Bria shifts in her seat as though my phantom touch lingers uncomfortably on her skin. She glances down, her expression troubled for just a fleeting blink, and then she’s focused on me once more.

“What can I do for you, Dr. Kaplan?” she asks, even though I’m quite sure she already knows what I’m going to say.

I lean forward, resting my forearms on my knees, lacing my fingers together. My brows draw together as I take in her reserved stoicism. “First, I wanted to apologize in person for not reading your full proposal. I’m sorry for not being adequately prepared and for wasting your time the other day.”

I’m not sure what I expect her to say to this. I’ve already seen enough of her to know she won’t mince words. She’s not the type to give a spineless “that’s okay, professor. I understand.” Possibly there will be an “I accept your apology,” which at least acknowledges my wrongdoing.

But nothing comes.

The silent pause stretches on. I resist the urge to fill it. Bria doesn’t move, her expression doesn’t change. It takes me that long moment to realize that I didn’t actually respond to her statement, what can she do for me. Bria gives no shits about my apology, and she has no desire to waste words on it.

I actually find that…refreshing. She’s unlike anyone else. So unique. She must seem off-putting to many, when she wants it to be. Or maybe she makes the effort to put on a mask for most people, like Tida, who shoots the occasional worried glance at Bria over her shoulder. But I get the feeling she’s not hiding who she is from me. She’s not trying to disguise the force of dark magic by wrapping herself in pretty layers.

Bria is testing me. I think she wants to see if I will keep up. And she knows what she’s worth. What she’s owed from me.

“Did you receive my email?” I ask.

“Yes, I did,” she says. It looks like it’s a struggle to grit out the next two words. “Thank you.”

“Dr. Fletcher is new to the department. Her primary focus is in parasocial interaction and cultish behavior, but she has significant experience in memory as well, mostly related to the effect of digital media on memory recall. She’s read your proposal and can see many synergies with her recent work in patterns of criminality among charismatic authorities based on witness testimony. She has some free time to meet tomorrow afternoon. Are you available?”

Bria’s eyes narrow a fraction, the only minute change in her placid yet unsettling expression. Her head drops a few degrees to the right and she stares into me as though drilling right into my brain.

“I have a meeting with Dr. Wells tomorrow,” she says. My heart plummets into my guts. Dr. Wells would be the absolute worst choice for an advisor. He’s about three heartbeats away from either retirement or death, and he gives few shits about quality anymore. He’s a dinosaur in a modern world, clinging to research from thirty years ago and the height of his career. “Other doors are open, Dr. Kaplan.”

I swallow, my throat drying as though I’ve eaten ash. My eyes dart toward Tida before I lean a little closer to Bria. “Please, Bria,” I whisper. “Not Wells. Your work will never get anywhere if you go with him. Just meet with Dr. Fletcher. Let her convince you.”

And before I can stop myself, I reach out and touch her.

My fingertips graze her delicate wrist. This can’t be appropriate, not with the way the touch sets off a flurry of gooseflesh skittering up my arm, nor the way my cock hardens at the mere whisper of her skin beneath mine. I quickly withdraw my hand but Bria doesn’t move, her eyes following the motion before meeting mine again.

Bria’s eyes bore into mine, but this time she gives something away. I can see it in the flicker of movement in her brows and the way her hand folds into a fist. It’s not anger. It’s confusion. “All right,” she finally says. My heart pulls itself out of my intestines and starts beating again. “I will send her an email and schedule something for tomorrow afternoon.”

“Great. I’ll let her know you’ll be in touch.”

I keep hold of Bria’s gaze for a moment longer and then stand, and she does the same. Somehow it feels too close, yet not close enough. But it has to be. That one simple touch, my fingertips on her bare wrist, there can never be more than that.

I back away toward the door, our gazes still locked together until I reach the threshold and force my feet down the hall.

I need to keep my eyes on my horizon, a place where this woman will never fit, no matter how enigmatic or intriguing she is. And I need to focus on my work now, my future, satisfied with the knowledge that I’ve set a broken bone.

OceanofPDF.com

6 ELI

“Your girl is brilliant. She also hates me,” Fletcher says as she enters my office and drops into one of the two chairs on the other side of the desk. I log out of the secure files on Caron Berger and Legio Agni, then shift my focus to my best friend and the biggest pain in my ass. Fletcher picks up a bobblehead of soccer player Harry Kane. Her nose wrinkles as she taps Harry on the forehead and his head wobbles. “What is this?”

“A bobblehead.”

“I see that, dick-for-brains. But why?”

“It’s a conversation starter.”

“Is it though? It’s ugly as fuck.”

“Well, we’re talking about it, aren’t we?”

“Actually, no. We’re talking about your girl hating me.”

“First of all, Fletcher, she is not my girl,” I say. Fletcher gives a derisive snort and I yank Harry Kane from her fingers. “Secondly, she hates my guts too. Probably more than she hates yours.”

“Debatable.” Fletcher sits back and looks at me through narrowed eyes, a determined gleam shining through shades of sky blue. She rests her elbows on the arms of her chair and taps her fingers against one another.

“Why are you giving me laser eyes?”

Fletcher shrugs, a grin igniting across her vibrant red lips. “Oh, you know. Just thinking about you owing me. I’ve already got plans to cash in.”

I huff a laugh and close my laptop. “With your non-existent segue, I’m assuming this has something to do with a certain doctoral student.”

“Indeed,” Fletcher says, her smile brightening with delight. “You seem to have forgotten that you owe me not only one, but two favors, Kap.”

I pack my laptop into my satchel and slide on my jacket as Fletcher stands, that grin of hers still firmly in place. “What the hell are you talking about? I don’t recall a second favor.”

“Tsk-tsk, oh-Kap-i-tan. You’re conveniently forgetting about that time I accompanied you to your parents’ anniversary party so they wouldn’t set you up with that stuck-up bitch Mackenzie.”

My hand drags down my face. That party.

“Oh, that’s right, Kap. I had been crushing on Dierdre for two years. Two fucking years. And she thought I was with you thanks to that stupid party. You ruined my chances. You got me vagected by the hottest lesbian at UCLA. Who’s the cockblocker now, hmm? Spoiler alert: it’s you. You’re a clam jammer, that’s what you are.”

I bellow a laugh. “A clam jammer?”

“Jesus fuck, Kaplan. You’re thirty-one, not eighty-one. Take off the tweed and get with the times. A taco blocko. A fanny fencer. A muff rebuffer. You are all those things. And hence, you owe me.”

“Wasn’t it literally a week later that you met Blake?”

“That is completely beside the point.”

We walk down the hallway, passing a few students as we make our way to the stairs. A brief, unwelcome thought scurries around my skull: I wonder if Bria is in her office. If I went upstairs, would I feel her gravitational pull from down the hall? Something about her is as inescapable as an imploding star. The more I try to avoid thinking of her, the more she’s there in my head, and the more I’m convinced she’ll destroy me if I get any closer. And maybe that makes the lure of her even stronger. Maybe I want to be shredded down to the last atom.