Third Degree

by Julie Cross

  “I’m sorry,” I say finally. “From now on, I’m keeping my mouth shut.”

  “Somehow I doubt you’ll manage that.” He gives me a tiny pained smile, and then his arms are around me and he kisses the top of my head, making the guilt I feel double in size. “I’m not positive it was the soup that sent me in here for a barf fest. The antibiotics upset my stomach.”

  We walk back to his room and I’m rolling around a suggestion in my head, the guilt helping to bring me closer to spilling my theory out loud. “Can I go off the record again?”

  He rolls his eyes and climbs back into bed. “You’re always off the record with me. I wouldn’t even know the record if it was sitting right in front of me.”

  “Okay, then. You don’t really need those antibiotics. Well, you can probably get by without them. There’s only a twelve percent chance of infection, but antibiotics are a standard done for a number of reasons, mostly relating to liability and worst-case-scenario-type things.”

  Marshall’s face lights up. “Seriously?”

  I nod, not wanting to use any more words to potentially jeopardize my medical reputation, but it’s all completely true. However, I’ve always followed the standard protocol. I never would have considered a patient feeling nauseous as a reason to stop part of the treatment. To me, seven days of feeling sick to your stomach was worth the infection prevention, but I can’t stand the thought of Marshall vomiting again with all that pain in his abdomen already.

  He rolls on his side, shivering and pulling the covers all the way up to his neck. “I think if you come over here and lie down with me—preferably after discarding your shirt and pants—I’ll feel way better.”

  I burst out laughing but reach down to pull my shirt over my head. “What are you doing to me? I feel like I’m being brainwashed. Is this what you do to girls, Marshall Collins? Some kind of psychological method that induces the urge to do everything you say?”

  He reaches for my hand, tugging me down beside him. “Yes, exactly. But usually I’m healthy and can use feelings other than pity to get my way.”

  I slip under the covers, bringing myself as close as possible, my leg sliding between his. I rest a hand on his cheek. “Pity is not something I’ve ever felt before. Including right now.”

  “I know I already said this, but I really am glad you’re here.” He closes the gap between our mouths and kisses me, his lips lingering against mine for a few seconds before pulling away. “And I thought you were pretty before, but now that I’ve seen all of you, I’m so turned on right now, I’m gonna be forced into dream sex all night. Not that you need to hear that—I’m sure you know what you look like, Izzy—but I want to make sure it’s me saying it that stands out in your mind and not—”

  “Yoshi,” I tease. “Or your brother?”

  He laughs. “Jesse would never touch you. He was just testing me last weekend, seeing if I liked you more than I was telling him. He has gifted intuition. Unfortunately.”

  I start to work my hands over all the tense muscles in his back. “Go to sleep before you give me more compliments that I can’t handle. I’m really bad with compliments.”

  “Hmm,” he says, eyes closing. “Maybe we should add that to Izzy’s Educational To-Do List.”

  I wake up in the middle of the night, opening my eyes and staring at Marshall’s bare chest. But it’s the feel of his fingers combing through my hair that truly breaks me from sleep. He’s propped up on his elbow, wide awake and watching me, the glow of the muted TV his only light.

  “You talk in your sleep,” he says.

  “What did I say?”

  He leans down and brushes his mouth across my cheek. “I don’t know. Most of it wasn’t in English.”

  “Latin?” That’s the only language besides English that I learned before age ten, so it’s one that I occasionally dream in.

  “Maybe,” he says. “It reminded me of your mom in biology. One time we did this assignment where we had to make up our own Latin-sounding creature or combine two species and make a scientific name for it.”

  “That sounds like a pointless assignment,” I say laughing.

  “It was fun. We were allowed to draw pictures, and it was the only A I got all semester.”

  I roll onto my back and look up at his face. “That’s because you’re creative, not scientific.”

  “There’s something else I remembered from that lesson.” His face turns more serious. “We were talking about genetic links and which animals were closely related to humans, and somehow your mom mentioned you being adopted. I seriously didn’t think of this until like an hour ago. The conversation had to do with adapting to your environment, and a bunch of people in my class said that a species couldn’t be moved. And then your mom told us that you lived in Florida and weren’t adopted until you were five, but you adapted to the colder climate easily.”

  I give him a strange look, but I can’t help smiling. He’s adorable when he tries to be serious. “She must have forgotten the fact that I had access to things like coats and hats and gloves and indoor heating. So my ability to adapt was dependent on those additional outside factors.”

  “You were five when you were adopted,” Marshall repeats, putting extra emphasis on the word five. “All this time, I’d pictured an infant being handed over to a couple wanting a baby. But five? Where were you before that, Izzy?”

  The concern in his voice melts my insides. But I have to look away from his face. “Foster care.”

  He draws in a breath holding it there for a few seconds. “So your birth mother died, you were sent to a foster home at three months of age, and you stayed there five years?”

  “It was a few homes,” I admit. “Eight.”

  “Eight homes …” He closes his eyes briefly before reopening them. “Then you were sent to college at twelve, where you had no friends and you hooked up with a professor. Your medical career went all unstable, you come here and it’s hard, your parents decide to get divorced without telling you, and then you find out your birth mother had a history of mental illness and committed suicide.”

  “That about sums it up.” My voice shakes, but I hold back the tears. “Thanks for the recap.”

  Marshall feels around for my hand and laces his fingers through mine. His mouth finds mine, touching my lips so gently it causes a single tear to slip from my eye. “Why are you so hard on yourself? I can’t believe you’re even as normal as you are, Izzy. What you’re dealing with sucks, and I can’t even imagine what that would be like. I don’t see any reason to blame genetics when you have all these outside factors to explain how you’re feeling.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, allowing a few more tears to leak out. These are tears of relief. It’s the most logical thing Marshall Collins has ever said to me. I don’t think in those patterns. I think in pathological patterns—symptoms plus patient history plus family history equals diagnosis. But this … this makes sense. I swallow the lump in my throat and whisper, “Thank you.”

  His lips touch mine again, then a third time, pressing more firmly until he cups the back of my neck with one hand and deepens the kiss. His other hand trails down my stomach and over my panties. I sigh, enjoying it too much, then I reach for his fingers to stop them. “No … let’s not break you any more than we already have, okay?”

  He laughs, but shakes off my grip. “No overexertion. I’m just going to touch you like I’ve been doing for the last hour.”

  Has he been watching me sleep and touching my hair for an hour? “Uh-oh, you’re like that stalker vampire dude. I’m not the type to swoon over those behaviors.”

  Marshall laughs, his breath tickling my neck, his fingers sliding between my legs. “I couldn’t sleep. It had nothing to do with you.”

  “Edward couldn’t sleep, either,” I say, but the words leave my mouth as a gasp. His hands are magical and I don’t even believe in magic. “Those steroids work really fast, don’t they?”

  “Yeah, they do,” he admits with a sigh
, like those pills are the enemy he’s been forced to become temporary allies with. He kisses up and down my neck. “You smell really good.”

  My body shakes with laughter. “We’re not the same blood type, so don’t even think about eating me.”

  I turn my head, my mouth finding his, and let him have his way with me. Giving in is not a very difficult task, that’s for sure.

  Chapter 19

  First I hear a soft knock, but my sleeping brain doesn’t think much of it. Then the knock turns into a bang. I’m tangled up in Marshall’s limbs. He finally fell asleep two hours ago, and now the sun is bright through the space between his two curtains. I give him a little shake, but instead of waking up, he feels around under the covers with one hand until he finds my ass and spreads his fingers over it, pulling me in tighter. I’ve been in his bed for a few days now; I guess he’s used to me.

  The sound of more than one voice echoes from the hall, which is startling since we’ve been alone all weekend. It’s only nine in the morning, and I can’t imagine that anyone’s back at school yet. I shake Marshall harder and whisper, “Someone’s at the door.”

  His eyes open, he listens for a moment, and then he releases a frustrated breath. “Goddammit.”

  “What?” I ask, but before he can answer, the doorknob is turning. Marshall’s made too many trips to the bathroom to remember to lock the door every time he returns. I sit upright, tug my T-shirt down, and pull the covers to my chest, knowing we’re about to get caught—resident and resident advisor fornicating behind closed doors.

  Marshall rolls off his side of the bed and stands up in his blue checkered boxers at the same moment two teenage girls, one little girl, a slim middle-aged woman, and a beefy-looking guy who is like a fifty-year-old version of Marshall’s brother Jesse come tumbling inside.

  “Happy birthday!” all five of them shout together.

  Marshall glances at me, rolls his eyes, then turns back to the strangers in the room. “You guys suck,” he says, looking more amused than angry or concerned with the fact that it’s pretty obvious we were just in bed together.

  I reach across the bed and grab his arm, pulling him closer. “I’m not wearing any pants,” I hiss into his ear.

  “That’s Izzy,” the tallest girl whispers to the second-tallest girl, both of them sporting Marshall’s dark hair and slim figure.

  Marshall grins and kisses the top of my head, then turns to the people. “See why surprises can be bad?” He points at me. “She has no pants on. You’re making her uncomfortable. And this is Izzy’s first impression of my family. Nice job.”

  Uncomfortable is an understatement.

  Marshall’s mom smacks his dad in the chest with the back of her hand. He immediately covers his eyes with one hand. “What did I tell you?” his mom says, “Either he’s sick again or there’s a girl keeping him from coming home this weekend.”

  “Are you an RA, too?” the oldest girl asks me.

  My eyes must be wide with alarm, and all I can do is shake my head.

  “She’s not an RA, she’s a doctor, remember?” the littlest girl says, her eyes sweeping over the dresser topped with pill bottles. My gaze travels to her foot, the one that turns in. That must be Allie.

  “See? He is sick again,” the middle girl says, also taking in the evidence around the room.

  “Is that why you’re in his bed?” Allie asks, turning her big blue eyes and blond pigtails to face me. “Did you check his temperature? Are you making sure he’s comfortable?”

  Marshall grins again. “Oh, she’s definitely making me feel very comfortable.”

  “Marshall!” his mom says, “Be a gentleman.”

  My mouth falls open, but I can’t ask how they know who I am or that I’m a doctor because Jesse comes bursting into the room, out of breath. He takes in the situation and tosses a sympathetic look in Marshall’s direction. “Sorry, bro. I got here as soon as I heard they were doing their little surprise routine.”

  “Close your eyes!” his mom demands to Jesse.

  “Izzy doesn’t have pants on,” the middle girl says, a giggle escaping.

  Not only are my eyes wide, but my cheeks are burning.

  The oldest girl tosses her long hair over one shoulder and holds her hand up. “I’m Tracy.” She points to the middle girl. “Renee, aka Peppercorn.” She tugs the little girl’s pigtails. “And this is Allie.” Tracy bends over, picks up my flannel pajama pants, and tosses them to me.

  I sigh with relief and slip them on under the covers. Finally I stand up, feeling much more comfortable. But then Renee holds up my bra. “You might need this.”

  I fold my arms across my chest, remembering that I’m still missing an important undergarment.

  “Give me that.” Marshall’s mom snatches the bra from Renee and opens a desk drawer, stuffing it inside. She turns to me, smiling like I didn’t just roll out of her son’s bed. “I’m Elizabeth. It’s nice to meet you, Izzy. Marshall’s told us so much about you.”

  I shoot Marshall a look that says, Really?

  He shrugs. “I refuse to be teased or subjected to an inquisition on my birthday.”

  “Are you decent yet?” Jesse asks, his eyes still covered.

  “You can look now,” Allie says, and both men uncover their eyes.

  Marshall’s dad, who I remember used to be in the military and is now a football coach, surprises me by grabbing Marshall, hugging him, and rubbing the top of his head until his hair is sticking up even more than usual. “Twenty-one! I can’t believe it. Are you feeling okay? You look sick. Are you sick?”

  Marshall pulls away and the grin finally drops from his face. “Yeah, a little.”

  The room goes quiet for a total of three heartbeats, and then all four females are in motion, walking around, picking up loose items, talking all at once, asking him about his symptoms, whether he’s been eating or drinking.

  Jesse’s leaning against the door frame shaking his head. Finally he speaks loud enough to carry over all their voices. “Hello? And you guys wonder why he wanted to stay away from home this weekend.” Jesse lifts a hand, gesturing at Marshall. “Marsh, do you need their help? Do you need Mom to wipe your ass and Allie to sprinkle magic healing fairy dust all over you?”

  “I do not,” Marshall says, then he reaches for his littlest sister and gives her shoulders a squeeze. “I don’t mind the fairy dust,” he whispers to her.

  “He’s got a freakin’ doctor in his room.” Jesse gives a nod in my direction. “A hot doctor, I should add.”

  Marshall’s dad smacks his oldest son in the back of the head.

  “Are any of you doctors?” Jesse asks, shrugging off his dad’s reprimand.

  “No,” they all grumble in unison.

  “Then let’s stick to the plan,” Jesse says. “Birthday brunch. Presents. Bowling.”

  “Bowling?” I ask, and then wish I’d kept my mouth shut, because I’ve managed to say two things to his family thus far: I’m not weaing any pants and Bowling. Can’t get more charming than that.

  “It’s Marsh’s favorite ‘family-time’ activity,” Renee says, using air quotes and rolling her eyes at the same time.

  Elizabeth says in her sympathetic-mom voice, “We shouldn’t go out with your brother not feeling well.”

  “What did I just say?” Jesse reminds her. “Marsh? Do you want to go out?”

  My mouth falls open in protest, but I close it the second I see Marshall nod eagerly.

  “I think,” I say, “I’m gonna head over to my room.…”

  Allie jumps up and down, clapping. “Can I see your room, please, please, please?”

  “You’re coming with us, right?” Renee asks. “You have to come with us.”

  I’m honestly not sure I can handle an entire morning of this family. I look to Marshall for help, but I can see he’s pleading with me silently to say yes … I think.

  “Um … okay.” I head through the door, and realize that all the females are following me t
o my room. Maybe so Marshall can get dressed?

  “I’m not even allowed to date, and Marshall’s allowed to have s-e-x in his dorm room,” Tracy whines to her mother.

  Renee wrinkles her nose. “Gross.”

  Allie turns around in front of us, arms crossed, foot tapping. “I know you just spelled sex. I’m not a baby. I know that’s why Izzy didn’t have her pants on.”

  Oh. My. God.

  “All right,” Elizabeth concedes, patting her oldest daughter on the head. “You have permission to have sex when you’re twenty-one.”

  Tracy groans. “Thanks, Mom. Thanks a lot.”

  “You’re very welcome.”

  Renee walks up beside me and whispers loud enough for everyone to hear. “Just think, if you marry Marshall, we can all be your family, too.”

  Finally I crack a smile. I like this girl. She’s made sarcasm an art form.

  I unlock the door to my room and quickly head for the closet to find an outfit.

  Allie heads straight for Kelsey’s cheer costume, hung neatly on a hook outside her closet. “Awesome!”

  Tracy flops onto Kelsey’s bed, and Renee lands on mine. “Sorry about your parents and the divorce stuff,” Tracy says.

  My fingers freeze on a pair of skinny jeans hanging in my closet. I turn around to face her, my eyebrows lifted.

  “I need to get something from the car,” Marshall’s mom says, hurrying out of the room, obviously wanting to make this less intrusive for me.

  Tracy’s expression fills with guilt. “Sorry. He tells me stuff. Like everything. But it’s no big deal.”

  “If you keep a secret in our family, it gets dragged out of you and then made into this big deal even if it isn’t,” Renee explains. “So we’ve been trained to spill our guts all the time.”

  “So Marshall never told you that he was helping a foreign exchange student or a socially inept home-schooled kid?” I ask.

  Tracy and Renee shake their heads.

  “What’s inept?” Allie asks, smoothing Kelsey’s cheer skirt with one hand.