Pulse (6 page)

And then,
because I was both a madman and absolute fucking fool, I rose to my knees,
leaned forward, and kissed her.

She
responded immediately: arms around my neck, legs around my waist, our mouths
feverishly clashing. She tasted like those Valentine's Day heart candies and
mint Chapstick. Each breath that she drew intensified, and there was no protest
when I lifted her into my arms, set her down on the desk, and drew back.

I was drunk
off the sight of her, with her heavy-lidded eyes and red lips. The taste of
her, candied cinnamon, still in my mouth.

I cradled
her face in my hands, the tips of our noses touching, breathing the same
breath. She wore this long skirt – nothing sexy, nothing attention-grabbing, in
the lightest gray color – and my fingers grabbed like claws at the fabric,
drawing it up, until I could see the flesh of her thighs. Pale as the rest of
her.

I slid my
finger beneath the band of her underwear, touching her gently. Her moan was
soft and muffled as her head fell weakly against my coat. She was mine. If only
then, she was mine.

“Mia,” I
whispered. “I want you. I want you so badly.”

I was
practically breaking. My body was trembling. Every inch of skin was on fire. She
whimpered gently against the fabric, her arms wrapped around my torso.

“Please,”
she begged. “If not here, then somewhere. Please.”

I undid
my zipper, sliding it down slowly, my heart thrashing. She reached up, touching
my face with her delicate hands. I kissed her again, careful to be mindful.
Careful to be silent as possible when fumbling across the desk for my wallet,
grabbing the condom, tearing open the foil and rolling it on.

Mia
watched me, stunned. And in that moment, nothing felt real. It was just us and
nothing else.

“Dr.
Greene,” she whispered.

“Little
fox,” I said, my teeth against the slope of her throat. “You're so fucking
beautiful.”

When she
slid her underwear down, letting it drop to her ankles, I seized her in my
arms, pressed her back against the desk, and slid myself inside of her. Inch by
inch, I sank into her slowly, a near-silent hiss escaping through gritted
teeth.

“Oh...”
she gasped, and I kissed her to silence her. I moved on top her her, slowly,
keeping every inch inside of her. “I'm already...”

“...so
close,” I whispered. My eyes were closed. I could smell the sweat on her skin,
feminine and feral. I kissed the curve of her shoulder, resisting the urge to
bite down. To mark her. I wanted to – God, I wanted to – but not now. Not
here
.
Not like some animal.

And here
we were. Fucking like two uncaged creatures on my desk.

Her legs
wrapped around my waist. I was desperate and aching, grinding myself against
her hips, already lost in the moment. My veins were filled with her; she was already
coursing through my blood. Her scent, as if I were a wolf, was marked. I could
hunt her over and over again.

Our
hearts beat against one another. I grazed my lips against the lobe of her ear,
whispering, only for her to hear: “I need to come. I need this. I need you.”

She
kissed me again, a hand touching the side of my face, looking at me as if we
were already lovers. As if we had known each other in some other life, and had
once again found each other.

“Let go,”
she said.

So I did.
I came inside of her, exhaling sharply, and she followed after. Pressed against
my shoulder, my lab-coat absorbed the escaped moan.

When we
pulled apart, and I slid out of her, I gave her one last kiss.

“Beautiful,”
I said, and stroked her cheek.

I helped
her off the desk, she pulled her underwear up, then her skirt, and seated
herself down on the chair. I adjusted myself, sighed heavily, and settled back
into my own spot: the doctor's chair, behind my doctor's desk, in my own
fucking office.

I could
almost hear the sound of my watch ticking. For a solid minute, neither of us
said anything. We just sat, looking at one another, wondering if this had
actually happened, and what it meant, and what we could do.

Answer:
she left my office immediately, and resigned from being my patient.

Secondary
answer: nothing. Because even the first answer didn't matter. Even if she would
agree to going from
is
to
was
, you can't change the circumstances
of how you meet. I would always be known as her doctor. She would always be my
patient.

My patient.

My little
fox.

“I'm
sorry,” she said, a mask of sudden fear across her face. “Oh my God. I'm so
sorry.”

“Don't
be,” I said quickly. “Don't say anything like that, Mia. You've done nothing
wrong.”

Suddenly,
bliss shifted to a sense of dread, and I could feel it wash through the room
like a cold draft.

“You can
trust me,” she said. “I would never hurt you. I'll never tell.”

I nodded.
And then, as if the words themselves were an anchor, I started to sink.

“I'm not
afraid,” I told her.

She still
said nothing. She just looked at me, as if thinking that maybe, possibly, I did
this with all of my young patients. If I was insane enough to fuck her on my
desk, what would have stopped me from trying it with someone else?

“You're
not?” she asked. “How could you say that?”

And then,
on cue, because these things always seem to be, a sudden knock rattled against
the door.

Both of
us took a long breath before I stood, extending a hand.

“Don't
worry,” I told her, and our palms kissed, squeezed, fell. “Okay?”

She wavered
in her spot for another second. I lingered anxiously, standing about a head
taller than her, wanting nothing more to wrap my arms around her and tell her
that everything was going to be okay. I was the idiot, the fucking fool. Not
her.

“Okay,”
she finally said.

“Come
back next week, and I'll let you know the results of your monitor,” I wrote her
an appointment card, scribbling my phone number at the bottom. “Take this, too.
It's my personal cell. Strictly for medical inquiries, alright? I mean that.”

She
nodded, and I could already sense the shift in our dynamic. There was no going
back after this.

So I
watched her leave. It was the only thing I could do.

Chapter 7

MIA

So Dr.
Greene had fucked me.

Or, it
didn't
feel
like fucking, rather. It felt passionate. The way he moved,
the way he whispered.

Dr.
Greene fucked me. A patient. On his desk.

Things
like this don't happen.

They
don't.

Until
they do.

I was up
all night on the evening before finals, and days before that, just replaying
the scene in my head. Each time, the pictures became clearer and clearer: the
first kiss, the way his fingers brushed against my jawline, the way lips
pressed against mine with an intensity that told me:
I've been waiting for
this, forever
.

I stared
at the ceiling fan, listening to the white noise, feeling full of lust and fear
and confusion. Sure, fantasies were one thing – but was this was real. This was
real flesh, and blood, and skin against skin.

A Harvard
Man. A Cardiologist.

A doctor
who seemed to not even think twice before pinning me against his desk, as if I
were the only thing he'd ever wanted, and taking me right there.

Suppressed
moans, subdued whimpers, or the feeling of his breath against my neck.

I
shivered, drawing the covers up to my chin. My hands fumbled to find that spot
that Dr. Greene had touched, and between my legs the gash throbbed. But I
wasn't wounded – I had only become insatiable.

I came
twice. It wasn't enough. Closing my eyes, my stomach flip-flopped, and I was
back at square one, unable to sleep.

How could
he do something so careless?

Why me?

Outside,
the palm trees rustled. Branches tapped against my bedroom window. In the dark,
with the passing cars, shadows danced like limbs.

Sigh

I picked
up my phone, clicked it so that the screen illuminated, and sifted through my
contacts list until I reached Dr. Alex Greene's name.

On the
message screen, I hesitated, my fingers shaking as I swiped clumsily across the
screen:

Me
:
 
I need you to walk me through what
happened the other day.

I hit
send. My heart started running – God, he'd said
medical inquiries only
.
What if he was with someone? What if he meant it? Then again, if he was so
willing to fuck me right there in his office, how could I believe his line of
thought? That I would never reach out to him.

My mind
was spinning. I felt ill. And I just wanted an answer.

The
screen lit up again. The clock read 5:02am. Like a stroke of magic, he replied.

Dr.
Greene:
It was a terrible choice of locale. I know it was. But I hope
you don't think of me as some predator that feeds on unsuspecting patients.

I picked
through each word before sending off a reply.

Me:
 
I'm not sure what to think. I'm not
upset. I'm just confused. You're so smart – it just boggles me.

Ping.

Dr.
Greene:
I know. It won't happen again. I hope I didn't hurt you. I hope
you know that it did mean something.

Me:
But
you barely know me.

Dr.
Greene:
I know.

Leave it
to a doctor to simply
know
everything – but maybe I was being too hard
on him. I wanted him as badly as he wanted me. I had dreamt of the encounter
before it actually came to life. I had touched myself imagining what it would
be like.

But when
it finally happened, I was left with only confusion.

Was I
special? We didn't even know each other. How could it have meant something when
the only real connection between us was friction and yearning? Surface things,
they say.

Did that
matter?

The first
ray of light slipped over the buildings. My eyes were tired, but I was still
rattling. I felt suspicious of his words, even though I so badly wanted to
believe them. But maybe he was as full of questions as I was.

At 6
 
o'clock, on the dot, I texted him back.

Me:
I
felt something, too.

I waited.
I eventually got up, took a shower, brushed my teeth and ate breakfast. But he
never responded.

At
Starbucks, right before our first final – mine being Ethics, of all things –
Aimee prodded me on the forehead. I had my headphones in, with Lorene
Scafaria's “We Can't Be Friends” on repeat. At the present moment, it spoke to
the predicable twenty-two-year-old girl that lived inside of me.

“Mia,”
Aimee said. “You've gone space cadet on me.”

“Sorry,”
I muttered, removing an earbud. “What were you saying?”

She took
a bite of her croissant, scattering the crumbs on her napkin. I took a sip of
my caramel macchiato.

“I was
asking about when you should expect to hear back from Cambridge,” she said.

Cambridge.
My chest heaved gently. My glittering, golden dream.

“Next
month,” I told her. “Probably, at least. I'm sorry. I slept terribly last
night.”

“I can see
that,” she agreed. “What ended up happening with all those doctor appointments,
anyway? Is everything okay?”

“It's
probably just anxiety,” I said. “I think. I go back later in the week for
another check-up.”

Aimee
whistled under her breath.

“You
should see, after all of this is over, if you could get his phone number or
something,” she grinned. “If Cambridge falls through, he could make a good
back-up.”

I sloshed
the ice around in my plastic cup, took another sip, swallowed the burnt
espresso.

“I don't
think it's appropriate to talk about a medical professional that way,” I told
her. Her eyes widened, amused. Slightly curious. “He's a good doctor.”

I
recalled, faintly, his empty office. Void of smiling faces in photographs, warm
family portraits, or even a pet. People framed photos of their pets, right?

“Anyway,”
I sighed. There was more that I wanted to say – but different words for a
different day. “Let's go.”

Chapter 8

ALEX

 
I felt something, too
.

After
staring at the text until the words started to blur, still awake after having
completed a mess of paperwork, I ended up dozing off at my desk. Head against
the glass, lamp still on, my glasses (which, while I preferred contacts, I
still wore on occasion), making small red dents on the sides of my nose.

It was
almost noon when I woke up, on one of the few scant, God forsaken Saturdays
that I actually managed to have off.

My phone
rang, paused, then rang again.

On the
third call, I finally sat up, rubbed my eyes, then remembered Mia. Mia, awake
early in the morning, probably laying in bed while she stared at the screen of
her phone, waiting for me to respond.

Fuck.
Fuck. I hadn't meant to ignore her. I had just fallen asleep.

But since
when did I care so much about a fucking text message? A text message directed
to a twenty-something-year-old college student, of all things.

I grabbed
my phone, looked at it, and my heart sank.

I
contemplated not picking up. I contemplated, as the phone hummed for the third
time, letting it go straight to voicemail, then maybe chucking it off the
balcony.

A heavy
sigh, the eventual cave.

“Cait,” I
mumbled. “Why are you calling me?”

“Alex?”
she seemed surprised, as if hearing my voice for the first time in six months
had made her suddenly forget what I ever sounded like. “Were you in the
shower?”

“I
was...” Jesus, why even bother making something up? “I was asleep.”

“Asleep?
It's past noon.”

“Paperwork,”
I said, clipped. “It was a late night. Do you need something?”

I didn't
really want to talk to her. Actually, I amend that: I wished, as I stood there
in the cold expanse of my office, that I had never picked up the phone.

It wasn't
because she had broken my heart – she hadn't. It wasn't because she got under
my skin – she never even scratched the surface. I was just the kind of guy that
grew unreasonably irate when my train of thought went interrupted. It's like,
Christ, can a man get a moment of silence with his own internal fucking
dialogue?

God, I
needed to get over myself.

“I was
wondering if we could meet,” she said. A man's voice echoed in the background,
and she drew away, replying to him. She then added: “Sorry. I've been trying to
get myself out the house unscathed. Mason is having the time of his life
throwing all of my things into trash bags...”

She
trailed off. And I should have cared a little more, perhaps. But Mason was the
guy she had been fucking before she left me, because a break-up over my
calloused, over-worked demeanor simply wasn't cliché or typical enough. Sure,
it's pretty obvious that I shouldn't have cared terribly. We weren't in love,
and I suppose I never truly deserved her as she never truly deserved me. But
I'm a man, and blunt enough to say that I'm not averse to the occasional bout
of pitiful pride.

So I
nodded, as if she could see me, and just said: “Yeah. I'm sorry you're having a
hard time.”

“Do you
think we could meet up this afternoon, Alex? It's important.”

“Is it?”

“Alex...”
she paused. A door closed. I could hear the click, the tell-tale roar of
Orlando traffic telling me that she had stepped outside. “I really need to see
you.”

“What
about Mason?” I asked. “It seems you have your plate full already.”

Cait went
quiet for a second. I listened as a horn blared, a shrill yell grew distant,
and she returned.

“It's
important,” she repeated. “So, could we? I'm having a hard time enough as it
is.”

“Hm.”

“Alex,”
she stressed. “
Please
.”

I drudged
up a long, exacerbated sigh. Combing a hand through my hair, I glanced out the
window – midday sunlight streamed through the glass, glazing the hard-wood floors.

“Fine,” I
said. “I'll meet you at Flamingo's in about an hour. We'll have a cup of
coffee. You'll tell me whatever it is you'd like to tell me, then you'll
politely leave me alone for the rest of my life, Cait. I'm not going to dredge
up old bullshit.”

She got
quiet again, then just said:

“Okay,”
quiet as a mouse. “I'll see you in an hour.”

When we
hung up, I flung the phone onto the counter, walked into my bedroom, and
undressed. I was annoyed, and still tired, and unhinged by the constant,
clinging reminder that everything was different now.

I felt
something, too
.

What had
I done? I had screwed Mia on the desk of my office, where any orderly with the
proper key could have walked inside, and what was sexy about that? I had sex
with a patient. I had broken perhaps the biggest rule in all of my years spent
meddling and training and losing countless hours of sleep. Countless days and
months and what felt like decades, for what? So I could throw it all away?
Throw it all away on a university student with a pretty face and infectious
smile?

I thought
about the consequences. I thought about the nature of how people meet, and how
nuanced and layered and impossible some things felt. I thought the teachers
that ended up getting caught fucking around with their students, and how they
were disciplined, but most of the time it was a slap of the wrist. If the
student was legal, they might not have the most desirable record, but they
could still teach if they had a car and were willing to relocate. And if the
feelings are true, they can make it through the gamut with just a few
scratches.

As for
doctors? Weisman might have been fucking a student, but she was not
his
student,
and also not a patient. And the nature of forbidden liaisons, when considering
the realm of occupations, were also riddled with different repercussions.

I knew
that a doctor fucking his patient was among the ranks of 'biggest fuck-up of a
lifetime' in the area of poor decision making. Age didn't matter. Doctors were
not privy to the Romeo and Juliet law. If discovered, I could lose my license
entirely. I would be black-listed, potentially sued. And the $400,000 I spent
on my schooling? I couldn't wrap my head around that. All that debt. All that
debt for nothing. A life-long dream, dissolving like a cyanide tablet in a
water glass. Drink up.

I would,
in short, lose everything I had worked for. So why would I risk a decade spent
gradually clawing my way to this point, only to let it slip between my fingers
so quickly?

I looked
down at my hands, feeling a mix of
help me
and
I can't be helped
.
I knew, as much as I knew that I would suffer loss at some point in my life,
whether it was a colleague or a loved one or even myself. I knew that I should
have felt not just remorseful, but
afraid
of what I had done. I should
be fearful, and suffocated by guilt, and left with no desire to ever see Mia
again. Because even if I were to walk away, have her assigned to another
doctor, and never speak to her again, what
was
had already transpired.
The deed was done, and there was no going back.

Nausea
spread over me. I should have never given her my phone number. I should have
never called her any of those silly pet names, or smiled at her in that
deliberate way I reserved for...

Who had I
reserved it for? No one, I realized. No one.

My
little fox.

Fists
clenched, I stood, resisted the urge to punch a wall, and forced myself to
shower. I was so wrapped up in my own slippery understanding of potential
demise that I couldn't even enjoy the memories: Mia, on her back, her legs
around my waist, her eyes closed. The way she gripped my shoulders, or the way
she moaned.

The taste
of her skin, the tangy smell of her shampoo. Mango, maybe. How she kissed me,
looked at me, gasped my name.

Let go
.

I touched
myself, panting, frantically clinging to the vision of fucking Mia, this time
harder, more desperate, as she begged me to come inside of her. As I begged her
to come for me.

I didn't
even know what she looked like underneath the clothes. All I knew was how she
felt, tight and wet, and how she sounded. So sweet, like a little pixie. A
little water sprite.

I came in
waves, water spilling over my hands, dousing away the evidence.

When it
was over, I washed, tousled my hair (because I didn't really give two damns
about combing it), and threw on a pair of jeans and a plain undershirt. No
physician's garb; no scrubs, no white coat, no prissy shoes. Then I left,
wishing, as I slid into my Porsche and turned on the radio, that I was off to
visit someone else.

Another
sigh. Gentler, this time. And slowly, as I drove, a feeling of understanding
began to solidify slowly over my bones, like mercury. A slow death, an
agonizing sickness.

But I
asked for this. It was my fault.

Cait was
seated by the window when I walked in. For someone that had never really
managed a stable life for herself, she always looked well. Her hair was done,
and she wore a pair of those deceptive pants that also look like a skirt, and a
casual T-shirt. She sipped an iced green tea while watching the people go to
and fro, and I watched her for a second before rapping my knuckle against the
counter.

When she
turned, I was able to get a full look at her. And it took less than a
millisecond before, beneath the purposely baggy-chic T-shirt, I noticed a bump.

“You're
pregnant,” I declared. She didn't need to tell me. This wasn't going to be one
of those conversations. “I'm sorry. Congratulations, Cait, that's wonderful.”

I sat
down next to her, my bout of nausea increasingly exacerbated. I didn't order
anything to drink. I just stared straight through the window, rigid, already
partly knowing the next words that she was about to say, but hoping to God that
this would be some benign discussion about how I had left some old clothes or
photos in one of the boxes she'd taken when she left.

“It's
yours,” she said, soft enough that I barely even heard her. “It's your baby.”

“No, it's
not,” I spat quickly. And I know it's terrible. I know it is. But I didn't even
regret saying it. “It can't be mine. You were fucking Mason months before you
split with me.”

I took in
a long breath, composing myself.

“How far
along are you?” I demanded.

“Six
months.”

“Six
months,” I repeated. “Jesus Christ. So you were pregnant before you even left
me.”

She said
nothing.

“And it's
not Mason's.”

The
silence was deafening.

“How,” I
said slowly, trying to keep myself from shoving my chair back and storming out.
“How does someone do something like this? How could you not tell me?”

“I'm so
sorry,” she started. “I just didn't know what to think, and I was so
miserable
,
Alex. I didn't even think I was going to keep it, and then I couldn't bring
myself to...”

She
covered her face with her hands, and just like that, broke down. I regarded her
with only an uncomfortable acknowledgment that she was upset, but had no desire
to comfort her. I was livid.

“You can
understand how I might be skeptical,” I told her. “And you might understand how
I'm not exactly taking this as you may have hoped.”

“I hoped
for nothing,” she said, suddenly cold. “I knew you would behave like this. Like
you didn't give a fuck, because you never have about anyone. You don't feel
things for people, Alex. You never have.”

“Then why
ask me to come here, only to drop a bomb like this?” I raised my voice, and a
few people looked over. I darted my eyes towards the window again. “Why even
tell me that you're pregnant?”

“Because
I can't do this alone.”

“It seems
you were ready to do it with Mason,” I said. “And you seemed pretty damn in
love with the guy.”

“I was.”

“I
don't,” I paused. I paused before the words sputtered out. “I don't feel
anything for you, Cait. I'm sorry.”

Tears
were streaming down her face. I knew I was behaving badly. But I was sick, and
I was confused, and yet another hole had been punctured in my chest.

“I'm
sorry,” she repeated. “I should have told you.”

“That's a
given,” I said. “I'm all for you doing whatever you feel is best for
you
,
Cait. But choosing to bring life forth without disclosing that it happens to
share my genetic makeup is pretty fucked up.”

I took a
napkin from the dispenser and handed it to her. She blew her nose loudly,
shuddered, and wiped her face.

“I don't
what to do,” she confessed. “So I called you. I'm sorry.”

There was
no avoiding, when I turned to her once more, the inescapable proof that I was,
to my new knowledge, a father-to-be.

“I'll
help with the expenses,” I told her. “And when the baby is born, I'd like a
paternity test. I'm sure you can understand why.”

She
nodded.

“Where
are you living?” I asked.

“Well, on
my mother's couch until I can find a new place,” she said. “But I have a few
things lined up.”

I had to
tell myself, a strumming mantra, not to vomit as I withdrew my check-book, tore
out a check, and wrote out an undisclosed amount.

“Take
this,” I told her. “A down payment and first month's rent on an apartment. A
few pieces of furniture for the nursery. You'll need to find a job, because I'm
not taking care of everything, Cait. But I'll do my part. And if there's
anything you need for the baby, you know my number.”

Then,
because all of the life had already drained from my veins, I stood and walked
out. I said nothing else, because I couldn't.