by S. L. Stacy
I half sit up so that Max can pull my shirt up over my head. He’s slept shirtless in just his blue plaid boxers. I press my hand against the hardness underneath, and he groans.
“Roll over onto your stomach,” he growls. I obey. Max brushes my straight blonde hair aside and kisses the nape of my neck. The hands kneading into my back have already told me what’s coming, but now he follows them with a trail of kisses down my spine. It’s this part I both loathe and crave. I totally mesmerize him, and that turns me on. But I know why he’s told me to lay on my stomach.
“Are you turned on, Tink?” I feel his warm breath on my ear. “Do you want me?”
God, I hate that nickname, but I still have to whisper, “Yes.” I’m on fire down below, and I can feel my wings stirring, ready to erupt through my back. I’m kind of like the Incredible Hulk—only instead of turning into a big, ugly green monster when I’m angry, my wings awaken in response to many strong emotions—rage, desperation, humiliation. Arousal. Thin and translucent, with splashes of midnight blue and dark purple that fade to black at the tips, they’re more like a butterfly’s wings than Tinker Bell’s. I’ve had them ever since our encounter with the mysterious winged man who has haunted my dreams since I was a child.
Max makes room so that they can freely unfurl from my back. He lightly touches the soft tip of one with his fingers. Do I find his obsession with them flattering or demeaning? He enters me from behind just as this question pops into my head and douses my fever. Because I’m not sure what the answer is. It may be a little of both.
I hadn’t intended to resume casual sex with Max this semester. We met last year at a Halloween party and bonded over our obsession with the paranormal. When he told me about the psychic women in his family, I thought I had finally found someone who would be accepting of my secret. I’m still not sure I really believe in psychics, but then again, who believes in humans that have wings? We barely gave ourselves time to shed our costumes completely when I gave my virginity to Max in this very dorm room. Sure enough, he eagerly accepted my wings. At first his fondness for them exhilarated me. It had been a long time since I let my walls down around anyone—especially after what happened with Jimmy—but around Max a few bricks came loose. Eventually I realized Max and I didn’t click beyond sex, and I couldn’t compete with my wings for his affection.
Most girls would have bawled their eyes out over a pint of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream if their friends-with-benefits didn’t call or text them all summer, but I just felt like a weight had been lifted. Either from anticipation or panic, I’m pretty sure my heart stopped beating for a moment when I saw Max’s text last night asking me to come over. I should have said no.
I’m so absorbed in my thoughts I give a start that isn’t an orgasm when Max cries out in ecstasy ten minutes later, his final thrusts deep and forceful. He eases out of me, and we sprawl in his bed for a few minutes, both sweaty and breathing heavily, before I crawl over him and search for my clothes.
“I don’t want to move,” he sighs as he watches me dress. My wings have retracted, so I easily slip on my bra and tank top.
“Maxwell Johnson,” I admonish, hands on hips, “do not cut your first class of the semester.” I hope my playfulness conceals the irritation and restlessness lurking underneath. “It’ll set a bad precedent.”
He laughs and reluctantly sits up. He’s still naked. He has broad swimmer’s shoulders and a fit body. With his twinkling blue eyes, careless brown hair and the splash of freckles over his nose and cheeks, he’s attractive in a boy-next-door but unremarkable way.
Max catches my eye as I’m studying him. “Siobhan, I really like spending time with you. I care about you. You know that, right?”
I think he wants to believe he cares about me. He wants to believe that this is more than fucking. I just nod, stroke one of his cheeks with my hand and plant a chaste kiss on the other.
“I know. I’m going to be late. Later, Max,” I say as I disappear into the dormitory hall.
Seven minutes later I’m climbing the driveway winding up to the Greek Quadrangle. An emerald, manicured lawn hugs the incline on either side of it, and at the top sit nine fraternity and sorority houses. Each is a red brick building with a flat slate roof and concrete patio. The Gamma Lambda Phi house is the first one on the right. Sunlight glints off our patron goddess Nike’s milky white wings and tumbling red hair in the stained glass portrait in the window. She holds a green laurel wreath in one hand and a bronze chalice carved with the Greek letters ΓΛΦ in the other. Our alumni donated it to the house the year I joined, but we almost had to take it down because it looked too religious. In the end, the university let us keep it because Nike’s dove-like wings are a part of the mythology: She flew over battlefields, crowning war heroes with laurel wreaths and rewarding them with eternal fame and glory. Next door to us is Alpha Rho, our on-again, off-again nemesis, and across from us is the Sigma Iota fraternity.
I cross our yard, planning to sneak through the back door, and nearly collide with the neon green blur coming out of it.
“Little! Weren’t those the same clothes you were wearing last night?” My big sister’s amber colored eyes assess me with mock disbelief. Her lime green spandex capris and tank top flash under the mid-morning sun as she jogs in place. A matching sweatband sweeps her auburn hair away from her freckled face. She holds the door open for me.
I smile brightly even though I want to roll my eyes at her. “Come on, Victoria. You know I was just with Max,” I chirp as I slip past her. “Going for a run?”
She nods. “Want me to wait for you?”
“Thanks, but I have class.”
“Okie dokie.” A breeze whips by me when Victoria takes off. “Remember, we have a board meeting later. Five thirty. My room!” she tosses back over her shoulder.
“Yes, Madam President!” I call out behind her.
Thankfully, the downstairs is empty, and the house is quiet. I don’t think I’ll have to explain my whereabouts again.
On the second floor, I swipe my card key to get into my room. I peek inside, but my roommate isn’t here. I strip down with my door still slightly ajar, wrap myself in a white towel and head back out to the bathroom. I shower quickly, wetting but not shampooing my hair. When I get out, it droops around my face in damp, dark blonde tangles. I tug a comb through it, studying myself in the mirror above the sink as I do so. Two large eyes stare back at me. They consume most of my face, and along with my wide pink mouth, sometimes I feel like a frog. My driver’s license says my eyes are blue, but they’re actually a deep violet. Without eye makeup, I look too ghostly, so I swipe on some mascara and eyeliner.
A half hour later, I’m out the door again, this time wearing a clean pair of skinny jeans and a dark purple t-shirt with paisley Gamma Lambda Phi letters. The panicked click of the small heels of my black sandals against the sidewalk echoes my urgency to get to class on time. I bring my schedule up on my phone to see what building and room my first class is in. “World Myths and Legends” is a red square spanning from ten to eleven a.m. on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. It’s in room B10 of Frasier Hall, the humanities building.
I race into the classroom with only one minute to spare. I find an end seat in the back next to some guy I don’t know.
“Hi!” I exclaim, giving him a friendly smile and holding out my hand. “I’m Siobhan.” He looks at me blankly, as if he’s never shaken a hand before, and grunts something that sounds like it could be “John” or “Josh” before turning back to the front of the room. Dropping my hand, I also twist in my seat to face the front. I guess I can cross him off my list of potential study buddies.
I had a class in this room last year—it’s one of the larger lecture halls that seats one hundred and fifty students, and about one hundred of those seats are taken, mostly by young women. Even though it’s a morning class, it’s a popular elective to fulfill history credits. This is all probably because of the reputation of the charismatic man
looming behind the podium: Dr. Eric Mars. He’s over six feet tall and looks like someone peeled him off a page of a Sexy Lumberjacks calendar rather than a history professor. He has a full head of charcoal black hair and a slick mustache and goatee. The sleeves of his maroon dress shirt are rolled up to his elbows to reveal two thick forearms. The podium just might break in two from the pressure of his massive hands gripping it on either side.
“Happy Monday,” Dr. Mars says. His wide, friendly smile reveals a set of large, perfectly straight pearly whites. The room quiets down instantly. Many of my classmates, including a few of the guys, are perched on the edges of their seats, their jaws hitting the floor, their eyes fixed on our professor with sloppy admiration. “I’m Dr. Eric Mars, but please feel free to call me Eric. Welcome to ‘World Myths and Legends.’ I hope you’ve all read my email and have brought a copy of the syllabus with you…”
I forgot to print one out, so I bring it up on my phone and zoom in. He continues to talk through typical first-day-of-class stuff—expectations, text books, course materials, homework, exams, grades. I only half-listen. Not even this larger-than-life man can distract me from this morning’s confusing reunion with Max. Our relationship—if I can even call it that—fizzled out with distance and the summer sun. I should have left the charred, lifeless remains alone. Now I’m going to have to break things off with him in person.
“Unfortunately, the teaching assistant for this course is bad news,” I hear Dr. Mars saying and glance up from my phone back to the front of the room. “He’s a huge slacker. You’ll be lucky if he even shows up for office hours.” He smiles at someone sitting in the front row as if sharing an inside joke and gives a rich, hearty laugh. “He knows I’m just kidding. You are actually very lucky to have Mr. Jasper Hart as your TA for this course. Mr. Hart is a third-year PhD student in the history department, and a very bright young man…”
Dr. Mars is saying something else about the perfect Mr. Jasper Hart, but now I’ve completely tuned him out. Our teaching assistant stands to face us and nods his head politely. My heart has leaped into my throat. I can’t breathe. I really…can’t…breathe. A flood of terror overwhelms me, and I won’t recover unless I run out of this room. No, unless I jump out of my own skin. It can’t be. He was dying. It can’t be.
Jasper Hart is the man from the woods.
Chapter 3
My shoulder blades are itching, my sudden rush of panic awakening my wings. God no. Not here. I scoot to the edge of my seat, prepared to get up and race out of the room. I squeeze my eyes shut as though that will stop them. Please no.
When I open my eyes again, Jasper Hart has taken his seat. I think I can see the back of his head out of the corner of my eye, but I look steadily ahead at Dr. Mars. My heart rate slows, I catch my breath and as my body relaxes the feeling that my wings are about to spring from my back goes away. I spend the next half hour trying not to think about Jasper Hart instead of listening to Dr. Mars introduce the course. Since it’s the first class, he assigns some reading and lets us out early. I’m the first one out of my seat, and I take the back exit.
My next class isn’t until one, so I flee to the library where I can grab a bagel and coffee at the café and rearrange my thoughts. Confusion over the identity of Jasper Hart pushes my uncertainties about Max to the back of my mind.
It had to be him, right? Now that I’m out of that room, I’m not sure. Maybe it was just some other guy with shoulder-length dark hair, chiseled cheekbones and a marble-white complexion. I didn’t get a good look at his eyes—the man in the woods had intense, midnight blue eyes, so dark they were almost black. And of course there’s the obvious absence of broad, black feathered wings.
Even if it is truly him, why did I react the way I did? It’s not so outlandish that he could be at the same school where I’m working on my bachelor’s degree, is it? Thurston University is a relatively small, private school only about an hour away from where I grew up—an hour from where we found him.
Then again, how is it possible I dreamed of him before I ever met him? How did he give me this freakish…“ability,” and why? What is he? Because whatever he is, Jasper Hart, World Myths and Legends teaching assistant, isn’t human—if he’s really the same person.
There is one person you could ask. The realization pops unexpectedly into my mind. Anna. Although we haven’t talked in six years, we both ended up at Thurston. She could confirm his identity, although there’s also a chance she’ll pretend to have no idea what I’m talking about. For Anna and Jimmy, that night was like a really bad dream. For me, it had been a very real nightmare.
Before I can give myself more reasons to chicken out, I take another confidence-boosting sip of coffee and bring up her name on my phone. Even though she’s probably gone through several phones these past years, I’m pretty sure she kept the same number. I hope she did.
Anna? It’s Siobhan, I text her.
I put my phone back on the table and, after a few minutes of staring at it, I cram another piece of bagel into my mouth. Suddenly, my phone vibrates, and I eagerly tap the screen.
Yeah. Hi. That’s all it says, but at least she answered me.
Really need to talk to u. Can u meet for coffee later?
When she doesn’t answer for at least ten minutes, I add: It’s about DA. I hope she remembers DA—Dark Angel, what we called him in the weeks following the encounter. Jimmy suggested it—apparently he’s some comic book character. It’s also the name of a short-lived science fiction series starring Jessica Alba. I may not know my comic books, but I definitely know my sci-fi TV shows. I never liked the nickname, even though it suited him. To me, angels represent goodness, purity of heart and soul. They’re beings of light and wouldn’t give off the waves of raw sensuality I’d felt emanating from him. I think I saw him. Think he’s alive.
My phone buzzes a few seconds later. OK. Does 7 work? Starbucks on Hickory?
See u then, I reply. I sigh—class from one to five, executive board meeting at five thirty, coffee with Anna at seven. This is turning out to be a busier first day than I thought. I finish my bagel and take my coffee with me to a computer so I can print out the World Myths syllabus and reading and some materials for my other Monday classes.
***
“Where’s Liz?” Victoria wonders impatiently. My big sister sits cross-legged on her black desk chair, hunched over her phone. Although she’s since exchanged her workout clothes for a pair of jeans and a simple white t-shirt, the neon green sweatband still slicks her hair out of her face, and errant auburn strands struggle to break free. “She’s ten minutes late. Can someone call her?” There’s a neat stack of board meeting agendas on her lap, which she passes to where her roommate Carly is sprawled on her bed. The rest of the board members and I are more-or-less sitting in a circle around the bedroom.
“Already tried,” Carly says. She stretches to accept the handouts, her black t-shirt bunching up around her waist, which wrinkles Billy Idol’s silk screen face. Above her is a giant movie poster for The Breakfast Club. Carly wants it to be the eighties even though she was born in nineteen ninety two. Behind the flood of caramel-colored curls cascading down her shoulders and swaying in her face, her baby blue eyes dart from Victoria to the spiral-bound notebook resting on her knees as she jots something down. “She didn’t pick up. I’ll text her, too.”
“Thanks.” Victoria’s forehead wrinkles as her amber eyes, large and shrewd like an owl’s, contemplate Carly’s shiny pink notebook. “Is that for taking minutes?”
“No, I’m making a grocery list.”
Victoria rolls her eyes, and Carly sticks her tongue out at her.
“Well, let’s get started without her so we can get out of here,” Victoria continues. She goes around the room, asking us our plans for our position for the academic year. I scribble a few notes while the other board members are talking to get my thoughts straight. I haven’t taken any time this afternoon to think about what I would give for my report.
I jump at the nickname, thinking Victoria is talking to me. Then I realize she also said “recruitment,” but my roommate has already picked up on my confusion.
“She’s talking to me, Twin!” Tanya explains, giving me a reassuring look. She’s already changed out of her first-day-of-class outfit into a pair of pajama shorts and a low-cut tank top. Tanya and I have been roommates since freshman year. She had always wanted to join Gamma Lambda Phi while I hadn’t been sure I wanted to join any sorority at all, but she dragged me to sign up for rush our freshman year. Now not only are we still roommates, but we have the same big sister, so in sorority lingo we’re “twins.” The endearment is especially fitting for us. Like me, she’s a petite blonde, except she’s about one inch taller than me, tanner than me, and several cup sizes larger than me. I don’t really think about my boobs that much, but sometimes I get a fleeting pang of jealousy that we’re practically the same size everywhere else except that area.
“Rush is at the end of September and will be here before you know it,” Tanya reminds us. “Don’t expect to get any sleep that weekend—or do anything else, for that matter. You will eat, breathe and crap Gamma Lambda Phi. But at the end,” she adds, holding up a slim, tan finger, “we will get to welcome lots of fledglings into our bonds of sisterhood!”
I join the others in a round of encouraging snaps. Above the scattered pops of our fingers someone gives a gagging cough. Tanya wrinkles her nose in Carly’s direction before continuing.
“I’m having a meeting with my committee tomorrow at seven, but if anyone wants to come and sit in I would certainly welcome the help.” Her voice rises anxiously at the end.
