Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Red
The hallway lights switch to night mode, signaling that I've stayed at the office much later than I should have. The soft, dim strip along the floor should be calming, yet it makes the office feel abandoned, like I missed a signal everyone else understood hours ago.
My computer hums quietly behind me, the last open chart minimized but not closed. It's been like that for over an hour, while I stared at the same sentence, rewriting it without changing a single word.
Objective language.
Neutral tone.
Clinical distance.
The rules I've lived by for years suddenly feel like they're written in a language I can't quite translate anymore. Every time I attempt to analyze something, Blue's face haunts me.
I sigh, shut the file, and my jaw tightens to the point it hurts. I grab my coat, turn off the lights, lock the door, and put my badge clip in my briefcase.
The elevator ride feels longer than normal, even though it doesn't have any stops. My reflection stares back at me in the mirrored wall, and all I see is a failed man.
I kissed her.
I scowl at myself, hating that I did it and repulsed that I can't stop thinking about it.
And it's not the act of it I can't get out of my mind.
It's the way she leaned in instead of away, the way my hand tightened like instinct, not thought, and the way stopping felt like tearing something loose instead of correcting a mistake.
I exhale sharply as the doors open, then make my way into the night.
Outside, the city is quiet, intimate almost. Streetlights glow, a few cars pass, and nothing is abnormal except me. I button my coat, put my hands in my pockets, and remind myself I did everything right afterward.
That has to count.
It doesn't wash away my sins.
My phone vibrates. I stop myself from checking it immediately, knowing it's Blue. There's no one else who would text me at this hour.
That matters, I tell myself.
I make it half a block before pulling it out, my heartbeat picking up the instant I read Blue's name on the screen.
All the messages she sent throughout the day are still there. Not one is demanding or frantic, and that might be the most dangerous part.
Blue: Are you still working? It's getting late. You work too hard, Dr. Mercer.
A kiss emoji is at the end.
My chest tightens. Then another message pops up.
Blue: Do you always walk home?
The hairs on my arms rise. I freeze, then glance around.
Is she here?
After a minute of surveying the area, I let out an anxious breath and continue walking, picking up my pace. A few blocks farther, my phone vibrates again. A photo of Blue glowing under a streetlight appears.
My pulse skyrockets. I spin and glance around, but can't find anything.
"Outta the way," a bicyclist shouts.
I shift to the side, barely missing him as he flies past me.
"Asshole!" I mutter, then step against the cold brick, and quickly gaze down the street both ways.
She's not here.
I look at the photo again.
Why's she outside?
I'm paranoid.
After another survey, I walk as fast as I can, down two more blocks, then turn the corner. My building comes into view, and I step into the lobby, still unable to shake the feeling Blue's following me, even though she's nowhere to be seen.
I stop at my mailbox, unlock it, and pull out a handful of bills.
Then I make my way inside my home. I toss them on the side table, go to the fridge and grab a beer, then plop down on the sofa.
I gulp the cold drink, swallow, then take several more mouthfuls, trying to push the thought of Blue out of my mind.
I can't.
Temptation wins, and I do what I shouldn't. I grab my phone and open the hidden folder where I stored all of the photos she sent.
The first one that pops up is her pussy. Heat spikes hard inside me, and I take another sip, study it for several minutes while my cock turns hard, then make myself swipe to the next one.
They're all innocent on the surface, but my erection says they're not. I stare at the smoothie raised toward the camera with her face angled just enough to catch the light. Her bright eyes and curved mouth, sucking on the straw, don't help my predicament.
Those virgin lips belong on my cock.
Jesus Christ. This is wrong.
A flash of what I imagine she'd look like in the white lingerie she made taunts me. My chest tightens, and I run a finger over her lips. It's as if my body recognizes something that my brain refuses to name. At first, it confuses me, then it rushes at me.
It's intimacy.
I swipe quickly, like speed will undo the fact that I saw it at all, but the image of her sucking on the straw, wearing white, barely-there lingerie, lingers anyway. Her expression and the way she framed herself were deliberate but not overt, as if she wanted approval without asking for it.
My innocent little Bluebird.
An annoying throb takes hold of me. I take another swig, unzip my pants, and push my hand inside. I grip my shaft and slide my hand over it. Then I swipe to the photo of her with egg yolk barely dripping down her lip.
My cock pulses against my fingers. I groan, my mouth watering, wanting to lick it off her, and pull up the message she sent with the photo.
Blue: Proud of me?
"So fucking proud, my dirty little Bluebird," I mutter, my cheeks heating and blood pounding between my ears. My breath catches.
Fuck. What am I doing?
I tug my hand out of my pants.
This is exactly what shouldn't be happening.
She's attaching to me.
I let her.
Scratch that. I encouraged it.
She wants me to get off on her photos.
I replay my responses to her texts, dissecting tone, phrasing, and timing. I try to determine if I crossed the line today, because last night is already its own sealed file. After I reread everything a dozen times, I decide I was appropriate, brief, and redirecting.
Still, the fact that she sent photos at all means she felt close enough to do it. And I didn't stop it soon enough.
How could I? She's a beautiful virgin waiting for me to deflower her.
Jesus. I'm fucked.
I finish my beer, set it on the table, and put my hands over my face, then take deep breaths, trying to eliminate the vision of her in the white lingerie.
She made it for me.
"Fuck!" I bark, rising off the couch, and telling myself that tonight ends with distance. No more texts. No more indulgence. I did my duty. I'll reinforce it tomorrow.
I move toward the kitchen, grab another bottle of beer, and a chill runs down my spine. I freeze, as the earlier unease creeps back in.
Is she here?
I'm paranoid.
Am I?
I move toward the window.
The city is a smear of gold and black beyond the glass. Headlights drag lines through the street. I glance around but don't see Blue.
I'm reacting to shadows and caffeine and guilt.
I'm not the kind of man who gets rattled by a patient's text messages and a few photos.
As much as I try to convince myself she's not there, the chill won't leave my spine. So I scan the buildings, and fire hits my veins.
Across the street, half hidden beneath the streetlight's halo, Blue stands on the sidewalk like she's been placed there on purpose.
Several locks of her pinned hair catch the glow and turn electric, creating a bright slash against the dark.
She isn't pacing or fidgeting. She's just still and as cool as a cucumber, staring up at me.
My lungs stop working for a beat.
No. No, no, no.
My pulse bangs hard enough to make my vision tighten around the edges.
Instinct screams at me to back away from the window.
It wants me to disappear into the condo and pretend I didn't see her, but she lifts her phone.
It's a clean, deliberate motion with her arm rising and wrist angling.
A light flashes from her phone several times.
She's taking photos of me.
A hot, violent rush detonates inside my chest. It should be anger and fear, but it's something worse.
A dark and possessive approval that has no place in this situation, or any right existing between me and her, curls its fist around me. It grips me until I can barely breathe, and my balls ache with new vigor.
I yank my phone out of my pocket so fast, I nearly drop it. My fingers shake as I unlock it.
Me: Come into the lobby. Now.
Three dots appear instantly.
Blue: Are you home?
Me: Lobby. Blue.
Blue: Do you really want to do this in your lobby? In front of everyone?
The question lands like a slap, because she has no fear. There's only awareness and calculation, a gentle little hook tugging at my control.
My teeth grind.
Me: I'll meet you down there. Don't make me come outside.
A pause.
Blue: Okay. :)
The smiley face makes my stomach twist. She thinks this is a game. My guess is that she thinks this is a romantic gesture.
Shut this down before it metastasizes into something that destroys both of us.
I grab my keys, shove my feet into shoes, and bolt out the door, taking the stairs two at a time. My heartbeat turns into a war drum in my ears. The stairwell smells like concrete and faint cleaning chemicals, and each landing echoes with the sound of my own breathing.
This is insane.
This is malpractice.
This is dangerous.
And I'm running toward it.
I'm not. I'm putting an end to it.
When I hit the lobby level, I push through the door hard enough for it to thud against the wall and lunge into the warmly lit, polished stone area. Quiet music pipes through hidden speakers.
A security guard sits behind the desk, bored, glancing up with arched eyebrows. "Everything okay, Dr. Mercer?"
I realize I'm moving like a man sprinting from a fire. I force myself to slow down and rearrange my face into something calm. "Yes."
Then the revolving door turns. Blue practically floats inside, her coat belted, cheeks pink from the cold, and eyes so bright they're almost luminous. She's clearly been riding adrenaline for hours and loves the way it tastes.
I rush over to her.
Her expression morphs softer, warmer, and more innocent.