Anything You Can Do

by R.S. Grey

  “Lying?” I shout, all too aware that I’ve exceeded the volume of an inside voice. “I’m not lying!”

  The official shakes his head; he’s sick of my shit. He turns the volume up on his iPhone and I catch a glimpse of his audiobook: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. It’s ironic, and I can’t help but feel a kinship with Sirius Black—except instead of being locked away with thousands of soul-sucking dementors, I’ve only got one, and he’s currently staring at me.

  “You might as well relax,” he says. “We’re not getting out of here before our skin tests are negative.”

  He’s still tossing around that damn stress ball, and I’ve reached my limit. Without hesitation, I storm across the room and snatch it out of his hands. In a feat of superhuman strength, I rip it down the middle. Tiny pieces of foam float down around us; for a few seconds, we live inside a shitty snow globe.

  “Well, you’ve officially lost your mind,” Lucas says.

  “How much longer do we have?”

  He checks his watch. “22 hours and 35 minutes.”

  I won’t survive it.

  “Lucas.”

  “Yes?”

  “I think you should restrain me now.”

  HOUR 2

  To distract me from my crumbling sense of sanity, Lucas agrees to do a quick inventory of the room. We have the following items to entertain us for the next 22 hours:

  - 5 Highlights magazines, 3 of which have already had their differences spotted

  - 1 Sharpie, 1 pen

  - 6 boxes of gloves, 87 tongue depressors, 55 Q-tips, and 164 cotton swabs

  - 1 box of paper drapes

  - 7 one-size-fits-all gowns

  - CDC-issued blankets and cot

  - a bunch of other medical supplies that don’t help me forget that I’m a prisoner

  “Well, there is only one logical way we’re going to survive this,” I say, gathering up the 87 tongue depressors and getting to my feet.

  Lucas eyes me curiously. I stand at the door and put one foot in front of the other until I have the room mapped out. 120 square feet divided by two leaves each of us with 60 square feet to call our own. Of course one person will get the exam table, but the other person will get access to the bathroom, so our two autonomous nations will have to institute some form of trade.

  “What are you doing?” he asks.

  I nudge him with my foot. He’s in the middle of my tongue depressor divider line.

  “Giving us a border. It worked for Korea, it can work for us.”

  My tongue depressor DMZ doesn’t keep him out of my side for long.

  “Hey, you have to formally ask if you want to come into my space.”

  “You kept the food on your side.”

  That wasn’t an accident.

  He rifles through our stores and then settles on an apple. For the next ten minutes, I listen to him crunching on it with my teeth gritted.

  “How can you be so resigned to this?”

  He assesses me over his half-eaten apple. “Have you ever thought that maybe I don’t mind being stuck in here with you?”

  I laugh. “Hilarious.”

  He shrugs and bites off another piece of apple. He’s either practiced his straight face in a mirror or he wasn’t being sarcastic just then. None of my training has prepared me for option two.

  “Listen, enough with the therapy. I have one last idea for how we can get out of here.”

  He doesn’t humor me with a response, but I continue anyway.

  “If you hoist me up, I can reach those panels in the ceiling. I’ll pop one off and climb out through the air ducts. When I find the time, I’ll come back for you.”

  He finishes his apple and tosses the core into the trashcan on my side. I’m still waiting for him to reply when he heads into the bathroom to wash his hands in the sink. He pats them dry slowly and then walks back out, leans against the exam table, and crosses his arms. His eyes meet mine. He tilts his head and he studies me. I sweat under his gaze.

  “Why do you want to get out of here so badly?”

  I frown. “Isn’t that obvious? Who wants to be stuck in quarantine for 24 hours?”

  “No, you don’t want to be in here with me. Why?”

  “If you don’t know by now, after all of our history—”

  “I think you want me to kiss you again.”

  My mouth drops open and words slip out like stones plopping into water. “Me? Want. You. Want. Kiss? Again? HA.”

  Shockingly, he doesn’t understand my new dialect of English.

  “It’s just a theory,” he says, then calmly changes the subject. “Let’s play a little game: truth or dare.”

  “We don’t have time for games.”

  This is the first time that comeback doesn’t apply. We have nothing but time. I sigh.

  “Fine.” I roll my eyes at having to indulge him. “Dare.”

  “Let’s start slow. I dare you to give me that chocolate chip cookie you stuffed in your pocket earlier.”

  How many eyes does he have?!

  “No!” I pat my pocket to ensure it’s still tucked away safely. It’s my tiny sliver of hope in an otherwise bleak existence, and to keep it, I have to change my choice. “Fine. Truth.”

  He smirks, pleased. “Have you fantasized about our kiss in the hallway?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Lucas is making a real show of eating the cookie I surrendered. It’s filled with those big chocolate chunk pieces and I’m sure he doesn’t even appreciate them.

  He shoves the second half back into the cellophane wrap. “I think I’ll save the rest for later.”

  “Or you could give it to me.”

  He arches a brow. “Oh? Are you ready to answer the question?”

  “Not so fast, asshole. It’s your turn. Truth or dare?”

  “Dare.”

  My imagination runs wild with the possibilities. The chance to force Lucas Thatcher do anything I want him to. I can’t screw this up.

  “I dare you…to…” My eyes wander to the bathroom door.

  “I’m not licking the toilet, Daisy.”

  “Ugh, fine. I command you to give me the other half of that cookie.”

  He seems disappointed as he hands it over, and I try to guess at what he was hoping my dare would be. Something funny? Something sexy?

  HOUR 3

  “What are you doing?” he asks.

  “What everyone does in these situations—I’m turning inanimate objects into friends. Tom Hanks had Wilson, and I have Gary.”

  I hold up the blue nitrile glove I craftily stuffed with cotton balls. With a Sharpie, I drew Gary a face.

  Lucas smiles for a fraction of a second before turning and shaking his head.

  “We saw that,” Gary and I say.

  HOUR 6

  Lucas is napping and I’m going through his things. I’m not normally a snoop, but I’m so bored. I was counting the freckles on my arm when I looked up and noticed the pile of his things sitting on the counter. Car keys. Stray coins. Wallet.

  The wallet was too tempting to pass up.

  The leather is smooth and worn; I guess he’s had it forever. All the sleeves and pockets are full, and I take my time going through each one, checking over my shoulder every few seconds. He’s still asleep on the cot.

  There’s a little bit of cash, a few stray business cards, a punch card from Hamilton Brew. All very typical. I pull out his driver’s license and silently laugh at the old photo. Comparing the Lucas in the photo with the one asleep in the corner, I can admire how the features I once ignored have been etched and sharpened by time. I try to shove the card back behind the vinyl sleeve, but something blocks it from sliding in smoothly: a small, folded piece of paper. I tug it out and realize it’s a photo.

  The faded lines from the picture’s creases don’t dull the shock of recognition. It’s one of my school photos. Seventh grade. The worst school photo I’ve ever taken. Even now, I cringe. Let me describe it: my blon
de hair is frizzy and wild. I sport large eyes, desperate for the rest of my face to catch up. My freckles feature prominently across my nose and cheeks. Braces have turned me into metal mouth and my eyebrows are out…of…control.

  I thought I’d confiscated and burned every copy of this photo, but apparently Lucas got his hands on one. He’s probably saving it for my funeral, where he’ll have it enlarged and propped up with daisies beside my casket. I’m half-tempted to rip it into a million tiny shreds, but I don’t want him knowing I rifled through his things.

  I hear rustling behind me and replace the photo and his license with superhuman speed. The wallet is right where I found it when I hear his feet hit the ground.

  “What are you doing?”

  I don’t turn around.

  “Nothing.”

  My voice says differently.

  He laughs wistfully. “Do you even know what it feels like to tell the truth anymore?”

  Truth: have you fantasized about our kiss in the hallway?

  He walks over and yanks his stuff off the counter. My gaze is pinned on the floor. “That’s what I thought.”

  HOUR 7

  I wake up from a short nap on the exam table and inhale the sharp scent of fumes—permanent marker fumes. When I reach up to wipe sleep from my eyes, the smell gets worse, and then a devastating sight comes into view: my entire cast is covered.

  “LUCAS!”

  I sit up and see him sitting on the stool in the corner, rearranging the items in his wallet.

  “LUCAS!” I shout again. He still doesn’t look up. He pulls an old business card from his wallet and tosses it in the trash.

  “I can’t believe you did this.”

  “What?”

  “LUCAS. YOU DREW ALL OVER MY CAST! I look like I just got back from a middle school church camp!”

  I hold it up for both of us to inspect. He’s taken a Sharpie and defaced the entire surface with hearts and quotes.

  I love Lucas

  Marry me, Lucas

  Daisy+Lucas=<3

  “Looks like the lovesick ramblings of a teenage girl to me. Are you sure you didn’t do that in your sleep?”

  “Ha ha,” I say, having calmed down enough to appreciate the fact that I would have done the exact same thing to him. “Well played. It is objectively funny that your face now covers my forearm. You even did some shading. Kudos. Now give me the stupid Sharpie.”

  He points to the uncapped pen sitting on the counter. “All out of ink, I’m afraid.”

  Another useless card from his wallet gets tossed into the trash.

  He is completely placid, but his straight face is betrayed by a slight curl at the side of his mouth. He is pleased with my panicked attempts to resuscitate the Sharpie.

  “Come on. Come on!” I slap it on the edge of the counter, trying to shake out any ink lodged at the bottom of the pen. I lick the felt tip and cringe at the taste.

  “Huh, I guess it wasn’t dead after all,” he says, eyeing my new tongue tattoo.

  After I wash the taste of ink from my mouth, I stay in the bathroom, deciding how to proceed. Blacking the entire thing out will be time-consuming and ugly.

  Besides, I am more creative than that.

  Every instance of I heart Lucas becomes I heart George Lucas.

  The large portrait of his face is surprisingly easy to transform into an abstract interpretation of R2-D2.

  The hearts he has scribbled along the sides become tiny Death Stars.

  My graffitied cast is now an homage to Star Wars, and when I walk back into the exam room, Lucas acknowledges my craftiness with a nod.

  “You seemed pretty eager to hide the fact that you heart me. Doth the lady protest too much?”

  “The lady protests the exact right amount. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to hang out by the air vent, because I’m slightly high from all those fumes. Also, I think if I angle myself just right, I can pretend you don’t exist.”

  HOUR 9

  It’s 9:00 PM, not exactly time for sleep, but I am eager to be done with the day. We’ve covered the small glass window on the exam room door with a drape to block out the light from the hallway.

  “Hey! Whoa! Slow down there, stripasaurus rex,” I bellow.

  He turns over his shoulder. “Sorry. Can’t sleep with jeans on.”

  “Oh come on.”

  “Why would I lie about that?”

  I don’t have time to answer because he’s already unzipping his pants and sliding them down his legs. I turn away, but not before catching sight of his ass, clad in tight black boxer briefs. His shirt goes next and I’m met by an expanse of naked flesh. Broad shoulders. A smooth, tan back that tapers down near his waist. I look away. Then chance another quick peek. I shouldn’t have. Suddenly, I think they’ve cut off the air supply to our room. I suck in a deep breath then release it slowly, so he doesn’t notice.

  I turn to face the ceiling and pull my CDC-issued blanket a little higher. In truth, I don’t want to sleep in my jean shorts either. As soon as Lucas closes his eyes, I’ll hop off the exam table and slip them off surreptitiously.

  When I hear Lucas situate himself on the cot, I turn just enough that I can see his naked chest and shoulders over the top of the bristly army green blanket. From my perch on the exam table, I have a perfect view of him. Growing up, I saw his bare chest a hundred times at cross country practices, swimming parties. It never bothered me before, but this version of Lucas where he could be a stunt double for Henry Cavill really makes it hard to focus elsewhere. I really want to touch him, to run my hand across his tan skin.

  I brush the thought away and silence another deep breath.

  I won’t be able to sleep. I sit up and decide that if I change, I’ll feel better. I take a blue medical gown into the bathroom and when I walk back out, Lucas is staring at the ceiling with his hands behind his head. I stand at the end of his cot and slowly, his gaze drops to me. He smiles as he sees my makeshift pajamas.

  “Cute.”

  I inch closer to his cot and finger the scratchy material of my gown. He sits up and the blanket falls to his waist. In the dim light he looks like a wicked dream. Sharp jaw. Ruffled brown hair. Toned chest. The air sizzles and we’re not in an exam room anymore. We’re in a dream, one where I’m not at war with Lucas Thatcher.

  No.

  No. No. No.

  I shake away every intrusive thought springing to mind. Step closer. Bend low and straddle him on that cot—

  “Daisy…”

  Lucas says my name and my eyes flick up to his. My thoughts are written across my cheeks. They burn with a blush I’m helpless to contain. His eyes narrow like he’s trying to read me. Of course he can. To him, I’m an open book.

  I want you so bad, my body says.

  I shake my head and try to move past the cot, but then Lucas’ hand catches mine. His fingers tighten around my wrist. He doesn’t say a word, but he doesn’t have to. The second his skin touches mine, I’m his.

  And then I’m having an out-of-body experience, because my head is telling me to keep walking, to climb onto the exam table, and go to sleep…and yet, my body is doing something different. My intrusive thoughts have finally become intrusive actions.

  I’m not sure who moves first. His hand is there, wrapping around my forearm and tugging me down, but I am already on my way.

  My knees fall on either side of his hips so I straddle him, just like I so desperately wanted them to. Together, we barely fit, but he keeps ahold of my hips and I know he’s got me.

  For so long, I don’t move. Petrified. He squeezes my hips and tries to meet my eyes, but I’m staring at his chest. My non-casted hand reaches out and drags across the bare skin. It’s hard, a wall of muscle, but I can feel his heart beating a wild rhythm beneath my palm. I linger there, amazed by the effect I have on him, but he’s growing impatient. His hands twist circles on my lower back, working the material of my gown into a jumbled mess near my hips.

  I retaliate b
y brushing his blanket lower, exposing his abs. He is a truly superhuman. Divine. My hands are there, brushing across every inch of him. Soon I will come to my senses and leap off the cot, but for now, I’m suspended in a dream.

  He’s done with the patient game though. His hand trails up my spine and he nudges me forward until my chest falls to his. We fit perfectly and I’m so glad I took my bra off when I changed into the gown. We’re naked, separated by a thin gown, and the sensation is so sensual that warmth blooms low between my legs. I brush my chest against his with my eyes closed, greedy for more. I am behind enemy lines and I feel alive. Just how turned on can he make me? I want to find out.

  My breasts are heavy, full, and then his hands are there, sliding from my back to cup one and then the other from the outside of my gown. I can feel the warmth of his palms radiate through the material. His hands are so big. Confident. He rolls over my nipples and I arch against him like a greedy cat. He’s patient, practiced. Better than I imagined he could be.

  The fact that we’re silent doesn’t shock me. We’re walking a tightrope. We’re holding our breaths. Our weaponized words will only upset the delicate peace we’ve built.

  I won’t tell if you won’t, I signal with a roll of my hips.

  His groan is a legal contract, signed at the dotted line.

  My gown is like a bikini, and by undoing two simple ties behind my neck and behind my back, I could be naked from the waist up.

  He goes for the loose knot around my back first. With a flick of his wrist, the bow is gone, and the present is nearly unwrapped. He revels in the anticipation, gliding his hands across my naked back, up around my ribs, and then he’s cupping my breasts from behind the drape of fabric. Skin to skin, finally. He brushes the center of his palms across my nipples, back and forth, gently teasing. It’s an erotic little game, the way he leaves the tie around my neck. He gets to feel, but not see. Touch, but not taste.