Silly man, doesn’t he see it? He already has me.
Fuck,shecould’vewarmedthat shit up before she squirted it all over my chest. And do they have to press so hard with the probethingy? I change my mind. I don’t enjoy being probed; it doesn’t matter how good the lighting is.
This morning, I left Olly still sound asleep; the covers pulled up to his chin, his hair looking bed rumpled and sexy. It’s never been so hard to get out of bed. I knew that if he woke before I left, he would want to talk about the appointment. But I just needed to get up and go, wanting to get it over with.
I surprised myself. Not once did I wake up wanting to sneak out the bedroom window. Plus, I slept the whole night; like, I didn’t even get up to take a piss.
Leaving him a cute little handwritten note with hearts on it wasn’t the plan and sure as shit not my style. Okay, and maybe they weren’t just simple little hearts; Imayhave embellished a little. Either way, it doesn’t matter. I left him a note saying I would call him after my appointment.
I feel like something has shifted in Olly, or maybe it’s that something has shifted in me.
God, Olly used to get so fiery mad anytime I even talked about doing something crazy, like skydiving, for instance. That was an argument for a good week. I don’t regret it. The horizon was so beautiful from way up there. The silence, the calm. I needed the calm.
Over the last month, since I fainted at work, Olly has not been as argumentative. Okay, except for the few days he stayed with me right after. But since then, not so much. Part of me kinda misses it. The fun sparring back and forth, but add in the sexual tension we can actually act on now, and damn, that’s hot. But the other part of me goes down the rabbit hole of why? Why has he stopped caring?
I feel myself changing. I’ve toned down my reckless ways. It could be why Olly doesn’t argue with me as much, but part of me thinks it’s more than that.
Now I’m at the doctor’s office, and if Becky here hems and haws one more time, I’m going to shove that probe where the sun doesn’t shine.
“Jasper, do you have your follow-up appointment scheduled with Dr. Withermore?” I inwardly roll my eyes because, ugh, Becky.
“Umm, no. Am I supposed to?” Marcus didn’t say anything.
“Yes, I believe he wanted you to schedule a follow-up.”
Ok, what’s the rush? Unless Becky sees something that is concerning. Oh God, what does she see? I mean, it’s the only logical explanation for her insisting on me making an appointment.
“Why the urgency, Becky? Do you see something?”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t read the results. I just take the images,” she says, tilting her head as she looks at the monitor one more time.
What the fuck, Becky? Stop it!
“Ok, that should just about cover all the images I need. Why don’t you go ahead and put your shirt back on? I’ll send these over to Dr. Withermore’s office. He should contact you in a couple of days.”
He better be calling me sooner than that. I know where he livesandhis damn phone number.
I gasp internally because that’s what one would do when they stumble upon a secret plan. I bet it’s Jacob’s doing, so Ihaveto call him. He’s still mad I haven’t made it over for dinner.
I put my shirt back on as quickly as I can and get the fuck out of there. Ugh, it makes my skin crawl.
It’s cold and dreary when I step foot on the sidewalk and make my way to my car, happy I didn’t ride my motorcycle.
By the time I walk through the front door of my apartment, the rain has picked up, pelting against the windows.
Emptying my pockets, I throw my phone on the table, not before noticing Billy called again. I ignore it, having no interest, and slip off my shoes, socks, and shirt. I need nothing restricting my arms when I’m in the zone.
Since I have the afternoon off and the weather being what it is, I should paint. Ineedto paint. I need to keep my mind off these tests.
I grab a heavy, large blank canvas, the weight of it familiar in my hands, and carefully place it on the sturdy wooden easel in the corner. I stare at the empty canvas, desperately hoping for a muse to whisper its secrets.
Nothing, I’ve got nothing.
Story of my life, right? I mean, if you’ve got nothing to begin with, then you have nothing to lose. That’s why the risks don’t bother me.
But I’m not sixteen anymore and I’m realizing I might have something to lose.
I’ve been fucking reckless with the drinking, drugs, and partying with the wrong crowd. I did this to myself. I’m the reason I’m even in this situation. And now, there could be something wrong with my heart.
