Chapter 3 #2
Peter Volkov was standing there. He wasn't looking at me. He was looking at Kevin-Devin. He wasn't scowling—scowling implies emotion. He was looking at the poor Business major with the blank, terrifying indifference of a tank looking at a traffic cone.
"Volkov," Kevin-Devin squeaked. "Hey, man. Great game last week."
"You’re blocking the hallway," Peter said.
He wasn’t. We were pressed against the wall. There was plenty of room. But Peter’s physical presence seemed to expand to fill the entire corridor, sucking all the oxygen out of the space.
"Oh. Right. Sorry," Kevin-Devin said. He looked at me, panic in his eyes. "Uh, nice meeting you, Belinda. I gotta... find my friend."
He fled. He actually fled.
I watched my opportunity for a system reboot scurry away into the kitchen.
I spun on Peter, fury overriding my intimidation.
"You realized there was four feet of clearance behind him, right?" I snapped. "You didn't need to scare him off."
Peter looked down at me. He took a sip of his water, his throat working as he swallowed. I hated that I watched the movement.
"He was boring you," Peter said simply.
"He wasn't boring me! He was... charming. He plays frisbee."
"Frisbee," Peter repeated, deadpan. "Fascinating."
"He was about to ask me out," I hissed, stepping closer to him. I had to crane my neck to look him in the eye. "And you ruined it. Why do you care? Don't you have a puck bunny to ignore somewhere?"
Peter’s eyes flashed. He stepped into my space, forcing me back against the wall where Kevin-Devin had just been.
But this time, it was different.
Peter placed one hand on the wall above my head. His body blocked out the party, the noise, the lights. It was just him. A wall of black cotton and heat.
"I care, O’Shea," he murmured, leaning down so his mouth was level with my ear, "because your technique is atrocious."
My breath hitched. "My technique?"
"You tilted your head like you had torticollis," he whispered. His voice was a low vibration against my skin. "And you asked him about his 'frisbee muscles.' It was painful to watch. I intervened for the sake of the team’s reputation. You’re representing the organization."
"I am off the clock!" I argued, though my voice was breathless. "And for your information, that technique is from a bestseller."
"Then the author should be sued for malpractice."
He pulled back slightly, looking me in the eye. His gaze was intense, searching. He looked at my mouth again, and this time, he didn't look away immediately.
"What are you trying to do, Bee?" he asked quietly. The mockery was gone. His voice was serious. "Why are you throwing yourself at a guy named Kevin who wears pleated khakis?"
"I need..." I stammered. I couldn't tell him. I couldn't tell the Tsar of Blackwood Hockey that I was trying to lose my virginity to stop obsessing over him.
"You need what?" he pressed. He moved his hand from the wall to the strand of hair near my cheek. He didn't touch my skin, just the curl. He tugged it gently. The sensation sent a shockwave straight to my toes.
"I need a distraction," I whispered. "I need to get it over with."
Peter went still. His fingers froze on my hair.
"Get what over with?"
I bit my lip. The alcohol, the bass, the heat... it loosened my tongue. Or maybe it was just him. He had a way of pulling the truth out of me.
"The V-card," I mumbled. "The... experience. I’m tired of wondering. I’m tired of being the only one who doesn't know what the data feels like."
Peter stared at me. His face was unreadable, but I saw his pupils dilate, swallowing the grey.
"You’re a virgin," he stated. It wasn't a question.
"Yes. Okay? Laugh it up. Add it to the locker room joke list."
"I’m not laughing."
He wasn't. He looked... thunderstruck. He looked at me with a sudden, terrifying new intensity. Like he had just realized the equation he was trying to solve was far more complex than he thought.
"And you were going to let Frisbee Kevin handle that?" he asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. "In a frat house? On a twin mattress with no sheets?"
"I have standards! He looked clean!"
"He looked like he cries after he comes," Peter said brutally.
"Well, I don't see a line of volunteers!" I shouted, forgetting to keep my voice down.
A couple passing by looked at us weirdly. Peter glared at them until they scurried away.
He turned back to me. He looked angry. No, not angry. Possessive.
"You want experience," he said, more to himself than to me. He looked at the ceiling, ran a hand through his hair, and let out a sharp breath. "You want data."
"Yes. I am a scientist. I need empirical evidence."
Peter looked back down at me. The look in his eyes was scorching. It was calculated, yes, but underneath the math, there was fire.
"Hypothesis," he said softly, leaning in until his nose brushed mine. "If you go home with Kevin, you will have a statistically average, likely disappointing experience that will leave you with more questions than answers."
My heart was hammering so hard I thought he could hear it. "And the alternative?"
"Alternative," Peter whispered, his hand sliding from the wall to grip my hip. His thumb dug into the soft skin through the silk of my dress. The touch was branding. "You get a better data set. You get a coach."
I stopped breathing. "A... coach?"
"I can’t have my Head Analyst distracted by bad biology," he murmured, his lips hovering millimeters from mine. "If you want to learn, O’Shea... don’t learn from an amateur. Learn from a professional."
The double entendre hung in the air, thick and heavy.
He wasn't offering to date me. He wasn't offering flowers. He was offering a lesson.
"Are you..." I swallowed hard, my voice trembling. "Are you propositioning me, Volkov?"
"I’m proposing a strategy," he corrected. He pulled back, his hand lingering on my hip for one second too long before dropping to his side. "Think about it. But do not go home with Kevin. That is a direct order from your Captain."
He stepped back, the cold air rushing in to fill the space where his heat had been.
"I’ll see you at practice, Bee," he said.
And then he turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd, leaving me pressed against the wall, trembling, flushed, and infinitely more confused than I had been when I arrived.
Variable A was still present.
Variable B had just become significantly more dangerous.
And the hypothesis?
The hypothesis was about to get very, very dirty.