Third Degree

by Julie Cross

  He heads in my direction the second the last student exits, a big grin on his face. I haven’t seen him for three weeks because he’s been at NIU taking classes. And now, as of tomorrow, he’ll be a student teacher at Evanston Middle School for the rest of the semester. Sharing my apartment … sharing my bed …

  Yes, I’ve been looking forward to this.

  He catches me around the waist and lifts me up onto the desk, assessing my outfit. “What is this costume? It’s like hot professor ready to study after hours. I’m in love.”

  I laugh and shake my head. I’m kind of in love with his gym shorts and tight T-shirt, too, so we’re both getting a treat today. I reach behind me and click my laptop, making the screen go blank.

  Marshall slides a hand under the back of my shirt and leans closer to kiss me. “Can we make out on this desk while I call you Professor Jenkins?”

  My heart picks up speed and I wrap my legs around his waist, taking extra care not to poke him in the back with my heels. “There’s another class in here—”

  We both freeze when a door in the back opens. Then we hear, “Oh, shit! Sorry … I’ll come back.”

  I snort back a laugh. “Eager student trying to get in the front row.” I pull Marshall’s mouth to mine and kiss him hard, like I’d imagined doing for the past few weeks. “Two choices …”

  “I’m listening.” His lips linger against mine for a moment and then move to my neck, trailing kisses up and down.

  “We can either go into my office, which is about a hundred feet away, and lock the door …”

  “Or?”

  I comb my fingers through the back of his hair and sigh. “Or we can go back to our apartment, which is a fifteen-minute train ride away.”

  Marshall pulls back and holds my face in his hands. “As much as I love the sound of our apartment … I’m leaning toward the option that’s a hundred feet away. What about you?”

  I shove him aside, hop off the desk, and gather my leather bag and laptop, showing him my answer.

  He follows me toward the door but grabs my arm before reaching my office. “You don’t have a TA in here or anything, right? ’Cause that might be awkward.”

  I laugh while unlocking the door, and then I pull him inside, relocking it behind me. “You can be my TA.”

  My body gets lifted onto another desk, and Marshall’s already working through the buttons on my blouse. “No problem,” he whispers, sliding the shirt off my shoulders and revealing my black lacy bra—a Marshall Collins–approved undergarment. “I’ll type up a detailed report on your holistic approach to my recovery from two recent surgeries. The techniques you used were completely cutting-edge.”

  Despite the fact that we’re alone, my face flushes at the mention of all the one-on-one attention I gave Marshall post-op. I won’t go into details, but let’s just say that costumes were involved along with other various props, and even a few different accents.

  I reach down and catch the hem of his T-shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it to the floor. Marshall drops to his knees in front of me and kisses every inch of bare skin on my stomach, making his way slowly toward my breasts. “Professor Jenkins, how much extra credit will I get for—”

  I cover his mouth with one hand, trying hard not to laugh too loudly. “These walls are thin and there are offices on both sides.”

  He lifts his head, staring up at me with those beautiful blue eyes. “Well, in that case, I think we should go back to our apartment.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. “You sure?”

  I watch his forehead wrinkle, and then he finally nods, giving me a roll of the eyes at the same time. “Wouldn’t want you to get a reputation, right? Everyone will be lined up at the door with their ear pressed against it.”

  Marshall doesn’t even take a moment to look around the apartment, which he hasn’t seen since it was bare and being shown to us by a real estate agent. I think he likes to get as much use out of his muscles as possible, because my feet keep leaving the ground, and not by choice.

  Finally, after tossing me onto the bed … our bed … he takes a second to look around the room. “I like this burgundy and blue color scheme.”

  “Your sisters picked it out.” Tracy and Renee went shopping with me to do some of the decorating last week after the furniture was delivered.

  “They have good taste,” he mumbles between kissing me and removing various articles of clothing. “I missed you like crazy. I can’t even think about next semester.”

  I help him kick his shorts onto the floor and then roll on top of him. “Then don’t think about it.” I sit up, straddling him, while he reaches behind my back to unhook my bra. I drag a finger over his chest and down his stomach, tracing the red, circular scar that, for three months of his life, was an opening that attached to a colostomy bag, an object that seemed to rob Marshall of his ability to be, well, Marshall—someone who lives for activity and vibrant levels of energy. He’s got all that back now and is fully recovered.

  He catches my hand and brings it to his lips. “I missed you,” he says again.

  “I missed you, too.” I slip my bra from my shoulders and stretch out on top of him again. “I won’t be able to handle it if you don’t get a teaching job close by next year. You will, right?”

  He smiles and tucks my hair away from my face. “Are you getting clingy on me, Izzy?” he teases, though I can hear from his tone that he likes this.

  “Maybe.” I let him roll me over and hover above, ready to engage in some physical activity. “I make a ton of money at this professor gig. We could both take next year off and go globe-trotting …”

  Marshall kisses me and then pulls back. “Now I know you’re desperate to keep me nearby if you’re bringing up leaving the country.”

  “Maybe,” I say again, and then his arms are around me and I’m clinging to him in a whole different way, breathless and completely consumed by so many different kinds of connections—the physical joining of our bodies, the emotional connection, hearing Marshall whisper “I love you” in my ear while making love.

  I try not to think about what could lie ahead for him, for his health, for us. Because my own future is just as scary as his, just as scarred by my past as his.

  But one thing I do know for sure is that no matter what, my future is entwined with his.

  Acknowledgments

  First off, just as a side note: I’m not a doctor. Or anything remotely close. Please consult a real physician concerning any and all of the diseases and body parts mentioned in the pages of this novel. I did my best to create accuracy but I’ll admit, the kissing and cute guys and drama took priority over everything else.

  I’d like to thank both my agent, Nicole Resciniti, and my editor, Sue Grimshaw, for their help and guidance with Izzy and Marsh’s story and for their patience throughout the entire process. I’d like to thank all the beta readers who helped me out at various stages, including my good friend and fellow author Roni Loren, who also provided the inspiration behind Marshall’s name. Krista Ritchie who fixed a bunch of my medical jargon. My husband, for reading pages of this book and helping shape the story early on. My family, for their continued support, especially my aunt Kathy, who works very hard as a nurse and helped me see all the interesting potential for storytelling inside the medical field. I have to thank my tenth-grade biology teacher, who fueled my love of life sciences and also inspired Izzy’s mom’s character. My friend and coauthor on another project, Mark Perini, who helped me tremendously in creating the whiff-of-death moment in this book. And lastly, thanks to all the readers who have read anything I’ve written. Where would I be without you?

  Julie Cross lives in Central Illinois with her husband and three children. She’s a former gymnast, longtime gymnastics fan, coach, and former gymnastics program director with the YMCA. She’s a lover of books, devouring several novels a week, especially in the young adult and New Adult genres. She’s also a committed (but not talented) long-distance runner, creator
of imaginary beach vacations, Midwest bipolar weather survivor, expired CPR certification card holder, as well as a ponytail and gym shoe addict.

  facebook.​com/​Fansof​JulieCross

  @Julie​Cross​1980

  Read on for an excerpt from

  Shredded

  An Extreme Risk Novel

  by Tracy Wolff

  Available from Flirt

  Z

  I’m halfway up the mountain on the magic carpet when it hits me that it’s dark. Really dark, not just getting dark. Which sucks because it means I’m done. That was the last run. No more boarding tonight since all of the good runs close down once it hits full dark.

  Normally that’s not a problem—I’ve been out here for seven hours already and my body could use a break, especially since my toes started going numb over an hour ago.

  But tonight I’m not ready to go in. Not now, when my skin feels itchy and too tight and my brain is spinning with the need to forget—

  I cut the thought off as I exit the ski lift at the top of the mountain and unhook my gear. Instead I concentrate on unbuckling my board and checking the screws at the bottom of it to make sure there’s no damage. I totally barged that last run—which was banging at the time—but I carved the last few rails hard. My board took most of the impact, and I want to make sure it’s still solid.

  Turns out it is, and I’m just sliding it into the equipment rack to the right of the lift when Cam steps onto the snow behind me. She’s as excited as I’ve ever seen her. “Dude, that last run was wicked! I’ve never seen you do that inverted triple cork before.”

  “That’s ’cuz there are too many gaffers around here to get in the way.” The last thing I need is to get tangled up with a tourist who doesn’t know what he’s doing—that’s how shit turns ugly, fast. But today I couldn’t stop myself from busting out. From the second I woke up this morning there’s been this force building inside me, pressing down on my chest until I feel like I’m drowning. On days like this, taking it out on the powder is the only way I can breathe.

  But the run’s shutting down—Cam was the last one up—and the feeling’s back, worse than before. I’m standing here, wind kicking up, fresh air all around me, and still I’m suffocating.

  Beside me, Cam dumps her stuff next to mine, then heads for the bench where we normally wait for Lucas and Ash to finish up at the half-pipe. I follow her, but the second I sit down next to her the itchiness gets worse. As does the throbbing at the base of my neck.

  Nope, sitting here in the dark, waiting, isn’t going to do it for me tonight. Maybe if I’d brought some weed to mellow me out, but my stash is at home. When I’d left the house this morning, I’d told myself I could handle it. That today was just another day.

  What a fucking joke that is. I feel like I’m going to explode.

  I start to stand up again, to pace off the energy that’s slamming at me from the inside, but Cam stops me with a hand on my arm. “I’m serious. That trick was freakin’ amazing. How long have you been working on it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You probably started trying to do it yesterday.” She shakes her head, looks disgusted. “I’ve been trying to do a 900—any kind of 900—for months now, and we both know how well that’s going.”

  I bite my tongue to keep from pointing out that she’s a girl—that no matter how strong she is and no matter how much she practices, I’m going to be able to do things she can’t. Not because I’m a better boarder, because I’m not. She’s totally sick on a snowboard. But testosterone is just one of those things. I’m physically stronger than her, so I can catch bigger air, do more complicated tricks.

  “I’m serious,” she continues. “One of these days I’m going to figure out how to do that move.”

  “No doubt.”

  “Hey.” She punches my shoulder. “Don’t patronize me.”

  “Do I look like I’m in the mood to patronize anyone?” Right now, the pressure’s so bad I can barely talk, barely breathe.

  “So are you doing okay?” she asks, laying a hand on my arm.

  “Yeah. Course I am. Totally solid.” I shrug her hand away, and now I do stand up. Pretend I’m fascinated watching the resort workers do all the routine tasks that come with closing up one of the black diamond runs.

  But Cam’s not buying it. She’s right beside me again, her face tilted up to mine, her big brown eyes filled with a worry I just don’t want. Or need. And something else. Something I’m seeing from her more and more often lately. I usually avoid it—she’s one of my best friends, after all, not to mention the girl Luc’s been in love with practically forever—but for a second, just a second, I think about taking her up on the invitation.

  Before I know what I’m doing, I bend my head. Lean in. Our lips are only a few inches apart now and her eyes go wide, her breath catching in her throat. I can all but feel her tense, all but hear her heart pick up a beat.

  It would be so easy to kiss her.

  So easy to take her back to her place and fuck her like I have hundreds of other girls.

  So easy to pretend it isn’t her and just lose myself in another body.

  But then what? I have a hard enough time looking at myself in the mirror as it is. If I screw with her like that—screw with Luc—for an hour of sex that won’t mean anything when it’s over, then I’m an even bigger dick than I thought.

  I can’t do it. Not to her. And not to Luc.

  There are plenty of girls out there who don’t want anything more than I do. And whom I won’t have to face in the morning.

  I back away at the last second, nod toward the lodge. “Come on. Let’s go inside.”

  She stares at me for long moments, but this time all I see in her eyes is pure pissed-off female. It’s a look I’m well acquainted with, and relief sweeps through me as I register it. After all, having Cam mad at me is a million times better than having her looking at me with all that worry and other crap.

  She doesn’t call me on my shit, though, and since the wind’s really kicking up—making the whole mountaintop look like a snow globe in the hands of a hyped-up toddler—she doesn’t argue, either. At least not until we make it through the wide glass doors of the Lost Canyon ski lodge. We’re only there a few seconds before a group of rowdy grommets plows straight into us, sending Cam sprawling onto her ass. The kids take off running before either of us can do more than stare at the little monsters.

  I hold out a hand to help her up and she takes it, but her blue eyes spark with annoyance. “What exactly are we doing, Z?” she demands as she climbs back to her feet. “You know I hate coming in here.”

  “Don’t sweat it. Mike’s not out here tonight. And even if he was, I won’t let him near you.”

  She stiffens at the mention of her douche-bag ex. “He’s not the one I’m worried about.”

  “Oh, yeah? Who are you worried about, then?” I glance around. I wouldn’t mind getting rid of some of this tension by beating the shit out of some guy who’s hassling her.

  “You, Z. I’m concerned about you.”

  Fuck. I walked right into that one. Cam, Luc, Ash, and I have been friends since we were like five. Which is great when you understand that we’d pretty much lie down in traffic for each other, but not so great when it comes to the fact that we know everything there is to know about one another—including the fucked-up stuff.

  “Don’t be,” I tell her, determined to get my head in the game. “I already told you, I’m solid.”

  “Yeah, right.” She pulls off her ski hat and her crazy red curls poof in all directions. With all that hair and her turquoise snowboarding suit she looks a little like a Muppet. A cute Muppet, but a Muppet nonetheless. To annoy her—and maybe to distract her, too—I reach out a hand, ruffle her curls.

  She slaps at me, but she’s laughing, so I do it some more. The tension from that disaster of an almost-kiss fades away and relief whips through me. I’ve fucked up enough in my life. Messing up my friendship with
her and Luc, too, isn’t an option.

  She ducks down, escapes my hand before landing a bony elbow squarely in my stomach. I don’t flinch, but only because not showing weakness is something of a religion with me—even to one of my closest friends. I give her curls an extra tug before dodging out of range, just to show her the elbow didn’t hurt.

  “Come on, let’s go get a table.”

  “Why can’t we wait outside like we usually do?” She’s almost whining now, and any other time I’d give in to her. But not now. Not tonight.

  Because if I can’t board, can’t smoke, and can’t fight, there’s only one option left. And we’ve already had one too-close-for-comfort call. “It’s cold out there, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  She looks me up and down. “You’re wearing three thousand dollars in top-of-the-line snowboarding gear and you’re worried about a little cold?”

  “A little cold? No.” I point toward the doors we just came through. In the last few minutes the wind has picked up even more and snow is flying in all directions. “But it is fucking cold out there. I was starting to worry about getting frostbite on my nuts.”

  She rolls her eyes, makes a sound of disgust. “Nice, Z.”

  “Hey, you asked,” I tell her as I shed my jacket. It might be approaching blizzard conditions outside, but inside the resort the heat is cranking full blast. It feels good after half a day on the mountain, but the last thing I want to do is start to sweat, not when we’ll be back out there in a matter of minutes. “Besides, your lips turned blue about an hour ago. I thought you’d appreciate the chance to thaw out.”

  “Yeah, that’s why we’re in here,” she says, finally getting on board and making a beeline for the only available table in the coffee bar. “Because you’re worried about the condition of my lips.”

  I ignore her as we weave through tangles of people and snow gear alike. The place is crowded, but that’s nothing new this time of year. Everyone from serious hobbyists to firsttimers and everything in between hits the Park City slopes once winter closes in, all hoping for a rip-roaring time. Of course, most of the tourists don’t know what the hell they’re doing—one of the many reasons I, like most of the locals, normally avoid the hotels here like the plague. It’s a lot easier to get hurt on a run when half the people out there with you don’t have a clue what they’re doing.