Wrecked (The Blackened Window) (3 page)

I tossed my bag on the table, then got out my textbook and some pens, mainly looking for something to do with my hands and trying to avoid his gaze, because I had this thrill running through me at the way he moved and looked at me and my response. It felt like I couldn’t quite take a deep enough breath. It was a heady, almost drunk, feeling after the last few weeks of nonstop, sphincter-tightening anxiety.

“So, Leda, where are you from? What’s your story?” He had stopped tying knots and dropped his foot to the floor. He sat leaning toward me with his elbows on the table, and on anyone else it would have seemed friendly. On him, it seemed aggressive, like he was just holding himself back from coming over the table at me. The gold glint in his eyes flickered, despite the banks of harsh lights overhead and I couldn’t find my voice for a moment.

“I’m from outside Chicago—grew up there and went to undergrad at the University of Wisconsin.” Since the beginning of school it had been one brief introduction after another. It rolled off my tongue with minimal thought once I started speaking.

“More.” And I knew that he meant he wanted to know more. He softened the harshness of the single word response with an encouraging smile.

“I’m the youngest in my family. I have an older brother and an older sister. Luke and Julia. They’re both doctors too.”

“Okay. Family of doctors, check. But tell me a little about
you.”
It might have seemed friendly if his tone hadn’t been so demanding. He leaned forward, maintaining eye contact while he spoke, almost staring me down while I answered. Maybe his gaze only felt so intense because I was still avoiding it as much as possible. I felt like I was getting off on the wrong foot, making a bad impression, but then a chord of irritation fired through me at his pressure, his pushiness. I almost immediately second guessed myself, unsure if it was his actual behavior or my response to him.

“I don’t know.” I huffed a sigh of annoyance. “I wasn’t intending to go to med school when I started college. I was actually a creative writing major—poetry. Not much of a growth industry. I realized that at best I could get an MFA and teach other people to write angsty poetry, but the reality was that I’d probably be waiting tables at Denny’s. Around the same time, I took a women’s health course and loved it, so I decided to be a doctor. Of course, my family was thrilled—like you said, family of doctors.” It was a quick summary of the last few years, the late night talks with my parents, the shitty conversations with my advisor who didn’t think I could handle med school, my sister vaguely warning me off, while she was working hundred hour weeks.

With humor reaching his eyes, he smiled, wide and wild. He opened his mouth to say something else, but the other students started showing up and he cut himself off. I didn’t know what to think about him. Something about the way he talked to me irritated me, but also sent a hum zinging through my chest. Everything he did triggered some kind of reaction in me, like my first crush. There was nothing he did that was just neutral—the set of his shoulders, the humor he used to teach, his knowledge base. But by the end of the tutoring session, the constant low grade panic that I had felt since starting the semester had eased a little and did a little more every time his gaze landed on me.

We spent two hours covering the structures of the neck. Xander took his time, walking us through the muscles, making us memorize them before moving deeper to the arteries, veins and nerves. As we reviewed the innervation of the sternocleidomastoid, he’d pause and turn to one of us with a question from something earlier in the session. The first time he did it, my classmate blanched at being called out, but he warned us to get used to getting ‘pimped’ like that. That our professors and, later Attendings at the hospital, would drop questions on us and expect us to answer, under pressure, with everyone watching us.

His eyes crinkled as he smiled and told us to never give them the satisfaction of stumping us, because, he said, “Fuck them.” I liked that about him—the smile and the warning and the ‘Don’t let them keep you down’ attitude.

At ten p.m. when we finished, my own neck ached and I was exhausted. But it was Thursday night. I relished that there was only one more day of classes this week. I could rest over the weekend, but I wasn’t planning to leave the library yet because I wanted to pre-read my notes for lectures the next day. So, I didn’t pack my things up at the end of the study session, despite my fatigue. The other students all left relatively quickly. I pulled out my notes to review and Xander paused what he was doing. He was much taller than I’d expected once he stood.

“No. You’re not staying to study more.” His voice sounded too loud in the hush of the nearly empty library. “I can see it in your eyes. You’re wrecked. You need to go home and sleep, or at least go home and do something to take your mind off of all this shit for a while.”

His bossiness kind of pissed me off a little, but this guy was tutoring me—for free—and I didn’t want to be too bitchy, so I schooled my snippy response and smiled. “You know how it is. I just want to get a leg up on lectures tomorrow. Thanks for the help tonight. See you next week.”

Clearly dismissing him… Or, not so much. His eyes flashed and his jaw hardened for a moment.

“Leda.” His voice was lower, almost growling for a minute. He cleared his throat again and looked up at the ceiling, rubbing the back of his neck. “Leda,” he said in a more normal voice, “you cannot spend all day in lecture and all night studying, nonstop, for all of medical school. There are studies that show that after a certain amount of time, usually no more than two hours, your brain needs a break—you stop absorbing the information. So, put your book away and let me walk you to your car.”

“I’m all right.”
Ease up, dick.

“No.” He leaned over me, a hand on the back of my chair as he crowded into my space and took my book out of my hands, shoved it into my bag, maybe a little more roughly than was necessary. He stood up, picking my bag up with him. “Now.” He extended his other hand to me.

And, with the book out of my hand, with the momentary loss of focus, I realized he was right. I didn’t really remember much of what I had read, my neck was killing me and I was tired. No, I was exhausted. It was time to go home and sleep. I gave in and took his hand to stand up. His touch was exactly like I’d expected, warm, but solid, strong, not giving at all. He held my fingers tightly and pulled my hand up to him as I stood. I expected him to let go of my hand right away, but he held it for a few seconds longer than was platonic. I pulled it away to grab my bag from him, but he stopped me. “I’ve got it. I can tell your neck is bothering you.”

“Oh, um, thanks. It’s my new bed and all this studying. It’s killing my neck.”

He answered with a flat tone, “You’ll adapt.”

I repeat… Dick.

He added, “I mean your body becomes accustomed to it. That…or maybe you just stop noticing.” He chuckled a bit at the end of his sentence as we left the library. He held the door for me and his soft hand gently ushering me on the small of my back left me with a breathless feeling.

We walked out of the library toward the parking lot and my thoughts started churning with horrible college date-rape stories.
This isn’t a date.
“Here I am,” I said, as we got to the bike racks.

“Let me drive you home. You can get your bike tomorrow when you’ll be leaving campus before dark.”

“Hey, man—I appreciate your concern, but I can get myself home.” My Windy City toughness, do-not-fucking-try-to-push-me-around attitude surfaced a bit.

“No, Leda. You’re going to have to start listening better.” He had a matching don’t-push-me-back attitude that I appreciated. He was vaguely condescending now, pedantic. When he spoke again, it was a little slower, like he was spelling something out to a child. “I am driving you home. This area of town isn’t completely safe for a single woman at night with only a bike to get her out of a bad situation.” He paused again, features softening and his voice changed some, became a sexy, hard purr as he looked squarely into my eyes. “Please? I’m gonna worry about you if I don’t know you got home safely. I can pick you up in the morning if you want, so you don’t have to drive in and deal with getting your bike home.”

I had that feeling in my chest again. I looked up at him, feeling like I wasn’t breathing right, starting to feel an awareness of my skin, my throat. My mouth was dry and my eyes felt big and wide. I shrank under his gaze. His eyes were warm and hard at the same time. And my mind flashed to fantasy images of him touching me, his skin golden in low light, his hands running over my nakedness, my hips, my mouth open, fingertips at my jaw, stroking down my throat. His hand snaking around to the back of my neck and grasping me there, holding me in place.

“Let’s go,” he said, pulling me along by my hand again. Of course, he had a cool car, something black, deep tint on the windows, leather seats, but not stupid and flashy. He tossed my bag in the trunk and opened the door for me, offering a hand I didn’t take as I got in. When he started the engine, some loud music was blaring, heavy with raw sounding guitar and sexy, drawling vocals. He immediately turned it down, looking almost a little embarrassed. There was an awkward silence for a few seconds.

“So, what’s
your
story? I told you all my secrets, now it’s your turn.” I smiled while saying it, conscious of my not very subtle flirting.

“You hardly told me
secrets
, Leda,” he said, a sort of dark mirth coloring his voice as he put the car in gear and backed out. There was a pause in conversation as he navigated through the parking lot and onto the city streets. I watched him as he drove and that steady confidence was there again. He seemed more relaxed and settled into himself.

“Turn left up here on Second Street, and let’s start simple. Where are you from?”

“I grew up in Maryland, outside DC. My parents still live there, but I don’t really want to talk about my family. Do you want to get a drink before you go home?”

“Weren’t you the one just telling me to go home and rest?” I smiled again.

“Well, kinda.” He drew the words out, a fake whine. “You need to take a break from studying, fo’ sho’.” He was actually a little silly for a minute. “Let’s get a beer. I know a place.”

“Another night, okay? You were right. I’m just really exhausted and want to go home, take a shower and get in bed.”

“Oh. Well, I guess we could do that instead.” He smiled with a laugh in his eyes.

I just gave him the look, the flirty, I-can’t-believe-you-said-that-but-I-kinda-love-that-you-did look and the thought of him in my bed put a flutter in my stomach. I laughed, “Maybe next time, Boss.” He stilled for a second and smiled, as I added, “This next building is mine.”

He pulled to the curb in front of my building and turned the car off, getting out. As I fumbled in my purse for my keys, he got my bag out of the trunk and came around to my side of the car, holding his hand out for me. I took it this time, but he didn’t let go once I was standing and he walked me to my door, holding my hand.

“Thanks for the ride home. I’ll see you next week for tutoring,” I said, feeling awkward again. I didn’t really want to invite him up. It wasn’t a date, but it was hanging in the air—the atmosphere of expectation, of more pending, the feeling of ‘What’s next’?
Will he ask me out?

“No, you’ll see me in the morning for a ride to school.” He handed me my bag, and when I took it, he brushed some of my hair out of my eyes. “Your eyes are a perfect steel gray, with bits of white and silver. I’ve never seen that color before. Very pretty.” He wrapped the tendril of my hair around his fingers, with just a touch of tension pulling at my scalp. I stood still under his touch and gaze, holding my breath, aware of his hand, of how close he was. He pulled my hair just a little as it ran through his fingers, letting his fingertips trace my jaw to my chin.

“Thank, um… Thank you,” I stammered, as he pulled his hand away. He visibly took a breath and looked down, resolving something for himself.

“See you in the morning,” he said, turning on his heel. “Goodnight.” And he was walking away.

That was a little abrupt.
“Goodnight.”

He didn’t look back as he walked to his car. Once I was through my entry door, I glanced out one more time and saw him watching me. He held my gaze for a moment before he got in his car and drove away.

He was hard to read. Bossy, but sweet, a little funny, private. I was thinking about him and the strange evening as I got in the shower. He was definitely fun to look at. I couldn’t place it, there was something compelling about him, enough that I could shake off how forward he was, or maybe even like it. As the water washed over me, I was aware of my response to him… Something chemical, a hormonal surge of attraction that was most certainly based on something subconscious or pheromonal.

I wanted him to touch me, more than he had. I was vaguely shocked at myself for feeling this strongly after only knowing someone for a few hours. In undergrad, I had dated the same guy for a few years, but there hadn’t been very much sexual heat between us. Not like I felt after one night of studying with Xander. I knew it wasn’t right, but the thought of any kind of propriety was easily brushed aside. I wanted to kiss him. I wondered what he looked like naked, what his cock was like, how he’d fuck.

The warm, almost hot, water felt great despite the southern heat. Lathering up my hair, I imagined him running his fingers along the back of my neck, standing behind me and pushing into me. His fingertips running under my jaw line with just a little pressure on my throat.
Fuck.
My nipples were getting tight, my breasts felt heavy and my breathing was shallow, thinking of him over me, with water dripping off him.

There was a thrumming through my skin that was gradually concentrating between my thighs. I turned the water off, grabbed a thick white towel and dried off, the rough friction of the towel almost too much. Urgency started to build and I almost giggled, unable to contain the giddy feeling.