Adam
I shift nervously as I listen to the chime of Jessica’s doorbell echo somewhere in her apartment. It’s fall, the air crisp enough that I pull my jacket tight and shove my hands into my pockets. There’s the sound of rushing footsteps and the rattle of chains as she unlocks her front door. I glance around one last time before she opens it, scowling. I don’t like where she lives, not one bit. It’s a run-down neighborhood. Not quite a slum, but the kind of place that will turn into one within the next decade. There’s graffiti on the dumpster across the street, next to a neon-lit convenience store. The concrete steps that lead up to her place are chipped and stained.
It’s all so disgustingly familiar. I used to live down the road in a shithole just like this one.
Bright light shines out when she swings the door open, making me squint. I blink against the glare and see her standing there, with the glow outlining her. It highlights her hair, lighting it up like a damn halo.
“Hi,” she breathes out, smiling up at me.
Something pulls in my chest, sharp and fast. An answering grin lifts one corner of my mouth before I can stop it. I attempt to straighten my features. I’ve thought about it a lot and decided to keep my walls up this evening. She seems to enjoy the commanding doctor persona, and I like the distance that it places between us. The last thing I need is to fall for Jessica Jones.
Screw her, yes.
Love her, no.
My life is carefully organized. Everything in nice little compartments. I don’t need her disrupting it more than she already has.
Without greeting her back, I push into the small living room of her apartment. My mood darkens even further when I see the threadbare carpet, worn couch, and tiny TV. Are those actual rabbit ears on her TV? Like the twin antennas that people used in the 1980s to get reception. Does she not even have cable, for god’s sake?
I toss my brown leather satchel onto a chair near the door, followed by my jacket, then turn to her. I’m not sure what my expression reads, but it must be bad because Jessica takes a step back and raises her hands as if to ward me off.
“Are you okay?” she asks warily.
I take a slow, measured breath before answering. “Fine. And how are you this evening?”
She blinks, then brightens with a teasing smile. “So formal, Dr. West,” she teases, batting her lashes. “I’m doing well. Extra good, actually, since I got a certain surprise gift from you today.”
Some of the tension leaks from my shoulders. “Do you like it?” I ask, softer than I intend.
Her grin widens, easing a knot inside me I didn’t know was there.
“I love it!” she exclaims, then grabs my hand and drags me after her, chattering excitedly. I snatch my satchel from the chair as we pass by.
“It’s so pretty!” Jessica says. “Exactly what I would have picked out for myself.”
She tugs me into her bedroom and waves to the large bed located in the center. “Look! Isn’t it amazing?”
The bed looks good, but it takes up the entire room. That’s how cramped her bedroom is. Irritation flashes through me that she lives like this. Jessica the prom queen deserves a real crown. A palace. Not this.
“What do you do for a living, exactly?” I demand, my tone harsh.
Again, she steps just out of my reach, until the backs of her legs are pressed against the mattress, and I instantly regret my words. I could have googled to find out more about her, but I deliberately hadn’t. It’s better not to know.I’m here for one thing only. To satisfy my desire and hers too. I’m not here to get to know her.
She lifts her chin, and even I can admire that spark of bravery in the face of an angry man.
“I’m a teacher. Just like my parents before me. High-school math.”
My stomach clenches as a premonition occurs to me. “Which school?”
I know the answer before she says it. “Southfield High.”
Thatplace. The one I hate more than any other. That’s where she goes every day. No doubt the boys there all ogle her when she’s at the front of the classroom. They probably imagine her spread out on their desks. They probably masturbate to that thought.
Just like you do,says a little voice in the back of my mind. I tell it to shut the fuck up.
“My parents used to teach there,” She continues, telling me information I already know. Her father, Mr. Jones, was my geometry teacher sophomore year. He was a nice man, even-tempered and patient.
“When I started teaching, the principal said it was full circle,” She says with a note of pride. “That my parents worked at that school and now I do too.”
