9. Julian
JULIAN
I hang up the phone so she doesn’t hear me huffing and puffing then take the stairs two by two until I get to the third floor. The hallways are filled with students and families, talking, hugging, crying. But she just sits in the corner of the stairwell, all by herself. I reach a hand out and pull her up off the ground then pull her into my chest. I don’t know how to get past this feeling of never wanting to leave this girl by herself again. But every time I show up, it only gets stronger.
“Is there anything you need from your room?” I ask her once she’s calmed down. I look around. No one has seemed to notice me yet, but I’d rather not wear out my welcome. She thinks for a minute.
“My laptop and maybe some clothes. Fuck,” she says. “How am I going to do this? I need to be able to come back here.” I put a hand on her shoulder.
“We’ll figure it out. One step at a time,” I say. “Give me your badge.” She does. “Wait here.”
I slip down the hallway to the room that matches the number of the key—302. I tap her badge to the reader and step inside, closing the door behind me. I see the desk with a picture of her and Emily on it, and I take the computer from it. I grab a duffel bag from under the bed, opening the dresser and emptying a few drawers into it. When I see her underwear, I freeze. I close my eyes as I palm a handful of them, throwing them into the bag. Then I zip it up and walk back out of the door. I take her hand as I walk by, leading her down the stairs. Then we hurriedly get into the back of the car where Russ is waiting.
“To the apartment, please, Russ,” I say, handing her her things. She looks at me. “One step at a time.”
She’s silent on the ride, staring out over the lights as we finally pull back into Manhattan. She goes to grab her bag as Russ parks in the garage, but I yank it up from the seat before she can grab it. Russ opens her door and helps her out, and then we’re on the elevator back up to my apartment. Where she can breathe. Where I can keep an eye on her.
Where she feels like mine.
Fuck. Why am I letting this happen?
I know this is all just stemming from the trauma of the last week, but I can’t ignore the pull I feel toward her, thinking about how alone she must feel with no family on this side of the country. Her closest friend here was gunned down by a maniac. She had to watch students like herself get blown to shit while she was just trying to get back to her goddamn dorm room.
I’m infuriated all over again just thinking about it. But I don’t have time to dwell on it right now. She needs me.
As we make our way into the apartment, I let Russ know he can lock up and head out. The night guard will switch out with him and post up outside the door. My security team is not one to reckon with, and I’m thankful for them every single day.
Emily has shut down the kitchen, and the penthouse is quiet. I set her bag down on the island and then lead her to the living room. She sits down on the couch, and I fight off a smile as she settles in, looking comfortable. Like she feels safe here.
I grab the remote and press a few buttons, and my eighty-inch television lowers down from the ceiling. I press another button, and the lights dim.
“How about something to drink?” I ask. She looks up at me and raises an eyebrow.
“Do you have beer?” she asks. I smirk.
“Yes, I have beer,” I say, walking to the wine fridge and pulling out two bottles. I pop the tops then walk back to the living room, sitting down next to her. I grab the remote and put Cheers on, then I put my feet up on the coffee table.
“So,” I say, casually taking a sip of my beer, “we gonna talk about it, or are we just gonna watch?”
I see her take a sip of hers out of the corner of my eye, but I don’t take my eyes off the screen. She fiddles with the bottle, then she sighs.
“I know,” she says. “I’m fucked up.”
“What?” I ask. She stares down at the top of her bottle.
“This whole thing…I just don’t know how to get over it. I don’t feel normal. I feel like I’m just going through the motions.”
I think for a minute.
“Sawyer, I don’t know that this is something you ever get over. This is…this is big. This is something no one should ever have to go through. This is severe trauma.”
She shakes her head, drawing in a deep breath and pulling her legs into her body.
“No, that’s just it, though,” she says. “I didn’t go through it the way other people did. My friends who were locked away or who freakin’ died. I got away. I got saved. I got off easy.”
I see her lip trembling, and she bites it. I reach over and take her hand.
“Sawyer, just because you didn’t have more damage done doesn’t mean there was none. Thank God you didn’t. But just because others did, that doesn’t mean that you deserved it. You still saw him. You watched people die. Sawyer, that’s not normal. You’re not supposed to just get over something like that.” She nods after a moment. “Have you…have you thought about talking to someone?”
She shrugs.
“Carrington is offering free counseling to every student. But…I don’t know. I just feel like they have people to help who need it more than I do.”
God, this girl. She doesn’t even feel like she deserves help.
“I see,” I say. “Well, if and when you feel ready, I have a therapist that I’ve worked with for years. He has his own practice, and there is a new female therapist who specializes in trauma. If I give you their information, promise you’ll think about it?”
She shakes her head.
“I can’t afford that,” she says. And before I can say anything, she sticks a finger in my face. “And no, you may not pay for it.”
I laugh.
“Wasn’t going to pay for it,” I say. “I actually am an investor in the practice, so I get free services. It would be free for you.”
She thinks for a minute, biting her lip again.
“Okay,” she says. “I’ll think about it.”
I smile.
“Good.”
“I’m really sorry I called you,” she says, and I almost choke. I swallow and put my drink down on the table, looking at her.
“What?” I say.
“I thought I’d be able to handle it,” she says, swirling her thumb around the top of her bottle. “But when I got to that door, I just…couldn’t. And I just…” Her voice trails off as she laughs to herself, rubbing her temple. “I couldn’t call my mom because it would destroy her if she knew I needed her, and she couldn’t get to me. And all my friends are dealing with the same shit, or are still with their families, or are dead… How sad is it that the only person I could call was the billionaire I met a few weeks ago who was nice enough to clothe and house me?”
I know how she means it. I know that, much like everyone else in my life, she assumes that I hold myself to a higher standard, that my busy is more important than everyone else’s busy, that I couldn’t possibly be bothered by the problems of the rest of the world.
And until about a week ago, some of that might have been true.
But considering the fact that I’ve had more intimate moments with her in the last week that I’ve known her than with any other woman I’ve been with over the last decade, I thought we might be past that.
“Ouch,” I say with a half-smile, picking my beer back up and looking back at the TV.
“I’m sorry…I…I just…”
I put the bottle back down and turn myself toward her.
“You better call me every fucking time, Sawyer. Do you understand me?” I say, my voice firm. She swallows again, nodding slowly. I reach out and cover her hand with mine. “Do you know how I got to campus so quickly tonight?” She shakes her head. “Because I came out there on purpose. Hoping you’d need me. Or at least hoping I could check in. Circling around like a damn vulture. So you better fucking call me. Every. Time.”
She nods, her eyes big and wide, and I give her a half-smile again. And then I lean back on the couch and turn the volume up a few clicks.
An hour or two pass, and the number of empty bottles on the table in front of us has stacked up. Except that one of us is six-two, and the other is about five-three on a good day. So one of us is feeling it a little more than the other. And as we’ve sat, she’s inched closer and closer to me, and I can’t help but soak in the smell of her hair as she does. I try desperately to ignore the twitching in my pants as she curls in closer.
As we’re finishing season three, she turns toward me, and now, it’s not so subtle. And then, her head is resting on my shoulder. I clear my throat as I take a sip of the water I got myself when I got her last beer. I probably should have stopped her, but I figured she deserved a night to get shitfaced and not have to worry about anything. So I let her drink but slowed down myself so that I can be here if she needs me.
But as she nestles into me more, I realize that maybe she wants a little something extra. And it’s much more than just a twitch in my pants now.
“Julian?” she asks.
“Hmm?”
“Why were you waiting outside of campus? Why…why were you hoping I’d need you?” she asks, her big green eyes staring up at me. I reach my hand out and stroke her cheek gently with my thumb.
“Probably for the same reason you called me tonight,” I whisper back. I push a stray piece of hair out of her face. She just stares at me, her eyes bouncing back and forth between mine. And then, before I can catch her, she pushes up on me, pressing her lips to mine in a sloppy, albeit delicious, kiss. I let it go on longer than I should, and before I know it, she’s pushing up farther onto my lap, straddling me. I pull away from her as she’s sliding her hands down my arms and toward my waistband.
“Sawyer, what are you doing?” I say as I look up at her. She tries to move her hands farther south, but I catch them in mine.
“You said yourself that you had to be close to me tonight,” she breathes. “So just let it happen.”
“Sawyer…” I say, and she keeps wriggling, slowly moving her hips back and forth on mine. I pin both of her wrists in one hand and use my other to steady her hips.
“Julian…”
I chuckle while I hold tight to her hands and hips as she struggles to break free of my grasp. “This is what we call a trauma bond, sweetheart. You’re drunk, and I’m not fucking you tonight.”
She stops moving, her eyes big and wide. I lean forward, pulling her face to mine and leaving one last light kiss on her lips.
“Lie down,” I whisper against her lips. She looks at me, confused. I hook a hand under one of her knees and flip her onto the couch. I grab one of the pillows and put it in my lap, then I pat it. She just stares at me.
My god, I can’t believe I have this much restraint.
Slowly, she crawls closer, putting her head down on the pillow in defeat. I turn the volume on the TV down a little, and then I stroke her hair slowly while the next season starts. Within moments, she’s out, snoring gently on my lap.
I could get used to this.
Fuck. No.
She is a student. She’s just been through some traumatic, once-in-a-lifetime shit—well, hopefully.
And I come with my own baggage.
I should really leave her be.
But having her here, safe in my home and in my care?
It just feels really fucking good.