Once we were dismissed, he'd tucked his fingers into my waistband and steered me out of the hospital, up the street, into our building. The press of his knuckles against my flank did wild things to me. It made me forget myself, forget everything. He'd fucked me slow that evening, so slow, like we had all the time in the world. Like there wasn't a cliff coming for us, an end whether we accepted the inevitability or not.
Much like the perfectionist and the bitch who shared a hostile existence in my head, my feelings for Sebastian Stremmel were contradictory, one never more than a minute away from declaring war on the other. Part of me despised him in the stickiest, most unbearable way. The other part of me…that part did not despise him.
And as these days and weeks passed, it was becoming clear that those parts were unequal. Unbalanced. One side was much, much greater than the other, even if they did exist on the brink of total annihilation. There were moments when I struggled to believe that the other side existed at all. I had to search for it, press it like the echo of a bruise to dredge up the last twinges of pain.
I knew his scowls now. I could decode them with a single glance. I knew when he was tired, stressed, annoyed. I knew when he was irritable about his cases rather than irritable over the waning November sunlight.
I also knew that the scowl was his drawbridge, the mechanism he'd perfected for keeping everyone at an arm's length. In most cases, he'd succeeded in doing that. I'd been one of those success stories. I'd written him off, filed him away as arrogant and unpleasant and too self-involved to bother acknowledging me in the halls.
I knew I was wrong. I knew that his wordless nods and chin jerks were his greetings and that he was dreadful at small talk. I knew I did not despise him as much as I wanted to believe.
He stared down at me before he left that night, his scowl fresh and unguarded, and there was a second where it seemed like he wanted to say something more. Instead, he pointed a meaningful glance at the water he'd poured for me and reminded me to lock the door behind him.
I wasn't even sure I wanted to despise him anymore.
The sun was bright in a blinding way that only seemed to occur on cool mornings in November. These days made me feel electric and alive, like I could juice the sun straight into my veins.
I liked these kinds of days—except when I found myself conscripted into yet another weekend homework assignment.
Perhaps it wasn't the sun blinding me this morning so much as Sebastian's neon orange bubble suit. I could hear him scowling clear across the outdoor jousting ring as the instructor secured him into the suit which resembled a massive ball of bubble wrap.
I had to turn away because he looked like some kind of citrus-themed mascot, a tangerine stuck with arms, legs, and murder in mind.
"Shut up, Shap," he called.
"I didn't say anything," I yelled back.
"You are doubled over laughing," he said flatly. "As soon as you're suited up, you're dead."
"Well, now, folks," the instructor said. "We like to think of bubble suit jousting as an opportunity for friendly competition, not—"
"You're going down, Florida," I called to Sebastian. "And you're not getting back up."
"Big words from a little bit," he shouted.
The instructor helped me into a cobalt blue suit as Sebastian paced the perimeter of the sparring ring. "Being closer to the ground is an advantage," I said.
He shook his head as he muttered to himself. It was unacceptably funny to see such a tall, powerful man trapped inside an orange bubble, his arms skewered straight and his steps unsteady. Even the helmet was hilarious, and for no specific reason other than he looked so unlike his usual self. "We'll test that theory," he shot back.
Once I was buttoned up, the instructor, a twentysomething guy with long, curly hair trailing down from under a beanie, who'd introduced himself as Paxton, set a pair of oversized foam jousting lances in the center of the square ring. "Okay, folks. Let's review the rules."
"Fuck the rules," I said.
"No rules," Sebastian agreed.
"I know this is exciting," Paxton said, a warning hand raised, "but we do have safety protocols and—"
"If I kill him, I'll clean up after myself," I said.
"There will be damages," Sebastian said. "Charge me whatever is necessary."
Paxton glanced between us, his jaw slack. "Well, let's wait a second. We don't want anyone getting hurt—"
Sebastian grabbed the lance. "Even if I could hurt her with this, I know how to put her back together."
Despite Paxton's increasing concern, I shuffled up to my lance and took it in hand. "He won't admit it but I know how to put him back together too." I wagged the lance at Sebastian. "Surgeons. Mass General. We can't hurt each other any more here than we hurt each other without the sticks."
Though this didn't appease Paxton, it was all the invitation Sebastian needed to wail me in the bubble belly and send me floundering backward. It was not a great moment as far as my battle strategy went but I was laughing like I'd never laughed before.
From the other side of the ropes, Paxton called, "You folks signed all the waivers, right?"
Getting up meant rolling to my side and climbing to my knees. Sebastian was there waiting for me, his lance poised to crack over my head. But there was power in being close to the ground and I used all of that leverage to topple him with one shove to the bottom curve of his suit, leaving him sprawled and flailing. An overturned turtle with the temperament of a bull.
While I scrambled for my lance, Sebastian managed to heave himself onto his side and gain his feet. He wasted no time in whacking me again but I was prepared for it, my legs braced and my grip on the lance firm.
"Accept that I am going to win," I yelled as he pounded my side. "There will be no victory for you."
"I don't need victory," he shouted over my laughter. "I just need to kick your ass. You can thrash me when I'm done."
"Hey now, folks," Paxton called, his hands raised as if he could stop us by will alone. "The objective isn't—"
"The objective is to make her beg for mercy," Sebastian replied. "I'll accept nothing short of complete and total submission."
I knocked him upside the head. "You'll die unfulfilled."
"Trust me, I'm planning on it."
"Folks," Paxton cried.
"We've got this," Sebastian said to him. He sent me rolling end over end and then grabbed my hand and yanked me to my feet. "We do worse things to each other at least once a week."
"And we don't wear helmets when we're doing it," I added.
Abandoning the lance, I plowed straight into Sebastian and knocked him over like a bowling pin.
"Get back here, you evil little blueberry!"
Bubble suits weren't designed with running in mind but I was able to pull off an effective scurry. Score one for short girls.
Sebastian did not have the same success. He stumbled and bumbled. He chased me from one corner of the ring to another while I cackled and hiccuped. I bounced off the ropes. He somersaulted, then rolled once more. We took up the lances again and bludgeoned each other while we shouted and swore and laughed ourselves to tears. We didn't stop when Paxton blew the air horn that signaled the end of our time in the ring. It was only when I lost my hold on the lance and, instead of knocking Sebastian off his feet, I took us both down and into the ropes like a pair of skewered cherry tomatoes that we stopped.