Chapter 9 Antimatter #2
Yet as I say this, my words feel wrong. Even in a void of space, one destructive force recognizes another. Every particle has a twin with an opposite charge. When they meet, they annihilate each other on contact. This process is violent and unstoppable once it begins.
Collins slips the umbrella into her briefcase and crosses her arms. “So you need to know every mundane detail about my life to form a conclusion, Dr. Night?”
“Not every mundane detail,” I say, a slow smirk tipping my mouth. “Just your hopes, your dreams. What you most passionately crave out of life.”
“Oh, is that all,” she remarks with a mocking tilt of her head. “What I want more than anything is for you to let me do my job.”
“That’s going to be difficult without me.”
“Obviously,” she mutters. “Which is why the transfer of your colleagues is only temporary during the evaluation period.”
I swipe a hand over my mouth to cover a grin. “Your attempt at coercion is sexy.”
She firms her posture. “That would violate my ethics.”
“And your ethics are incorruptible.”
She gives me that wickedly sinful smile that first captivated me, that stole my breath across my lecture hall. “Absolutely.”
The dare to discover just how corruptible she is hovers in the charged space between us, a dangerous temptation that crashes against my skull like a thrashing, dark wave.
And once again, I’m questioning why her name lit the screen. For days straight, I’ve combed through code, searching for some flaw in the data, some hidden corruption that allowed her name to slip through.
But there’s nothing. Collins is different from the others. A fact my algorithm confirmed when it labeled her in bold letters:
ANOMALY.
“I’m impressed,” I say. “Coercing me into the assessment by dangling my observatory like bait. Ethically, of course.”
She frees a strained breath. “Well, we know how you’d handle the situation. Although punching you might feel satisfying, I’m serious when I say I’d truly like to help you, Orion.”
Jesus. Now I’m hung on all the ways I could satisfy her. “You got a little violence in you, Dr. Holbrook.”
Ignoring my baiting remark, she says, “Listen, even if you succeed in having me removed, Banner will just bring in another professional—one who might not have your best interests in mind.”
“And you do.”
“I do,” she says quickly. “The discord between you and Dr. Prescott can’t remain unresolved.
The evaluation could take weeks, or even months.
During that time, you’ll have your observatory all to yourself.
Maybe longer, depending on the outcome.” A sly smile twists her lips.
“Like I said, I’m completing the eval one way or another.
But it is in your best interest to work with me.
So, are you going to give me what I need, Dr. Night? ”
Fuck, and then some.
With a groan, I release the clutch and sit back on the seat. I’ve never been so turned on by a lecture. Resigned to my torment, I glance at my wristwatch. “You want to help me.”
She nods once. “Yes.”
“How about right now?”
Her fine eyebrows draw together. “Now?”
“And it has to be in a place of my choosing.”
She catches her lip between her teeth. “Fine.”
On impulse, I hold out the helmet to her, a slow smile hitching the corner of my mouth.
A nervous laugh spills past her lips. “Oh, no. That’s not happening.”
“You agreed,” I tell her, a dare edged in my tone.
It’s only a flash, but something akin to pain creases her soft features before she flips her hair off her shoulder. “Not to getting on your bike.”
“An impasse already?” I lower the helmet. “Shame. I thought you had a little more fire in you, archer.”
She rubs her thumb across the starry points along her wrist as a defiant flame ignites the center of her eyes. “There are ways to get me alone other than putting my life in peril, Orion.”
As her gaze daringly holds mine, I can feel the matter between us charge, known and unknown forces colliding.
Intoxicating.
“Goddamn, Dr. Holbrook. Maybe I should be worried about being corrupted by you.”
With a cute scowl, she locks an arm across her midsection. Beneath her tough exterior, I sense something restless and desperate curling her hand tight around the strap of her case.
“I’m not exactly dressed to straddle the back of that thing,” she reasons.
Her words conjure the image of her straddling the seat, her fitted skirt hiked up her thighs, her arms wrapped around my waist—and the sudden, vicious nature of my thoughts turns aggressively heated.
I unsnap the collar of my leather jacket, listlessly untucking my necktie from my suit vest. Then I anchor the helmet to the handlebar and climb off.
As I step toward her, I can make out the faint freckles across the bridge of her nose, the warm striations buried in her irises, so bright that, in the drabness of Stonehurst, they sparkle in contrast.
In the time that’s passed, the grounds have cleared. Students no longer mill through the quad, the lot nearly empty. The sky has darkened to a deep shade of umber, and the distant, hollow crash of waves drifts on the mist.
Staring down at her, I weigh my options, torn between escaping on my bike and surrendering to the hypnotic lure of her melody, the one quieting the chaos in my head right now.
Decision made, I point toward the courtyard. “There’s a bench right over there.”
Her perceptive gaze rakes over me. She knows I watch her on that bench every morning. A flash of hesitancy crests behind her eyes, and I wonder if she’s suddenly wary of being alone with me in the dark.
Something deviant rears within me at the thought.
“This isn’t the way I conduct sessions, just so you know.” She pivots in the direction of the fountain, indulging me with the sinful sight of her walking away.
“I’ll take that to mean I’m special,” I say, helplessly dragged in her wake as I follow after her.
Collins drops her leather briefcase on the dry grass before running her palms along her backside and taking a seat on the concrete. A shiver forces her arms across her chest as she looks up at me expectantly.
“Take a seat.” She nods to the bench.
“A psychiatrist who avoids pointless foreplay,” I say, landing in the space next to her. “And for the record, I never punched Prescott.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Really.”
“I tried to push him out of a window.”
The relief falls from her features. “That doesn’t help your case.”
A gust of wind whips through the courtyard, sending a ribbon of hair across her face. I’m entranced as she glides her rounded nails across her lips to clear the strands, drawing my gaze irresistibly to her mouth.
A shadow edges into my thoughts, infecting the moment.
Dull pain throbs behind my eyes, forcing me to press the heel of my hand to my temple. I blink hard, chasing back the pain. “Headaches,” I say, answering the unspoken concern creasing her brow.
She offers a light nod. “Because of the accident,” she says knowingly.
On reflex, I touch the side of my forehead below my hairline. Even through the leather, I can feel the raised scar.
It’s been six years since that night. As a man of science, I don’t entertain notions like karma or all-powerful entities that mete out consequences.
There are no vengeful gods balancing some cosmic scale.
And though many of my disgruntled colleagues may claim my arrogant ass had it coming, the truth of the matter is so tragically, sorely simple.
Pushing dangerous speeds, I took a curve too fast. Flipped my bike several times, resulting in three cracked ribs, a fractured clavicle, shattered wrist, broken radius, and a severe skull fracture. Months spent in the hospital, followed by a grueling year of rehabilitation.
I rotate my left wrist, the residual pain always present. Chasing an adrenaline rush dulls the ache of old breaks some. But nothing kills the guilt.
Even if I’d made it to her while she was still breathing, fucking Leo was right. There was nothing I could’ve done to help Emma. The undiagnosed subarachnoid hemorrhage was sudden. The brain bleed taking her before the paramedics even arrived. Before we even had a chance.
I wait for a hint of pity to surface in Collins’s eyes, but all I see is the iridescent glimmer of her irises picking up the autumn hues all around.
Collins says, “Your university file states there was no long-term damage after the wreck.”
No matter how many professionals signed off, the fact remains: I’m damaged goods. The once brilliant astrophysicist who was going to field the research to define dark matter decades ahead of time—in my fucking lifetime—suffered a devastating setback.
“And yet, here I am, confined to this hellscape.” My smile’s as cutting as my words. Still bleeding bitterness over the loss of my grant, my tenure, and research funding.
My truth hangs abandoned in the gloom, the reality of which blisters like the fiery pinpricks of stars appearing in the evening sky, the atmosphere becoming as transparent as this moment between us.
“It has to be difficult,” Collins says delicately. “Haphephobia, or what we call touch aversion, is a challenging condition.” She seems to weigh her next words before she continues. “I happen to specialize in obsessive-compulsive disorder.”
I groan, dragging a fisted hand over my mouth. “Of course.”
“Hey, we’re just talking,” she says, meeting my dismissive tone with soft assurance. “Orion, please look at me.”
I do, moving in a daring inch too close to challenge not only her boundaries, but mine. “It’s hard to look anywhere but you,” I tell her, my gaze shamelessly roving down her body.
“You’re still trying to make me uncomfortable.” The faintest catch of her breath gives her away.
“I’d say it’s working.” The low rasp of my voice scrapes the air between us.