I follow the opening of the unlaced boots up strong, masculine legs incased in a pair of black, fitted jeans. Tipping my head back, I take further inventory of a powerfully-lean body wrapped in a simple black V-neck shirt. Even before my eyes land on that distinct geometric star covering the throat, I know it’s him. He has that sort of aura. That unmistakably raw, palpable magnetism that makes it impossible to confuse him with anyone else. I’m looking up and he’s staring down at me with molten silver eyes that cut like razor blades. Just when I think he can’t get any more intimidating, he lowers his full body down to my height. Sitting on his haunches, he raises a large, tattoo-covered hand to my face. I hold my breath, confusion and wonder battling for dominance as I wait to see if he’ll actually touch me. The pain from my fall doesn’t register. The frantic desire to hurt myself is now a low throb just beneath my flesh, seemingly subdued by his presence.
“Well, what do you know…” There’s a raspy quality to his voice that’s not at all unpleasant. “It’s my little stalker,” he says, wryly, the corner of his mouth lifting into a half smirk. Heat explodes in my veins at the realization of what he just said. Mortification blazes so hot beneath my skin, I can feel the fire across my entire face.
He knows.
Frantic and anxious, I lower my eyes at the need to avoid his knowing gaze.
“You’re crying.” It’s not a question. I feel more than see him lower his hand. My cheek remains untouched.
I shake my head, “I’m not.” It’s a pathetic lie, one made more evident when I raise my hand to swipe at my cheeks, both covered with tears I didn’t even know I was shedding.
There’s a wryness to his smirk. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you can’t lie for shit. Come on.” When he rises to his feet, he extends a hand down to me. It’s a hesitant few seconds before I set my hand within his. His grip is strong, unyielding, as he hauls me to my feet without effort. He holds my gaze with diamond-hard eyes filled with shrewd intelligence but devoid of emotions. My eyes dance across his face, and he’s standing so close, I’m in awe of his unconventional beauty. He’s like a statue, a sculpture molded by a divine artist in homage of a god, made solely to be worshipped.
“Aylee, right?”
I blink, curious as an odd, unfamiliar sensation fires through me at the sound of my name on his full lips. “Yeah.”
Something unexplainable crackles in the air between us, or maybe it’s just my imagination going on overdrive, as I become too aware of my hand still firmly held within his grasp. He lowers his head, his hair falling across his forehead, and the urge to smooth it back is an impulse I have to wrestle down.
“You’re bleeding.” I blink twice—it’s my mind’s attempt to catch up to what he just said. He turns my hand so that my palm faces the ceiling. I’ve lost the scalpel somewhere in between my fall and him helping me to my feet, but the evidence that I’d been holding something sharp is in the smear of blood coating my palm. “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to hold sharp objects by the blade?” My attempt to pull my hand away is futile as he retains his hold. “Or maybe you meant to.” His pointed stare eviscerates all pretenses and for an infinite moment I’m left naked to him, exposed in the way it touches the most vulnerable part of me. I can’t—I can’t let him see the ugliness. Can’t let him see that terrible, terrible stain. Wrenching my hand away, I stumble back a few steps. My eyes flick to his face just in time to see him recover from a slight dose of shock at my sudden movement. Curiosity molds his expression as he fixes astute, penetrating gray eyes on me.
“A bit of advice?”
I make it a point to look at everything but his face.
“Don’t cut too deep.”
He walks away then without a second glance back, his words hanging heavy in the air in front of me as I watch him disappear behind the double wooden doors at the end of the hallway. I’m unsure of how long I stand there but it takes the shrill ring of the bell to pull me out of my trance. Students exit their respective classrooms filling in the hallway like one huge thunderous wave. Out of my peripheral vision, I spot the blade to my left against a row of lockers and quickly pick it up. Shoving it into my pocket, I stand up straight and prepare to discreetly glide past the hallway mob.
“Aylee!”
I only notice Mallory when she breaks through the throng lugging my backpack and canvas bag as she hurries toward me.
“Jesus, you scared the shit out of me. Tell me you’re okay?”
That question should be branded across my forehead. What’s people’s definition of ‘okay’ anyway? And are they asking because they’re genuinely concerned or is it something you ask just to be polite? I always assume it’s the latter. I don’t think people want to hear you answer any other way than optimistically because it saves them the trouble of actually caring.
Taking my bags from her, I force myself to smile. “Thanks, Mal. And yes, I’m okay.”
“I was so worried! I had to postpone my after-class talk with Hammond just so I could run after you. God, did you see him today?” And that is essentially the end of her concern. Once again putting the art of selective hearing to good use, I tune her out and find my mind drifting to the brief interaction with Maddox. His words, just like the last time, have an impact. They stay with me, playing over and over inside my head, while imprinting themselves inside my memory bank to scrutinize later.
***
Astronomy is my last class of the day. It’s also one of my favorite classes. But Mr. Solomon has a tendency to ramble and given my short attention span, I only listen with half an ear while he talks about the latest induction of Pluto as a planet again. What I’m really focused on is the front entrance of the classroom and how I find myself staring almost too neurotically at it. I know it’s stupid of me to think he’ll actually do something completely unexpected and show up to class but I can’t help the small surge of hope that keeps me tethered with futile expectation. I wait and wait the stretch of a small eternity only to end up with my hopes curdling inside me like blood from a fresh wound. Forty-five minutes into our fifty-five minute class and I’m forced to pay attention when Mr. Solomon gives us our latest assignment. Group project. Fun.
Luckily he splits the class into groups of two. Whoever you’re seated with is your partner. The girl who usually sits next to me, Mina, has been out sick since last week. I don’t have a partner. But that’s nothing new considering I do most of the work when I do end up partnered with someone in class. The bell rings and everyone picks up their things to leave. I trail behind. When I walk by Mr. Solomon’s desk, I stop. He’s hunched over a pile of papers, his red grading marker moving like a sword down the sheet in front of him, leaving a trail of bloody X’s behind.
“Mr. Solomon.” He stops grading and looks up with curious, teary hazel eyes.
“Yes, Aylee?”
I want to ask if I can bring the packet that outlines our project to Mina’s house and see if I can work on our assignment with her. What comes out of my mouth is something completely different. “I’d like to have Maddox as my partner…if that’s okay, I mean…” I trail off, my burst of impulse dying with my sentence.