I can’t focus, though. My focus is spent for the day. I’ve already sat through hours of sessions. Writing lectures. Literature lectures. Lectures and lectures and lectures. I’ve taken enough notes to fill almost half of a notebook (a certain yellow notebook…a notebook with a ---- in it).
And that’s another reason why I can’t focus anymore. I’m using his notebook. His pen. I’ve been using them for hours. And I haven’t seen him for hours. Not since I lost sight of his back as I walked through the airport. Hours and hours ago. Hours and hours of waiting to see him…of looking for him. Where is he? What is he doing?
My eyes wander around me, around the conference room, searching all of the faces in the chairs scattered around…the faces of grad students, professors, writers. No sad psychologists. No miserable blue eyes.
I scan the faces of the people leaning against the wall and—
DAMN IT.
My eyes land on Dr. Gabriel. And he’s looking at me with a smile. Shit. Shit. Shit. I fake a return smile and then look down at my lap.
Unfortunately, Dr. Gabriel doesn’t seem to be irritated about the Mandy taking me to the airport thing anymore. Or if he is still irritated, he’s not showing it anymore. He’s no longer trying to be aloof, no longer trying to ignore me. Now he’s trying to be Prince Charming instead. Holding doors open for me. Offering to bring me food and drinks (which, by the way, I haven’t accepted, but somehow I still have to go to the freaking bathroom. Oh, and I’m also starving).
I have a feeling this change in Dr. Gabriel has something to do with the fact that I was so nice, so genuinely thankful after the car he hired to take us to the conference hotel pulled up at the airport. A shiny, new-looking (inside and out) black limo. Obviously expensive to rent. Obviously not used by as many people as, well, taxis, or vans, or shuttles. Obviously also probably hired in advance (before Mandy called him, I’m sure) to impress me. To try to get me to date him or sleep with him or whatever.
And I’m pretty sure Dr. Gabriel thinks his limo plan worked. I’m pretty sure he took the fact that I was so pleased about the car to mean that I want him. He obviously didn’t realize, doesn’t realize, how relieved…how excited…how grateful…I become when things are clean. Especially unexpectedly clean.
Now I have to be on serious guard around him. That means not accidentally catching his eye in the middle of conference sessions, Callie!
I keep my eyes glued to my lap as the presentation goes on. At 5:25 p.m., the speaker dismisses us, giving us a five minute break. Five minutes to try to avoid Dr. Gabriel. Five minutes to not go to the bathroom. Five minutes to not fill my empty stomach.
I get out of my seat quickly, trying to beat Dr. Gabriel out of the room. In between every session so far, he’s cornered me and tried to convince me to have dinner with him. I’ve said “no” over and over, reminding him that I need to write, to work on my first article—the one that Dr. Hause will expect me to send by 10:00 tonight.
I keep giving the same excuse, but he keeps asking. And I’m sure he’s planning to ask again now.
I don’t want to give him the chance. I sneak a fast, super fast, glance his way. It looks like another professor, the one standing next to him against the wall (for some reason, a lot of the professors seem to stand along the back wall during these sessions—I don’t know why and I don’t care why…I’m just happy that Dr. Gabriel stands there instead of sitting beside me), is talking to him right now.
This is my chance. I don’t waste any time. I bolt out the door without another glance in Dr. Gabriel’s direction. I’m the first one out of the room. I take about six steps out into the hallway and then—
And then I see him. Leaning against a doorway to my right. Black pants. White shirt. Blue tie. Hands in his pockets. One leg crossed over the other. {Etta James draws out the opening of “At Last.”} His eyes are watching me…as though they were waiting for me.
Before I get a good read of the emotions on his face, he raises his eyebrows and nods to the doorway behind him, silently telling me to come over to him.
I glance back, behind me. No Dr. Gabriel yet. No one else either.
I turn back to Dr. Blake. He’s now holding the door open, waiting for me to walk past him. Eyes still on mine.
My feet start moving, walking toward him without breaking contact with his eyes. His faces starts to crinkle into a smile.
{Etta James keeps singing. Slowly. Soulfully.}
When I get to him, I quickly realize that I don’t have a lot of doorway space to work with—as I move past him, only about an inch of air remains between us…between my shoulder and his chest.
His cologne immediately takes over my head. It stays with me as I take a step past him. Into a small, dark closet. A coat closet, it appears. A coat closet with a lot of hangers, but no coats. This perhaps has something to do with the fact that we are in Florida.
{Flo Rida cuts in with “Lo—}
I feel him move beside me. The door shuts. The light from the hallway disappears. The smell of his cologne does not. It gets stronger.
We stand inches apart in the small space between the hangers and the door.
Not touching. Not seeing.
No longer breathing.
Well, I’m not breathing.
I hear him inhale. Like he’s about to talk.
He whispers, “I know there isn’t any space in here, but it’s the best I could do.” He pauses. “I am sorry.”
I swallow. I push out my own words, my own whisper. “It’s okay.”
I wait for him to continue talking. My eyes search through the darkness, trying to see him. But I can’t. So I listen.
He exhales and inhales. And exhales again. And—
And my stomach groans. Loudly.
Oh my God.
As I feel my cheeks heat up, I am all of a sudden overly thankful for the pitch blackness in here.
He says nothing. He inhales and exhales again. Is it really possible that he didn’t hear—
“Callie.” Another whisper. “You have to eat.”
Okay. So he heard. Obviously.
I nod my head pointlessly. As usual, he can’t—
He whispers again. “You have to start taking care of yourself.” His voice is sad, distant.
I nod again. Then I remember (again) that it’s dark. But I don’t say anything. Can’t say anything right now.
He doesn’t talk. He breathes. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
Inhale. Another whisper. Quieter than a whisper. “You have to start taking care of yourself.” He says it again.
Is he trying to tell me that he doesn’t want to help me anymore? That he doesn’t want to take care of me?
Pretty much got that message when you left my hospital room, Dr. Blake.
But why would he come here to—
“You need to eat.” He pauses. “And I’m pretty sure you need to get to a bathroom soon. I’m working on that.”
What the hell?
My lips start moving, but no real words come out. Just noises. How can he possibly know—
He cuts off my noises.
“I’ve been watching you…checking in on you occasionally during your sessions.”
He has?
“I could tell…can tell.”
Oh my God. So I’ve been sitting in these sessions trying to be all professional, and really I’ve just been squirming around like a three-year-old? Maybe I should tell other people that I’ve brought a babysit—
“Don’t worry, Callie. I’m sure no one else has noticed.” He sighs. “You just—you crossed your legs in a certain way…you made subtle movements that, well, that Mom used to make when—”
He continues to fumble for words, to talk about how his mother acted when she was far away from home, from her personal bathroom. I can’t focus on his words, though.
Because I’ve done it again. I’ve reminded him of his mother. Again.
And I’ve made him miserable. Again. How is it po
ssible that I can so closely resemble—
“Callie?”
Shit. He must’ve asked me a question. I have no idea how—
“Callie?” As he says my name, I feel his breath on my cheek. He’s moved closer.
Everything but him, everything else, starts to fade away. My hunger. My need to go to the bathroom. My desire to not be at the conference. I don’t feel any of it anymore. Not right now. I do, however, somehow realize that he’s waiting for me to talk. So I open my mouth and hope to come up with something to say. If I can just—
“Callie? Are you okay?” More urgently this time. More breath on my cheek. He’s moving even closer to me. He—
He’s touching me.
Whole body touching me. Arms touching arms. Chest touching chest. Stomachs…legs…touching.
His heart starts to pound against mine. He breathes in.
His lips can’t be more than a second away from mine.
His breath. His pounding heart. His cologne. {And Damien.}
That’s all that there is.
The sound of waves pounds through my ears. My neck, my arms, my legs—everything starts to tingle. Everything.
If I could just make my arms move…make them reach out around his waist…make them grab him…if I could just pull him into me…if I could just—
“Callie.” A deep whisper. A groan.
His forehead meets mine. Burning skin against burning skin. He rocks his head from side to side. Back and forth.
{Alias. “(I Need You Now) More Than Words Can Say.” Voices and instruments. Pleading. Aching.}
His head stops moving. He is still. His forehead fused with mine.
We stand there. In limbo.
On fire.
Standing. Standing. Burning.
{Alias. Singing. Singing. Begging. Wanting.}
Eventually, it happens.
My phone buzzes in my purse. I knew it would.
I don’t move to answer it. I know it’s Dr. Gabriel. I know the presentation is about to start up again.
“You have to go,” he whispers. He doesn’t move.
I nod slowly, moving his forehead, his head, down and up with mine.
He whispers again, “Have dinner with me.”
I nod again. Moving both of our heads again. Unable to say “no” to him. Once again.
Again. Again. Again.
“Thank you.” Another whisper. It sounds like his mouth is smiling. “Now, I guess I have to let you go to your session.” Another pause. “One.” Pause. “Two.” Pause. “Three.” {Frank Sinatra enters with “My—}
As he finishes his count, he pulls back, taking his forehead, his body, a step away from me. The door creaks open a crack. A tiny bit of light shines through.
“The hallway is clear,” he whispers yet again as he pushes the door open further. I blink my eyes to adjust them to the sudden stream of light, and I move my feet slowly out of the closet, out into the hallway. Out to where he is standing.
And…and I can finally see his eyes. They are staring right at me.
And they are blazing.
{Alias is back. Again. Louder this time.}
He—
The sound of laughter rolls down the hallway. Someone is coming this way.
He nods his head, his fiery eyes, toward the sound. One last whisper. “Go ahead. Hurry. I’ll text you soon.”
My head nods one more time. Then I force my legs to move, to walk away from him. Back to the conference room for the last half of my last session of the day. Back to my pretty full bladder. Back to my starving stomach.
6:27 P.M. THE PRESENTATION IS ALMOST over. Three more minutes. Three more minutes. Three more minutes. Three more minutes of thinking about the coat closet. Three more minutes of praying that my stomach will stop growling. Three more minutes of hoping my bladder won’t explode. Three more minutes of pretending not to notice that Dr. Gabriel won’t stop staring at me.
When I passed him on my way back in to the room, he pulled me aside and asked me where I’d been.
I lied. Obviously. I said I was in the bathroom. He bought it. Then he asked (AGAIN) about dinner. I quickly reminded him that I can’t go to dinner…that I have to write. And somehow, mercifully, at that moment, the presenter asked for everyone to be seated (well, I guess she meant everyone except the back of the wall-standing professors). So I moved away from him.
And now he’s been staring at me for almost an hour. Making me want to throw up for almost an hour.
So…currently, my body is torn between wanting to hurl…needing to go to the bathroom…aching for food…
And…something else…another kind of wanting. Needing. Aching. But—
The presentation ends.
I pick my body up out of my seat. I quickly pass Dr. Gabriel, who continues to stare at me as a woman in a business suit talks to him, and I walk back out into the hallway. Then—
My phone buzzes.
Chapter 16
hotel room
ONE TEXT. UNKNOWN NUMBER.
Count. Open.
Meet me by room 132. I have your room key.
Okay. 132. First floor. Easy to escape if some idiot guest leaves a curling iron on or lights candles or something and somehow starts a fire.
Squeezing my legs together, telling my bladder to hold on for a bit more, I walk toward the main lobby. Past many, MANY people. Some wearing conference badges. Some on cell phones. Some on laptops. Sitting. Standing. Walking. Waiting in line to check in. On stools at the hotel bar. Talking. Laughing. Being.
People. All over the freaking place.
{The Beatles make one of their regular appearances. Now with “Here, There and Everywhere.”}
I walk past the people. Trying to avoid eye contact. Trying to walk the least crowded path. I pass the front desk, pass the elevators, and pass even more people.
Perhaps a first floor room isn’t ideal after all. Too many people. Too much traffic. Probably the most accessible and convenient floor for murderers to visit…
{The Beatles continue to sing.}
I start seeing numbers outside of room doors. 112. 114. 116. I keep walking. I turn a corner. Walk. Walk. Walk. Room 118. 120. 122. Walk. Walk. Wa—
I see him. Up ahead. White shirt, black pants. Standing in front of a guest room door. Waiting. Facing this way.
One. Two. Three.
I head toward him. Each step brings another dark coat closet flashback to my mind. My cheeks get hot. And hotter.
124. 126. 128. And hotter.
{The Pussycat Dolls pop in with “Don’t Cha.”}
130. And—
And he catches me with his eyes. Full eyes—patient eyes…worried eyes…closet eyes.
I stop walking. We stand face-to-face…a couple of feet apart.
A nervous smile slides onto his face, and he begins talking. “This is the first room I reserved for you.”
The first room?
I nod, unsure of what to say. Unsure of what he means. Unsure of how much longer I can wait to find a bathroom.
He continues. Still nervous. “I was going to have you stay here, on the first floor, so you wouldn’t have to worry so much about getting out during a fire.” Of course you thought of that. Of course. He shakes his head quickly. “Not that there will be a fire.”
I wait for more. Wait to see why his eyes are so nervous.
He runs his hand through his hair and looks at the door, at room 132.
I squeeze my legs together. Oh my God. I can’t wait much longer.
But I’m not using a lobby bathroom. And I don’t want to use the, I’m sure, over-used, overly filled with germs bathroom in 132. Who knows if it was really cleaned after the last person left the room? Who knows if the maid—
He’s looking at me again. Still nervous. A little amused too. “We’ve got to get you to a bathroom.”
I nod for the three hundred millionth time since I’ve met him. A fast, urgent shaking of my head.
“Come on.” He holds
out his hand for me.
I don’t think. I place my fingers in his. And a flood of calm shoots through me…well, almost through me. It doesn’t reach my head. Or my bladder.
We’ve gotta go.
With a tiny smile of encouragement, he turns his head and begins walking, taking me with him. We move quickly past rooms. 130. 128. 126.
He takes long, purposeful strides. One. Two. Three. To keep up, I rush behind him with short, close-legged little steps. Onetwothree. Onetwothree. Onetwothree. Room 124. 122. 120. Long stride. Little steps. One. Onetwothree. Long stride. Little steps. Two. Onetwothree. Long stride. Little steps. Three. Onetwothree. 118. 116. 114. We—
We stop. We stop by an unnumbered door with an EXIT sign above it. The stairwell.
He turns to look at me. He doesn’t let go of my hand. His eyes plead with mine.
He opens his mouth to speak. “I checked this stairwell ten minutes ago. It’s pretty clean.”
I nod. To tell him that I believe him. To tell him that I’ll go with him. To tell him to hurry. Relief fills his eyes. He tightens his grip on my hand and pushes through the door, holding it open with his back until I cross in front of him.
I glance briefly at the stairs. They look clean. It is pretty dark in here, though. Probably a good place for an attacker to hide and grab—
I don’t need to worry about that right now. He. Is. Here. He moves in front of me and starts up the stairs, holding my hand tightly. I follow a step behind, watching his feet, his black pants, his long legs…
Up a staircase. Platform. Twist. Up another staircase. Platform. Stop. He opens a door marked with a gigantic “3” and nods for me to go through first.
I move my heels as quickly as I can without parting my legs. I’m running out of time. {Avril Lavigne sings the encouraging “Keep Holding On.” Don’t think she wrote it for my situation, though.}
Room 313. 315. 3—
He pulls me to the opposite side of the hallway. Room 318. The room is by itself. Room 316 and 320 are nowhere to be seen.
He looks at me. Apologetically. Hopefully. “This is the best I could do.”
Checked Again (Checked Series) Page 19