Another week passes and by the next Friday, I am feeling better about everything. The clinic work has gone better, and I’m developing relationships—therapist-client relationships—with some of the students.
The board approved our ideas and we’ve already begun purchasing supplies and finding an adequate location.
It’s the end of the day. I’m the only one left in the entire clinic, and I’ve just finished my last client. I’m still in the patient room looking out the window at the quad, my hands on the sill, my forehead resting against the cold glass. There aren’t many people outside, just a few walking from one building to the next, wrapping their coats around themselves and fighting against the wind.
I’ve gotten to the point where I’m sure I’ll never see Jensen again. And if I do, it won’t matter because he’ll never forgive me and I’ll never forgive myself. But I’m ready to move on. I’m happy with the person I’m becoming. I have friends. I have a job. I’m learning more and more about what I need to make me happy, and it doesn’t necessarily involve a relationship.
There’s a knock at the door behind me and I call, “Come in,” without turning around or changing position.
The door shuts gently and then, “I was wondering if you’re still seeing patients today?”
I immediately recognize the voice. My breath puffs out of my mouth, leaving a flat cloud against the glass. I spin around, leaning back against the window sill, needing something to hold on to.
“It depends,” I answer more calmly than I feel.
“On?”
“What the patient needs.”
Jensen moves into the room, his eyes never leaving mine, and sits on the couch. He looks good. Tired, but good. He’s wearing the same stained brown shirt he was wearing the first time I knocked on his door, and old faded jeans.
Who was I kidding? I was never going to give up and move on. I might have lasted another week before I searched public records or his credit report to find out where he was living. But now, no stalking necessary. I almost can’t believe he’s here.
He takes a deep breath and leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees.
The only sound for a moment is the tick of the clock on the wall, and the thundering of my heart in my ears. Should I say something? Should I wait?
He bites his lip and runs his hands through his hair. A nervous gesture that’s familiar to me. “I need to apologize,” he says.
I’m surprised. He’s apologizing to me? “For what?”
“I was wrong. I shouldn’t have blamed you.”
I’m not sure how to respond. Apology accepted? Then what? Will he leave? I don’t want him to leave. I’m silent long enough that my opportunity to respond passes.
He continues. “No, that’s not it. I mean, that’s part of it, but remember when you told me that I was letting my dad dictate my life?”
I don’t answer. Of course I remember. He knows I remember.
“You were right,” he says. He looks away, his eyes focused on the ground somewhere in front of his feet. “I was living my life based on my parent’s expectations, and hiding who I really was, but I’m not doing that anymore.” He looks up and our eyes meet. “Anita sold a couple of my pieces. I used the money to move into a new apartment. I’m not going to take money from my parents any longer. I’ve been doing it for so long, I’ve gotten so used to doing whatever they want and taking whatever they give, but not anymore. I’m ready to be my own person and do what I want and live on my own dime and on my own terms.
“My mother told me that you were using me for your experiment. When I asked how they found out, she said you told them about everything. Well, she didn’t use those exact terms, but she didn’t deny it either. She led me to believe you were just using me, and you wanted to hurt me to further your study. When I talked to Liam, I realized what had really happened.”
I’ve moved in his direction without realizing it. I’m almost to the chair I always sit in during the sessions, across from the couch where he is.
I sit down in the chair and watch him expectantly.
“I dropped out of school,” he says. “I’m going to go back, when I can afford it or when I can figure out how the whole student loan thing works. Until then, I’m going to live off of my art, and if that doesn’t work, I’m going to get a job. But I’m never going to give up doing what I love.”
“That’s good. I’m glad.” I really am. He deserves every bit of happiness, whether I’m part of that happiness or not.
He looks down at the couch, and his fingers fiddle with a bit of fabric that’s come loose on the old piece of furniture.
“The thing is,” he says quietly and then clears his throat. “The thing is,” he repeats it louder. “I don’t want to do any of that.” His eyes meet mine again. “Without you.”
My stomach drops and my heart accelerates. Is he saying what I think he’s saying?
I can’t speak. For the first time in my life, I’m speechless. But then, I’m not surprised, I’ve experienced a lot of firsts with Jensen.
Eyes still on mine, he gets off the couch and moves around the coffee table towards me. He approaches me slowly, like I’m a feral animal that might bolt if he makes any sudden moves. When he reaches my chair, he bends to his knees in front of me and puts his arms on either side of my legs. His hands rest against the outside of my thighs, and he places his head on my lap.
“I’ve missed you so much,” he says. “At first I was so angry with you. And then I was angry at myself. And time kept passing, and the more time that passed the more ashamed I felt about my behavior and I realized what an idiot I was. I thought it was too late to get you back. Then I talked to Liam and the whole damn thing was even worse and—”
“Hey,” I say, putting my hand on his head, still in my lap, and interrupting his tirade. “Wait.”
He looks up at me and I can’t help it, I run my hand through his hair and cup the back of his head.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “You aren’t the only one who screwed up. I may not have been the source of the information that leaked, but I did betray your trust.”
“Liam told me how Freya threatened to use her hit man on me,” Jensen says with a small smile.
“That doesn’t make it okay. I should have told you. I meant to tell you right away, and then I was distracted by all the sex and your body and…” I trail off, not really sure how to continue that sentence.
“What do you say we call it even?” He’s grinning up at me now.
I smile. “That sounds perfect.”
He shakes his head. “Nothing in life is ever perfect.”
“Well, it sounds perfectly imperfect.”
He laughs—a deep chuckle that hits me somewhere in my chest—and then he moves up until he’s sitting in my lap, making me laugh as his more considerable weight settles on top of me. My hands move from the back of his head to his shoulders.
He’s squishing my legs, but I don’t care. His hands cup my face, and he moves in until our lips are nearly touching, but not quite.
“Lucy,” he says, the word tickling against my lips.
“Yes,” my voice comes out rather breathlessly.
He pulls back slightly to look into my eyes. “I love you.”
My hands flex against his shoulders and I nod. “I love you, too.”
He smiles, a beautiful and blindingly wide flash of teeth, and then he’s kissing me and I’m kissing him and I’m very glad everyone else has gone home for the night. Duncan said it was okay for me to lock up, and that’s great because now I’m pulling at Jensen’s shirt and tugging it over his head and his eyes meet mine, full of passion and desire and love.
“Are we christening your work place?” he asks.
“Call it whatever you need to,” I say, making him laugh.
I push him off my lap to the floor and then I follow him down, sprawling on top of his now bare chest and kissing his neck.
“Lucy?” he says, sighing and pulling me up cl
oser to his face. “Will you move in with me?”
I blink down at him. “Really?”
He grins and shrugs awkwardly. “I could use a roommate. I’m sort of a starving artist now.”
“Okay,” I say, and then he tugs me down towards him, kissing my mouth, then my cheek, then below my ear.
“Plus I kind of like having you around,” he says against my neck.
“That’s good,” I respond.
“And just think about how often we can do this.” He nibbles at my collarbone, and for a second I can’t breathe.
“I’m not arguing,” I tell him. “You really don’t need to convince me.”
“Oh, there is every need,” he says.
And then he proceeds to show me just how wonderful our imperfect life will be.
Coming soon – Imperfectly Legal
Freya Morgan thought it was a great idea to hire the bad boy on campus to beat up her douchebag ex-boyfriend after he cheated on her and treated her like crap. Fast forward a few months, and now the bad boy she hired is in trouble. And it's sort of her fault. After all, if she hadn't hired him in the first place, she wouldn't have started the trend of all the ladies on campus paying him to do their dirty work. But now, those boys he's being paid to beat up are ending up dead, and he's the prime suspect and he expects Freya to help him find the real killer.
For Victims of Rape
Freya’s situation is not uncommon. Over 60% of rapes go unreported and 97% of rapists never spend a day in jail (https://www.rainn.org/statistics).
If you or someone you know is a victim of sexual assault, I hope you will report, or encourage the victim to report. Even if you don’t succeed, you may save a future victim.
Although Lucy may understand and articulate the “biological urges” of homo sapien males, as a species, we have evolved to the point where we can control our urges. No always means no, whether you are male or female, and whether you are with a friend, boyfriend, husband, someone you’ve slept with before, or someone you are fooling around with now. The choice to share your body is always yours.
For more information, you can contact RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network) at www.rainn.org or their hotline at 1-800-656-HOPE.
Acknowledgements
First off, thank YOU beautiful reader for making it to the end of this book without tossing it aside in disdain and/or horror. I appreciate that you took a chance on an unknown writer, and I hope you enjoyed the story. For more information on what’s coming next, you can find me at my blog: marewolf.blogspot.com, or on twitter: @marewulf
Thank you to my husband for dealing with me having my nose in my laptop or book for hours on end. Your unflagging encouragement and belief in my abilities astounds me. I love you.
My mother and early reader, Elizabeth Baines. Thank you for always believing I could do this, even when I was writing crappy stories with flat characters, and probably still am.
A giant squeeze and thank you to Mary Baader Kaley. I know you don’t believe this, but without your knowledge and support, it would have been another five years before I wrote anything even remotely publishable. And if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t know most of the people listed below.
My earliest beta readers who provided wonderful input: Jennifer Ortiz, Kirsty from Goodreads, Jenny Juchtzer, Maria Michel, Adrienne Leyland and the aforementioned Mary Baader Kaley.
My lovely goat readers: Angela Cook, Precy Larkins, Ashlee Supinger, Suzanne Payne, and Riognach Robinson. You guys amaze me! Plus, the rest of #TheGoatPosse I don’t know what I would do without each and every one of you and your input and support.
And last, but definitely not least, this book would not be half as good as it is without Jenn Marie Thorne. Your ideas, encouragement, and gentle (or not so gentle, ha!) prodding made this book a bazillion times better than I could have done alone. Look for her debut novel, THE WRONG SIDE OF RIGHT, Spring 2015.
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