,” I told her. Only I couldn't. I couldn't talk to her. Could I? “Of course
I know that, Aimee. I love you.”

Suddenly,
I wasn't sure if I was simply building the situation between Dr. Greene and I
up into something that maybe it wasn't. The last thing I wanted to be, of
course, was one of those friends. The kind of friend that hid things for the
sake of hiding them. The kind of friend that buried parts of her life like an
old pet without talking to those she loved most about the fact that the grief
was gnawing at her. So did it matter?

Maybe not
to me, no. I was the patient. I would always be protected. It was Dr. Greene's
life -
 
Alex's life - that would be
irrevocably overthrown. I pictured the scene Gladiator-style: Roman Colosseum,
with spectators cheering for his death.

And even
if she swore silence, it was still akin to dropping a deliberate clue. And I
couldn't rationalize risking it.

In the
car, silencing the ignition, Aimee asked:

“Who do
you know that drives a Porsche?”

My blood
went cold. I looked at her, trying my best to remain composed while figuring
out whether this was the time to let the ball drop or keep it rolling.

Think.
Think of something. Think of anything.

“It was
the only kind of cab they had immediately available,” I sputtered. “I know. I
need to get a car before I throw all of my non-existent funds into Uber carting
me around.”

It
worked. Aimee drew back, smiled, then appeared completely pleased. As if all of
the things she had compiled, the neat little bits of information, like
breadcrumbs, all boiled down the simplest, easiest answer. I'd come home in the
dress because I had chosen to wear it a second time around. I had gone to the
library. The Porsche? A fancy Uber cab.

Occam's
Razor, they call it.

Keep it
going, Mia. Keep it up. Keep stacking the bricks until you can't see what's
actually around you anymore.

“Well,”
she said. “I have to go meet Eric. Call you later?”

“Alright,”
I said.

I stepped
out of the car, and she pulled away. I don't think I had ever been so relieved
to watch her go.

Was I a
terrible friend? Probably. And maybe that's one of the more terrible things
about beginning to fall for someone you shouldn't. When the cards are down and
the stakes are raised, the losses you suffer end up making you see all the
rose-tinted things for exactly what they are.

And I'd
said it myself: nothing is pretty up close.

While in
the bath, trying out this vanilla-lavender scented bath bomb that I had
purchased at the local Lush (one of my few indulgences – but this had been a
birthday gift), Dr. Greene called. I didn't wait to pick up.

“Hi,” I
said, maybe a little too breathy. I was better than that – letting myself get
sucker-punched by a guy before he had even said a word. “It's late.”

“I needed
to hear your voice,” he said. “It's been a long day.”

“Well,
maybe you should unwind. Have a drink.”

He
paused. I sank into the water.

“It would
be easier to unwind if you were here with me.”

Maybe it
was from the bath, hot enough that I could see the steam rise from above the
purple-tinted water, but the heat suddenly became unmistakable.

“I'm in
the bath,” I whispered. “What are you doing?”

“Thinking
of you in the bath,” he leered, then said, without a hitch: “I wish I was there
with you. If I didn't have a mountain of files to look over, I'd be over there
five minutes ago.”

I laughed.
I could almost picture his smile: broad, luscious.

“Mia,” he
murmured. God, I could listen to him say my name over and over again. My own,
personal, one-word track. “Touch yourself for me.”

I dipped
my hand beneath the water, pressed a finger to the petal-like spot. My breath
grew heavier.

“I need
you...” I started. “I don't know how I can come without you here.”

“Think
about me there, honey.” Oh, honey. I loved that just about as much as
little
fox
. “You know what I would do to you if I was there right now?”

“What?” I
said, barely a wisp of a word. I moved my fingers, pressing down a bit harder,
and began to squirm. I didn't want to be teased. I wanted him here, inside me,
right now. “What would you do?”

“I would
rub my fingers against your clit,” his voice, rough and soft, was almost like a
touch itself. I could feel it radiate, skimming over me as he had done with his
own rough hands. “I'd pull your hair gently, then kiss the back of your neck,
all the way down your back...”

I
shivered. Evan had never even spoken to me this way before. It was all so new,
like the first glance into Pandora's Box, and the switch had already been
flipped. There was no halt button.

“You know
what I love? I love that I left those marks on your neck,” he added. And he
had. They were faint, and low enough on the nape of my neck, further towards
the back, that I could conceal them – but I knew that they were there. And I
knew he had done it all on purpose. “Oh, Mia...”

I could
hear his breath go shallow. My new favorite sound. The sound of his losing
control – the reserved doctor, the man who lived a life micro-managing every
second of every day. Everything compiled into notes and files and paperwork.
Yet the thought of touching me was enough to make him collapse like a mannequin,
straight into my arms.

He spoke
my name again, softly.

“If I was
there, I'd come inside you,” his voice raised an octave, frenzied. “I'm
stroking myself just imagining it. Three times isn't enough.”

“Please,”
I needed release at this point. The water was scorching. I didn't care how many
times I had begged him up until now, each and every time he fucked me. “Please
let me come.”

I heard
him moan. There's something so ferociously sexy about hearing a man gradually
falling away from his senses.

“Come for
me, Mia,” he whispered. “Imagine me there, dragging you out of that bath,
sliding my jeans down and fucking your right there on the bathroom floor. I'd
be loud, too. I'd let everyone hear how badly I need you right now.”

That was
it. I came in waves, and with a ragged gasp of breath, he followed after.

“Shit,”
he said. “I've made a mess.”

Then he
laughed, like a boy would. I laughed, too. It was the perfect segue.

I swept
back a bit of wet hair, sitting myself up. I splashed a bit of sweet-scented
water against my face to wake me up, but I was still drifting in post-orgasm
euphoria.

“Would
you ever fuck me in the bath?” I asked.

“Hm?” Dr.
Greene chuckled. “That's quite a gamble. Terrible risk for UTIs, you know.”

“Wow,” I
muttered. Leave it to a doctor to give such a blunt answer. “You sure know how
to set the mood, Dr. Greene.”

He
laughed, louder this time. It was really nice, making him laugh. It was nice to
know I could get other reactions out of him – not just primal, but Real Guy
ones, too. The things that other people would see, in broad daylight, when he
wasn't hiding. When he wasn't hiding with me.

“Well,
I'm sorry if I put a damper on one of your personal fantasies, Mia,” he said,
and I could hear the smirk. “But I'll more than make it up to you. You have my
promise.”

“You
going to write me a special prescription?”

“God,” he
started laughing again, and it was infectious. “You really are something else.”

Outside,
the sound of rain began quietly tapping against the windows. The heavy clouds,
as I knew they would, would soon open up and bring forth the floods. I didn't
take it as a sign, though. Not right then. Just a typical Florida summer, with
the inescapable heat and Biblical downpours.

I kept
Dr. Greene on the phone as I toweled off, slipped into my PJs, and got into
bed. When I was properly snuggled up, I joked:

“Want to
know what I'm wearing?”

“Yes,” he
answered.

“A giant
T-shirt and plaid pajama pants,” I smirked. “I bet you thought it was going to
be something sexy, didn't you?”

He
chuckled.

“I like
that you don't try so hard,” he said. “You don't need sexy clothes or
promiscuous pajamas. You can keep your T-shirts.”

I picked
up the little fox that I had not yet named, and I didn't really want to,
either. I liked him just being Little Fox.

“Little Fox
smells like your cologne,” I said. “I really love him, Alex.”

“Good,”
Dr. Greene answered. “You deserve all good things. Things that you can love.”

My heart
melted a little.

“Hey,” I
said. “Say something medical to me.”

“Like
what?” he asked playfully.

“I don't
know,” I said. “Like, what are the parts of the heart?”

“Aorta,
right ventricle, pulmonary artery,” he rambled. “The Bicuspid valve, the
Tricuspid valve. The Vena Cava.”

“What's
that?” I asked.

“It
carries your blood from your veins to your heart,” he explained. “It's the
largest vein in the body.”

“You're
so smart,” I sighed. “I didn't know any of those things.”

He
laughed yet again, but this time it was gentle.