Chapter Seventeen

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I have no idea what came over me last night. With Galileo, with those awful shrew women...

I still don't regret anything that transpired, but boy was it out of character.

Cassie's playing hooky today, electing to skip classes and stay in bed. I don't blame her, she went through quite the ordeal yesterday. I sort of wish I pushed those girls into the bonfire or something. They got off way too lightly, but anything more and I'd be facing some serious punishment. Devil knows Galileo's foaming at the mouth to give me a detention.

Damn wanker.

Of course, my first class of the day is with him. Like any other weekday, my morning has to start off on the wrong foot. The wrong side of the bed. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

I'm distracting myself with nonsense, and it's not very effective.

I get to class early, claim my spot with no issues, and wait. As loath as I am to admit, I actually enjoy this class. Galileo's biased teaching aside, the material is really interesting. Even if it's all lies, the version of Heaven and angel history that's presented to us captivates me.

As students trickle in, I try and fail to not watch the door like a hawk. Every time someone passes the threshold, I perk up, only to slump down when it's just another random angel or demon.

I tell myself I'm eager to see Aristotle, but that's only half-true. No, mainly, I'm anticipating a certain tall, insufferable, handsome angel. I ask again, what in the Heaven is wrong with me?

Rubbing my eyes with the heels of my hands, I miss his arrival. I feel it though and quickly drop my hands.

I've never been struck by lightning, but I imagine it feels somewhat similar to this. Shots of electricity flow through my body, short-circuiting my brain. 

My mind is against me, my brain cells mutinying despite my best efforts to placate and call for cooperation.

My eyes are glued to Galileo's body, picking up on tiny details. His chest looks good in his wool sweater, his hair is so damn shiny and soft. I stare at his Adam's apple, watching it bulge as he swallows.

You prefer the bulge in his pants, an errant thought intrudes.

See what I mean? Mutiny of the mind. I don't want to gaze at Galileo like some love-struck fool. He gave me one orgasm! One! It'll take a lot more than that for me to overlook his immeasurable faults.

He'll do a lot more if you let him, my brain unhelpfully suggests.

He'll do a lot more for Betty. Unless it ends with me in a body bag or buried six feet under, Galileo won't do diddly squat for me.

Why am I even arguing with myself? Is he right? Am I crazy?

"You can't burn a hole through him, Trouble. I've already tried that."


My intellectual lifeline. I wish I could tell him about my problems. Devil knows he can help me unpack some of my issues, understand them better. But, admitting what I've done with Galileo? Saying it out loud? That makes it real and I'd like to continue in this world of make-believe where nothing matters and nothing can hurt me.

"Trouble?" Aristotle presses when I fail to respond.

Breaking away from my one-sided staring contest, I turn to Ari. He's standing above me, a sleepy smile in place.

"I like your shirt," I tell him, taking a second to flick at the 'W' in the middle.

Looking down at the cotton, he says, "It's the Periodic Table of Elements."

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