I’m kicking myself. Anyone would tell me this is not my fault, of course, but I know better. I’ve done nothing but think about calling Simone for the past three weeks since her graduation. I’ve been dragging my feet. If only I had contacted her…
The truth is complicated. For one thing, until three weeks ago, she was my student. Although she has now graduated and nothing stopping me from pursuing her, I wanted to put some time and distance between the last day of classes and my initial contact.
I’m a fucking rule follower. If I weren’t, I would have had that Little girl in my home—in my bed—about three years ago. If I were more daring, I would have been sneaking around with her for months, meeting up in clandestine locations.
I’m well aware that other professors have had relationships with students. It’s not technically against university policy for teachers to have personal relationships with students as long as they aren’t currently in one of their classes. It’s frowned upon, but not totally scandalized. There are instances where a teacher in their twenties is married to a student, for example. They might have been married before they ever moved to Seattle.
However, it was never okay for me to show any interest in Simone because she was in one of my classes for all but two of her semesters in four years.
Why haven’t I reached out to her since graduation? So no one could go back and accuse me of sleeping with her before she graduated.
Time and distance.
I’ve kept track of her. She’s good friends with Natasha. It’s not hard. Jameson gives me updates on her. I know she’s still living in the same apartment near campus. I know she’s been looking for an internship at a publishing house. I also know she’s been frustrated with my lack of contact.
I grit my teeth. If I had just called her… If she’d been with me tonight instead of anywhere else…
I pull into the emergency room lot, park, and jog toward the entrance. As soon as I’m inside, I rush to the check-in desk. Fuck. I hope they’re expecting me.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“A friend of mine was brought in. Simone Lighton.”
The woman glances at her computer and starts typing. “May I ask who you are, sir?”
“Camden Arnalt.” Please…
She nods. “You’re on the list.” She stands. “I’ll show you to her room.”
Thank fuck. Thank Jameson for thinking of this.
A door opens to my left, and I step through it to meet the kind woman, grateful that she walks quickly down the hallway. When she stops at a closed door and gestures toward it, I take a deep breath. “Thank you.”
She bustles back to the front.
I push through the door. My heart seizes as I take in the scene. Simone is lying on her side on the hospital bed. She’s curled in a tight ball with her knees to her chest. There’s a blanket over her, and she’s facing away from me, so I can’t tell what she’s wearing, but I’d know her jet-black hair anywhere. One of Simone’s small hands is visible. She’s holding an ice pack against her eye, but she lowers it to the bed as I enter.
A female police officer is sitting in a chair next to her. A nurse is standing at the foot of the bed. At least she’s not alone. I need answers, but I need to rein in my frustration and calm the fuck down.
The officer lifts her head and stands. “Are you Camden Arnalt?”
“Yes.” I close the distance and round to the other side of the bed. “Simone…” I don’t know what the fuck to do. What did Jameson mean exactly when he said attacked? I need more information. Fuck. One ugly four-letter word keeps running through my head, but I refuse to speak it out loud. Or even think it.
Please God.
I reach out and gently stroke the hair from her cheek, trying not to react to the black eye and the swelling on her face. “Simone… Baby. I’m here.” My fingers are shaking.
Her eyes are open, but she’s not looking at anything. She’s staring straight ahead at the floor. She hasn’t acknowledged me.
The nurse smiles tightly in my direction. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She leaves the room.
I look toward the officer. “Has she spoken?”
“Yes.” The officer nods.
“Can you tell me what you know?”
She glances at Simone. “She was attacked by a man while walking from her car to her apartment building. She fought him off. She did a good job, too. She should be proud of herself. Many women wouldn’t have managed to do as much as she did. Not only did she scream loud enough to attract attention, but she gouged him with her fingernails. His DNA was under every one of her nails. Based on the amount of skin and blood, I’d say some asshole is currently hiding out in the city with vicious scratch marks on his face.”
