Lessons in Pure Life Page 4

  I can smell the alcohol on his hot breath as he screams in my face, demanding to know how I could reject him.

  I remember shifting into survival mode, calming myself into careful action. Quickly and quietly dialing 911 when he searched his apartment for more fancy booze.

  Women were drawn to Dr. Shipley because he was the youngest, hottest full professor in the Faculty of Arts. This is the undeniable truth. His ice-chip eyes, pouty lips, and short copper hair gave him the nickname Dr. Sexy. Pretty girls exchanged sly gossip about him in the bathroom before class, not caring if it was true or not because it was fun just talking about him.

  Lots of girls thought he looked like Michael Fassbender, and I could see it. His polar blue gaze, his edgy crisp style. Carter had an air about him, like Fassy playing the role of Impossibly Hip Professor. I thought I’d hit the mother of all jackpots when he confessed he had a little crush on me. Things escalated passionately when he asked if I’d join him on a long-weekend trip to Boston. I was flattered, thrilled, and scared.

  When I was just one of his students, I’d had fun wearing sexy little outfits to his lectures. I’d walk in, sashay to my seat in brightly colored skinny jeans, black leggings and a mini-skirt, or soft, creamy, angora sweater dresses that begged to be touched.

  I knew he didn’t just call on me because I had the right answers.

  One day, I stayed after class, wearing a belted chambray dress and caramel boots, with my hair pulled up in a bun and my favorite citrine drop earrings that I wore on special occasions.

  I felt good, confident, smart on the inside and outside. It seemed to me I was taking my first steps as a woman. I think the reality was that I was exploring the sexuality and power of my woman’s body, but my actual self was only just beginning to take shape. It was only fun and games, I thought.

  When everyone had cleared the room, I sat on a desk in the front row, my bare knees smooth and shapely. I didn’t make it easy for him to ignore me, and anyway, he wasn’t interested in ignoring me.

  I tossed my hair, smiled with berry-tinted lips. Cocking my head charmingly, I asked about his freshman class. He liked to tell us stories about them, making us feel more like adults than students, even colleagues of his. I liked that.

  “Hey, Emilia. What can I do for you?” He looks me over, assessing, finalizing, and then he smiles like I passed a test with flying colors.

  “Is this going to be on the exam?” I pretend to be a wide-eyed freshman.

  He laughs, giving me a sly look. He’s been doing that a little more lately, like he’s confiding in me and me only.

  “You’ll appreciate what a seventeen-year-old asked me today.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “This young woman raises her hand, so I say, ‘Go ahead,’ and she asks, ‘What do you like in a woman?’”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah.”

  “She’s not wasting any time.”

  “No. She said it was for a research project, actually.”

  “Sure it was.”

  He grins and gazes downward like he’s shy.

  He isn’t.

  There’s this almost-dimple in one cheek when he smiles like that, and it’s a killer.

  “Anyway, it was not what I expected to hear.”

  “Well, what did you tell her?” I ask playfully.

  This gets his attention, perhaps more fiercely than I expected. For a few seconds fear pokes its ugly head out and assesses the situation. I ignore it and focus on him.

  “Nah, you don’t want to hear it,” he assures me.

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Nah…”

  I cock my head to the side and bite my lip. “Shy?”

  “I’m definitely not shy.” He laughs humorlessly, holding my gaze. Then he drops the moment, looking away. One minute he’s bullish, the next disarming, looking at his shoes like a kid. I can’t follow his moves.

  “Me either,” I hear myself say, wondering if it’s true.

  He gazes across the space between us thoughtfully, and I lean back on my hands, not even really thinking about what I’m doing, just reacting instinctively. He’s got a day and a half’s worth of coppery scruff, and he’s unbuttoned his collar and loosened his tie. The whole package is incredibly attractive, and I’m crushing hard. There’s no question about what’s beneath the thin layer of clothing he’s got on – his suits and dress shirts don’t hide the hard body underneath. There’s no fat on him, anywhere.

  “Try me.” I’m curious now.

  He leans his weight back on his desk, offering a slow smile and folding his hands in front of him.

  We face each other.

  As usual he’s in a three-piece suit, a pale gray silk with a matching vest. A pocket-watch chain dangles from his breast pocket. His black shoes are impossibly sleek.

  He removes his fitted blazer casually, so he’s in his pale blue dress shirt and vest. One leg crosses the other as if he’s casual, but the thing is, he’s never casual.

  “I like confidence.”

  I’m unimpressed. “That’s your shocking response?”

  He laughs. “Okay, well, that’s what I almost told her, and then I asked her not to ask any more inappropriate questions. But what I mean is, confidence turns me on. Nothing’s sexier than a woman who knows the effect she has on a man, a woman who recognizes her intelligence, who isn’t afraid to ask questions.”

  “Confidence, huh?”

  “Every man has a weakness.”

  “Only one? Come on,” I tease.

  He grins. “You know, you’re a very unique woman, Emilia.”

  He stands up. Suddenly I feel like a teenager. What could I offer him? Could he hurt me? I backpedal.

  “Um,” I hesitate, standing up in slow-mo. “I was wondering if we could go over my abstract. I just had a couple of questions.”

  He reins his game in, but only slightly, leaning back an inch or two. Maybe I’m overthinking this.

  “You did quite well on it, didn’t you?”

  I blush. “You gave me an A.”

  “I did.” He smiles like a storm coming in, dark and thrilling. Shipley seems impressed, and it makes me feel powerful again. “You want to go higher than that?”

  “I just want to make sure I understand your comments.”

  “Well, my door is always open to you.”

  “Did you want me to come during your office hours later this week?”

  He looks at me deeply, steady as steel. The cold in his eyes melts ever so slightly and he drops them down to the floor, that habit again. Then he looks back up at me, Cobain blue, purposeful. Almost like he’s reeling it in, tossing it out, and reeling it in again.

  “I’d love for you to come, Emilia,” his voice rough like fine sandpaper.

  Something in my stomach flips around, over and over, and I recognize it as that feeling I get when my body reacts before my brain gets a chance to process.

  “Great. I’ll be there, then.”

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  Everything about him was an edge, reflecting light without actually emanating it.

  Dr. Shipley – before I could call him Carter – was far too sparkly a gem for my magpie mind to resist. But he wound up being too heavy for my little nest; in fact, he took the whole damn thing down.

  4

  Around five, I get a call from the security guard at my residence telling me my ride is here. I’d half-forgotten about Genesis’s documents. Thoughts of Carter have been hanging around me like a ghost all afternoon and I’m restless.

  Aloe vera is drying tightly on my parched skin. I overcooked a tad, tropical rookie that I am. Throwing a simple spaghetti-strap dress over my bikini, I slide into flip-flops. I grab my house keys, yell goodbye to Kat, and swing the door shut behind me.

  The sun weaves in and out of the clouds beyond cashew and mango trees, hinting at sunset.

  As I approach the front gate from a distance, I see the daytime guard chatting with someone
. What’s that guard’s name? I should remember this. Something R. Raul? Rogelio?

  A familiar silhouette sidles into view, and I skid to a halt.

  As if this morning’s classroom antics weren’t enough, the big, handsome thing is back. Ever-present, it seems. Does his family own this complex, too?

  I’m surprised when he waves to me stiffly, and I start moving again slowly, perplexed. Where’s the driver? Why is Diego holding a bowling ball?

  As I get close enough to see more clearly, I begin to understand what’s happening here. It’s not a ball.

  I stop a few feet from him and hope my face looks nonplussed, ’cause I’m plussed. His messy hair looks like a stylist worked on it, down to the last naturally disheveled strand that cuts across one everclear iris. He’s still in jeans, but he’s changed into a white undershirt and black flip-flops.

  Before I can select and translate one of the many questions formulating in my mind, a rally-blue motorcycle helmet is shoved into my arms, pushing the wind out of me a little.

  I look up in shock, and for the first time Diego looks concerned. He blinks and it’s gone.

  “Sorry. Let’s go,” he says, monotone.

  I look down at the helmet and up at him.

  “You’re my driver?”

  This annoys him. His lip actually curls in distaste.

  “Come on,” Diego insists, ignoring my question and starting off toward the road. I’m a good five degrees warmer than when I left the house and a hell of a lot more freaked out. This is what I agreed to?

  I follow Diego down a little gully in my unsuitable shoes. A black motorbike a step away from a lean, scrappy moped waits for us, shiny like it’s just been polished. He walks over and throws a leg easily over it, pulling a black helmet over his head smoothly. I notice that my helmet isn’t as cool as his.

  “Um, what do I do?” I ask, hating that I have to. Obviously I know what to do in theory, but this is real life. There’s an engine involved.

  “What do you mean?” he asks, melting the words together impatiently, like Wadjoumean.

  “I’ve never ridden a motorcycle before.” I wince involuntarily.

  Diego sighs. “Sit, put your helmet, hold on.”

  The instinct to correct his English spurs me, but I don’t dare. Instead I throw my leg over like he did, almost losing my balance as I shift my weight. Now keenly aware that I’m straddling Diego Valverde on a motorcycle in little more than a bikini, awkwardness doesn’t begin to cover it. I’m underdressed to sit on a motorcycle, never mind ride away on one with a Latin American road warrior. My mother would kill me if she could see me now.

  I shove the helmet on and fiddle with the straps that don’t seem to snap properly. He sighs again more audibly, grabbing the straps and joining them easily with a click. I feel like I’m two years old and he’s my dad, taking me out for a ride on the back of his bicycle. Just what I’m going for.

  I look around for a bar or handle to cling to. “So, um, where do I hold on?”

  He looks at me incredulously, and his mouth hangs open slightly. I’m distracted by smooth, shiny teeth and a hint of his pink tongue. Finally, his guard cracks in the teeniest way, and minor amusement lights up his face before he turns to the road and says, “Here,” gesturing to his middle.

  I hold onto him. Riiight. I place the tips of my fingers lightly on his back because it’s too weird to just, what, bear hug him? The engine starts. We jolt briefly and I almost fall off. My legs are shaking, and I’m going to tell him to leave me here, to find someone else to proofread the English. Then he reaches back, grabs my hands, and presses them around him. His stomach is warm and firm. I can’t quite believe what I’m feeling, some strange concoction of pleasure and terror. Against my better judgment, I scoot up and press my body into his back. Holding this handsome almost-stranger like he’s precious, trusting him with my life.

  “Hold more, gringa!” he yells with humor in his voice, and we take off. My hips press into his, and my arms lock around his waist as my survival instinct kicks in. I inhale deeply, taking a belly breath to calm down. I smell him: salt and cigars and sun-dried cotton. Aftershave. Summer boy.

  I shut my eyes for a minute, allowing the outside world to disappear as I indulge in this temporary intimacy. Soon I can feel the sweat from my chest slippery against his back and pull away a little, embarrassed. With one arm he reaches back around my hips and tugs, yanking my body back up into him. I guess he’s a safety buff.

  My legs squeeze the bike, and I grip Diego with all my strength. We’re flying down the dusty beach road, and little rocks are bouncing up around us, pinging off of my visor. My heart beats like a hummingbird’s, and I’m longing for the sluggish, old school bus. My butt bounces up and down on the seat rudely, and I wonder if Diego’s doing it on purpose. We hit another bump and I swear I fly a foot off the seat.

  “Ow!”

  In fear and anger, I dig my nails into his sides, and he slows down ever so slightly. The dirt road finally ends and we hit smooth pavement again. My head stops rattling around in the helmet, and I relax a bit. I’m afraid but starting to feel strong and badass on my first motorcycle ride, lighting up with adrenaline from the speed and the danger and the sexy guy.

  My hips tingle where he touched me, and I replay again and again the way he pulled me closer with urgency. Does he feel my breasts pressing into his back? He must. Does he like it?

  The environment appears particularly lush along the faded pavement. Colors seem sharper: the vibrant greens and pinks of bushes and their magnificent flowers that flourish despite exhaust fumes. I can smell the earth like it’s seeping out of the ground and into my nose, a foreign secret. I close my eyes and breathe deeper, only opening them when we start to slow down.

  Are we there? I’ve forgotten we have a destination.

  Diego pulls over onto the shoulder and stops the bike. I’m still clinging to him, and in the sudden silence it all seems too intimate.

  I peel away from him and dismount, stumbling, startled at the way my legs tremble. I yank the helmet off, and the wind is heaven on my sweaty neck. Tipping my head back like I would do coming out of the shower, I twist my hair up and knot it on top of my head. A shiver of delight flits through me as the breeze licks my bare skin.

  Diego has removed his helmet and is observing me. My dress is all twisted from the treacherous ride, and the left side of my white bikini top is exposed. I can feel my skin pinch as it reacts to the sudden chill. His gaze hovers on the thin, revealing fabric, but there isn’t much I can do about it. My head’s in a haze from the ride.

  He’s unapologetic, without any sign of approval or distaste. It’s irritating, and for a minute I feel clouded by my ego. It’s primitive, this reaction I have to him. It’s primal, lustful, and passionate. But I need to be careful. I don’t know him.

  All I know is his rudeness, his bluntness, his cold stare. A wave of panic passes through me like a haunted spirit and I shiver.

  He walks the bike a few feet into the forest on the side of the road, leans it against a thick tree, and then leans himself against another.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, looking down the road.

  “Rain.”

  “What? When?” I demand, turning back to him.

  He raises his eyebrows, like When do you think?

  I feel a fat splat of cold water hit my shoulder and my eyes widen. Another one hits me on top of the head.

  “How did you know?”

  “I can smell.” He leans back against a tree smugly, watching me get splattered as the rain starts.

  I’m surprised at how quickly the day turned cool and rainy. In seconds it’s pouring and I’m getting soaked. I try to find somewhere dry to stand, but even Diego’s hair is wet, standing in the woods. The bike seems reasonably well-protected, at least.

  “Stand here.” He gestures for me to move next to him with a subtle nod, barely disguising an eye roll.

  I walk over and lean against it, a l
ittle better protected now. God, the wet wind feels good on my skin. It’s coming down so hard that I can’t see the other side of the road. Diego and I are in a rushing, whispering world of rain on leaves and branches. Water drips from my hair down my back, and my damp dress hugs my body.

  Next to me, Diego leans his head back against the smooth bark. He’s covered in droplets that snake down his chest and arms in rivulets. I must be thirsty because I imagine what it would be like to drink the rain off of his body, like an animal.

  What was Genesis thinking, putting the two of us together like this?

  I know she isn’t playing matchmaker because it’s not her style. Maybe it just didn’t occur to her that her brother is a TKO. She must be aware that he’s an unfriendly dick, though. My teeth click, chattering even though I’m not cold, exactly. Keyed up is more like it.

  “Here.” He’s zipping one of the bike’s saddlebags shut, and he hands me a navy blue Columbia fleece pullover.

  I hold it for a minute, then pull it over my head. The hem falls mid-thigh, and I roll the sleeves a few times so they don’t flop over my hands. I look up at him, and he’s actually fighting a smile. I’m about to make a joke when he grabs the bike handles, ready to walk it back out to the road.

  I look on like he’s nuts and wait until he turns his head, making an impatient gesture at me. I’m about to protest, but the rain trickles to a mist and a brilliant shaft of sun cracks blindingly through the clouds. Shaking my head and shoving the helmet on, I follow him to the side of the road and climb aboard again. This favor for Genesis is one beguiling stream of tropical clichés and unexpected occurrences. Guess that’s the magic of Tico time.

  He goes to help me connect my straps, but I pull away from him, territorial. With a click I fasten them and look at him pointedly. He sniffs, bites his lip, and turns to face the road.

  We arrive at Genesis’s office not long after leaving our private canopy. It’s not much: a small storefront in a sad mini-mall. I get the impression it’s a temporary space because there’s nothing but a desk and a mug with a highlighter sitting in it. A manila envelope on the desk is decorated with my boss’s large, elegant handwriting: “Gracias Lia.” My helmet still on, I grab it, feeling like an alien in the Oval Office.