by Piper Lawson
He steps back to let me in, but I hesitate.
“You hit my father.”
Wes grimaces. “He deserved it. Beck told me about your dog.”
The pieces click together. “It was a long time ago, Wes.”
“Doesn’t make it right.”
Emotion wells up in my chest. I love the way he’s looking at me, as if all that matters is how I feel.
“I get it,” he says. “Why you”—he drags in a breath as if it hurts him to do it—“look for intimacy in order to distract yourself.”
I never thought of it that way, and hearing him describe it feels both true and humiliating.
“Just tell me one thing,” he says under his breath. “Is that what I am? A distraction so you don’t have to feel? Because you’re more than that to me, Rena. A hell of a lot more.”
I stare past his shoulder at one of the bright, beautiful photographs on the wall of the apartment. The ones he told me he took.
I have to swallow before responding. “Wes, with you, I can’t help feeling. I feel something every time I look at you. And I don’t understand it, but I don’t want to judge it or analyze it or be afraid of it. I just want it.”
My gaze locks with his. He stares me down for a long time before blowing out a breath. “Good.”
Then he’s kissing me as I caress his face, my fingers threading into his hair. He’s stroking the inside of my wrist with his thumb, his tongue expressing in the most eloquent way that he wants me, that he cares.
I slip on the floor, and he saves me. I reach for my boots, yanking on the zippers impatiently so I can kick them off.
Then my back’s against the kitchen island, and Wes’s hips are grinding against me. It’s so right, because it’s not just physical. Even though I came here after fighting with my family, this isn’t about soothing the anxiety. Not even a little.
I want to be with Wes. It’s that simple.
I show him. With every touch, every kiss, I show him I’m completely crazy about him. About who he is, how he is. Every single refined thing he does.
When he nerds out.
With the way he touches me, as if I’m something he’s wanted always and never knew it.
We trip into the bedroom and collapse on his big bed. I’ve only been here once, the first night when I was alone, and I left in the morning before he woke up.
Now, it feels meaningful.
Wes tugs on my dress, and with some impatient maneuvering, it’s gone.
Then his hands are everywhere, but I want to do that for him.
I roll us over, and he lets me. His hungry gaze meets mine.
My fingers find the button on his pants. Then the zipper.
I work the waistband of his boxer briefs down, watching his eyes darken as I expose him and any shred of doubt as to my plan is gone.
He’s hard and swollen, and my throat works on instinct.
Then I pull back, reaching for my bag.
Impatience clouds the desire on his face. “What are you doing?”
“You’re the one who’s always in control, Wes. Who’s always deciding on purpose. I want to know what it’s like.
“I want to make you lose control.”
I put on lipstick, watching his eyes darken as I do.
“And I want evidence.”
I say it like a joke but there’s truth to it. Because I don’t just want to make Wes fall apart, I want him to let me do it. I want him to want it.
I drop a line of kisses down his abs, satisfied with how the marks look on his skin. I lick the edge of his hard cock, and I’m rewarded with a low groan torn from his throat.
“Jesus, Rena.”
I want to take him hard and fast, but instead, I go slow. Showing him I want this to last forever. Marking him as if I can claim him as mine.
I use everything I’ve ever learned, about blowjobs and sex and Wes, to tease him and torture him and turn him on until he’s groaning under me. This time it’s his hands fisting in my hair, tugging as he struggles for breath. As every beautiful muscle in his body flexes under my touch.
It’s my turn to make him come, to watch him fall apart, to make him feel a sliver of what he’s doing to me.
When he warns me he’s close, I don’t slow down and I don’t back off.
It’s so fucking worth it.
I take every drop of him down my throat while he says my name as if it’s the only word he knows.
Just when I think he’s passed out, Wes flips me over and claims my mouth with a long, searing kiss.
He drops his forehead against mine as he presses inside me on a long deep stroke.
“Ready again?” I pant, though I can feel that he is.
“I’m always ready for you,” he mutters. “It’s all I can do to get through the day without thinking of you like this.” His arms hold him over me as I moan at the feel of him. “Nothing I do feels as good as making you come.”
I can’t take the words. They’re not filthy, but from his mouth they might as well be because he means every syllable.
I raise my hips to meet his, wrap my legs around him. It’s no time at all before I feel the waves crash over me, one after another.
He’s there a few thrusts later, groaning in my ear.
After, we lie on his bed, looking up.
He shifts to tug my back to his front. I want to squirm against him because it feels so good. Instead I brush my fingers over his hand that’s resting on my stomach.
“For the record,” he murmurs against my ear, “I don’t hit people every day. So if that’s what does it for you, don’t get used to it.”
“It’s not.” The smile he can’t see fades as soon as it begins. “When do you fly to UW?”
“Tomorrow. My talk’s Tuesday.”
A stone settles in my stomach. “I hope you’re not counting on the strength of my dad’s reference for this job.” His hair brushes my face as he chuckles. “You don’t sound worried,” I observe.
Wes shakes his head slowly. “There are a lot of things I’m not good at. This… It’s my thing. There’s nothing in the world like understanding how human beings are wired. What creates us and destroys us are the tiniest things. It’s humbling.”
“So, if you get it—when you get it,” I amend, trying to keep my voice level, “what happens?”
“They’ll likely let me know within a few weeks. Then I’d go to Seattle and look at places.” The darkness stretches between us, filling my chest as Wes laces his fingers through mine. “Rena… I might not get it.” His voice is quiet in the dark.
“In which case you’d be homeless?”
He turns my question over, treating my teasing as serious. “I haven’t thought much about it. Staying here has never been a possibility I was willing to entertain. But if I don’t go to UW, I’ll keep applying for jobs until I find something.”
“Keep teaching at Baden in the meantime?”
Wes is silent for a moment. “I suppose.”
I want to say, “That doesn’t sound so bad.” Except that I know it is. This is his dream. Wes has a chance to make others’ lives better. Maybe millions of people. I could never ask him to give that up. To settle for something else.
Still, if the decision were out of our hands…
He wouldn’t go anywhere.
And I feel like a traitor for thinking that would be amazing.
25
Wes
From the moment I step off the plane in Seattle, it’s familiar. The cherry trees, bare for November. The wind, the dampness that hangs in the air. The UW campus brings back memories.
My potential future colleagues greet me, and I walk through the halls of the building I spent hundreds—thousands—of hours in as a student.
I stop by the dean’s office, and he looks up with a grin. “Wes. Good to see you. It’s been too long.” We shake hands, and the man who was a professor and mentor to me seems to have aged. “Sorry to hear about your father.”
I nod. “Than
k you for making this happen.”
“Not a problem. You had three different offers on graduation in a competitive market. And from the sound of your emails, you can’t wait to get out of New York.”
I force the smile, remembering it was only a month ago that I’d been badgering him. “I can understand why you’d think so.”
My phone buzzes, and I glance down to turn it off.
Rena: Science the hell out of them, Dr. Strange.
Rena: P.S. I put something in your phone case for luck.
I can’t stop the smile before I tuck the phone away. “My girlfriend.”
It takes me a second to realize what I’ve said.
My girlfriend.
I like labels. Giving things appropriate names. But we’ve never talked about that.
Admittedly, we’ve gotten closer the last couple of weeks.
But we’re hardly doing couple-type things.
Let’s look at the facts.
She met my mom, but that was purely circumstantial. We needed food, and what kind of person hates sushi?
She stayed over Sunday night, but I still got up at six on Monday to work. (Even though waking up to her sleepy, naked form wrapped around me made doing it a special kind of torture.)
Finally, when we meet in public, there’s zero PDA. We don’t kiss. Or grope. Tugging on her ponytail doesn’t count, because no one watching would guess it’s my twisted fetish and that doing it gets me half-hard—
“Listen, this job’s down to you and one other candidate.” The dean checks his watch. “You ready for this?”
I shoulder my bag and take a breath.
I follow him down the hall, remembering Rena’s message. I feel around in my phone case, and my fingers come up with a piece of paper.
I tug on it. Not paper. It’s a photo.
The Polaroid of us kissing at the party.
My chest loosens, the tension replaced with something infinitely warmer.
I tuck the photo carefully into my pocket.
Presentations never came easily to me, but it helped when I realized the people don’t care about me. They care about what I’m saying.
Still, it’s never easy. Especially when three dozen faculty and students are in attendance and it’s like running the gauntlet. If I thought doing this a second time would be less stressful? I was wrong.
As I set up my laptop and attach it to the projector, the small theater-style room still humming with conversation, I remind myself this is what I’ve always wanted.
All through school, I dreamed of being a researcher. Running a lab of my own. Every ounce of sweat, every failure, every frustration, was for this.
I stand off to the side while the associate dean introduces me. I scan the room, a few people meeting my stare, as he reads off my list of accomplishments. Each of those is familiar but like it happened in a far away place. Another time.
In the years when the only thing I had to deal with was working on my dissertation, each hurdle felt like a mountain to climb. Looking back, I realize how simple things were.
“Wes?” the associate dean prompts after he introduces me.
I nod, telling myself to get my shit together. “Many of you I’ve met. For those who are new”—a few faces meet that criterion—“let me start by saying this is my favorite place in the world. If you haven’t spent a spring here, the cherry blossoms will change your life.”
A few smiles come out as I transition into my job talk, walking through the complexities of my cancer research. Normally I’d have sweaty palms, but once I hit my stride, they’re cool.
I start high-level, then dive into the details. I talk about the work I’ve done that builds on the best minds in the world, and what makes mine unique.
The faculty put me through my paces, asking questions about my methods, my approaches, my sampling. I take each one in stride.
“Your publication record is impressive,” one of the hiring committee comments.
I nod. The right answer isn’t, “Thank you,” because the reality is, I wouldn’t be here without it.
The associate dean adds, “And one under review with the Journal of Microbiology.”
“It’s just a matter of time,” I confirm.
Another hand goes up. This guy’s young. Younger than me.
I nod to him.
“What advice would you give new graduate students?” he asks.
The associate dean shoots him a look. “Perhaps you can save personal questions until after the talk. Dr. Robinson is here to discuss his research.”
I brush him off. “It’s fine.” I shift a hip on the desk at the front of the room. “It’s a great question, actually,” I say absently, sticking my hands in my pockets.
I play with the edge of the photo.
“A few months ago, my advice would’ve been to keep your nose down, work hard. And that’s important. But you should also try new things.” I think about Beck. “Don’t worry about detours, even if other people don’t agree.
“It’s easy to feel like you’re on a treadmill, trying to keep up. But you’re missing the point. None of us grow up wanting to work in a vacuum. I’m all for publications, for getting tenure and having colleagues validate what I’m doing. But it’s a beautiful thing, knowing that when we leave this world, we’ve changed something. Left something different that matters outside this building.”
As the car speeds toward the airport, the heavy fog in the air feels warm, not cold. The dean’s parting words of congratulations for a job well done have me leaning back against the seat, my eyes closing.
Until my phone vibrates with an email.
Wes,
Thanks for taking the time to speak with me. As we discussed, the DNA technology is still early-stage and I’m not an expert in the methods. It would have been interesting to work on it together, but I understand you’d prefer to sell outright than to partner. I’m sure you’ll find the right investor.
Ben
I read it a couple of times, then blow out a long breath.
“Sir? We’re here.”
I pay the cab driver and force my legs to work as I collect my bags.
Inside the front doors of the airport, I stop and bang out a text.
Wes: Can I call you?
I wait to get through security, then stick in my headphones and use the video call function.
“Hey,” Rena answers breathlessly. “Where are you?”
“Airport.”
I thought seeing her face might release some of the tension in me, and it does—her hair, pulled back in its ponytail, her eyes bright, a glass of wine in her hand, and the faintest imprint of that red lipstick on the edge.
“Is that Scrunchie?” I nod to the black fuzzy object in the corner of the frame.
“Yes. He misses you.”
“He does not.”
Her red lips curve, and I wish they were under mine. “Your mom made some suggestions to keep him away from the door. They’re working. How did your talk go?”
“Well.”
Part of me wants to spill the news about Ben. But seeing her bright face on the screen, I don’t want to put a damper on this.
“Thanks for your good-luck charm.” I feel for where I tucked it safely in my wallet, pulling out another sheet of printed paper. “It gave me a matching one for this.” I hold it up.
“What the…? Is that a picture of my picture of our picture?”
“Yes. I didn’t know you’d give the other one back to me.”
Rena’s face dissolves into an emotion I can’t name but want to. “That’s surprisingly sweet. I didn’t peg you as the sentimental type.”
“I’m not.”
At least, I didn’t used to be.
I drop into a chair intended for hours of comfort, which I can immediately say falls short. I shift to prop my arm up along the backrest, glancing at a boy wearing headphones, his head on one seat and his feet hanging off the bank of chairs.
“What time does your fli
ght get in?” she asks.
“One a.m.”
“I could meet you at LaGuardia.”
I let out a laugh. “At one? Don’t you have a client pitch tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
I raise a brow pointedly at the screen. “Now who’s being sentimental,” I murmur. But my chest tightens.
Because like I told the associate dean, I feel like she’s my girlfriend. More than that, I think I love her.
“Wes? You froze.”
I shake myself.
I’m in love.
I’ve spent the last day traveling to and giving the job talk I’ve been working toward my entire life, and in this moment, I don’t want to tell my colleagues. My past classmates or friends.
I want to tell her.
The woman I have nothing in common with. The one who makes me relax and laugh—even at myself. Who critiques eighties movies with me and helps me and turns me on like it’s her job.
All the more reason not to be selfish right now.
“No. Don’t meet me at the airport. Go do your pitch,” I tell her. “Let’s meet after work tomorrow. For a drink.”
If I see her alone, there’s no way I’ll be able to keep my hands off her long enough to have a conversation.
“Deal. And Wes? I’m sending you a comb video. Download it now. It’ll help you sleep on the plane.”
I laugh. “Thanks.”
By the time the jet lifts off the tarmac and I see Seattle retreating under cloud cover, it doesn’t feel as though I’m leaving home to go somewhere I don’t want to be.
Despite the late arrival, I get into school early the next morning.
I glance at my email, intending to formulate a response back to Ben to tell him thanks for speaking and I understand that he passed.
Another email grabs my eye.
Dr. Robinson, it starts.
Words like “contamination” and “data” and “methodologies” and “our utmost to recover lost data.”
But ice is flowing through my veins. Basically, it means that my past six months of research samples could be contaminated.