Chemical Romance (Heartstone)

It makes my heart race. Even more than before.

It makes me think of his words from one year ago.

I’ve got you…

That’s what he said to me as he carried me in his arms, striding down the hallway. I look at his arms now, all corded and tight, the bumps of his muscles clearly visible even through the full sleeves of his dark gray shirt.

I’ve touched them, I think.

I’ve felt their strength. I’ve felt how warm and safe they are. And…

“What do you want?” he asks again, pulling me out of my thoughts.

My stupid thoughts.

“I called you three times,” I say, frowning.

“And here I am.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Were you ignoring me?”

“Oh good,” he says drily. “I thought it wasn’t coming across.”

I almost gasp.

But then I stop myself because I don’t want to show him any weakness. Instead, I say, “If you think I’m going away that easily, you’re highly mistaken. I’m not going anywhere.”

His jaw tightens just like his body did as soon as I called him. “And what it would take for you to go away? A fungal cream, perhaps?”

Okay, I hate this guy.

I hate him.

I so fucking hate him.

And I’m so fucking stupid for ever harboring any sort of attraction toward him. I mean, I’d have to be a moron to like this rude, obnoxious guy.

The guy who somehow helped me a year ago. On the worst day of my life.

It’s so hard to reconcile that guy with this one. The one who’s standing here, looking at me with such hauteur. With such arrogance and irritation, like I’m so beneath him.

But whatever.

As I said, I’m not going away that easily.

“You can save your fungal cream for the future. I’m pretty sure you’ll have many miserable occasions to use it,” I tell him, raising my chin, and his green eyes flash. “I’m not going anywhere until I talk to you.”

He stares at me for a beat or two before propping his hip against the table, as if settling himself. “So talk.”

I clench my fists.

Rude. So fucking rude.

For a second, I contemplate punching his jaw. His sexy, stubbled, square jaw. Or maybe attacking his shining green eyes, scratching them out, or going for his dark hair that always looks so beautifully and stylishly mussed up.

But I’m not going to do any of that.

I’m not going to be reduced to violence because of him.

Licking my lips, I push out the most revolting words ever. “I need a favor.”

Hate. Hate. Hate.

I can barely contain the grimace on my face, and I bet he can see that. Not that he reacts to it. His features are as carefully blank and arrogant as ever. Although I will say that his eyes are more alert than before as he inquires, “What favor?”

Just say it.

The thing is that I’m not good at asking for help. I’m not good at depending on others.

Mostly because no one in my family has had to depend on anyone. No one in my family has had to ask for favors or help for little things. Because I come from a family of leaders and pioneers.

My dad’s the Dean of Medicine at this very school. My mom is the lead researcher at a pharmaceutical company that works on cutting edge immunotherapy for cancer. My older sister is a doctor, a cardio surgeon, who’s also working on a clinical trial for a new kind of pacemaker. My older brother is an oncologist and the head of the department.

And then there’s me.

Who’s standing here, in front of this rude but gorgeous guy, asking for a favor. Because I can’t pass a stupid biochemistry class without help.

But that’s nothing new.

I’ve always, always fallen short of my family’s expectations and their stellar achievements.

I swallow and just take the plunge. “I need you to tutor me.”

Finally, I’ve captured his attention.

Now along with his eyes, his entire body is on alert as he watches me with something other than arrogance. “Tutor you.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I…”

I know what I have to say here. I’m aware of the words I should be uttering but they’re so hard. They’re actually harder to say than I previously imagined.

Probably because he’s such a jerk.

“Because you what?” he prods, his eyes flicking back and forth between mine.

I grit my teeth.

Why couldn’t he be nicer?

Why does he have to look at me with such piercing, penetrating eyes?

Why does my heart flutter like a bird doped up on dopamine even when I know better?

“Because I need it,” I say, finally. “And it’s something you already know.”

I mean, he’s the TA; he’s aware of my abysmal grades.

“Because you’re failing,” he murmurs.

My body flinches at his words, gets all heated up. And I have to, have to, go for my anxiety ring. I have to flick the beads, rapidly, repeatedly, obsessively in order to calm down.

But that becomes slightly harder to achieve because he looks down.