Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
ALEX
I know it’s her by her silhouette.
I’m not usually the kind of guy who stops to drink in a moment. I function like a machine always set to go. It’s easier that way. I work, spend some time with Elliot if I have the time – which probably isn’t as often as it should be – hit the gym, sleep, repeat. That’s how I’ve kept sane since the crash.
But now, I stop, staring at the shape of her outlined with the sea and the night sky in the background. Her hips stir the animal in me. I want to sink my hands into her, feel how full she is, pull the sweet round globes of her ass against me, and grind against her so she can understand just how savage she’s turning me.
I breathe slowly, trying to calm myself down.
The surgery I was consulting on had life-and-death consequences. It’s another reminder that life is short.
Julian was right. I’ve been looking for love while pretending that I’m not.
When I see her, a voice roars in my head: No more pretending.
Alex: Turn around.
She takes out her phone, turns, and laughs quietly. Her eyes light up as she approaches. “Just to warn you,” she says, “I’ve only had one drink, so if you were thinking of taking advantage…”
“I’d never take advantage of you,” I tell her, my tone firm. Yes, she makes my blood burn, but I would never do anything she didn’t want.
She laughs again, a captivating sound.
“What’s so funny?”
“You – you’re so serious. I was only kidding.”
“Maybe I need you to make me less serious,” I say, giving her a slight grin.
For a moment, her eyes get this almost tragic look. I’ve never looked as closely at anyone as I’m looking at her, studying every detail as if there’s a scalpel in my perception, and I’m dissecting her every tic.
She looks like what she called herself earlier—an old soul inside a perfect young woman’s body.
“Is something wrong?” I ask.
“What? No.” She laughs, but it sounds forced. “I’m up to the challenge. I can be unserious. Blah. See?” She makes a face. “Blah, blurgh.” She prods me in the arm. “Whoa, are you carved out of rock or something?”
I chuckle. Her touch burns hotly through my clothes, making the skin below tingle. “Working out is one of the only ways I can forget the hospital sometimes. Shall we walk?”
I take off my jacket.
“You don’t have to…” she begins as I drape it over her shoulders. “Do that.”
“Too late,” I say, then smirk and flex my arm. “Anyway, I only did it because you seem obsessed with my muscles.”
Her gaze flits over my body, then to my face. “I was being sarcastic.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
I want to put my arm around her, but that would mean moving too fast, wouldn’t it? It’s been a long time since I’ve dated or even thought about it. Sure, I’ve wanted love, a background hum to the chaos of my everyday life.
This is the first time I’m fighting for it.
“How was the rest of the party?” I ask.
“Very twenty-first century. Lily and Cleo were on their phones, and I was people-watching.”
“Sounds… fun?” I offer.
“Does it?”
“For most people, probably not. But if your starry eyes are any indication, it seems like you enjoyed it.”
Her smile lights up her face, but then she quickly pushes it away, almost like she feels guilty for smiling, and I wonder why that is. “I don’t have starry eyes , Alex.”
“If you say so. Still, I’m right, aren’t I?”
“I like people watching. When I was a kid, I used to play this game. It was…” She pauses. “When I was going through a tough period.”
I clamp down on the urge to ask her what happened. If she wanted to talk about it, she wouldn’t have stopped herself.
“Tell me about the game.”
She stops walking, turning toward the lights of the bars and the clubs. “It’s a little weird.”
“I can do weird.”
“In the bedroom, you mean?” she says, forcing a laugh.
I smile in bemusement. “Why do you keep doing that?”
“Doing what?”
“Pretending to be someone you’re not.”
“Okay, that’s creepy. We don’t even know each other, Alex.”
“Why don’t you say ‘that’s creepy’ like you really mean it?”
She grows flustered, which makes her all the more adorable. She’s got her guard up. The bedroom comment seems like a way for her to deflect. Or perhaps I need to take off my wannabe psychoanalysis hat.
“Tell me about this game,” I say when she seems at a loss for words.
“Look at those people.” She nods to the silhouette of the midnight partiers, a few of them smoking. “Now, imagine that your thoughts, your experiences, your memories – you – are an orb in your head.” She looks at me nervously, like she thinks I’m going to make fun of her.
“Okay…”
“I’d imagine just that, then I’d throw the orb, and then, I’d be in that person’s head. I’d try to imagine everything they might be thinking and feeling. I’d try to become them just for a little bit. Weird, huh?”
“I don’t know if it’s weird or not. I don’t really care. It’s creative and interesting. Are you a writer?”
“Uh… no.”
I chuckle. “Are you sure? Don’t worry. I won’t tell anybody.”
“It’s kind of weird,” she mutters hesitantly.
“There’s that word again. Whoever said you had to be normal, Tori?”
She shrugs, then keeps walking. I walk beside her for a moment, hesitating and wondering if I should do what I desperately want to, then stop overthinking and go for it. I slip my arm over her shoulder. She makes a soft moaning noise and falls against me. The experience is so natural. It’s like we’ve done it countless times before, yet it sizzles with the heat of newness.
My body begins to pulse, my instincts roaring. This hunger has to mean something. It’s an effort to keep my hand on her shoulder. So tempting to slide down over her hip, grab and massage her ass, slide my hand into her pants, and find her…
“This is nice,” she murmurs.
“Yes,” I reply. “It is.” My voice is husky. I need to keep talking so I don’t go ‘full beast’ and tear her clothes off. I say, “What’s weird about not being a writer?”
“Promise not to tell?”
“Swear.”
“I’ve been visiting open mic poetry slam nights for six months. I’ve always wanted to be a poet; when I was really little, I wanted to be an actor. I guess this combines the two.”
“That’s great,” I say, hoping she will tell me more. I want to know everything about her.
“Is it?”
I give her a squeeze. “It sounds like it takes a lot of bravery to get up there when you’re so nervous about it.”
“Who said I was nervous?” she counters.
“You didn’t have to.”
“The performances don’t make me nervous. I’m shocked by how calm I am when I go to the events. As long as nobody I know is there—which, so far, they haven’t been—I’m able to handle it. But the idea of somebody I know seeing it? That freaks me out.”
“Why?” I ask, genuinely curious to know why this makes her nervous. Having a friend to support her should lift her spirit instead of causing her discomfort.
“I don’t know. I guess I like to keep some stuff private.”
“Well, I’d love to see a performance.” When she laughs in disbelief, I squeeze her again, this time with a playful edge. “It’s true. And don’t forget, technically, we don’t know each other, so I’d be a stranger,” I say, with an eyebrow raised.
She looks up at me, her eyes bright and magnetic.
This is the perfect moment to kiss her. But if I do that, can I just kiss her? Will I take it further?
She turns away, and the moment passes. Damn.
“What sort of performances do you do?” I ask. “What are your poems about?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“I wouldn’t have asked otherwise. Forget Guardian Angel. You’re a Guarded Angel . You’ve always got your shield up.” I nudge her with a toothy grin. “See what I did there?”
She tries to hold back, squeezing her lips together, but then the laughter escapes.
“Okay, you got me, but only because it was so corny.”
“A laugh is a laugh,” I say with a shrug.
“My poems are… depressing. About something that happened when I was a kid, mostly. I don’t want to ruin the mood.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Of course, you don’t,” she grumbles cutely.
“Am I missing something?”
“You’re Mr. Serious.”
“I don’t have to be serious all the time,” I say, passion burning in my voice as I give in to my desire, let my hand slip down her body and over her hip. I grab her fleshiness greedily, massaging her, staring into her eyes.
She gazes up at me, looking shocked and excited, like she can’t decide which mood to settle on, her poetic mind clashing, her lust tempting her.
She settles her hand on my chest and squeezes, her fingernails scraping against my shirt. “What do you think you’re doing, doctor?”
“You really don’t know how irresistible you are, do you? How beautiful you are?”
I grab her other hip, greedily holding her in both my hands.
“I…” She looks down as if suddenly afraid. “I…”