Dead Med, page 12
I look up sharply as Mason snorts from the other side of the table. I hate Mason. And the worst thing is, he’ll live out his whole life being that same arrogant asshole and never learn any humility. It’s just not fair.
Dr. Conlon waits for me after lab is over that day. He’s changed out of his scrubs and is back in his slacks with a dress shirt. And a bowtie. That bowtie just slays me. Who the hell wears a bowtie?
“Rachel,” he says as he takes me aside, concern in his blue eyes, “I just want you to know that if you need it, there’s help available for you. There are a lot of second-year or graduate students I can recommend who will be happy to spend extra time with you in the lab.”
We haven’t even had our first big exam yet, and already, I’ve set myself aside as someone who needs remedial help.
“And of course,” Dr. Conlon continues, “I’m always available for questions.”
I’ll bet. Dr. Conlon is the biggest dork on the face of the planet and clearly does not have a rip-roaring social life. Every time I pass by his office, no matter what the hour, the light is on under his door. No wife, no girlfriend, no kids. He probably hasn’t had a date in years. Maybe it’s been so long, he’s given up hope that it’s going to ever happen again.
It is just so unbelievably perfect.
33
When I was a junior in high school, I found myself in danger of failing trigonometry.
Trigonometry is hard. The entire concept of sines and cosines just didn’t make a lot of sense to me. My parents hired a tutor, some eighty-year-old walking skeleton of a woman, but each session just confused me further. What can I say—I suck at math. I kept getting my exams back full of red pen marks, and I started to worry about how I was going to get into a decent college with an F in trig.
Harvey Pritchett was my trigonometry teacher. Mr. Pritchett was a short, balding, unattractive, middle-aged man who waddled instead of walking. He was married, probably to a short, unattractive, middle-aged woman. He left a sticky note on my second midterm exam (with my spectacular grade of thirty-eight out of one hundred), saying, “See me after class.”
When I saw the note, I cried. I was not exactly a picture of confidence back then. I had zero friends, sucked at sports, and wasn’t really into extracurricular activities. I dressed in frumpy sweaters and baggy jeans and grew my hair out to hide the zits on my face. I had tiny little mosquito bites for breasts, and I was so skinny that you could make out every single one of my ribs and pelvic bones. I was the kind of girl that the popular girls would point at and laugh.
Anyway, trig was the last class of the day, so after the other students filed out of the room, I trudged up to the front of the classroom to face Mr. Pritchett. I was terrified. I hugged my textbook to my chest, my dark hair nearly obscuring my eyes.
Mr. Pritchett sat atop his desk in a gesture that I guessed was supposed to seem casual and friendly. Perspiration stained his armpits and formed a little line on his brow.
“Rachel, I’ve noticed you’re struggling in the class,” he said.
“I guess so,” I said quietly, hanging my head.
“Is there anything in particular that you’re having trouble with?” Mr. Pritchett asked.
Yeah, everything.
“I don’t know.”
“I’d like to try to help you, Rachel,” he said, “but I feel like you’re not trying yourself. I hate to tell you this, but if you don’t bring up your grades significantly, I… I’m going to have to fail you.”
I had never failed a class before in my life. As much as I tried to stop them, a minute later, I had tears streaming down my face. Mr. Pritchett, looking very uncomfortable, patted my shoulder in a lame “there, there” gesture. It wasn’t enough. I collapsed against his desk, sobbing into my hands. His arms slid around my shoulders and then…
Later on, Mr. Pritchett tried to say that I initiated the kiss. But that’s total bullshit. After all, I was just a shy, innocent young girl. In any case, Mr. Pritchett couldn’t argue that I added some excitement to his gray little life. After all, how many other short, balding, middle-aged teachers got to make it on their desk with nubile sixteen-year-old girls?
Before Mr. Pritchett, I had never even kissed a boy before. I had a few very mild crushes on boys, but nothing to write home about. There were times when I thought I might be a lesbian, although I realized I didn’t have much interest in girls either. But my relationship with Mr. Pritchett was never about love—I never had an ounce of feelings for him, aside from perhaps pity and disgust. Physically, he was repugnant. He had a beer belly, he was sweaty everywhere, and he was covered in a thick layer of graying hair. When he was inside me, there were a few moments when I was so disgusted, I thought I might vomit.
But I did what I had to do. I couldn’t fail trig. My next exam came back with an A circled on the top, even though most of the answers were still wrong.
I wish I could say that was the last time I slept with a teacher for a grade, but it wasn’t. Once I did it and got away with it, it was hard to stop. You’d think most professors would be protective of their reputations and their marriages, but it’s scary how easy it is to seduce them.
Some of them know my game right from the start—that’s the easiest. But some of them think that I really like them, that I honestly have feelings for them. One or two pathetic losers even cried when I threatened to turn them in. But eventually, every single one of them gave me what I wanted.
And so will Dr. Matthew Conlon, even though he doesn’t know it yet.
34
I failed my first anatomy exam. Unless some miracle occurred, there’s no way that I passed.
Heather is also certain that she failed. She is moping around our apartment, half in tears.
“I studied so hard,” she keeps saying. “I must just be an idiot.”
Heather definitely isn’t the brightest penny in the fountain. Frankly, she’d probably benefit from offering a few professors some action on the side. But no, she’d never do it. She’s not that type of girl.
“Maybe you should go take a shower?” I suggest because I can’t stand it another minute. And I know Heather loves showering. She takes at least two or three of them every day.
“Yeah…” she mumbles. And then, thankfully, she disappears into the bathroom.
Of course, the second the shower turns on in the bathroom, someone knocks on the door. I try to ignore it, figuring it can’t be anyone for me, but the knocker is too persistent. Finally, I trudge over to the door and throw it open. It’s Abe—big surprise.
“Oh, hey, Rachel,” he says. “Is Heather home?”
Abe has the biggest crush in the world on Heather. Everyone knows it except her. He follows her around school like an extremely large puppy dog, saving her every time she needs it (which is all the freaking time). Abe seems like a nice enough guy, but the way he acts around Heather seriously gets on my nerves.
“She’s in the shower,” I tell him.
“Oh,” Abe says.
He doesn’t move. Am I supposed to invite him inside? I really don’t want to. Why can’t they go to Abe’s room to study instead of hanging out here all the time? (I suspect the answer to that question is that Abe and Mason’s apartment is a pigsty.)
“Listen,” I say to Abe. “You know that Heather has a boyfriend, right?”
His cheeks color. “Yeah, I know that.”
And then I add, for good measure, “And even if she didn’t, you wouldn’t have a chance.”
Abe stares at me like I just punched him in the face. He lowers his eyes and mumbles, “Yeah, I know. Of course. I mean, I’d never think that…” He clears his throat. “Um, I’m going to go. You can… maybe just tell Heather I stopped by.”
“Sure thing,” I say, and I slam the door in his face.
Was that a bitchy thing to do? Maybe it was. But seriously, somebody needed to tell that guy the truth. I did him a favor.
I go back to the bedroom and get on my computer. I check my email, and there’s a message waiting for me from Dr. Conlon: “Please come see me after class tomorrow.”
Ah, the “come see me” note. Always the start of something interesting.
35
I show up at his office around six thirty p.m., when most of my classmates are either home or crowded into the library. Dr. Conlon should have been home having dinner with his family, but since he lives alone, he’s still in his office. I knock on his door.
“Come in,” he calls out. “It’s open.”
I open the door to his office and make a point of shutting it behind me. Dr. Conlon is working on his computer, but he turns to face me as I walk in. From the few lines around his eyes and the slight graying of his black hair at his temples, I’d place him in his late thirties. But there’s something very youthful about those blue eyes, even when they’re hidden behind his spectacles. The truth is, despite everything, he’s a pretty good-looking guy.
None of the professors I’ve slept with before have been even remotely attractive. That’s purposeful. I figure if the guy is a heartthrob, there’s no way he’ll fall for my act—he won’t be desperate enough to risk his whole career for a little action from a student. But Dr. Conlon is an exception. It’s painfully clear he’s not a ladies’ man—the bowtie says it all.
“Rachel,” he begins. He folds his hands together. I’ve noticed the way his right hand doesn’t move normally, and this action only calls attention to that fact—I can’t help but wonder what’s wrong with the guy. “Will you have a seat, please?”
I wore a red skirt just for the occasion. There’s something provocative about the color red—men don’t refuse a woman in a red skirt. I slide into the chair in front of his desk and cross my right leg over my left. Even though I’m very thin, I have shapely legs.
“Rachel, you probably know I want to talk to you about the exam,” Dr. Conlon says.
I nod.
“Your grade is…” He bites his lip. “Rachel, I’m very concerned that you’re not studying enough. Anatomy involves a lot of memorization, and you… well… you missed a lot of basic information. I went through your exam very carefully, and I’m worried that you’re just not making an effort.”
I lower my eyes. “I just don’t have a great memory. I swear I’m trying my best.”
Well, sort of. The truth is, I hardly studied at all. When I saw Dr. Conlon give his passionate “anatomy is fun” speech at the beginning of the year, he may as well have painted a big L on his forehead. I have nothing to worry about.
“It can be a very difficult transition from college to medical school,” he acknowledges. “I know that. Is there anything going on in your life that’s keeping you from studying enough?”
My eyes fill with fake tears. I rest my elbows on his desk and bury my face in my hands. Did I mention I can now cry on command? It comes in handy at times like these.
“Rachel…” he says gently. His hand is now on my shoulder. Rubbing.
Oh, Dr. Conlon, you don’t know it, but you’re about to get very lucky. We both are.
“Rachel, you can talk to me…” he says. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
Wow, he’s saying all the right things. It’s like he’s reading from a script. Nice job, Dr. Conlon. This is going to be so damn easy.
“It’s just that”—I sniffle—“I feel like I’m all alone out here. I miss my family, and I… I have no one…”
“Listen to me, Rachel,” he says. “Everyone feels that way when they first start med school. Everyone. But I swear to you, you’re not alone.”
He puts his hand on top of mine. His palm is rough and calloused, probably from always holding that cane. I turn my own hand slightly so that I can grasp his fingers.
“Thank you,” I say in a small voice. “Thank you for being so nice to me. You’re the only one who’s tried to help me in this place.”
They should give me an Oscar, truly.
He’s leaning forward like I am, so that our faces are only inches apart. I wonder if he’ll kiss me first or if I’ll be the one who has to make the first move. When I first met Dr. Conlon, I made a bet with myself that I would have to kiss him first.
“Rachel.” He is so close to me that I can feel his hot breath. “Have you ever…”
I raise my eyebrows at him.
“Have you ever considered seeing a therapist to talk about your problems?”
Have I what?
My face burns. “No.”
“Patrice is wonderful,” he says. “I really think she can help you.”
I nearly pound my fists against the desk in frustration. Is Dr. Conlon seriously this dense? Any other man would be ripping my blouse off by now. And nothing kills the mood like talking about a shrink.
Christ, what a loser.
I sigh in frustration and lean back in my seat.
“Forget it. I’ll be okay,” I say. I have to regroup. Maybe we can arrange a second meeting. And I can show up wearing, I don’t know, lingerie.
Dr. Conlon frowns at me. “Are you sure?”
I nod. “Very sure.”
“Let me write Patrice’s number down for you anyway,” he says.
He pulls a pen out of the penholder on his desk (who has a penholder?) but accidentally knocks the holder onto the floor, spilling pens all over the place. I sigh again and get up to help him clean the mess. God, what a clueless klutz. Just my luck.
I bend down on my knees, picking up what appears to be an endless supply of pens. Why the hell does he have so many pens? Dr. Conlon is bent over in his chair, picking up pens with his left hand as I crouch next to him on the floor.
When I have half a dozen pens in my hand, he grasps my wrist. “It’s okay, Rachel. I can handle it.”
I look up at his bright-blue eyes. That’s when I notice it: his gaze flitting down my neckline to my very visible breasts. It’s just a second—he was super quick—but I saw it. And he knew that I saw it. His face turns a bit red—this is my chance. I put my fingers behind his neck and pull his head toward mine.
I knew I’d be the one making the first move.
“Rachel?” There’s surprise and confusion on his face.
I press my lips onto his. At first, he seems frozen and absolutely stunned, but then his arms draw me closer to him.
God, men are so easy to predict.
Not to be conceited or anything, but I’m a really good kisser. I have to be. Most professors aren’t good kissers. Most of them suck at it. Usually, they give me too much tongue—of course, when you don’t like a guy, any amount of tongue is too much tongue. And usually too much saliva. When you kiss a girl, you don’t want her to feel like you’re spitting in her mouth, trust me.
Okay, I’ll be honest: Dr. Conlon isn’t a bad kisser. He’s actually… kind of good at it. That part surprises me. And I don’t get surprised too often.
But good kisser or not, I can tell it’s been a while for him. I can’t say why exactly. Maybe it’s his eagerness. I can tell how badly he wants me by the way he touches me.
I unbutton my blouse, slide off my skirt, as he watches with his jaw hanging open. As I begin to unbutton his shirt, he looks up at me and grins crookedly. “I never thought my day would end up like this.”
I return his smile. “Are you glad?”
“You have no idea…”
And then I get my second surprise: Dr. Conlon has a nice chest. Maybe I should have given him the benefit of the doubt, considering he’s at least ten years younger than the youngest professor I’ve been with. Still, I didn’t expect muscles. And no beer belly, that’s for sure. I run my hands over his pecs, and I’m practically shaking.
Get a grip, Rachel!
“What?” he asks, looking concerned. “Anything wrong?”
“No. Not at all.”
This is ridiculous. I can’t start liking this guy. If that happens, then he’s the one in control. And that would be a huge mistake. So I close my eyes and think of the one thing that never fails to disgust me: Mr. Pritchett. Pritchett’s disgusting, hairy body. His sagging jowls. His sweaty skin.
But somehow, it isn’t working. Dr. Conlon keeps kissing me, and as his mouth works its way down my neck, I can’t think about Mr. Pritchett anymore. I can only focus on him and what’s about to happen and how good it feels…
When it’s over, Dr. Conlon slumps down in his chair. He shakes his head and rubs his face.
“Wow, Rachel. Jesus Christ…”
I’m still straddling him, and I need to get up, but I can’t quite move. It has never been like that before. Never. I’ve never lost control that way before.
I don’t get it. Dr. Conlon is a clueless dork who hobbles around with a cane. How is it possible that he was so good at that? Maybe he’s younger than the others, but that shouldn’t matter. The guy has no social life, no dates, nothing. This makes no sense.
“I should probably go, Dr. Conlon,” I mumble.
He grins at me. “You can call me Matt. At least, in here you can.”
Okay, this isn’t a disaster. Yes, we just had some incredible sex. My first incredible sex. But he doesn’t know that. He’s just excited he got to score with a twenty-two-year-old. Plus, I can tell from the way he’s looking at me that he’s smitten.
Nothing has changed. The game is still on.
I usually don’t drop the bombshell on them until the second time. Some of them seem to see it coming, although fewer of them than I would have guessed. I was surprised how many of those bald old men thought that I was genuinely interested in them. For a lot of them, it was a huge blow to their egos. And I usually took pleasure in delivering it. They were mostly a bunch of assholes.
Dr. Conlon isn’t an asshole. He’s a nice guy, and he cares about his students.
Oh well. I can’t afford to fail anatomy. This is just the way it has to be.
36
I’m in such a good mood the next day that it doesn’t even bother me when Heather is loudly singing Taylor Swift in the shower. Anyway, it’s a relief to know that everything worked out with Dr. Conlon just the way I planned. Okay, not entirely the way I planned, but close enough.
Dr. Conlon waits for me after lab is over that day. He’s changed out of his scrubs and is back in his slacks with a dress shirt. And a bowtie. That bowtie just slays me. Who the hell wears a bowtie?
“Rachel,” he says as he takes me aside, concern in his blue eyes, “I just want you to know that if you need it, there’s help available for you. There are a lot of second-year or graduate students I can recommend who will be happy to spend extra time with you in the lab.”
We haven’t even had our first big exam yet, and already, I’ve set myself aside as someone who needs remedial help.
“And of course,” Dr. Conlon continues, “I’m always available for questions.”
I’ll bet. Dr. Conlon is the biggest dork on the face of the planet and clearly does not have a rip-roaring social life. Every time I pass by his office, no matter what the hour, the light is on under his door. No wife, no girlfriend, no kids. He probably hasn’t had a date in years. Maybe it’s been so long, he’s given up hope that it’s going to ever happen again.
It is just so unbelievably perfect.
33
When I was a junior in high school, I found myself in danger of failing trigonometry.
Trigonometry is hard. The entire concept of sines and cosines just didn’t make a lot of sense to me. My parents hired a tutor, some eighty-year-old walking skeleton of a woman, but each session just confused me further. What can I say—I suck at math. I kept getting my exams back full of red pen marks, and I started to worry about how I was going to get into a decent college with an F in trig.
Harvey Pritchett was my trigonometry teacher. Mr. Pritchett was a short, balding, unattractive, middle-aged man who waddled instead of walking. He was married, probably to a short, unattractive, middle-aged woman. He left a sticky note on my second midterm exam (with my spectacular grade of thirty-eight out of one hundred), saying, “See me after class.”
When I saw the note, I cried. I was not exactly a picture of confidence back then. I had zero friends, sucked at sports, and wasn’t really into extracurricular activities. I dressed in frumpy sweaters and baggy jeans and grew my hair out to hide the zits on my face. I had tiny little mosquito bites for breasts, and I was so skinny that you could make out every single one of my ribs and pelvic bones. I was the kind of girl that the popular girls would point at and laugh.
Anyway, trig was the last class of the day, so after the other students filed out of the room, I trudged up to the front of the classroom to face Mr. Pritchett. I was terrified. I hugged my textbook to my chest, my dark hair nearly obscuring my eyes.
Mr. Pritchett sat atop his desk in a gesture that I guessed was supposed to seem casual and friendly. Perspiration stained his armpits and formed a little line on his brow.
“Rachel, I’ve noticed you’re struggling in the class,” he said.
“I guess so,” I said quietly, hanging my head.
“Is there anything in particular that you’re having trouble with?” Mr. Pritchett asked.
Yeah, everything.
“I don’t know.”
“I’d like to try to help you, Rachel,” he said, “but I feel like you’re not trying yourself. I hate to tell you this, but if you don’t bring up your grades significantly, I… I’m going to have to fail you.”
I had never failed a class before in my life. As much as I tried to stop them, a minute later, I had tears streaming down my face. Mr. Pritchett, looking very uncomfortable, patted my shoulder in a lame “there, there” gesture. It wasn’t enough. I collapsed against his desk, sobbing into my hands. His arms slid around my shoulders and then…
Later on, Mr. Pritchett tried to say that I initiated the kiss. But that’s total bullshit. After all, I was just a shy, innocent young girl. In any case, Mr. Pritchett couldn’t argue that I added some excitement to his gray little life. After all, how many other short, balding, middle-aged teachers got to make it on their desk with nubile sixteen-year-old girls?
Before Mr. Pritchett, I had never even kissed a boy before. I had a few very mild crushes on boys, but nothing to write home about. There were times when I thought I might be a lesbian, although I realized I didn’t have much interest in girls either. But my relationship with Mr. Pritchett was never about love—I never had an ounce of feelings for him, aside from perhaps pity and disgust. Physically, he was repugnant. He had a beer belly, he was sweaty everywhere, and he was covered in a thick layer of graying hair. When he was inside me, there were a few moments when I was so disgusted, I thought I might vomit.
But I did what I had to do. I couldn’t fail trig. My next exam came back with an A circled on the top, even though most of the answers were still wrong.
I wish I could say that was the last time I slept with a teacher for a grade, but it wasn’t. Once I did it and got away with it, it was hard to stop. You’d think most professors would be protective of their reputations and their marriages, but it’s scary how easy it is to seduce them.
Some of them know my game right from the start—that’s the easiest. But some of them think that I really like them, that I honestly have feelings for them. One or two pathetic losers even cried when I threatened to turn them in. But eventually, every single one of them gave me what I wanted.
And so will Dr. Matthew Conlon, even though he doesn’t know it yet.
34
I failed my first anatomy exam. Unless some miracle occurred, there’s no way that I passed.
Heather is also certain that she failed. She is moping around our apartment, half in tears.
“I studied so hard,” she keeps saying. “I must just be an idiot.”
Heather definitely isn’t the brightest penny in the fountain. Frankly, she’d probably benefit from offering a few professors some action on the side. But no, she’d never do it. She’s not that type of girl.
“Maybe you should go take a shower?” I suggest because I can’t stand it another minute. And I know Heather loves showering. She takes at least two or three of them every day.
“Yeah…” she mumbles. And then, thankfully, she disappears into the bathroom.
Of course, the second the shower turns on in the bathroom, someone knocks on the door. I try to ignore it, figuring it can’t be anyone for me, but the knocker is too persistent. Finally, I trudge over to the door and throw it open. It’s Abe—big surprise.
“Oh, hey, Rachel,” he says. “Is Heather home?”
Abe has the biggest crush in the world on Heather. Everyone knows it except her. He follows her around school like an extremely large puppy dog, saving her every time she needs it (which is all the freaking time). Abe seems like a nice enough guy, but the way he acts around Heather seriously gets on my nerves.
“She’s in the shower,” I tell him.
“Oh,” Abe says.
He doesn’t move. Am I supposed to invite him inside? I really don’t want to. Why can’t they go to Abe’s room to study instead of hanging out here all the time? (I suspect the answer to that question is that Abe and Mason’s apartment is a pigsty.)
“Listen,” I say to Abe. “You know that Heather has a boyfriend, right?”
His cheeks color. “Yeah, I know that.”
And then I add, for good measure, “And even if she didn’t, you wouldn’t have a chance.”
Abe stares at me like I just punched him in the face. He lowers his eyes and mumbles, “Yeah, I know. Of course. I mean, I’d never think that…” He clears his throat. “Um, I’m going to go. You can… maybe just tell Heather I stopped by.”
“Sure thing,” I say, and I slam the door in his face.
Was that a bitchy thing to do? Maybe it was. But seriously, somebody needed to tell that guy the truth. I did him a favor.
I go back to the bedroom and get on my computer. I check my email, and there’s a message waiting for me from Dr. Conlon: “Please come see me after class tomorrow.”
Ah, the “come see me” note. Always the start of something interesting.
35
I show up at his office around six thirty p.m., when most of my classmates are either home or crowded into the library. Dr. Conlon should have been home having dinner with his family, but since he lives alone, he’s still in his office. I knock on his door.
“Come in,” he calls out. “It’s open.”
I open the door to his office and make a point of shutting it behind me. Dr. Conlon is working on his computer, but he turns to face me as I walk in. From the few lines around his eyes and the slight graying of his black hair at his temples, I’d place him in his late thirties. But there’s something very youthful about those blue eyes, even when they’re hidden behind his spectacles. The truth is, despite everything, he’s a pretty good-looking guy.
None of the professors I’ve slept with before have been even remotely attractive. That’s purposeful. I figure if the guy is a heartthrob, there’s no way he’ll fall for my act—he won’t be desperate enough to risk his whole career for a little action from a student. But Dr. Conlon is an exception. It’s painfully clear he’s not a ladies’ man—the bowtie says it all.
“Rachel,” he begins. He folds his hands together. I’ve noticed the way his right hand doesn’t move normally, and this action only calls attention to that fact—I can’t help but wonder what’s wrong with the guy. “Will you have a seat, please?”
I wore a red skirt just for the occasion. There’s something provocative about the color red—men don’t refuse a woman in a red skirt. I slide into the chair in front of his desk and cross my right leg over my left. Even though I’m very thin, I have shapely legs.
“Rachel, you probably know I want to talk to you about the exam,” Dr. Conlon says.
I nod.
“Your grade is…” He bites his lip. “Rachel, I’m very concerned that you’re not studying enough. Anatomy involves a lot of memorization, and you… well… you missed a lot of basic information. I went through your exam very carefully, and I’m worried that you’re just not making an effort.”
I lower my eyes. “I just don’t have a great memory. I swear I’m trying my best.”
Well, sort of. The truth is, I hardly studied at all. When I saw Dr. Conlon give his passionate “anatomy is fun” speech at the beginning of the year, he may as well have painted a big L on his forehead. I have nothing to worry about.
“It can be a very difficult transition from college to medical school,” he acknowledges. “I know that. Is there anything going on in your life that’s keeping you from studying enough?”
My eyes fill with fake tears. I rest my elbows on his desk and bury my face in my hands. Did I mention I can now cry on command? It comes in handy at times like these.
“Rachel…” he says gently. His hand is now on my shoulder. Rubbing.
Oh, Dr. Conlon, you don’t know it, but you’re about to get very lucky. We both are.
“Rachel, you can talk to me…” he says. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
Wow, he’s saying all the right things. It’s like he’s reading from a script. Nice job, Dr. Conlon. This is going to be so damn easy.
“It’s just that”—I sniffle—“I feel like I’m all alone out here. I miss my family, and I… I have no one…”
“Listen to me, Rachel,” he says. “Everyone feels that way when they first start med school. Everyone. But I swear to you, you’re not alone.”
He puts his hand on top of mine. His palm is rough and calloused, probably from always holding that cane. I turn my own hand slightly so that I can grasp his fingers.
“Thank you,” I say in a small voice. “Thank you for being so nice to me. You’re the only one who’s tried to help me in this place.”
They should give me an Oscar, truly.
He’s leaning forward like I am, so that our faces are only inches apart. I wonder if he’ll kiss me first or if I’ll be the one who has to make the first move. When I first met Dr. Conlon, I made a bet with myself that I would have to kiss him first.
“Rachel.” He is so close to me that I can feel his hot breath. “Have you ever…”
I raise my eyebrows at him.
“Have you ever considered seeing a therapist to talk about your problems?”
Have I what?
My face burns. “No.”
“Patrice is wonderful,” he says. “I really think she can help you.”
I nearly pound my fists against the desk in frustration. Is Dr. Conlon seriously this dense? Any other man would be ripping my blouse off by now. And nothing kills the mood like talking about a shrink.
Christ, what a loser.
I sigh in frustration and lean back in my seat.
“Forget it. I’ll be okay,” I say. I have to regroup. Maybe we can arrange a second meeting. And I can show up wearing, I don’t know, lingerie.
Dr. Conlon frowns at me. “Are you sure?”
I nod. “Very sure.”
“Let me write Patrice’s number down for you anyway,” he says.
He pulls a pen out of the penholder on his desk (who has a penholder?) but accidentally knocks the holder onto the floor, spilling pens all over the place. I sigh again and get up to help him clean the mess. God, what a clueless klutz. Just my luck.
I bend down on my knees, picking up what appears to be an endless supply of pens. Why the hell does he have so many pens? Dr. Conlon is bent over in his chair, picking up pens with his left hand as I crouch next to him on the floor.
When I have half a dozen pens in my hand, he grasps my wrist. “It’s okay, Rachel. I can handle it.”
I look up at his bright-blue eyes. That’s when I notice it: his gaze flitting down my neckline to my very visible breasts. It’s just a second—he was super quick—but I saw it. And he knew that I saw it. His face turns a bit red—this is my chance. I put my fingers behind his neck and pull his head toward mine.
I knew I’d be the one making the first move.
“Rachel?” There’s surprise and confusion on his face.
I press my lips onto his. At first, he seems frozen and absolutely stunned, but then his arms draw me closer to him.
God, men are so easy to predict.
Not to be conceited or anything, but I’m a really good kisser. I have to be. Most professors aren’t good kissers. Most of them suck at it. Usually, they give me too much tongue—of course, when you don’t like a guy, any amount of tongue is too much tongue. And usually too much saliva. When you kiss a girl, you don’t want her to feel like you’re spitting in her mouth, trust me.
Okay, I’ll be honest: Dr. Conlon isn’t a bad kisser. He’s actually… kind of good at it. That part surprises me. And I don’t get surprised too often.
But good kisser or not, I can tell it’s been a while for him. I can’t say why exactly. Maybe it’s his eagerness. I can tell how badly he wants me by the way he touches me.
I unbutton my blouse, slide off my skirt, as he watches with his jaw hanging open. As I begin to unbutton his shirt, he looks up at me and grins crookedly. “I never thought my day would end up like this.”
I return his smile. “Are you glad?”
“You have no idea…”
And then I get my second surprise: Dr. Conlon has a nice chest. Maybe I should have given him the benefit of the doubt, considering he’s at least ten years younger than the youngest professor I’ve been with. Still, I didn’t expect muscles. And no beer belly, that’s for sure. I run my hands over his pecs, and I’m practically shaking.
Get a grip, Rachel!
“What?” he asks, looking concerned. “Anything wrong?”
“No. Not at all.”
This is ridiculous. I can’t start liking this guy. If that happens, then he’s the one in control. And that would be a huge mistake. So I close my eyes and think of the one thing that never fails to disgust me: Mr. Pritchett. Pritchett’s disgusting, hairy body. His sagging jowls. His sweaty skin.
But somehow, it isn’t working. Dr. Conlon keeps kissing me, and as his mouth works its way down my neck, I can’t think about Mr. Pritchett anymore. I can only focus on him and what’s about to happen and how good it feels…
When it’s over, Dr. Conlon slumps down in his chair. He shakes his head and rubs his face.
“Wow, Rachel. Jesus Christ…”
I’m still straddling him, and I need to get up, but I can’t quite move. It has never been like that before. Never. I’ve never lost control that way before.
I don’t get it. Dr. Conlon is a clueless dork who hobbles around with a cane. How is it possible that he was so good at that? Maybe he’s younger than the others, but that shouldn’t matter. The guy has no social life, no dates, nothing. This makes no sense.
“I should probably go, Dr. Conlon,” I mumble.
He grins at me. “You can call me Matt. At least, in here you can.”
Okay, this isn’t a disaster. Yes, we just had some incredible sex. My first incredible sex. But he doesn’t know that. He’s just excited he got to score with a twenty-two-year-old. Plus, I can tell from the way he’s looking at me that he’s smitten.
Nothing has changed. The game is still on.
I usually don’t drop the bombshell on them until the second time. Some of them seem to see it coming, although fewer of them than I would have guessed. I was surprised how many of those bald old men thought that I was genuinely interested in them. For a lot of them, it was a huge blow to their egos. And I usually took pleasure in delivering it. They were mostly a bunch of assholes.
Dr. Conlon isn’t an asshole. He’s a nice guy, and he cares about his students.
Oh well. I can’t afford to fail anatomy. This is just the way it has to be.
36
I’m in such a good mood the next day that it doesn’t even bother me when Heather is loudly singing Taylor Swift in the shower. Anyway, it’s a relief to know that everything worked out with Dr. Conlon just the way I planned. Okay, not entirely the way I planned, but close enough.
