Page 16 of Aftershock
A couple of minutes pass before Alaric tsks to himself and then shuts the locker. His footsteps echo, then the water starts.
My heart rages wildly, screamingNow, now, now!
I listen to it.
His lock is still warm from where his fingers were when I reach his locker and start to pick it, a skill I learned back in Maine.
When I transferred schools after being placed with the Griggs, I needed a clean slate. So much so that I chose a locker combination that had nothing to do with the one I used before.
Problem was, my head was a mess. I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember the numbers and kept losing the notes I scribbled them on.
That was when a friend taught me how to listen to a lock while it moves.
To lean in…feel the subtle shifts as it twists, then turns…then…
Yes.
Adrenaline shoots through my veins at the softclick. Since I’ve been conditioned to stay as quiet as possible, it’s easy to bite back a victory yelp as I yank the door to his locker open.
There’s no controlling my pulse, though. It roars when I find three clean pairs of black boxers folded neatly on top of a change of clothes. My breath catches when I grab the first one, my lips shaping the word “mine.”
Pressing the pair to my nose and inhaling his laundry detergent almost makes me come right there.
As much as I want this orgasm, though, it’s the wrong place, wrong fucking time.
“Fuck,” I groan, stuff his boxers into my bag where they belong, and leave.
Yes, I know that stealing is wrong, but not a single part of me agonizes over it.
It’s only fair, since he’s the one who took something from me when I turned eighteen and never gave it back.
My heart.
3
ALARIC
For some people, their job is just that. A job.
Clock in. Get shit done. Clock out.
After that, they leave everything behind.
Their insufferable boss. The paperwork they haven’t gotten to yet. The presentation they aced.
Forgotten.
I’m not built that way.
I don’t wind down with a glass of wine when I get home. Books and TV don’t magically wipe away the blood, gore, and tears of the patients I treat.
Going to the gym, when I can, offers temporary relief. But only if I nearly kill myself on the treadmill. Only if I push through rep after rep until my muscles burn.
This afternoon, despite signing out early, I don’t even bother considering it.
What for, when I know nothing will help?
As I head to the hospital’s locker room, I feel something violent and bottomless sitting heavy in my chest. It’s impossible to shake, just like the loud beating of my heart. Like the incessant grinding of my teeth.
