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He doesn't mean what he said.
My cheeks flush, heart pounding as I think about watching him dominate the ice, stare at me in a crowd of thousands and tap his fingers over his chest. My stomach swoops at just the memory, but then I think of what he said to me in the shower.
'Fucking mess.'
‘Junkie whore.'
'We're done with you, Poppy. All of us. We're done.'
My heart bangs harder, threatening to crack through my ribcage and that heavy lead feeling of dread resettles in my belly. I can stop taking pills anytime I want. I will. For him.Them.I can be better.
I hurry my steps as I cross the quad, large flakes of white fluff assaulting my cheeks, and I suddenly wish I could stay out here a little longer because the icy air feels amazing against my swollen face.
I reach up, hover my fingers over the tender, heated skin, hidden beneath my curtain of hair because it was just too painful to press concealer into, even more painful to think of the way Lynx held me down. I shiver, from the cold, from the thought, drop my hand. Suck in a sharp lungful of frosty air and continue hurrying towards the far building for my counselling session.
I hate that I have to do this. Meet with a stranger who knows nothing about me. Mr Marshall,Flynn,is intimidating to say the least, so I dunno how he's supposed to be my what? Some sort of college life coach? Someone who's a safe space, can help me with school issues, job applications, he can't really helpme.He spoke to me more like a creepy, invasive therapist. But that wasn'teven the worst part. The worst part of it all was how beautiful I thought he was.
Easily six and a half feet, broad shoulders, thick, curly black hair, long on top, short on the sides. A light covering of dark stubble, that is definitely intentional, along the hollows of his cheeks, the wide square bone of his jaw. Full pink lips, pale skin, and muscles in his thighs that definitely belong to a rugby player. He is criminally gorgeous and too old for me.
'Thirty. If that's all right with you?'
That's eleven years older than me.
I've never felt attraction to older guys, not that he's old, definitely not that, just… I've never really felt attraction to anyone before I came here. The way I lost my virginity. How I ended up with that guy. I shudder just thinking about it, him,her. The laughing. What came after it…
Why the fuck am I thinking about this?
Shaking my head, knees protesting as I rush up the wooden stairs towards Flynn’s office, I disregard all thoughts of him and those devilish blue eyes. God, they're like molten hellfire smouldering against pit black pupils.
I lick my chapped lips, tasting vanilla-pumpkin chapstick and rush to reapply it. I didn't drink enough water last night and now I'm suffering the consequences of dehydration. Which reminds me, yet again, that, fuck, I'm thirsty. But I'm late, I'm never late.
Shit.
I run the rest of the way down the long empty corridor, only the third floor entrance to the library and the closed doors of Professors' offices lie ahead.
Coming to an abrupt stop outside of Mr Marshall's door, I breathe in deep, feel my insides start to squirm and then I lift my hand, rapping my knuckles on the brightly polished wood of the door beside the shiny gold plaque of his name.
“Come in,” he calls immediately, a deep, deceptive rumble, luring you to safety only to then look like he's going to eat you alive.
Reluctantly, I ease open the door, darkness greeting me, my eyes instantly searching out the lamp in the back corner of the room. I hold onto that as I enter, trying to ignore the dark shadowy spaces filling the rest of the room, close the door at my back, and take a seat before he invites me to sit.
I can't bring myself to look at him across the wide expanse of the desk as I knot my tattooed fingers in my lap, studying the intricate lines of ivy, not ready to see him yet. My breathing is rough, quick from my running and I stare down at my bony knuckles until the pain in my lungs from the freezing air starts to ease.
I've never liked counselling, therapy, psychiatrists. Everything about them is too invasive and prying and it feels like a drill bit is whistling its way into my brain cavity. I don’t deal well under pressure, and questions cause me stress.
Sweat is breaking out beneath my arms, and I shove my thick jacket off, swallow hard, my mouth dry, like sandpaper, I need a drink, water or-
“Hello,Poppy,” Mr Marshall says, cutting off my erratically spiralling thoughts, but he doesn't justsay it.
It's a curling rumble that feels ferocious as it slithers from his mouth, like a seductive spitting from a forked tongue. The sound wrapping around me like a boa constrictor. Because, for the first time since yesterday morning's session, I remember what he called me.
'Angel.'
My eyes snap onto his like they couldn't stop if I plucked them out, and I swallow hard, staring at the smirk on his mouth. I really take him in then, studying his face. Plush pale pink lips, an arrowed, defined cupid's bow. A strong, straight nose, thick,neat, black brows, a light layer of purposeful stubble over hollow cheeks. High cheekbones, square jaw, round ears that stick out, just a little, and I love them. They remind me of my own, too big for my head, too sticky out not to be teased for them, it's why I always cover them with my hair, but I don't mind them, I actually kinda like them, I only hide them so I'm less of a target.
“Poppy?” I realise with a flush of heat soaring high in my cheeks that I'm staring.
But what's worse is that, at the sound of my name on his lips, I like it. A littletoomuch. His deep voice caresses like a tongue down my spine.
