Page 22 of Obedience

Placing her laptop bag and coat on the chair beside her, she created a blockade—subconscious, or very deliberate, she wasn’t sure. Most likely the latter. She was grateful there had been a free table, a physical barrier to stop Dylan from reaching out, and to stop herself from doing the same. Dylan arrived, and Greta watched her unravel her green scarf, unzipping her brown bomber jacket to reveal another faded grey band T-shirt, Radiohead this time. Her blue cargo pants, beige aran knit cardigan and battered Converse completed the effortlessly cool look, making Greta sigh at both how ridiculously good…and young she looked.

‘Fuck fuck fuck,’ Greta muttered sharply under her breath, her head dropping for a brief moment. After needlessly moving her glass, she looked up. Dylan was still there, greeting one of the bookshop employees with a wide smile. ‘That fucking mouth,’ Greta mumbled under her breath, her weight shifting in her seat. Dylan pushed a hand roughly through her hair, brushing off a fine layer of drizzle. As Dylan’s curls bounced back to life and restyled, Greta blew out a long breath; an attempt to both steady herself and get a grip. Swallowing dryly, her hands returned to the glass of water, she watched as her clammy hands betrayed her with a slight tremor. ‘Fuck!’ she whispered again under her breath. That particular expletive seemingly being the only one available to her. She put the glass back down without drinking from it.

‘Hiya,’ Dylan’s voice was soft, tentative, as she stood smiling at Greta from the other side of the table.

Greta didn’t stand. She kept her eyes locked on Dylan’s, refusing to look down. ‘Hi,’ she replied, her quiet voice already loaded with want at the mere sight of her.

After hanging her jacket on the back of her chair, Dylan put the rest of her things on the neighbouring seat. ‘Thank you for seeing me,’ she said softly, lowering herself into the chair.

‘What do you want, Dylan?’

‘Well, a flat white might be nice. Maybe with a Patricia Highsmith…or is Sarah Waters more your vibe? My treat.’ Dylan gave a wry smile, looking around for an imaginary server before her eyes narrowed with a smirk. ‘Or are you the spicy JJ Arias kind?’ She canted her head as though hoping to coax a smile from Greta.

Greta just stared at her, letting the silence stretch for an uncomfortable beat. ‘Do you think I have time to be running around Manchester at your behest?’

‘Running around Manches— What?’ Dylan replied. Leaning forward, she pressed her forearms into the worn wooden table. ‘Look, Greta. You and me both know you would not be sitting here if the chemistry between us hadn’t burned us both.’

Greta forced a burst of air through her nose in sharp—albeit feigned—disagreement. ‘Chemistry? I paid—’ Greta started, a little too loudly for the busy room. She scanned the space around them. No one had noticed. She leaned closer and lowered her voice to an annoyed whisper. ‘I paid for a service, Remi.’ The name Remi appeared to hit Dylan as hard as Greta thought it might, as Dylan tongued the inside of her cheek. Instant regret swelled in her chest, but she couldn’t stop. She had to push this woman—this student—away. ‘I don’t know what your vivid imagination has created here, but this’—she wagged a finger back and forth in the space between them—‘is not happening.’

Greta forced her back into the chair, arms crossed over her full and confident chest, as Dylan started to move her things.

‘Come and sit next to me then.’

‘What?!’

‘If you are so confident that this’—she mimicked Greta’s finger wag—‘isn’t happening and there’s nothing between us, nothing to talk about, no chemistry, come here.’

Dylan pulled out the now empty chair and patted it with her hand. Greta stared longingly at her fingers for a second too long. She dragged her gaze back to Dylan’s face.

‘Have you taken leave of your senses?’ Greta hissed.

‘Have you?’ Dylan replied without missing a beat. ‘Well, have you? Because yes, Doctor Vincent,’ she leaned toward Greta, fingers interlaced into one fist. ‘I think I have.’

At their close distance Greta’s gulp was almost deafening and Dylan’s scent unavoidable. The masculine fragrance sent a familiar, yearning through Greta's chest, making her dizzy. A salty tang filled her mouth as it mixed with the smell of coffee, old and new books, and invaded every space in her head. With her hands curled over the edge of the table to steady herself, Greta watched as Dylan shrugged off her cardigan and carefully laid it across the chair next to her.

‘Dylan, what did I tell you about games? I don’t have time for this.’

‘And I don’t have time to keep lying awake at night thinking about you.’ Dylan leaned closer and lowered her voice. ‘I’m exhausted, Greta. So talk to me. Please.’

The thought that Dylan was losing sleep over her, just as she was, made Greta’s heart batter against her ribs. It was too much. Too real. There was no way to deny it anymore; she had actual feelings for Dylan. Real feelings that time and distance had not changed.

Needing air and more space between them, Greta stood abruptly. ‘Will you excuse me?’

As Greta passed, Dylan reached out and caught her hand. Greta didn’t recoil from the unbidden gesture, she remained still as Dylan held her fingers in a soft grip, tracing her thumb back and forth over Greta’s skin. Unable to stand her pleading bright green eyes, Greta looked down at Dylan's tattooed fingers instead. A tiny anchor at the base of her index finger and an ‘M’ on her thumb. Slowly pulling her hand away, Greta pushed back a strand of hair that had fallen loose onto her face, immediately wishing that she had left it where it was, as the movement made her look nervous.

‘Excuse me a minute,’ Greta repeated on a shaky breath.

As Greta walked towards the bathroom, her fingers skimmed almost every surface she passed. The bookshop hummed around her; conversations drifted from neighbouring tables, cups clinked against saucers, and customers murmured as they browsed the shelves. Nobody appeared to be paying them any attention; her conversation with Dylan must have been much louder in her own head. Behind her, the wooden feet of a chair shrieked along the weathered hardwood floor. Greta flinched at the noise but didn’t look back.

With her hands wrapped around the edge of the sink, Greta stared at her fingers that were blanched white. What the fuck was she doing? Why was she entertaining Dylan? She could, and should, have stopped all of this with a text message. Cursing herself for yet another lapse in judgement, she was startled by three slow knocks on the door.

‘Just a second,’ Greta said loudly, running a fingertip over a smudge under her lashes in the mirror. A beat. Three more slow, steady knocks. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ she muttered under her breath. Greta turned to face the door. Her elegant fingers reached for the lock. The moment she slid back the latch, she was forced to stand back from the door, pushed open from the other side as Dylan quickly entered the small space. ‘What in God’s fucking—’

‘Don’t ruin this by speaking, Doctor Vincent,’ Dylan said with a knowing look.

Greta’s sharp gasp landed between them. Her breaths immediately quickened, her chest heaving as her anger surged into a fierce desire. A desire she was utterly powerless against. Completely consumed by the sight of Dylan, Greta lunged, forcing her hard against the door with both hands on her chest. Slamming into the wood, a smile tugged at Dylan’s lips as she searched Greta’s face. While Dylan’s breaths were deep and controlled, her chest rising and falling slowly, Greta’s were the opposite. Her breaths had become ragged, loud and desperate.

As the air grew thick, Greta raked her gaze over Dylan’s chest, over her stomach and down her thighs. Dylan didn’t move. She didn’t speak. She just looked at Greta and waited. Time stood still as Dylan watched the rise and fall of Greta’s blouse, the weight of her longing obvious with every breath. Her dark gaze rested on Greta’s slightly parted lips, just as Greta decimated the space between them, her body crashing into Dylan.