8. Chapter 8
Chapter eight
J essica
Dr. West leads me to his sports car, which is sleek and black, so shiny it reflects the full moon high above us. His head swivels side to side. “Where’s your car? You can follow me. I have an extra parking spot you can use.”
“Don’t have one. I had to sell mine years ago to cover my parents’ medical expenses. They died within the same year, so it was a lot all at once.”
Dr. West’s head snaps up. His eyes widen with shock. “They’re dead ? Both of them?” He seems truly shaken, which is sweet considering he didn’t even know them.
“I told you earlier they were gone.” I shift my purse higher on my shoulder, unable to believe how this night has turned out.
“I thought you meant on vacation. I didn’t think you meant they were gone .”
“Well, they are.” My shoulders sink as the memory of those dark days takes over. “My mom had breast cancer, and shortly after she passed my dad had a massive stroke. He never woke up from it. Eventually, I had to stop life support.”
“That’s terrible.” Dr. West halts by the front of his car, his brows pinch together. “I had no idea.”
I quirk my head, confused by his reaction. “How would you?”
He sticks his hands in his pockets and rocks on the heels of his feet. “Oh…er…Were you close?”
I let out a sad sigh. “Very. I’m an only child, an oops baby. My parents were in their late forties when they had me. They’d been told they could never have children. To say they spoiled me, doted on me, is an understatement. I was their entire world, and they were mine.”
His voice is low when he says, “It sounds like you had a good childhood.”
“We didn’t have much, but we had each other and that was enough.”
The air is heavy with sadness. My tears were used up by Brad—otherwise, I’d probably be crying again. I miss my parents so much. Miss being part of a family.
Before grief can overwhelm me, I return to the topic that started this conversation. “That’s why I use the bus. The reason why I picked this apartment.” I wave back toward the concrete three-story building. “It’s on the direct line to school.”
My answer makes him frown, deepening the well-worn grooves in the middle of his forehead.
“Oh!” I clamp my hand over my mouth. “How will I get to work if I’m with you? Is there a bus stop near you?”
The frown turns into a glower. “You’re not taking a fucking bus. I’ll drive you or get you an Uber.” He opens my car door so hard it bounces back and he has to shove it open a second time. Then he stalks over to his side and does the same thing with his door.
I raise my eyebrows, wondering what I did to piss him off.
It’s quiet in the car as we wind through the streets, which are nearly deserted this late at night. As traumatized as I am by everything that’s happened, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I was also a little bit excited to be going home with Dr. West. What will his place be like? Fancy? Or mundane? Does he live in a mansion? Or a bat cave?
By the time we pull off the street, I’m dying of curiosity. So much that I press my face to the cold glass window of the car and stare out, not wanting to miss anything.
He guides the car onto a ramp that leads to the underground parking for a tall condo building downtown. The building has to be at least thirty stories high, with dark tinted windows and thick external steel beams that make a repeating X pattern across the sides.
From the garage, we take an elevator to the top floor. The penthouse. The elevator doors slide open and Dr. West murmurs, “After you.” Carrying my bags, he ushers me down a short hallway to a door. A silver plaque next to it reads “3512-P.”
He doesn’t use a key to get access but rather his thumbprint pressed to a small black pad located under the plaque.
My mouth drops open. “Wow. That’s high-tech. I didn’t know they had fingerprint door locks.”
“It’s a prototype. I invested in the company a couple of years ago. They should go public soon,” he responds absently. He’s got his cell phone out and is punching something into it.
“Put your thumb on it now.”
“Me? Why?” I do as he says, pressing my thumb on the cool glass surface.
“I’m programming you into the system. Now you can use it too.”
I’m oddly flattered to have such intimate access to his home. “Thanks. That’s so kind of you.”
“It’s fine. I’ll erase you from the server once you’re gone. It only takes one step on the app.”
And now I’m not so flattered. “Thanks,” I repeat again, this time with much less enthusiasm.
Oblivious, he reaches past me to push open the door.
I gasp when we enter the room. It’s two stories tall, a great room with a living room and kitchen open to each other. The kitchen is super-modern, with shiny white cabinets without handles. How does he open them? Double stainless-steel refrigerator and freezer. Does he cook? The kind of oven that has red knobs on it. I can make cookies!
The elegant living room is dominated by a large sectional in a U-shape. It faces tall windows that show off a nighttime view of the city. Twinkling lights from distant buildings look like a fairy village from up this high. The long stretch of the Navy Pier is visible, its large Ferris wheel flashes with a multitude of colors.
Of all the things that impress me in this space, there’s one that stands out more than any of the others.
Books .
The back wall of the room has rows and rows of bookshelves. They reach up two stories tall. A ladder on wheels can access the top shelves.
Without thinking, I reach out and clutch Dr. West’s sleeve. “Oh. My. God! You have your very own library.”
He follows my gaze and shrugs. “Yeah. I like to read.”
I give his arm a small shake and say in an awed whisper, “You even have a ladder!” The last word comes out as an excited squeak.
“It’s no big deal,” he says.
“Shh.” I hold up my hand, almost wanting to cry over all the beautiful books. “Don’t ruin this. I’m having a Beauty and the Beast moment. I mean, you have a ladder !”
“I assume I’m the Beast in this scenario?” he asks dryly.
“Well, duh .” I release his arm and turn to him, grinning. “Of course.”
“Don’t get too excited. Unlike the Beast, I’m not giving you my library.”
“Aha!” I point at him, bringing my finger so close to his face that he flinches backward. “So you admit that you have seen the movie!”
He shoves my hand away with an irritated scowl. “Everyone’s seen that movie.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Lots of people, especially guys, haven’t seen it. Only secret romantics have watched it closely enough to remember a small detail like that. Men who go around saving damsels in distress, for example.” I send him a pointed look.
He fixes me with a stare. “Trust me. I don’t have a romantic bone in my body.”
I wag my finger at him, teasing. “I’m not buying it. As matter of fact,” I say as I lean forward and pretend to sniff his shirt, “I think I smell marshmallow because deep in your soul you have a secret soft side.”
He rolls his eyes. “If my soul had a smell, it would be decay from all the grudges I’ve buried down there.”
I give him a knowing look. “If you say so.”
He heaves an exasperated sigh. “You’re loopy from all the adrenaline. Let me give you a quick tour and then you can go to bed.”
Quickly, he shows me the downstairs. Besides the kitchen and living room there’s a hallway bathroom, office, and professional-looking gym. Each room is illuminated by a night light in the corner, small but surprisingly bright.
“This place is gorgeous,” I say as we continue down the hall. “Good to know what doctor money can buy.”
He laughs, the sound gravelly and delightful since it’s so rare. “Oh, no. Doctor money didn’t buy this. Doctors make a lot less than people think.”
I quirk my head. “If not doctor money, then what? Trust fund money?”
He scoffs. “Hardly. I used to get bullied for wearing the same dirty pair of jeans to school every day.” His expression contorts into something bitter, but when I put a soothing hand on his arm it quickly morphs into irritation.
He jerks away from my touch with a scowl. With short, clipped words, he says, “This is stock market money.”
“Stock market?” I come to a standstill and tilt my head, looking up at him. It’s late now and my eyes feel gritty, but he looks as fresh as ever, although annoyed with his mouth turned down at the corners.
He lets out a deep breath and shakes his shoulders slightly, like he’s forcing himself to relax. Calm again, Dr. West glances around, then turns those shiny gray eyes back to me. “I’ve always been good at math, and I like analyzing things, so I’ve been day trading since I was a teenager. I used to take everything I made and invest it. Even if it was just $5 from some busboy job. Eventually I made enough to put myself through school and then I bought this condo.”
“That’s quite an accomplishment,” I say, impressed.
He ducks his head and rubs the back of his neck with one hand. “I guess so.” Then he straightens and gestures to the end of the hallway. “Anyway, down there is my bedroom.”
I look to where he points but only get a glimpse through the partially open door. Enough to see a very familiar-looking bed. His is made of a dark brown wood, but it’s the same curtained four-poster bed that he bought me.
My breath catches at the sight and all the memories it invokes. There’s a tingling between my thighs. I open my mouth to say something witty about it but stop when another door catches my eye. “What’s that? The door next to your bedroom?”
“Oh…that holds all my electronics. You know, the stuff that controls my audiovisual equipment. Nothing interesting.”
“Cool. This is a real smart home, isn’t it?”
“Yep. Full of the latest technology. You must be tired by now.” He takes hold of my elbow. “I’ll show you to your room.”
“My room?” I ask, confused. “I’m not sleeping with you?” I don’t know why, but given all the— ahem —intimate moments we’ve shared I assumed he would put me in his bedroom.
“I don’t sleep with anyone.”
“That’s just not true,” I counter, for a second wondering if I imagined all those orgasms.
Again with the eye roll—he’s really good at those. Must have had a lot of practice. “You know what I mean. I sleep with women, but I don’t sleep with them.”
“Still not understanding.”
“I like to sleep alone . In my bed. Without anyone else.”
“Oh.” That stops my upbeat mood immediately. “Gotcha.”
He tugs me to a wrought iron spiral staircase in a corner of the room that I had somehow missed. “You’re up here.”
We wind up the stairs, with him in the lead. Our footsteps clang like Sunday morning church bells on each metal rung, the sound reverberating in my ears.
Feeling awkward about the bedroom conversation, I try to distract him with chatter. “These stairs are steep. Have you ever fallen down them after one too many glasses of wine?”
He looks back over his shoulder. “I don’t drink often, only when I’m out.”
“You don’t?” I ask, surprised. “Why not?”
“I like to be in control.”
A flashback to how he tied me up. How he bossed me around.
Spread your legs.
“That does seem like you,” I agree, which earns me a quizzical glance.
We reach the bedroom at the top. It’s beautiful, with pristine white walls and a tufted bedspread. Pedestal nightstands painted dove gray flank the bed. A wingback armchair sits in the corner next to a small table and a floor lamp with a cream-colored shade.
There must be something wrong with me, because my first thought upon seeing the white iron frame headboard is to wonder if he can tie me to it.
Stop, I chide myself. You’re roommates now. Maybe he won’t want to do those things with you anymore.
To my surprise, I find this thought even more depressing than the realization that I’ll never be safe in my old apartment again.
Since the staircase is narrow, it takes two trips for Dr. West to bring up my suitcase and bag. He sets them on the floor.
He shoves his hands into his pockets. Looking everywhere but at me, he says, “Hope you get a good night’s sleep.”
“Thanks,” I say, trying to ignore the hollow feeling of longing I get when I look at him. I wish so badly that he would touch me, but he doesn’t. As he turns to go, I call out, “Good night, Adam.”
Immediately, his back stiffens. Slowly, he faces me. In a quiet voice that hides deeper emotions, he says, “Don’t call me that.”
I take a step back, stricken by the dark, shuttered expression that’s taken over his face. “I’m sorry. I thought that was your name? It’s written on the door to your office. Adam West, M.D.”
“It’s my name, but I don’t use it. Don’t like to hear it.”
“What should I call you?” I let out a single, high-pitched, nervous laugh. “I can’t be here and call you Dr. West. That would be weird.”
A pause, then he says, “You can call me West. That’s what most people do.”
I nod with understanding. “West. Got it. Good night.”
A solemn “good night” from him. Then he leaves, the metal spiral staircase creaking as he descends.
Once he’s gone, it’s eerily quiet. Not a sound in the whole place. I put on my pajamas but don’t wash my face. I’m too tired to navigate those stairs again. Instead, I slip under the covers and try unsuccessfully to sleep. I’m not dreaming, but my mind is haunted.
Not by Brad, like I expected, but by him …West.
Adam
The next morning, Jessica slowly comes down the stairs with one hand on the railing. She’s lovely, with her feet bare and her hair loose around her shoulders. Back in high school, I used to be obsessed with her hair. I’d wait every day, wondering how she was going to wear it. Up or down. One ponytail or two. Now, the morning sun slants through the window and illuminates her from behind, lighting her up like she’s an angel.
I sit at the wide, marble-topped kitchen island, perched on a bar stool and sipping coffee while I read the newspaper. I watch, waiting to see how she’ll react when she sees the neatly stacked boxes by my feet. They’re labeled “J’s kitchen,” “J’s bathroom,” and “J’s bedroom.”
As I predicted, she halts and stares at them, her eyes running over the words. “Wh—what is this?”
“I got the rest of your stuff last night. It’s all here, except for your furniture, which is in storage.”
She gapes, like she can’t believe what she’s hearing. “Why?! I’m only staying a night or two. That’s what you said.”
I blow on the surface of my coffee, making it ripple. The steam twists and curls under my breath, then breaks apart to float away. “Stay as long as you want. This way you never have to go back to that place.”
Her gaze bounces between me and her belongings. “ How ? How did you get into my apartment?”
“You must’ve been distracted. You left the front door unlocked when we closed it last night.”
Her mouth twists. “I’m usually good at remembering that. I never forget.”
I give her a pleasant smile. “You were upset. It was a stressful evening.”
A suspicious glare from her, mouth downturned and flattened. “I could’ve sworn—”
“Don’t worry. It could’ve happened to anyone.”
There’s a bite of guilt when I see doubt creep into her expression, but I can’t tell the truth. She would freak if she knew about the locksmith and movers that met me at 4:00 a.m. Better not tell her about that part.
Jessica’s still trying to figure out the logistics of it. I can tell from the furrow in her brow.
She glances down at her wristwatch. “We didn’t even go to bed until 1:00 a.m.”
“I don’t need much sleep.” I take a drink and scald my tongue, the one I’d like to put between her legs.
Not yet. Give her time to adjust.
I push aside my desire for her. Ignoring it for now.
She’s still not convinced, and I’m a terrible man because I’ll do anything to keep her safe—even lie to her.
“Brad was hanging around the stairs, looking up at your door.”
I checked. Brad’s in the hospital, regrettably very much alive, though in critical condition. Turns out, he’s a trust fund baby. Never worked a day in his life, just burns through his inheritance, snorting half of it and spending the rest on women, each bad decision landing him in an even worse apartment. That’s how he wound up in Jessica’s building, one eviction away from rock bottom. What a waste. Now I wish I’d hit him harder.
“I guess my conversation with him wasn’t enough to make him stay away.”
Jessica’s face falls. I’ve got her now.
“I don’t know what his problem is.” Her lower lip sticks out, and her eyes swim with unshed tears. “We went on one date. One !”
I shake my head like I’m commiserating. “Some guys are crazy. I’m sorry you can’t go back there. You understand why, don’t you?”
She sniffles and says, “You’re right. It’s not safe there for me anymore. It was nice of you to get my stuff.”
Tension eases in my chest, making it easier to breathe. She’s not going back to that apartment, I’m sure of it.
Using my chin, I gesture to the boxes. “Make sure nothing got missed.”
She kneels before the first box, her face dangerously close to my dick, which perks up at her nearness.
Crap . Don’t want her to see that.
To distract myself, I think about all the times I got beaten up in high school, like the time my worst bully, Kent, gave me a busted nose in the parking lot. It works, and the erection quickly fades.
Jessica sorts through the boxes, moving clothes and trinkets aside before repacking each item neatly. When her hands pull out an old cheerleader’s uniform, my composure shatters and my dick forgets all about my attempts to calm it. Like Pavlov’s dog, it’s been trained to respond to that ruffled red skirt. It quickly rises, so hard it’s painful. I subtly shift, trying to hide it.
God. I’d love to fuck her in that outfit.
This thought doesn’t help my hard-on. It strains against my scrub pants. I can only hope she doesn’t notice because there’s no way to tame it now. Not without my hand or, better yet, her warm, wet mouth.
“Were you a cheerleader?” I ask, aiming for casual curiosity. Inside, I’m holding my breath, as I wait for her answer.
Her fingers trace the thick sweater that matches the skirt, Jessica embroidered across the chest in bold red letters. “Yeah,” she murmurs, her voice soft. “All four years.”
There’s no pride in her tone. Instead, there’s a wistfulness, a shadowed kind of sadness that catches me off guard.
“Isn’t that a good thing?” I press, brow furrowing.
She shrugs, exhaling a resigned sigh. “I guess. Everyone else sure thought it was great.”
Not the answer I thought I’d get. Again, I probe. “They thought it was great, but you didn’t? What didn’t you like about it? All the practicing?”
She lets out a humorless laugh. “I actually liked practice. No. It wasn’t that. It was so much more than just practices or games. It was the pressure—always having to look perfect, to smile no matter what. Worrying about disappointing my parents, my team, my entire school. And the friendships…” She pauses, her expression tightening. “Never being able to trust my so-called friends. Guys wanting to date me not for me, but just so they could say they were with a cheerleader.”
Ouch . That last one hurt. Didn’t I used to daydream about that? About how I’d brag to everyone if she were mine. Was I no better than the kids who used her as a rung in the ladder of popularity?
She keeps going, her voice quieter now, tinged with a raw vulnerability. “Most mornings, I’d stand in front of the mirror before school and practice smiling—praying no one would see how fake it was. How fake I was.”
Fuck .
The idealized image of her I’d held onto for years—the girl with the perfect life, the loving parents, the endless friends—disintegrates in an instant. She wasn’t untouchable or flawless. She was tired, lonely, and trying to survive in her own way.
And now, the real Jessica sits before me, bowing her head over that uniform, the weight of her past written in her posture. She’s bruised, imperfect, and heartbreakingly human, and, somehow, I like her even more for it.
They say trauma recognizes trauma, and though I’m still sure my childhood was way worse, something in her quiet pain calls to me. My hands itch to reach for her, to pull her into my arms and kiss away her sadness.
What the fuck!
What’s wrong with me?
I raise a shaky hand to my forehead and rub it. I’d brought her here without thinking it through. There’d been nothing but a need to save her last night, to get her out of danger as fast as I could. Now my breath catches as the realization crashes into me. This is more than lust. More than a desire to protect. It’s something deeper, more dangerous. Forbidden . Something I can’t afford to feel.
She’s fucking with my head. Her beauty, her vulnerability…it’s unraveling me.
I shoot to my feet so fast my coffee sloshes over the countertop. I don’t bother wiping it up. “I’ve got surgery all morning and clinic after that. I won’t be home until late,” I say, my voice clipped. “Make yourself comfortable. Help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge.”
Jessica blinks, startled by my abruptness. “Oh. Okay.” She looks up at me, her golden lashes catch the light and reflect it back. “I…um…have a nice day?”
“You too.”
I don’t dare meet her eyes as I grab my jacket and stride to the door. Once outside, I pause in the hallway, leaning against the wall as I drag in an unsteady breath.
Years ago, one of my many therapists told me I have a problem identifying my emotions. I’ve worked on it since, but, still, I probably have the emotional maturity of a toddler.
I close my eyes and force myself to follow the steps the therapist taught me. Breathe. Name the emotion.
What am I feeling?
The answer is stark and simple.
I’m scared.