Pulse

by Hayes, Liv

  “No,” I said. “No Mrs., either.”

  “Do you have children?”

  “No children.”

  “What about a mother and father?”

  Her face was full of genuine curiosity. It colored her eyes brighter.

  “I have both,” I answered. “Perfectly pleasant people, but not so photogenic, to be frank. And I do have one brother, but he’d find it pretty strange if I had his photo sitting on my desk.”

  She chuckled. I did the same.

  “You went to Harvard,” her eyes fell upon my diplomas, scanning over each one. “That’s amazing.”

  I nodded.

  “A long time ago, it feels like,” I said. “But UCF is a very good school. You should be proud.”

  “I am. I am proud. I have a full scholarship, too. Graduating debt-free.”

  “Any plans for after graduation?”

  Her shoulders sank, her eyes following.

  “Not sure,” she said. “I mean, I have a few hopes thrown into the air, but I try not to breathe much life into them. It makes it harder if they don’t pan out, you know?”

  I nodded. She looked up at me once more. And I could see, with a greater clarity than before, that the wheels inside her head, all copper cogs, were turning.

  “How old are you?” she finally asked.

  I paused before answering. I guess I was worried that it would give me away, and her eyes would fall, and whatever this lunacy was that I imagined I was projecting would be brought to the surface. And that frightened the hell out of me.

  “Thirty-two,” I told her briskly. “Why do you ask?”

  She tilted her head to one side, then the other.

  “You look younger,” she said. “You have very young eyes. The rest of you, maybe, okay. But your eyes are so vibrant.”

  I smiled, and she added: “That, too.”

  I leaned forward, took her hand, and spoke softly:

  “Thank you, Mia.”

  She swallowed, moving as close as she could get without falling off the edge of her chair. And when I could start to feel the gentle quake of her hand beneath my palm, I turned her wrist to check her pulse.

  “You’re nervous,” I said. “Why are you nervous, honey?”

  Mia appeared torn. “I’m not sure.”

  Hesitantly, she removed her hand from under mine, and began tracing circles around the inside of my palm. Every bone in my body went weak; hot blood surged through my veins.

  “I can feel it in my throat,” she said. “When I get wound up. It’s the strangest thing.”

  “The jugular,” I explained. “That’s another pulse point.”

  “Could you show me?”

  My breath hitched as she drew her hair back, revealing her throat, white as pristine ivory. I stood, walking towards her, and instinctively she pushed her chair back so that I could kneel without wedging myself between she and the desk.

  Reaching up, I pressed two fingers to the vein, feeling it thrum like the thick cord of a guitar string.

  Lowering her eyes, we danced like that for a second longer; soft breath and pupils growing like paint dropped in a water glass.

  And then, because I was both a madman and absolute fucking fool, I rose to my knees, leaned forward, and kissed her.

  She responded immediately: arms around my neck, legs around my waist, our mouths feverishly clashing. She tasted like those Valentine’s Day heart candies and mint Chapstick. Each breath that she drew intensified, and there was no protest when I lifted her into my arms, set her down on the desk, and drew back.

  I was drunk off the sight of her, with her heavy-lidded eyes and red lips. The taste of her, candied cinnamon, still in my mouth.

  I cradled her face in my hands, the tips of our noses touching, breathing the same breath. She wore this long skirt – nothing sexy, nothing attention-grabbing, in the lightest gray color – and my fingers grabbed like claws at the fabric, drawing it up, until I could see the flesh of her thighs. Pale as the rest of her.

  I slid my finger beneath the band of her underwear, touching her gently. Her moan was soft and muffled as her head fell weakly against my coat. She was mine. If only then, she was mine.

  “Mia,” I whispered. “I want you. I want you so badly.”

  I was practically breaking. My body was trembling. Every inch of skin was on fire. She whimpered gently against the fabric, her arms wrapped around my torso.

  “Please,” she begged. “If not here, then somewhere. Please.”

  I undid my zipper, sliding it down slowly, my heart thrashing. She reached up, touching my face with her delicate hands. I kissed her again, careful to be mindful. Careful to be silent as possible when fumbling across the desk for my wallet, grabbing the condom, tearing open the foil and rolling it on.

  Mia watched me, stunned. And in that moment, nothing felt real. It was just us and nothing else.

  “Dr. Greene,” she whispered.

  “Little fox,” I said, my teeth against the slope of her throat. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

  When she slid her underwear down, letting it drop to her ankles, I seized her in my arms, pressed her back against the desk, and slid myself inside of her. Inch by inch, I sank into her slowly, a near-silent hiss escaping through gritted teeth.

  “Oh…” she gasped, and I kissed her to silence her. I moved on top her her, slowly, keeping every inch inside of her. “I’m already…”

  “…so close,” I whispered. My eyes were closed. I could smell the sweat on her skin, feminine and feral. I kissed the curve of her shoulder, resisting the urge to bite down. To mark her. I wanted to – God, I wanted to – but not now. Not here. Not like some animal.

  And here we were. Fucking like two uncaged creatures on my desk.

  Her legs wrapped around my waist. I was desperate and aching, grinding myself against her hips, already lost in the moment. My veins were filled with her; she was already coursing through my blood. Her scent, as if I were a wolf, was marked. I could hunt her over and over again.

  Our hearts beat against one another. I grazed my lips against the lobe of her ear, whispering, only for her to hear: “I need to come. I need this. I need you.”

  She kissed me again, a hand touching the side of my face, looking at me as if we were already lovers. As if we had known each other in some other life, and had once again found each other.

  “Let go,” she said.

  So I did. I came inside of her, exhaling sharply, and she followed after. Pressed against my shoulder, my lab-coat absorbed the escaped moan.

  When we pulled apart, and I slid out of her, I gave her one last kiss.

  “Beautiful,” I said, and stroked her cheek.

  I helped her off the desk, she pulled her underwear up, then her skirt, and seated herself down on the chair. I adjusted myself, sighed heavily, and settled back into my own spot: the doctor’s chair, behind my doctor’s desk, in my own fucking office.

  I could almost hear the sound of my watch ticking. For a solid minute, neither of us said anything. We just sat, looking at one another, wondering if this had actually happened, and what it meant, and what we could do.

  Answer: she left my office immediately, and resigned from being my patient.

  Secondary answer: nothing. Because even the first answer didn’t matter. Even if she would agree to going from is to was, you can’t change the circumstances of how you meet. I would always be known as her doctor. She would always be my patient.

  My patient.

  My little fox.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, a mask of sudden fear across her face. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” I said quickly. “Don’t say anything like that, Mia. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

  Suddenly, bliss shifted to a sense of dread, and I could feel it wash through the room like a cold draft.

  “You can trust me,” she said. “I would never hurt you. I’ll never tell.”

  I nodded. And then, as if the words t
hemselves were an anchor, I started to sink.

  “I’m not afraid,” I told her.

  She still said nothing. She just looked at me, as if thinking that maybe, possibly, I did this with all of my young patients. If I was insane enough to fuck her on my desk, what would have stopped me from trying it with someone else?

  “You’re not?” she asked. “How could you say that?”

  And then, on cue, because these things always seem to be, a sudden knock rattled against the door.

  Both of us took a long breath before I stood, extending a hand.

  “Don’t worry,” I told her, and our palms kissed, squeezed, fell. “Okay?”

  She wavered in her spot for another second. I lingered anxiously, standing about a head taller than her, wanting nothing more to wrap my arms around her and tell her that everything was going to be okay. I was the idiot, the fucking fool. Not her.

  “Okay,” she finally said.

  “Come back next week, and I’ll let you know the results of your monitor,” I wrote her an appointment card, scribbling my phone number at the bottom. “Take this, too. It’s my personal cell. Strictly for medical inquiries, alright? I mean that.”

  She nodded, and I could already sense the shift in our dynamic. There was no going back after this.

  So I watched her leave. It was the only thing I could do.

  Chapter 7

  MIA

  So Dr. Greene had fucked me.

  Or, it didn’t feel like fucking, rather. It felt passionate. The way he moved, the way he whispered.

  Dr. Greene fucked me. A patient. On his desk.

  Things like this don’t happen.

  They don’t.

  Until they do.

  I was up all night on the evening before finals, and days before that, just replaying the scene in my head. Each time, the pictures became clearer and clearer: the first kiss, the way his fingers brushed against my jawline, the way lips pressed against mine with an intensity that told me: I’ve been waiting for this, forever.

  I stared at the ceiling fan, listening to the white noise, feeling full of lust and fear and confusion. Sure, fantasies were one thing – but was this was real. This was real flesh, and blood, and skin against skin.

  A Harvard Man. A Cardiologist.

  A doctor who seemed to not even think twice before pinning me against his desk, as if I were the only thing he’d ever wanted, and taking me right there.

  Suppressed moans, subdued whimpers, or the feeling of his breath against my neck.

  I shivered, drawing the covers up to my chin. My hands fumbled to find that spot that Dr. Greene had touched, and between my legs the gash throbbed. But I wasn’t wounded – I had only become insatiable.

  I came twice. It wasn’t enough. Closing my eyes, my stomach flip-flopped, and I was back at square one, unable to sleep.

  How could he do something so careless?

  Why me?

  Outside, the palm trees rustled. Branches tapped against my bedroom window. In the dark, with the passing cars, shadows danced like limbs.

  Sigh

  I picked up my phone, clicked it so that the screen illuminated, and sifted through my contacts list until I reached Dr. Alex Greene’s name.

  On the message screen, I hesitated, my fingers shaking as I swiped clumsily across the screen:

  Me: I need you to walk me through what happened the other day.

  I hit send. My heart started running – God, he’d said medical inquiries only. What if he was with someone? What if he meant it? Then again, if he was so willing to fuck me right there in his office, how could I believe his line of thought? That I would never reach out to him.

  My mind was spinning. I felt ill. And I just wanted an answer.

  The screen lit up again. The clock read 5:02am. Like a stroke of magic, he replied.

  Dr. Greene: It was a terrible choice of locale. I know it was. But I hope you don’t think of me as some predator that feeds on unsuspecting patients.

  I picked through each word before sending off a reply.

  Me: I’m not sure what to think. I’m not upset. I’m just confused. You’re so smart – it just boggles me.

  Ping.

  Dr. Greene: I know. It won’t happen again. I hope I didn’t hurt you. I hope you know that it did mean something.

  Me: But you barely know me.

  Dr. Greene: I know.

  Leave it to a doctor to simply know everything – but maybe I was being too hard on him. I wanted him as badly as he wanted me. I had dreamt of the encounter before it actually came to life. I had touched myself imagining what it would be like.

  But when it finally happened, I was left with only confusion.

  Was I special? We didn’t even know each other. How could it have meant something when the only real connection between us was friction and yearning? Surface things, they say.

  Did that matter?

  The first ray of light slipped over the buildings. My eyes were tired, but I was still rattling. I felt suspicious of his words, even though I so badly wanted to believe them. But maybe he was as full of questions as I was.

  At 6 o’clock, on the dot, I texted him back.

  Me: I felt something, too.

  I waited. I eventually got up, took a shower, brushed my teeth and ate breakfast. But he never responded.

  At Starbucks, right before our first final – mine being Ethics, of all things – Aimee prodded me on the forehead. I had my headphones in, with Lorene Scafaria’s “We Can’t Be Friends” on repeat. At the present moment, it spoke to the predicable twenty-two-year-old girl that lived inside of me.

  “Mia,” Aimee said. “You’ve gone space cadet on me.”

  “Sorry,” I muttered, removing an earbud. “What were you saying?”

  She took a bite of her croissant, scattering the crumbs on her napkin. I took a sip of my caramel macchiato.

  “I was asking about when you should expect to hear back from Cambridge,” she said.

  Cambridge. My chest heaved gently. My glittering, golden dream.

  “Next month,” I told her. “Probably, at least. I’m sorry. I slept terribly last night.”

  “I can see that,” she agreed. “What ended up happening with all those doctor appointments, anyway? Is everything okay?”

  “It’s probably just anxiety,” I said. “I think. I go back later in the week for another check-up.”

  Aimee whistled under her breath.

  “You should see, after all of this is over, if you could get his phone number or something,” she grinned. “If Cambridge falls through, he could make a good back-up.”

  I sloshed the ice around in my plastic cup, took another sip, swallowed the burnt espresso.

  “I don’t think it’s appropriate to talk about a medical professional that way,” I told her. Her eyes widened, amused. Slightly curious. “He’s a good doctor.”

  I recalled, faintly, his empty office. Void of smiling faces in photographs, warm family portraits, or even a pet. People framed photos of their pets, right?

  “Anyway,” I sighed. There was more that I wanted to say – but different words for a different day. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 8

  ALEX

  I felt something, too.

  After staring at the text until the words started to blur, still awake after having completed a mess of paperwork, I ended up dozing off at my desk. Head against the glass, lamp still on, my glasses (which, while I preferred contacts, I still wore on occasion), making small red dents on the sides of my nose.

  It was almost noon when I woke up, on one of the few scant, God forsaken Saturdays that I actually managed to have off.

  My phone rang, paused, then rang again.

  On the third call, I finally sat up, rubbed my eyes, then remembered Mia. Mia, awake early in the morning, probably laying in bed while she stared at the screen of her phone, waiting for me to respond.

  Fuck. Fuck. I hadn’t meant to ignore her. I had just fallen aslee
p.

  But since when did I care so much about a fucking text message? A text message directed to a twenty-something-year-old college student, of all things.

  I grabbed my phone, looked at it, and my heart sank.

  I contemplated not picking up. I contemplated, as the phone hummed for the third time, letting it go straight to voicemail, then maybe chucking it off the balcony.

  A heavy sigh, the eventual cave.

  “Cait,” I mumbled. “Why are you calling me?”

  “Alex?” she seemed surprised, as if hearing my voice for the first time in six months had made her suddenly forget what I ever sounded like. “Were you in the shower?”

  “I was…” Jesus, why even bother making something up? “I was asleep.”

  “Asleep? It’s past noon.”

  “Paperwork,” I said, clipped. “It was a late night. Do you need something?”

  I didn’t really want to talk to her. Actually, I amend that: I wished, as I stood there in the cold expanse of my office, that I had never picked up the phone.

  It wasn’t because she had broken my heart – she hadn’t. It wasn’t because she got under my skin – she never even scratched the surface. I was just the kind of guy that grew unreasonably irate when my train of thought went interrupted. It’s like, Christ, can a man get a moment of silence with his own internal fucking dialogue?

  God, I needed to get over myself.

  “I was wondering if we could meet,” she said. A man’s voice echoed in the background, and she drew away, replying to him. She then added: “Sorry. I’ve been trying to get myself out the house unscathed. Mason is having the time of his life throwing all of my things into trash bags…”

  She trailed off. And I should have cared a little more, perhaps. But Mason was the guy she had been fucking before she left me, because a breakup over my calloused, over-worked demeanor simply wasn’t cliché or typical enough. Sure, it’s pretty obvious that I shouldn’t have cared terribly. We weren’t in love, and I suppose I never truly deserved her as she never truly deserved me. But I’m a man, and blunt enough to say that I’m not averse to the occasional bout of pitiful pride.

  So I nodded, as if she could see me, and just said: “Yeah. I’m sorry you’re having a hard time.”