The Muse Page 5

  He nods shortly; I see his fingers clench on the edge of the desk. “What are you doing Friday night?”

  I take the plunge. “You.”

  Eyes closing briefly, something like relief crosses his face. “Thank God.” A wicked smile overtakes his mouth. “Don’t think this means you’re getting out of grading.”

  The tension shivers down to manageable levels. I walk forward and gather the journals. A safe three feet of desk between us, I meet his victorious eyes.

  “You’re a supercilious prick, Beckett.”

  He bites his lip on a cheeky grin. “In four days, this prick is all yours.”

  My face heats, but I rally and glance down meaningfully. “Looks like you need to cool off.”

  Purposefully misinterpreting me, he says, “While we’re… engaged, there won’t be anyone else.”

  I nod. “Good. I want your undivided attention. Repeatedly.”

  He rolls his eyes in aggravation. “Stop, please. Good God. I have to leave this room eventually, you know.” I giggle, then slap a hand over my mouth in embarrassment. He just grins at me, eyes almost iridescent with delight. “Glad to know my discomfort amuses you. Now scram.”

  “Yes, professor,” I say sweetly, and he groans, sinking dramatically into the chair with his fingers clenched on his head.

  As I head to my small, shared office with arms full of journals and a stupid smile on my face, I think about what just happened. What’s going to happen. What it will feel like to have all his skill and passion unleashed on me. His body inside mine.

  And for the first time in a long time, I forget my pain, my guilt and brokenness, and enjoy the simple surrender of anticipation.

  7. assonance

  By some miracle of the graduate student gods, I finish grading by Wednesday afternoon, leaving me just enough time to proofread and polish the assignment due for Beckett’s class.

  Written late last night, my scene is a lurid imaginary chapter in the lives of two women, both married to men, who’ve loved each other since they were girls. The finished product is a lot more depressing than I’d originally intended, but I think it’s pretty poignant.

  I hope he likes it.

  It’s raining in earnest as I hustle through the stormy night. For the millionth time in two years, I bemoan the fact our apartment is on the west side of campus, the furthest possible location from the English Department. Claire fairs slightly better, though she still has a substantial trek. Nevertheless, our two-bedroom unit is a prized commodity: close to campus, spacious, with high-ceilings, wood floors, and two masters. There’s no way we’d give it up.

  Licking wind-driven raindrops from my lips, I tell myself repeatedly that walking is good for my knee. Good for my knee or not, by the time I reach class I’m limping. Not looking toward the front of the room, I lower myself carefully into the seat next to Griffen.

  “You okay, Iris?” he asks softly.

  I realize my face is scrunched in pain and forcefully relax my expression. “Yeah, just an old injury. Swift weather change makes it act up.”

  Griffen leans a little closer, lowering his voice. “Beckett seems in a much better mood tonight. He was even whistling a minute ago.”

  My lips twitching involuntarily, I allow myself a peek. When I find Beckett already watching me, my heart gives a heavy thump. His expression, however, isn’t anything I was expecting—he looks downright worried. His gaze flickers to my desk, then back up, eyebrows drawing together.

  He mouths, Your knee?

  Flushing with misplaced humiliation, I nod shortly and duck my head.

  “What was that about?” whispers Griffen.

  Cursing the ingrained voyeurism of writers, I think fast. “I sent him an email mentioning I might be late because of the long walk and my bad knee. He was just asking if I was okay.”

  Griffen’s gaze is heavy on my face. “That was nice of him. Glad you two have buried the hatchet.”

  By force of will, I don’t physically react to the unintentional innuendo, and I’m saved a response as Beckett stands to signal the beginning of class.

  Pain makes the first hour and a half feel like ten. At the midway break, all I have energy for is dropping my head to my desk. Students leave to stretch their legs, grab coffee or a smoke, and check their phones. Griffen offers to bring me ibuprofen, and I gladly accept.

  When the room goes quiet, I hear footsteps, then smell a mouthwatering trace of Beckett’s cologne. Cracking my eyes open, I watch him crouch beside my desk and fold his arms next to mine.

  “You’re in a lot of pain,” he says softly. “Can Claire come pick you up?”

  “We don’t have cars.”

  “Then can I get you anything? Ice? How about another chair so you can extend your leg?”

  “I’m fine, thanks,” I say, but pain embitters the words. Sitting up, I make sure the room is empty. “You’re too close right now. It’s making me crazy.”

  As I’d hoped, the words sweep away his worry. One of his arms drops beneath the desk, a smile flirting with his lips. Seconds later, fingers trail up my thigh. Gasping, I seize his hand before it can go further.

  I give the door a wide-eyed glance. “Beckett.”

  “What? I’m checking in on a student who’s in obvious discomfort.” As he speaks, he teases our fingers together, then guides my unresisting hand toward my lap. Once at the seam of my jeans, he angles our knuckles and drags them slowly downward.

  Everything in the world narrows to the sensations in my body and the green of his eyes. For the first time, I notice tiny flecks of yellow and blue in them.

  “My God,” he whispers hoarsely, “your face right now. You’re a fucking vision.”

  Laughter nears the door. Before I can fully process the threat of discovery, Beckett is gone, striding to his desk and sliding quickly behind it. I drop my head back down, burying my face in my arms and praying for my pulse to slow.

  “Here you go, Iris,” says Griffen.

  I sit up to accept a bottle of water and a packet of pain pills. “Thanks so much, what do I owe you?”

  “On the house,” he says with a wink. “Claire texted me today.”

  My mouth opens in surprise. “Hallelujah!”

  He laughs. “I take it you weren’t a fan of her ex?”

  “Ex?” I repeat, then punch his shoulder. “Did she say she broke up with him? I haven’t seen her since this morning.”

  He nods, grinning. “Guess I made the right first impression.”

  “I’ll say. Way to go, champ.”

  He chuckles. “You seem like you’re feeling better. Pain let up?”

  The pain is still there, but its ache is secondary now to the one between my legs. My eyes flicker to Beckett, currently writing in his notebook. I watch his hand moving and have a vivid fantasy of that same rhythm applied elsewhere.

  “Um, yeah,” I say belatedly. “I’m feeling better, thanks.”

  Griffen, who’s too damned smart for his own good, gives me a probing look. “Iris, are you crushing on Beckett?”

  “No!” I say.

  Too quickly. Too loudly.

  Griffen’s brows go up, a huge grin on his face. “Holy Smokes, you are!”

  Realizing I just stepped in a shitpile, I take the only reasonable way out. “Okay, so I am. But he, uh, told me I’m not his type. Don’t tell anyone, seriously, it’s so embarrassing.”

  Griffen hoots and slaps his desk.

  A few rows up, Kirk turns around. “What’s so funny back there?”

  Griffen sobers, but his lips curve mischievously. “Iris needs a boyfriend,” he says brightly. “Badly.”

  Ah, fuck.

  The whole class, back now that break is almost over, turns to stare at me. I wheeze and elbow Griffen.

  “Ha Ha, he’s just kidding.”

  “You’re single, Iris?” asks Meredith, a statuesque blonde with the rare combination of brains and beauty. “Come out with me this weekend. We’ll find you a good one!”


  Kirk raises his hand. “Can I volunteer?”

  “Alright, people,” snaps Beckett. “Ms. Eliot’s love life is no longer a topic of concern. Your dismal display of reading comprehension, however, is very much concerning…”

  After a second lecture, writing exercise, and finally, submission of our narratives, my brain feels like sandpaper and I can barely keep my eyes open. It’s nearing ten o’clock, and a glance outside confirms that the rain is now coming down in sheets.

  My knee is mostly recovered and only twinges a little as I stand and experiment with weight. Griffen accompanies me down the hallway, pausing when I stop near the elevator.

  “Are you sure you can walk home?”

  I nod. “Been doing it for years. Thanks for the concern, though. You’re a sweetheart. I’m glad you hit it off with Claire.”

  He smiles. “Me too. See you later.”

  He disappears down the stairs and by the time I reach ground level, he’s gone. The building itself is a graveyard, empty but for a janitor. Steeling myself, I flex my knee a little, then pull up my hood and walk toward the doors.

  “Iris!”

  I stop, poised between dark rain and dry light, to see Beckett running agilely down the stairs. Watching him move gives me a fuzzy feeling in my gut. The power and grace in his limbs, his lean virility—it’s intoxicating.

  He stops before me, breathing lightly. “I took a bus today because my car’s in the shop, but please let me walk you home. It’s late and pouring. Please.”

  I blink in bemusement; that warm feeling intensifies. “Are you that worried for my safety?”

  He doesn’t hesitate. “Yes. Let me walk you home.”

  I nod. “But just so we’re clear, I’m not inviting you in.”

  “I know.” He glances outside. “Just so we’re clear, if you trip I get to carry you.”

  My brows lift. “What happens if you trip?”

  He chuckles. “I won’t. Come on.” With a final glance into the building, he ushers me into the rain.

  The first impact makes us both flinch, but after several minutes of exposure the deluge resolves into a portal to another world. A beautiful one, filled with blurred scenery and the dull roar of driving wind and rain.

  There’s no way to keep our faces and hair from being soaked, and boots can only do so much. The most important items, at least, are safe in bags beneath our jackets.

  By the time we’re halfway across the central plaza, I’m limping again. Beckett notices immediately, snaking an arm around my waist to offer support. I let him give it, because the icy heat in my knee is now flowing up to my hip.

  “Let’s stop for a minute,” he says.

  I nod and give in to temptation, curling into his chest and leaning heavily against him. His arms come around me, sheltering me as best he can. Despite our thick coats and the messenger bags beneath them, we fit. Just like I knew we would.

  The steady rain lulls me into a peaceful stasis, one in which it makes perfect sense to lift my face, brushing my cheek along his jaw. Like poetry, his face turns and his rain-wet lips find mine. He kisses me gently at first, reverently. Then, as I open for him, he angles his head to devour my offering.

  The first taste of his tongue is ambrosia. Shuddering, I reach my hands beneath his hood to grab his wet hair and pull him closer. I feel the vibration in his chest as he groans.

  When we break apart to catch our breath, he murmurs, “As far as first kisses go, that rewrote the book.”

  I nod dazedly. The necessary separation of our bodies, coupled with the relentless pounding of the rain, gave a singular gravity to the moment. It was beyond perfect, like no kiss I’ve had before. And for some reason, the acknowledgment sends a shiver of disquiet through me.

  I hide my confusion with a smirk. “We might as well stop there. I’m not sure we can be beat that.”

  He smiles, a finger drawing across my tingling lower lip. “Oh ye of little faith.”

  I make a show of glancing skyward and his hand drops away. “Look at that, the rain is letting up.”

  “Mmm, yes, look at that,” he says dryly.

  I step back, adjusting my coat to avoid his eyes. “I can make it from here. Thanks.”

  “Iris?” The tone is soft, uncertain. “What’s going on in your head?”

  I force a smile. “Nothing. Just tired.” Several small groups of students move in our direction, taking advantage of the paused downpour. As they draw nearer, I add lightly, “You should go. Avoid that rumor mill.”

  He glances at the approaching group and sighs. “Will you text me when you make it home, at least?”

  “Yes. Good night, Beckett.”

  I turn and limp away, and almost don’t hear his whispered correction. “James.”

  8. aubade

  Friday afternoon after my office hours and poetry class, I catch a bus to meet Claire for a late lunch in Fremont. The weather is frigid but clear, another storm not due until Sunday.

  When I arrive at our favorite artsy café, Tullamore, it’s slammed, no tables or chairs in sight. I don’t see Claire, so I head outside to call her. She answers on the first ring.

  “I’m on the back patio. The heaters are on so it’s habitable. Is the wait still long?”

  I make my way back inside to join the line. “It's not bad. Keep the table. What do you want?”

  She rattles off an order and we hang up. The line moves quickly, the staff efficient as always. Before five minutes pass, I’m at the counter.

  “Hi, what can I get you?” asks a slim, lovely brunette with amazing curls. She looks familiar, but I can’t place where I know her from.

  “Two large lattes and two turkey-avocado sandwiches, please.”

  “Sure thing.” She jots down the order and shouts at the barista, who nods. “Anything else?”

  “Nope, thanks.” As she takes my money, I can’t help asking, “Do we know each other?”

  She gives me a searching look, then visibly brightens. “You’re Allison’s sister, right? Sorry, I forgot your name.”

  It clicks when I spy her name tag. Rose. “I think we met at Allison’s last year. I’m Iris.”

  “That’s right, we’re the flower girls!” she says, grinning. She glances meaningfully over my shoulder. “I’d totally chat, but the line is getting out of hand again.”

  “Oops, sorry.” Blushing, I grab the table placard she’s offering and move away from the register.

  “Great to see you, Iris!”

  “You, too!” I call, then head down the hallway and outside.

  Claire looks up from a book, smile faltering as she sees me. “What’s wrong?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing. I’m just super awkward in public.”

  She laughs. “You just described every grad student I know.”

  I share her laughter. “True story. What are you reading?” With a sheepish grin, she shows me the cover. My mouth drops. “‘When a Cowboy Comes Calling’? Are you serious with this right now?”

  She snorts and tosses the trashy romance to the table. “It’s your fault. I finally saw the light and ended things with Monty. Now I’m in lust with Griffen.” Her expression becomes vulnerable. “He’s a good guy, right?”

  “Yes,” I say honestly. “He’s respectful, hardworking, and his GPA is higher than mine. He’s also funny, kind, and hello, he’s a real-life cowboy.”

  She grins in relief. “Okay. Well, I guess I’m moving to Texas next year.”

  We’re still giggling when our food and drinks arrive. Surprisingly, they’re delivered by Rose.

  “Hey, Iris, sorry I didn’t recognize you earlier,” she says, smiling sweetly. “My brain is totally on the fritz. I’ve, uh, developed a thing about people asking if they know me.”

  Although I don’t actually know her outside our one meeting and through random intel from Allison, another vague memory surfaces.

  “Oh, are you still, um, dealing with fallout from that…” I rack my brain and can
’t for the life of me remember.

  Rose grins. “I gotta say, it’s pretty awesome you have no idea.”

  Claire coughs over the words, “Breaking Giants.”

  At mention of the wildly popular band, a lightbulb flashes. “Oh—right.”

  Rose laughs, but it’s impossible to miss the sadness that clouds her eyes. Glancing between Claire and me, she asks softly, “Have you ever met someone who just… fits you? Only there’s twenty million obstacles in the way?”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  Her eyes narrow on me, her voice lowering with sudden intensity. “Whatever you do, don’t sleep with him, Iris. Unless he’s ready to be the man you need. I mean it. Worst seven-hour mistake ever.”

  Words fail me, so I just nod.

  Claire chokes softly on her coffee. “Seven hours?” she squeaks.

  Rose looks away, smiling faintly, but her eyes stay sad. After a moment, she shakes her head and stands. “God, I’m such a downer. Sorry ladies.” Bending, she gives me an unexpected kiss on the cheek. “Nice to see you, Iris. You should call Allison more. I know you’re step-siblings and whatnot, but she loves you.”

  With a wave, she disappears inside.

  Claire whistles softly. “I have no idea if she was talking about Matt Sullivan or Julian Ashburn, but seven hours? How could seven hours with one of them be a mistake?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, while privately, thinking of Beckett, I admit, Very easily.

  Like the man has ESP, my phone buzzes on the table. I look down, read the text, then close my eyes. I’ve been ignoring his calls and all emails except ones pertaining to class.

  You’re backing out, aren’t you?

  “Who was that?” asks Claire.

  I take an unsteady breath. “No one.”

  A house party is exactly where I don’t want to be on a Friday night. Especially this Friday. But Griffen invited Claire, and she begged me to be the third wheel. The prospect of doing homework alone in my room while fighting the urge to call Beckett is dismal enough that I don’t complain. Not out loud, at least.

  The crowd is mostly grad students, and they mesh for a humorous blend of nearly incomprehensible, high-brow conversations and scandalous antics. Techno music blares from huge speakers in the cleared out living room, and at least twenty bodies are gyrating beneath a tired disco ball. Women cluster together with flirting eyes, while men make asses of themselves to score the hottest dance partner.