Alien Romance: Fall for a Cyborg (Sci-Fi Futuristic Alien Abduction Fantasy Space Warrior Romance) (Science Fiction Mystery Paranormal Urban Short Stories) (65 page)
Authors: Emma Taylor
I get to campus super early; the sun is just coming up. It’s moments like this, moments in the crisp California air, that I can’t help but marvel at the beauty all around me. The sky begins its cascade of blue, and in moments, the classic Los Angeles sun is bearing down again.
I nod off in the hallway outside my class, and my eyes barely jolt open as the last of the students file in an hour and a half later. Even sleeping sitting up, it only felt like five minutes. I look around the hallway for Roman, but figure he must have walked right past me and is already in the classroom. I go in after everyone else and sit in my normal spot, but he’s nowhere to be found.
I pull my CD-R from my bag and pass it down the row with everyone else’s from my right, and Professor Danteridge collects them as he walks down the stairs on my left. The empty chair troubles me. Maybe he’s just running late. I can just picture him sleeping in past his alarm, nestled in his black comforter in the dim light of The Brush.
Then it hits me that he could totally be ashamed of the pictures I took, and didn’t want to show face. Even though I was careful not to get any of his face, it was also possible that he just didn’t want to see himself on the big screen and listen to Professor Danteridge criticize his abs.
If that were the case, it would be a good thing, because the professor pulls out my disk from the stack first. While on one hand it’s a relief to get the assignment done and over with, I still feel the same nerves pulsing in me, afraid to expose my work to people. Fifteen minutes into class and still no sign of Roman.
“I’m sure we’re all looking forward to your work, Ms. Edwards,” Professor Danteridge says. I’m in the hot seat, about to get questioned before the slideshow because his computer is still booting up. “Tell me, should we expect more of your self-portraiture, or have you explored some new terrain, this time?”
“Um,” I stammer. “A little bit of both?”
“Answering a question with a question, Ms. Edwards,” he corrects me, popping my disk into the computer and clicking the folder open. “That, I’m afraid, will not work on your final exam.” The room fills with a forced laugh from the rest of the class. I’m not partaking in the chorus.
The professor turns the lights off and opens the first photo from my disk. In an instant, there is a giant still image glowing in the darkness.
“Well, I have a feeling you let someone borrow your selfie stick for this image, Vylette?” The professor’s accusatory tone gets another pity laugh from the class. I stand up and look the professor in the eye.
“The image is an extreme close-up of a scar running down a male’s right deltoid down to his left lower back. This image explores the canvas of the male’s torso using black and white, sorry,
gray scale
to contrast the tattoos against the skin,” I say, not stumbling once in my delivery. “Otherwise, the ink would blend in with the skin tone.”
“I see,” Danteridge replies, unimpressed, clicking to the second photo of three. “Oh, and here we have another anatomical exploration, Ms. Edwards?” The photo is a close-up of the area just underneath Roman’s left pec, with the vined-heart tattoo in soft focus on the background.
“I thought this one was a simple representation of the heart,” I say, trying to not fall into his trap of anatomy descriptions. And before I can catch my mouth, the words escape, “A representation of
love
.” Without question, the word rings true, and the professor actually looks satisfied with the response. I realize that he’s satisfied because the response is real, from my soul.
Without a word he clicks to the last photo on my disk. I have to double take the screen before it registers that the photo is not the one that I had intended. My brain anticipated the photo of Roman’s obliques, stretched out during a laugh—but what I see is the photo of him in his garb and bandana, painting the interior of the parking garage from the scaffold. It is only now, in this moment, with the image frozen in time up on the projector screen, that I see what he was painting was a tree, the color violet.
It’s hot behind my eyes. How could this have happened? Is it possible that I might have accidentally slipped it into the wrong folder? “Interesting,” Professor Danteridge says, distaste in his scowl. “Is the entire photo supposed to be out of focus?” I realize that in the moment, I had only had time to snap the one picture.
Before I can answer, there is a loud
CREEAK
from the top of the stairs. I look back and see Roman standing there, silhouetted from the light outside the classroom. There is but one swift motion of Roman looking into the dark room, catching glimpse of the screen, and exiting again with another creak. The quick flash of light from Roman’s entrance is like an eclipse—momentarily gorgeous and spectacularly blinding.
I rush behind the row of students to my left and make way to the doorway. “Ms. Edwards?” Professor Danteridge calls out. “Ms. Edwards, do you need to be excused?”
I drown out the rest of his words as this dark world is again immersed in light on the other side of the door. At first my eyes fail to adjust, and once they finally do, I don’t see Roman anywhere. It’s cold and stale out in this hallway, with rows of empty wooden benches lined along to the exit. I pick my feet up and begin at a sprint down the sandstone corridor, aiming for the glowing red light of the exit sign. This tunnel seems never ending, like the red and blue strobe lights flickering at
Eighty8 Lounge
. Once I barge through the double-doors of the stairwell, I have one of two choices: up a level, or down. Roman could have gone either way, and I have no idea if I’m on the right track in the first place. The stairwell reeks of musty, stone-worn air, and I blindly choose to go down.
There are two sets of stairs per level, and two levels I could go down. I’m guessing he headed outside; it’s the most logical deduction I can make. When I get to the last door, the fresh air embraces me like a net. The expanse of the campus is wide, and although there are people straggling about, it looks more empty than full. With a few steps onto the terrace I look around for Roman, but there is no trace.
THE END
Charlotte Moss was more than a little surprised when her doctor turned out to be Elliot Sanderson. Everyone knew who Elliot Sanderson was. He was rich even by the standards of this private doctor’s surgery. She had only come in with a minor cold. She hadn’t expected this doctor to see her. She hadn’t expected any doctor to see her. She had expected a nurse to prescribe her some pills and that would be that. But now, as she sat in the doctor’s office, Elliot Sanderson strode through the door and seated himself opposite her.
Unwillingly, Charlotte found herself thinking over her appearance. She was wearing a blue hooded sweatshirt and gray sweat pants. Not exactly dressed up! She shook her head and smiled a small smile to herself. Her nose was leaking and her face was bright red.
As if the doctor would be interested in this sniveling mess, anyway
, she consoled herself. It didn’t matter what she looked like; she was here to get better.
Doctor Sanderson was a tall man with short black hair and a square jaw. His face was shaven and his eyes were forest-green. A cynical smile played about his lips. There was no sign of the billionaire on him, though everyone knew he was rich. There were no fancy watches. Under his white coat he wore a simple shirt and pants. His muscles showed through his coat, and his teeth were impeccably white, actor-white. Charlotte felt a flush creeping up her neck and tried to beat it back down.
She earned enough as a lawyer to pay for a doctor’s surgery like this, but she was nowhere near as wealthy as Doctor Sanderson. She wasn’t even close. He was a billionaire. She had always imagined billionaires as something other-than-human, as something superhuman. But this man was just that: a big, strong, handsome man. She swallowed and met his eyes. He was talking to her. How long had he been talking? The late-summer sunlight slanted through the window and shone off his white coat, making it hard to look straight at him.
“Pardon?” she said.
“What seems to be the problem, Miss Moss?”
She told him it was a cold.
He nodded. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll prescribe you some medication to fight off the symptoms. Can you take a couple of days off work?”
“I’m on break anyway,” she said. “A month’s holiday. A bonus of sorts.”
Her boss had allowed her to take all her year’s vacation time at once for her exemplary performance. She had planned to go overseas, until this cold hit. She wasn’t a coward when it came to illnesses. She just didn’t want to endure a plane ride sniffling and coughing and with her head aching. Or perhaps she had been looking for an excuse to stay stateside, and her illness had given her that. Besides, when it came to relaxing, the thing she loved most was lounging about doing nothing at all.
“Excellent,” Doctor Sanderson said. “Well, that’s not much else I can do for you.”
“Okay,” she said, and made to stand.
Doctor Sanderson stared at her for a few moments with his forest-green eyes. Charlotte found herself shifting under his gaze, like an insect under a sunlit magnifying glass. He stared deep into her eyes, long and hard, and then nodded again and looked down at his papers. “Come back tomorrow,” he said. “Book an appointment at the desk.” He quickly wrote out the prescription and handed it to her across the table. She took it. Their hands touched briefly, warm and solid. “Okay?” he went on. “Come back tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Charlotte heard herself say, though she didn’t know why. He had said so himself. There was nothing he could do. “Okay,” she repeated, when he continued to stare at her. She paced from the room.
After she left the doctor’s office she called Simone Cross, her best friend. The phone rang a few times before Simone answered. In the background children were screaming and Simone shouted, “Quiet!” before greeting Charlotte. “Hey,” she said, breathless. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Charlotte said. “I’ve just been to the doctor’s.”
“Nothing serious, I hope?” Simone said. The genuine concern in her voice brought a smile to Charlotte’s lips.
“No,” Charlotte replied. “That’s not why I’m calling you actually. You won’t guess who my doctor was.”
“No idea, sweetie,” Simone said.
“Elliot Sanderson.”
Simone laughed, went silent for a few moments, and then laughed again. “Ha-ha, you must think I’m so gullible. Isn’t he the guy who hosts that medicine show on TV? And isn’t he super-rich?”
“He’s passed a billion, yes,” Charlotte said. “Books, TV shows, investments, property; as well as actually being a doctor… He’s done well for himself.”
“I didn’t even realize he was still a practicing doctor.”
“Neither did I, to be honest,” Charlotte said. “But he is.”
“Well, how is he?”
Charlotte was about to say handsome, but then stopped herself. She didn’t want to appear too eager, even in front of her oldest, most cherished friend. But he was handsome, wasn’t he? He was handsome, and his eyes… And he had big, muscular arms. But she wasn’t some skittish teenager anymore, frightened and excited by handsomeness.
Charlotte put a note of boredom into her voice. “He’s just a doctor,” she said. “Nothing special.”
Simone sounded disappointed as she hung up the phone. Charlotte drove home after collecting her medication and lay on her bed, wrapped up in her blanket, staring up at the ceiling. She thought over the words with which she’d described Doctor Sanderson.
Nothing special.
If that were true, why was she still thinking about him? Why was she remembering the way he had stared at her?
She closed her eyes around midday, and in her dreams she saw Doctor Sanderson. When she awoke, around four, she walked around her apartment, suddenly full of energy. She had made the appointment at the desk, as the doctor had asked.
She would see him tomorrow.
Why did that excite her so much?
****
The next morning Charlotte stood before her full-length mirror and looked her half-naked body up and down. She wasn’t the slimmest woman, and she wasn’t the prettiest. Her hair was blonde and flowed to her shoulders. Her face had a meanness to it that she had never liked, her eyebrows low, almost accusing. Her breasts were big but had begun to sag just a little bit. She sighed and turned to her wardrobe. There was nothing a nice outfit couldn’t fix, as Simone often said. She would test the truth of that now.
She knew dressing up to go to the doctor’s wasn’t the norm. In truth, she didn’t even feel that ill anymore. She was certain it was a twenty-four-hour bug. Her mind roamed over the idea of going overseas, but immediately she rejected it. She felt a strong urge to stay where she was.
To see the doctor. No,
she told herself. That wasn’t it at all.
I have no desire to see him at all. He told me to return so I am returning. He probably noticed something that needs checking. I should be worried, not excited. He is just a doctor; I am just a patient.
But she knew, already, that she was lying to herself. She might just be a patient to him, but he wasn’t just a doctor to her.
To her he was…
well, he’s Doctor Sanderson. Celebrity, billionaire. And he’s single, last I checked.
She shook her head, because those thoughts were unworthy and perhaps she could shake them away. She chose a simple summer dress and sandals. The dress showed her tanned legs and accentuated her ample breasts. She donned her dark, glossy sunglasses and then left her apartment.
****
Sitting in Doctor Sanderson’s office, she had to wonder if she looked ridiculous. The other patients were dressed like patients, and here she was dressed as though she were going out for a drink-fueled night on the town. She found that she was tapping her fingernails on the desk. It took a few moments for her to stop herself. And then she saw, with a sort of detached curiosity, that she was tapping her foot on the floor. She put her hand on her knee.
Not a skittish teenager. Not a skittish teenager. Not a skittish teenager.
She giggled to herself, and then quieted the giggles as the door behind her opened and powerful footsteps sounded behind her. Today Doctor Sanderson was wearing a button-down shirt that strained under his neck muscles, and smart pants with shoes. His white coat, she saw, was draped over the back of his chair. He sat opposite her and leaned forward on his muscular forearms.
“Hello,” he said.
He stared deep into her eyes. It was hard not to look away. “Hello,” she replied.
That was all they said at first, and the silence stretched, and stretched. Charlotte felt cool beads of sweat sliding down her back. She told herself she wouldn’t break the silence, but then it became unendurable. “Is there a reason why you wanted to see me?” she said.
“Of course,” Doctor Sanderson said. “But I am afraid it is not medical.”
“Okay…” Charlotte let the word hang, neither a question nor a statement.
She wanted to jump across the table and shake whatever he was about to say out of him as he continued to stare at her. She wasn’t sure if that gaze made her uncomfortable or flattered. She was sure it had an effect on her, though. Her frantic-beating heart and the sweat that now coated her body were evidence enough of that.
You are thirty-eight years old, for heaven’s sake, get a grip on yourself!
But no man had ever just stared at her like this before. They had all been wet, simpering, overly careful. This man didn’t care about that, she sensed. He could stare at her all day and know that she wouldn’t lose interest. Was that who she really was?
She was steeling herself to demand that he say whatever it was he was going to say when he smiled. “I want to take you to the best restaurant in town,” he said. “I have a private room. We can be alone there and get to know each other better.”
“What—”
“I want to show you the time of your life.”
“Doctor—”
“I want you to submit to my every passion.”
“Doctor,” Charlotte said, more firmly. “This isn’t appropriate.”
He shrugged. “I don’t care.”
Charlotte gripped the edges of the desk. She kept telling herself that this wasn’t appropriate, that this man should not have been talking to her like this. But she knew, deep down, in some part of herself in which she had never before looked, that she was flattered. She choked that part and let the meanness of her face come into her voice. “I’m leaving,” she said, and rose to her feet before he could say anything else. “You should be ashamed of yourself, using your position to prey on women like this. If I had been weaker what would you have done? How many women have you done this to?”
She felt vindicated when he gave a start and jolted to his feet. “You have misjudged me,” he said. “I have never—”
“Tell someone who cares,” Charlotte said, feeling powerful.
She turned away just as he made to walk around the desk. She paced from the office and to her car without pausing, only looking back once to see if he was following her. He wasn’t.
Good,
she told herself.
It is good that he isn’t following. You don’t want him to follow. What he said was entirely inappropriate. He is a doctor and you are his patient. How dare he say such a thing!
So why did she feel regret as she drove home? Why did she wish she could rewind time and take back her words? Again and again she reasoned that the way she had reacted was right. But already she wished she could see him again, not to do anything, but just to be in that room with him a little longer, have him stare at her a little harder.
“Too late now,” she sighed, as she unlocked her apartment. She walked to her bedroom and sighed again. She lay on her side and stared into the sunlight that filtered through her blinds.
Too late.
****
Charlotte spent the next week doing not much else than regret the way she had ended things with the superstar doctor. She visited Simone, read a novel, and even consulted with her workplace a few times, advising on cases whilst she was away. But all the while Elliot Sanderson was in the back of her mind, like the noise of a fan in a loud room. She could hear him, calling out to her; it wasn’t loud enough to grab her full attention, and it wasn’t quiet enough to ignore completely. She replayed the scene in her head, over and over, and wondered why she had reacted so harshly. Yes, he had been inappropriate. But she had liked it, hadn’t she?
She knew what she was doing was desperate, but she didn’t care. A week after their initial meeting, Charlotte decided to pretend she was ill. She called the doctor’s office and asked specifically for Elliot Sanderson. To her surprise, the receptionist said that was fine. She was confused for a moment – patients usually did not request specific doctors – until the receptionist said: “Dr. Sanderson has ordered that if you call, we are to direct you to him.” She was flustered at that, but ended the phone call as genially as she could.
Suddenly, she felt as though she had played right into the doctor’s hands. He had known she was going to call again, then, and he had planned for it. He had known that when she walked out he would see her again. She didn’t know whether to be offended or flattered, and in the end she was a mixture of both, feeling both piqued and annoyed. The doctor, it seemed, saw the effect he had had on her as clearly as she felt it.