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Authors: Julie Cross

Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Women's Fiction, #Contemporary Women, #Romance, #Contemporary, #New Adult & College, #Contemporary Fiction

Third Degree (8 page)

BOOK: Third Degree
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Marshall steps back and takes a seat on top of a table a few feet away from me. “You’re welcome.”

I pluck the darts out of the board, leaving the winning one for last. “All right, what’s your question?”

“You’re not the only one who observes people,” he says. “I’ve noticed several things about you in the last week, beginning with the fact that you really don’t seem to be enjoying all this making-up-for-lost-experiences stuff.”

“That’s not a question.” I toss another round of darts, missing the bull’s-eye, but managing to land all but one right around the bull’s-eye.

“Not bad,” Marshall says. “And I was getting to the question. I’m wondering what you’re really doing here. Obviously this isn’t for pleasure, since you seem completely miserable and unexcited by the whole experience. And we both know it’s not for academic gains …”

Which should I answer? Why I came to NIU in the first place? Or why I’m here right now after deciding to call it quits mere hours ago?

I sigh and turn to face him. “I didn’t get into a residency program. I flunked my emotional readiness test—it’s this stupid psych exam. And apparently I have the world’s worst bedside manner.”

His forehead wrinkles. “Still not sure what that has to do with going to NIU and being a PE major when you’ve already got a biology degree and an engineering degree, not to mention the medical license.”

“I can retest in six months, and the psychologist—who is not a real doctor, in case you were wondering …” I pause to see his reaction, but he simply waits for me to finish. “Anyway, Dr. Winifred James, Ph.D., thought that I might be using my career as an excuse to avoid
important age-related milestones.” The look on Marshall’s face reflects all my fears. I’m not getting anywhere close to success in this area, and he knows it. I sink down onto a chair and scrub my hands over my face. “It’s hopeless, isn’t it? People can’t really change, can they?”

“Maybe
change
isn’t the right word,” he says. “I think we just need to tap into an undiscovered part of you.”

My eyebrows arch up. “
We
? You’ve more than surpassed your RA duties, Marshall. Plus, I’ve done college with babysitters before, so that’s not really a new experience for me.”

He shakes his head. “Not RA duties. I was thinking more of an exchange. I have an anatomy and physiology class this semester that’s already giving me hell—”

“I’m a terrible tutor,” I confess before this can go any further. “I’ve made little kids cry doing community service hours.”

Marshall walks closer and grips my upper arms, giving me a little shake. “Stop arguing with everything I suggest. I don’t care if you’re a mean tutor. I neeeeed your braaaaaiiiins.”

I laugh and pull out of his grip. It feels good to laugh. It feels good to think about Marshall and his stupid anatomy class rather than my failing life and falling-apart family. “Okay, let’s have a trial run tonight. Tell me how to fix things with Kelsey.”

A grin spreads across his face, and he nods toward the hallway leading to our rooms, “Step into my classroom and I’ll teach you the ways of the world. You and Kelsey will be BFFs by midnight.”

I’m laughing again like he’s ridiculous, but really, I’m secretly hoping Marshall’s not just blowing smoke. Otherwise, I’m destined for a future of poking rats in a lab or publishing research reports. I need this to go right. I need
something
to go right.

He did get me to hit the bull’s-eye. Maybe he’s got more tricks up his sleeve.

“Are you sure this is going to work?” I can’t seem to leave Marshall’s room. Facing Kelsey right now is more daunting than three rounds of kindergarten booster shots. I screwed up. Marshall is going to lie for me on his form, or at least leave out some majorly important details, at the risk of his job, and now I need to have this conversation end in a civilized manner so that I don’t screw him over.

“What benefit would I get from sending you into battle with a plan destined to fail?” Marshall digs through his closet, emerges with a blue plaid button-down shirt, then peels off his T-shirt, tossing it into the bottom of the closet.

It’s hard not to stare at the muscles in his back as they flex in tune with the effort of
unbuttoning the new shirt. After that task is complete, he slips his arms through the sleeves and turns to face me, shirt still open, abdominal muscles exposed.

Damn.

I force my gaze upward. “So it’s a battlefield now?”

“In your mind it seems to be.” He shrugs, then unfortunately proceeds to seal off my view of his midsection by buttoning his shirt. “And you know, the longer you stall, the bigger this battle will feel.”

“Right.” I knew that. And speaking my mind isn’t usually a skill I lack. The problem is that I know I was wrong, I crossed a line with Kelsey, and I also know that I was being myself, so how can I promise her that it won’t happen again?

“You don’t have to be someone else in order to make this roommate situation work,” Marshall had said during our hour-long lesson. “You just need to tuck away those parts of yourself that aren’t compatible with Kelsey.”

“I get that, but tucking things away for a while doesn’t help me down the road with figuring out how to approach other, similar situations.”

“You’re looking at it all wrong,” Marshall had protested. “It’s like a chef with a famous recipe, but a customer at dinner has an allergy to one of his ingredients. There’re ways to produce a version of that dish without causing … what do you call it?”

“Anaphylactic shock,” I supplied.

“Yeah, that.”

After replaying the remainder of his insight, I take a step toward the hallway, and Marshall gives me a big shove from behind. “Go. Now.”

My slow shuffle down the hall to my room includes at least three glances over my shoulder to make sure he’s not ditching me or anything. What if Kelsey gets violent? I’ll need a witness and someone to rescue me.

The door to our room is open, and she’s sitting at her desk, a textbook in front of her, her back to me. “Kelsey?” I say so quietly I’m not positive that I spoke out loud.

She lets out a sigh, drops her pencil, and spins around. Guess she heard me.

“Look, I’m really sorry about the—”

She holds up a hand to stop me, and I brace myself for more shouting like she did in the early hours of the morning. “Marshall told me your deal. I get it.”
Wait … what?
“Doesn’t mean I’m gonna let you get away with crazy shit, but I’ll try to be patient. Make this an educational opportunity for both of us.”

He told her my deal? As in my secret? How could he do that? My mouth falls open, and the words “What exactly did he tell you?” spill out.

She leans back in her chair, propping her feet on the end of her bed. “The home-school
thing. You’ve never been around normal kids or people your own age.”

Huh. So Marshall told her I was home-schooled? Well, that’s partially true—I was home-schooled for several years—but I don’t remember telling Marshall that fact. “Right, the home-school thing.”

“But you’re eighteen now,” Kelsey points out. “You can’t fall back on that excuse for much longer. According to one of the psych classes I’m taking this semester, socialization is often thought of as the most important component of education. Every living being desires skills that allow integration of functionality in a society made up of their same kind.”

I hate psych majors.

“True, that’s totally true …”

She cracks a smile and eventually laughs. “You’re a terrible liar, you know? It’s fine if you don’t believe that. Yet. But we’ll get there. Between me and Marshall, you’re going to figure this shit out. Got it?”

“Got it,” I repeat, my emotions bouncing between relief and anger. “Thanks,” I mumble before turning and heading back to Marshall. If I stay any longer, I’ll come up with scientific arguments and specific case studies to counter the ridiculous textbook theory she just recited.

Marshall’s standing in the hall across from the bathroom. I grab his arm and pull him inside his room. “You totally cheated.”

He runs his fingers through his hair and gives me that lopsided grin. “I don’t recall establishing any terms to our agreement.”

“Well, we can fix that right now.” I snatch some paper and a pen from his desk. “And why would you prep me with that big apology speech if you’d already made excuses for me?” I spin around to face him, the paper now hanging limply in my hand. “When
did
you give Kelsey the weird home-schooled-girl story? You haven’t left my sight since before the dart throwing.…”

He busies himself with sliding his feet into a pair of brown leather flip-flops.

“You talked to her before we even made our deal, didn’t you?”

“I may have run into her earlier while you were
shopping
, and I may have felt compelled to undo some of the damage. Especially with Becca riding my ass about the reports.” He takes the paper and pencil from my hand. “Let’s take this and my anatomy book and go get some dinner.”

“Dinner?” I say, like it’s a foreign concept.

“Dinner.” He tucks his book under one arm and opens the door for me. “I’m starving. I can’t concentrate unless I have food.”

My stomach chooses this moment to grumble. “Okay, dinner it is.”

Chapter 8

Turns out that dinner for Marshall meant a triple burger—no cheese—at a fast-food place in the student union. And he admitted to having eaten in the dining hall at five, but now that nine had rolled around, it was time for his “second dinner,” apparently. Working on my social skills, I’d managed to not turn my nose up at the sight of fast food and instead selected a salad with grilled chicken and fat-free dressing.

So far, I’ve lasted twenty minutes without commenting on Marshall’s dinner. Which is why I decide that it’s okay to break the ice right now. Just this once. I’ve been good and deserve a reward. “Why not get fries with that burger? You’re already aiming for clogged arteries thirty years from now.”

He polishes off the last bite and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Not really a fan of fried foods.”

I open my mouth to respond but clamp it shut when I see his look of warning. “So … this should be a fun semester. My roommate’s taking me on as some kind of charity psych project. That’s exactly what I had in mind when I decided to work on being normal. And then my parents—”

Shit. I totally didn’t mean to say that out loud.

He leans on one elbow, facing me. “What about your parents?”

My gaze falls to the salad in front of me. “Nothing. Just that they’re … you know, worried about me and that kind of stuff.” I pile our collective garbage onto the tray, organizing it and then reorganizing it in order to avoid his gaze. “How long have you lived in Evanston?”

Marshall doesn’t move a muscle and instead studies me like my quick change of subject must mean something. Or maybe he’s evaluating my conversational skills. Finally he decides to go along with my direction. “Since right before I started high school.”

The plastic containers, empty cups, and cardboard boxes are now perfectly balanced and ready for a successful trip to the trash bin. “Where did you live before that?”

“Everywhere.” He still hasn’t moved a muscle, and it’s causing me to fidget even more. It feels intrusive, like I’m being X-rayed. “D.C., Korea, Colorado, San Diego …”

I pull my hands back from the tray of garbage and turn to face him. “Wow, that’s …”

“Interesting?” he suggests. “Weird? Suspicious?”

“Surprising,” I finish.

His fingertips land on my temple, brushing away a loose strand of hair, causing heat to
surge through my whole body. “See? You’re not so bad at this.”

I suck in a breath, trying to ignore my increased heart rate. He’s not touching any major pulse points, luckily, and won’t notice my reaction. “Why did you move so often?”

Marshall rewards me with that infectious smile of his. “Military brat. My dad was in the navy. His last two years before retirement he was a drill instructor at the Great Lakes naval training center. My parents decided to stay in Evanston after that. My dad coaches high school football now.”

“Did you get your flip-flop addiction when you lived in San Diego?”

He laughs. “How did you know?”

“It’s the only year-round warm climate in the list of previous locations you’ve lived in.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Right.”

The image of a younger Marshall in swim trunks and flip-flops, surfing in California, sits in my mind, and then I fill in a military dad who ends up closely resembling Sergeant Holloway from my morning boot camp class. But is it just Marshall and his dad driving and flying all over the world? “What about your mom? Do you have siblings?”

He fingers the textbook resting between us, causing his hand to land extremely close to mine. “My mom is your typical military wife, and I have four siblings.”

“Four? Seriously?” A minivan full of bobbing heads and luggage surfaces in my imagination.

“I have one older brother and three younger sisters.”

I reach for a pencil and paper, but Marshall’s hand covers mine. “Don’t even think about taking notes.”

BOOK: Third Degree
11.4Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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