Pulse (14 page)

Her eyes
opened, meeting mine. I gripped her waist, pressing her against me, feeling my
swollen member throb as it filled her to the very hilt.

Outside,
the rain made our noises mute. Everything inside of me tightened, and I yanked
her off of me, my cum milking the inside of her pale thigh.

She sat
on my lap, quietly looking at it.

“You've
made a mess of your pretty car,” she said softly.

“I don't
care about the car,” I whispered, kissing her.

We kissed
for awhile, tongues slowly gliding, her face in my hands. When the heat dialed
back, I wiped up the seat with a few napkins from the glove compartment, and we
just sat for awhile, listening to the rain.

“I hate
the summers,” she said. “You practically drown in the rain.”

“Yeah,” I
agreed. “There's no escaping it.”

We talked
for a little bit about her graduation, and her mother, and how she had come to
visit, and how much she missed her. I told her a little about my folks, and the
Northeast, and how I missed them, too. Well, my mother. My father was an
A-Class dick.

“I wish I
could have met her,” I found myself saying. “She seems very lovely.”

Mia
regarded me with a sort of perplexed look on her face, and I understood why.
How could I ever meet her mother? How could I ever work out the logistics of
meeting the loved ones in her life?

And the
baby would soon be here.

 
I reached out, gripped her hand, and swallowed
the lump in my throat.

“I'm
sorry I can't give you more,” I finally said. “I don't want to hurt you.”

“You're
not,” she swore. “We knew this would be complicated. I'd rather have something
complicated with you than nothing at all. Call me the typical heroine. But I
don't care.”

It was
all so fucking sad. The way her hair fell across her face, the way the rain
fell harshly against the roof of my car. Thrashing, threatening.

Eventually
I turned the AC on, we listened to some music, and tried to wait the storm out.
I skimmed my fingers up her thigh, tickling her, and she giggled.

“I'll be
honest,” she admitted. “I was surprised that you didn't have a wife. Or a
girlfriend.”

“Why?”

Her
shoulders fell.

“You're
so handsome, and smart, and charming,” she said. I knew that she was forcing
herself to omit one final tidbit: A Doctor. “I'd have thought for sure that
you'd have been scooped up by now.”

“It's
overrated, the Trophy Wife,” I told her. “I'd rather be alone.”

“Would
you?” she asked.

My hand
was open. And just as she had in my office, right before the very first time I
had fucked her, she started making those little circles along the inside of my
palm. Her fingertip was like a paintbrush.

“You know
how some people can be in this world,” I told her. “Calculating, cruel. Most of
the time it's unintentional, of course. Most people aren't aware of their own
penchant for screwing with others. But you're not like them.”

“How do
you know?” she asked.

The rain
softened to a gentle pitter-patter. It dusted over the windshield like a soft
mist.

“Well, I
guess I don't,” I told her. “It's just a feeling.”

She
kissed my cheek, lingering there for a second, her eyes full of unanswered
questions. When the digital clock struck eleven, I told her I had to leave. I
had paperwork. And that, of all the lies I had been telling, was the truth.

After Mia
had left, it was just me, and the sound of silence, and the bitter
understanding that I was going to break her. I was a selfish man, doing a
selfish thing, and deserved whatever was going to come of it.

I was
only a doctor, after all. I never claimed to be a saint.

Chapter 17

MIA

A wail of
thunder snapped me from a dead sleep. Hard rain turned everything outside the
windows into a blur of green and gray. Another rainy summer day.

I turned
over, with Little Fox staring at me with two black-button eyes. I gave him a
squeeze, saddened by the fact that the smell of Dr. Greene's cologne was
finally starting to fade. Would it be completely insane if I tried to figure
out the brand he used?

Yeah,
probably.

I
showered, threw on my UCF hoodie and a pair of jeans, and spent the afternoon
sitting behind a quiet desk in the empty library. All of the summer campus
residents weren't keen on braving the downpour. They were likely in bed,
sleeping to the sound of metallic static. Rain is always the perfect soundtrack
for sleep. Even I was slightly drowsy.

Eventually
I hunkered down with a copy of
Cat's Cradle
, which Dr. Greene had said
was his favorite book. I managed to get through a few pages before my heart
tightened. Stress and anxiety and fatigue.

I ignored
it, setting the book aside, distracted. For awhile I just sat there, watching
the rain fall, hoping that maybe I'd be let go early, but also knowing that I
literally couldn't
afford
to lose even an hour of pay.

Sighing,
I put the book back, opting to peruse the shelves and ensure that everything
was where it should be. I had no formal librarian training, to be honest. I
wasn't all too sure why they hired me – though, who was I kidding, they needed
whatever summer help they could get while the truly qualified individuals were
busy spending their summer break getting wasted on the beaches of Ft.
Lauderdale. I was the chump.

I pulled
out my phone, looking at the text that Dr. Greene had sent me. A photo of him,
as I had asked for. He was sitting behind his desk, smiling, wearing his
lab-coat and white button-down shirt and a dark green tie. He had this small
smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth, with his glasses perched on the
tip of his nose.

Swoon
.

The
forecast wasn't helping when it came to reminding of me of last night's events.
Fucking Dr. Greene in his pretty, sleek Porsche. The way his eyes looked, alert
and searching. The way he whispered
what is it?
 
– and how I almost gave way to the biggest
word-slip in my twenty-two-year-old life.

I had
almost told him that I loved him. Did I, though? I didn't know. But I was
feeling something; deep and budding and ready to burst out of me. And maybe
that's why my chest was hurting. Maybe that's why the pain was so sharp.

After work,
I waited on the library's front steps for my ride to arrive, watching the
silver bullets fall from the sky. It was no surprise that the cab arrived
almost twenty minutes late.

“Sorry,”
he said as I slid inside.

“It's no
big deal,” I told him. It wasn't.

At the
apartment, I tidied up, took a long shower, and tried to scrub myself clean of
the quaking feeling in my bones. The pang that comes with missing someone
you're falling for, and the insatiable craving that you have for them when you
start to slip. He was all over my body, inside and out, and his hands weren't
even touching me. I could feel him on my skin, in my head, in the
still-twisting ache in my heart.

Laying in
bed, the pain intensified. And it wasn't some romantic, metaphorical pain. It
was horrible. Terrible. The worst kind of feeling you could imagine. It was
like I was all sewn up, stuffing and fabric, and someone was trying to tear me
apart at the seams.

I picked
up my phone, contemplating calling Dr. Greene's office. Maybe there
was
something
else. Maybe there was something that he hadn't caught. Doctors make mistakes
from time to time, don't they? What if he had missed something?

After a
moment of thought, I called. His receptionist answered. I asked if I could
schedule an appointment.

“Let me
check with him,” she said. Shit, I thought. Now he's going to know I called.
“Give me just one moment.”

Twenty-seven
seconds later, she returned.

“Could
you come in now?” she asked. “Unless that's too short notice. I have one other
cancellation, but it's not until 4:30.”

I exhaled
loudly. My nerves were wound tight.

“Now is
fine,” I told her. “Thank you.”

I was
holding the giant heart replica in my hand, tossing it up into the air and
catching it like a piece of fruit. The human heart was pretty grisly, to be
honest. Full of vessels and tube-like arteries, full of beating blood. It
wasn't the cute image on Valentine's Day cards or boxes of chocolates. It
looked threatening, and maybe that was appropriate, because the heart is a
threatening thing.

When the
door knocked, I shoved it back in place on his desk. Dr. Greene opened after
his typical three knocks, closed the door behind him, and for a second or two
we just looked at each other.

He looked
nervous, skittish.

“What's
wrong?” he asked. He seated himself down at his desk, in the wheel-y chair. As
he looked at me, he moved from side-to-side. All formalities had been totally
discarded at this point. We were regular lovers now. “Clarification: what's
wrong that you needed to schedule a formal appointment with me, Mia?”

“Do you
have an issue with it?” I said, almost snapping. Then, I forced myself to
soften. “My chest is still hurting.”

Dr.
Greene's mouth was a straight line. He raked his hand through tousled hair,
touched his stubbled chin. After sucking in a deep breath, he turned to his
computer, typed away at the keyboard, and said:

“Your
Chest X-Ray was normal,” he recited. “As was the Cardiac Sonogram, the King
of
 
Hearts monitoring, the blood-work and
the stress tests. There's no sign of arrhythmia, no sign of heart murmurs,
nothing indicating that there's anything wrong with your heart.”

He turned
to me, not with his body, but with his eyes. His sideways glance cut against me
like a paper-cut, and I fucking hated it.

“Are you
sure you've run every single test?” I asked. “What if there
is
something
wrong? I'm telling you, it hurts.”

Dr.
Greene reached out, cupped my hands in his. The same man that had pulled out
and came all over the inside of my thigh, that had fucked me like a frenzied
Lycan, was holding my hands as if they belonged to a stranger. His touch was
tender and professional.

“Do you
remember what I said earlier, about seeing a therapist?”

“Fuck
you,” I spat, immediately shocked at what had fallen from my mouth. The words
themselves were a total knee-jerk, and Dr. Greene's eyes widened, stunned. “I
don't need to see a therapist. There's nothing wrong with me.”

“I'm not
saying that,” he said carefully. “You know I'm not saying that.”

“Then
what
are
you saying, exactly?”

I knew I
sounded like a stone-cold bitch. Immature and stubborn and stupid. And I hated
myself for it, I really did. But it was so hard to see him sitting there,
holding my hands, treating me like a patient when I was anything
but
at
this point.

Treating
me like a patient, sitting on his pedestal as the immaculate, spotless doctor,
when we were both rolling in our own filth. And I was falling in love with him.

I
swallowed with sudden difficulty. I knew he felt it, too. Around me, the
pale-green walls covered in detailed cardiac charts were almost taunting. I
hated everything about it.

“This is
my fault,” he muttered. “I'm so sorry. I'm an idiot. I shouldn't have said what
I said, Mia. Do I think it would help? Maybe. But...” he paused. “I'm giving
you my professional opinion.”

“Professional
opinion,” I clarified, repeating like a parrot.

“Yes,” he
said. “Because you don't want my personal one. Mia,
I
don't even want to
contemplate that course of action.”

We both
understood. Therapy, fake-talking my way through the stress that was causing my
suddenly irreparable chest pains, or dropping the sword on our skewed,
fucked-up relationship entirely. And what would be worse at this point?

I
couldn't lose him. I was irritated, hurt, confused. But he was, too. Look at
what we were doing to each other.

Still
holding his hand, I pressed his palm against my cheek, warm and slightly
calloused. He grazed his thumb across my mouth, his lips parting. I knew he
wanted to kiss me.

I touched
his knee. He immediately swiveled the chair away, his eyes darting to the
ground nervously.

“You
fucked me here,” I told him. “I know I don't need to remind you.”

“Jesus,
Mia,” he whispered. “Are you insane?”

“Yes,” I
told him. “And so are you. We both are.”

I reached
over, sliding my hand up the inside of his thigh. He was already hard. His legs
spread, slightly, and his eyes closed. I undid his belt buckle, sliding leather
against leather. I undid his fly, zipping it down.

When his
cock was in my hands, I knelt to the ground. In the harsh light, it felt
completely unsexy. But I wanted him. I wanted to own this moment, and him,
right now.

I took
all of him in my mouth, and his gasps seemed to reverberate through his entire
body. One palm pressed against his desk, the other tangled in my hair. He
tasted like salt water and something sweet, bitter, musky.

Squeezing
the bottom of his shaft, he moaned, whispering:

“Please
stop,” he begged. “Please.”

I didn't.
I kept going until I could feel that final sudden jolt, the spill of his cum in
my mouth.

When I
pulled away, I swallowed, wiped my lips, and stood.

When we
locked eyes, Dr. Greene looked as if he had just seen a demon, and maybe he
had. Maybe, right then, I was.

“Thank
you, Dr. Greene,” I said.

I leaned
in, kissed him, and he responded delicately, with his hand reaching up to touch
my cheek. We struggled to actually meet each other's gaze.

Just
say it
, I thought. Tell him. At this point, what is there to lose?

“My sweet
little fox,” he said. “My little Mia.”

“My
sweet, terrified doctor,” I said. “I've never done that before. Only with you.”

He zipped
himself up, his face full of shame. And then he left, just like that.

In the
cab, I sifted through my thoughts, trying to ignore the still-throbbing pain
that seemed to clash against my ribcage.

I knew
what would fix this. Saying the words. Telling him that I was in love, that I
was drowning in it. That would be the catharsis. Three simple words.

This had
all gone so far. I had jumped off the cliff, into his arms, and there was no
swimming back.

Back at
the apartment, snuggled up on the couch and nursing my bleeding heart with a
tall glass of hard cider, Aimee called. I thought about letting it go to
voicemail, and maybe spending the night in, watching whatever was popular on
Netflix or something. But something provoked me to pick up.

“Hey,” I
mumbled. “What's up?”

“Bored,”
she said. “Eric just left. What are you doing?”

“Netflix,
alcohol,” I told her. “Classic summer evening. Want to come over?”

“I'll be
there in ten.”

We spent
awhile just sipping drinks and flipping through the TV stations before I
finally felt the urge to speak up. Aimee was curled up on the far-end of the
couch, wrapped in one of my favorite blankets, tilting a bottle of Peach Fizz
back.

She took
a drink, set it down, then turned to me:

“You look
as if you were just slapped in the face with a wet towel,” she remarked.
“Please talk to me. I'm starting to worry that your face is going to stick and
I'll be forced to walk around with a perpetually-miserable-looking Mia.”

I
chuckled.

“If I
tell you, promise not to flip?”

“Obviously.”

I wanted
to tell her. I didn't want this to end up like one of those scenarios where the
girl keeps the Big Secret from her best friend just long enough that, when the
dice were rolled, everything blew up in her face.

“I've
been seeing someone,” I told her. “And the Porsche you saw outside a few weeks
ago, it wasn't a cab.”

“I
figured,” she said. “But I've been waiting for you to tell me what's up.”

“You're
not mad?” I asked.

She
shrugged lightly.

“If you'd
waited any longer, then yeah, of course I'd be,” she said. “But I knew you'd
tell me. I knew you'd come around. So, who is he?”

I sighed
deeply.

“Remember
that doctor?” I asked. “From the hospital.”

“Jesus
Henry Christ,” Aimee's eyes grew to the size of tea-plates. “Yeah. Dr. Stark.
How could I forget that face?”

“Well,” I
stumbled. “We've been seeing each other for a little while now. A little over a
month, exactly.”

“And
you're fucking, I assume.”

I nodded
bleakly. Aimee whistled.

“I knew I
made that remark awhile back about you totally nabbing his number,” she said.
“But I feel like I need to be sort of candid with you, Mia.”

I looked
at her. She sat up, the blanket still draped around her shoulders, like a
shawl. Her face was utterly serious.

“You need
to end it,” she said. “Like, yesterday. End it now.”

She was
right. I needed to end it. But the prospect of never seeing him again was
enough to make me wither and curl into nothing. It was worse than Evan; worse
than the idea of getting rejected from Cambridge. Which was, on the whole,
pathetic of me to say – but it was the plain truth.