Brain Games

11. Take It

At 5:00 a.m. my alarm clock goes off and I almost throw it across the room in pure rage, feeling like I only got thirty minutes of sleep after enduring my neighbors own "fireworks" show last night.

Like a rabid zombie, I roll out of bed and groggily stomp to the kitchen, turning on my Keurig before grabbing a pot and a pan and stomping back to my room. I bang the two metal objects together, like the ultimate petty and pissed off bitch I am, to give my neighbors a taste of their own medicine.

Once I'm satisfied—someone banging back on the other side of the wall in annoyance—I take the kitchenware back to the kitchen and cautiously sip on my hot coffee. After a few sips I go to the bathroom to wash my face, put in my contacts, and get dressed.

Normally, I'm out the door an hour and a half before rounds start, but since I didn't get home until after midnight, I decide I can afford to be on time today instead of punctually early. When I step outside it's lightly pouring and I realize I never bought an umbrella or rain jacket yet, since it hardly ever rained in California.

Cursing under my breath, I brave the rain and speed walk to Warner, drenched by the time I get there. I fling the locker room door open and march over to my locker, shoving my stuff inside.

Brad stands at his own locker, already dressed in scrubs, looking at me with raised brows. He holds his coffee in his hand, and I snatch the cup from his grasp, taking a large gulp of the dark, bitter liquid inside. He stares at me, surprise written all over his face.

I make a noise of disgust, shoving the cup back into his hand, and he laughs. "Is that black coffee?" I ask, appalled.

He smirks, casually leaning a shoulder against his locker. "No. There's a splash of creamer and two sugar packets."

"Could've fooled me," I mutter, grabbing a fresh pair of scrubs from the bottom of my locker. "I should've known your coffee would be as black as your soul."

A deep, amused chuckle rumbles from his chest. "So you're finally convinced I'm not going to poison you anymore?"

"Not after you practically just did, no."

He smirks around his coffee cup, deep brown eyes almost sensually locked on mine as he takes a long sip from where my lips did seconds ago. "You're feistier than usual this morning," he muses.

"That's because I woke up today and chose violence."

He laughs again, but his laughter stops as soon as I yank my damp shirt over my head. Usually, I'd wait until hardly anyone is in the locker room to change, or at least when no one seems to be looking, but I'm just full of zero fucks to give this morning. And while I feel like I should be more self-conscious in front of mister GQ model himself, I figure I have nothing he hasn't seen before. 

I start shimmying out of my jeans and he clears his throat, turning away and striding towards the showers. Relief mixed with mild insecurity starts to bubble in my chest at the fact that he just walked away, clearly uncomfortable, but seconds later he returns with a towel, his corded, muscular arm holding the cotton fabric out to me in offering.

"You're wet," he states, and I almost burst into laughter. Damn tired, thirteen year old boy brain strikes again at the most inappropriate time.

Now it's my turn to clear my throat. "Uh, thanks," I say, accepting the towel, my hand accidentally brushing his large, tan one.

He takes a step back, brown eyes dark and deep. Set on me.

Okay, maybe I am a little wet. Well, wetter, now.

Jesus, Delilah.

I begin to towel off and Brad walks away again, exiting the locker room to the lounge, giving me that weird mix of relief and self-consciousness again.