His Shooting Star: A Steamy Standalone Instalove Romance Read online

  “We’re just making sure you’re okay,” the nurse reminds me, looking edgy when the doctor frowns at her.

  “Alright, I guess you can go,” he huffs. “But are you absolutely certain you’ve never injured this ankle before yesterday?” he asks for the millionth time.

  “No,” I practically shout.

  He shakes his head then shrugs again. Another doctor appears and they become engrossed in the images. I can only just hear what they’re talking about.

  “That’s a compound fracture alright. But healed, rather nicely too I might add.” The second doctor says before he studies some other images. His mood shifting from interested to annoyed.

  “But there’s no real residual or internal callus. How long ago was the break?” he asks, murmuring now.

  Doctor one leans in and I do too, straining to hear anything they’re saying now.

  “According to the patient and her medical records, she’s never fractured her ankle or anything else. Only sprained it last night.”

  “This hematoma’s consistent with a break, but the bone repair is not. Is this some kind of prank, Doctor?” asks the other.

  Straight away I remember the first time Xander touched me. It was his huge hands on my foot and ankle.

  That feeling.

  That wonderful soothing feeling.

  “Glitch in the scan maybe,” he finally announces, sniffing with satisfaction.

  “In the same place, at the same angle from four different scans? Look at the CT images,” the first doctor hisses, grabbing the other one by the sleeve.

  “Well if she broke her ankle yesterday this would be divine intervention. A miracle if you will, Doctor?” The second says, snatching his sleeve back.

  “And good luck trying to convince anyone of that,” he calls over his shoulder, storming off and mumbling about having his time wasted.

  It is true though.

  As far as I know, I’ve never broken anything. Only lost my first teeth but never had anything more than a bump or bruise my whole life. The fall yesterday is probably the most I’ve hurt myself ever.

  Like the guy just said, a glitch on the scan. Probably a hair or something. Happens all the time.

  My whole foot feels warm again like it did when Xander held it.

  I’m no doctor, but when people break something it hurts so much they scream like I did when I first fell. Thought I was going to faint from it.

  Until Xander.

  And there it is again, all those dozens of questions I know I have bubbling up to the surface. I remind myself to ask him, but he either changes the subject or something else happens.

  I guess now, after this morning we’ll have plenty to distract me with, but I know there’s more to him than he’s telling me. I just know it.

  And once again, when I think about it hard enough it’s like I can hear his voice in my mind.

  Do you really want to know?

  Not if it means we can’t be together. That’s always my final answer.

  All I want right now is Xander.

  I actually don’t care about the Patterson place so much or her stupid dog. I just want Xander.

  What did she expect? She left her house to a college student for a year, and dogs run away all the time.

  Plus, like Xander said, Orion will come home when he’s hungry enough.

  “Seriously, can I go now?” I ask the next nurse who passes by.

  “I’ll just have another word to the doctor,” she replies, again.

  I’ve asked nicely and I’ve shouted, but it’s like they’re deliberately keeping me here for some reason.

  Oh my god.

  My dad. What if they’ve called my dad?

  He must’ve told them to keep me here until he can come to get me, then I’ll never see Xander again if he finds out what we did.

  How could he find out? I’m not telling him, it’s none of his business.

  And Xander wouldn’t tell. Would he?

  “Hullo young lady,” A familiar voice calls out from behind me. “What on earth’s brought you here?” he asks.

  My language professor, who insists everyone use ‘Mister’ instead of Professor as his title.

  “Mr. Swanson,” I exclaim, saddened to see he’s looking unwell with some oxygen tubing going into his nose.

  The friendlier nurse wheels him up next to my chair.

  “Thought you two might like some company while you wait,” she says cryptically.

  “My heart,” he explains in his broad but cultured English accent. He makes a vague effort to tap it but really looks so weak and frail, I feel bad for him.

  “I only saw you last week,” I remark. “You seemed fine,” I add, wishing I’d kept it to myself.

  He grunts, and almost looks as if he’ll turn away, but he leans in a little closer.

  “And what are you in for?” he asks confidentially, ignoring the huge bandage on my ankle at the end of my leg, sticking out at an odd angle.

  I’m in the mood to say something sarcastic, but Mr. Swanson is so sweet.

  “I sprained my ankle,” I confess, realizing how silly it sounds now, especially after seeing those x-rays and hearing the doctors.

  “Ah,” the old man muses. “Bad business that. Knew a chap once, lost both feet in the war. Bad business,” he says again shaking his head.

  We sit in silence, his wheezing and the occasional click of his oxygen pump the only exchange between us until I figure why not?

  “Mr. Swanson? What can you tell me about Professor Sexton?” I ask, wondering what the word among the faculty might be.

  He’s thoughtful for a moment, old man cogs turning, and then he makes a sound of exclamation which sets off an alarm, signaling his heart rate’s too high.

  “You really mustn’t excite yourself,” The nurse chides him after coming over and making some adjustments, giving me another queer look.

  “Sexton. Yes. Brute of a man, nearly seven feet and strong as an ox by the looks. Never seen anything like him, not at his age anyhow,” he remarks.

  “How old is he?” I ask, remembering Xander said he was forty-two.

  “Dunno exactly, but with all those letters at the end of his name, he must be closer to my age. They don’t just hand out professorships and doctorates. They never used to anyhow,” he says to himself gruffly.

  Something seems to flash in the old scholar’s mind and he starts to wag his finger in front of himself.

  “He’s not in any trouble is he?” he finally asks, nearly whispering.

  I lean in as much as I can, worried for Xander now, and dying to know what the old Professor does too.

  “Years ago now, before he started with all that black hole stuff. He was up in those hills sending some sort of magic beam, trying to signal UFOs.”

  For some reason, I get a chill when he says that.

  “Ha,” I exclaim halfheartedly. “Who’d believe in that stuff,” I add.

  But the old man grows very serious, giving me the sternest look in the four years I’ve known him.

  “Plenty do my dear, plenty do,” he says gravely. “Matter of fact up until only a few years ago was anyone allowed up in those hills except Sexton and all his gadgetry.”

  I’m almost falling out of my seat by now, hoping he’ll hurry and tell me his story before he gets whisked off for his own tests.

  “Military got involved, then it all went quiet. Then it was just men in suits and dark glasses. Took the professor in the night some say, but he was back on campus a few weeks later.”

  “What happened?” I ask, astonished I’d never heard the story in all my years on campus and I tell him as much.

  “You’d have to ask the man himself,” is his only reply. “And I wouldn’t go making too much noise about it either, very strange business when you get that end of the government involved.”

  “Sexton,” he hums to himself again. “May interest you that apart from old Irish ancestry it’s also Swedish for the number sixteen. I was readi
ng something about it just now before this bloody heart of mine decided to give out.”

  The nurse reappears and as quickly as he came, Mr. Swanson is off, breathless from our chat and I feel like it might be the last I see of him again too.

  Sexton… The number sixteen.

  I sit reeling, remembering the first words Xander said when he introduced himself.

  “You’re Gillian Parker, from the campus. And I’m Xander. Xander Sixteen.”

  It begs the question, whoever or whatever he might be if not a regular guy who just happens to tick every box.

  If he’s really Xander Sixteen, does that mean there’s at least fifteen more just like him.

  The thought makes my head ache, and then something else pulse with heat.

  One is incredible. But a room, a whole house filled with a dozen or more Xanders?

  I shudder in the best possible way, jumping when the nurse touches my arm gently.

  “I heard what the old man was saying,” she whispers, squatting down in front of me, pretending to adjust my bandage.

  “Years ago, we had case after case of homeless people or drugged up students coming in, all telling the same story…”

  My eyes grow wide with the question.

  Can’t people just tell each other stuff anymore, why all the damned suspense?

  “…Not all flying saucers and little green men. No,” she says firmly, glancing around to make sure no one else can hear.

  “But a—”

  There’s a piercing alarm that hurts my ears, followed by a loud intercom announcement.

  ‘Code blue in x-ray. Code blue in x-ray. All available staff and crash cart to x-ray. Code Blue’

  “Shit,” The nurse mutters, hurrying to her feet without telling me anything else. “That’s your professor,” she calls back to me, making me sadder than I’ve been in a long time.

  Not sure if it’s because he’s so sick or because it feels like Xander’s only said so much about himself, what exactly he does. Who he even is.

  I hear his voice in my mind again, a sheepish look on his face as I imagine what he would say.

  “I’ve known you for like one day, Gillian. Gimme a break. One Earth day too,” he reminds me. “On Jupiter, one day is only about ten earth hours…”

  I smile at the thought, but find myself suddenly crying.

  Crying for Mr. Swanson. Crying for myself and crying for knowing the lengths I somehow know Xander would go to protect me, including never telling me certain things.

  A part of me is crying for the whole world too, we’ve got so much in the world but just as much misery and pain.

  Chapter Ten

  Xander

  “You’re gonna have a very cranky Mrs. Patterson on your case, Hank,” I threaten him gently, smiling as we head to the station.

  “I’m supposed to be helping Gillian get things set right for the family’s homecoming, a day early don’t you know?” I ask, resting my palms flat on my thighs, deciding to try and enjoy the ride instead of feeling like I have no real say in the matter.

  “She is rather particular,” The Sargent remarks. “What needs doing at the place?” he asks, keeping our conversation light.

  He whistles through his teeth, shaking his head when I read off the mental list.

  “And all that by tomorrow?” he adds. “Still, we have little Orion at the station, that’s one thing off the list, I suppose.”

  We eventually reach the local police station, not the one on campus as I might have expected.

  Routine? I don’t think so.

  The likes of Eames have been replaced by state troopers and some worn out looking detectives in suits.

  There are a few diamonds in the dust though. A couple at least, I can spot FBI a mile away, even though their own silt.

  “Uh, sorry for the pretense, Xander. But you being so… well. Big and all, we didn’t want a scene in case you didn’t wanna play nice,” Hank drawls, giving me another one of those looks.

  The look a killer gets when it’s revealed and all the neighbors can’t believe it.

  ‘He was such a quiet man, so gentle. Always willing to help.’ That kind of thing.

  “You did good, Hank,” I tell him, letting him know I’d have driven myself voluntarily if only I was told what all this is about.

  That’s when Mr. and Mrs. Suit step forward, introducing themselves as special agents with, yep. The FBI.

  “We’d like a word, Professor Sexton. This way,” Mr. Suit tells me, avoiding eye contact and holding his hand towards a corridor full of interview rooms.

  Mrs. Suit seems more interested in my chest and crotch. I can feel her eyes on my ass while I walk in front of her too.

  Sorry, lady. Already all accounted for and definitely not for sale.

  “Can I call you for a ride home, Hank?” I holler over my shoulder, but he’s leaving already and pretends not to hear me.

  The feds get straight to their point, file after gruesome file is opened as they start their preamble telling me the story of their most wanted man right now.

  Likes to hang out in the woods. Like college girls, that sort of thing.

  I look at my watch, blowing out some air and apart from being a little cranky I missed breakfast, I’d really appreciate a call to Gillian right now.

  Surprisingly it’s Mrs. Suit whose the bad cop and she leans over in front of me, spreading out her fan of gory crime scene photos, maps, and the like.

  “We’ve traced you to within fifty miles of each of these sites in the past ten years within weeks of the crimes. Last night you were seen carrying a young girl through the woods to your cottage,” she snarls.

  I’m waiting for the rest, but that’s the floor show.

  “If that’s all you can dig up on someone in a decade and you’re paid by the hour, this country would be broke. Oh, wait—” I hear myself drone, moving to stand up.

  Mr. Suit’s unhappy with this.

  “Sit down, Mr. Sexton. We’re far from done here,” he says calmly, his eyes registering my own lack of interest in whatever mistake it is they’ve spent so much time putting together.

  The door to the interview room opens quickly but silently and in walk a couple of more suits.

  But the proper kind.

  The kind I usually work with.

  “Actually you’re both done here,” one of them announces, voice dark.

  My guys are all black suits, dark aviators, spirally little earpieces. The whole bit.

  Before anyone else can speak, the two FBI agents looking like they just saw their own career deaths, I ask anyone who’s listening what I’d like to happen next.

  “I need the cell number of a Gillian Parker, a student at the college. She was taken to the college medical center this morning.”

  “Right away colonel,” one of my guys lets me know, hardly even moving his mouth when he speaks.

  “Colonel?” asks the FBI agents in tandem, looking from me to each other and then to me again.

  “Like I said,” dark-voiced suit announces for a second time, sounding bored with having to say it twice. “You’re both done here.”

  “I think you might both be done is right,” I add, not hiding my annoyance. “And yeah, it’s Colonel Xander. Not the kind you think, either,” I add for effect.

  My second suit returns, sliding a ready cell phone with the number I need, waiting for me to press call while both of them begin boxing up all the FBI’s case notes, files, and anything else they’ve brought with them.

  A senior-looking, very disappointed man enters next, his FBI badge hanging like a giant bread tag around his neck. Senior Director of operations.

  Without a word he ushers his two out and my guys follow, leaving me free to make my call.

  Gillian picks up on the first ring.

  I breathe for what feels like the first time since she was left at the medical center.

  “Do you always answer private numbers?” I ask, smiling at the sound of her voice.
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  “Only when I know it’s you,” she tells me truthfully.

  “That’s my girl. How’s the ankle?” I ask. Genuinely hoping she’s okay.

  “Uh, apparently it broke and was healed all in less then twelve hours,” she says, sounding like someone who has some questions.

  “That’s great news,” I smile. “I hope you’re feeling better.”

  “I also met...” she starts, lowering her voice but thinks better of it.

  I don’t press it, just want her back with me. Want us home. But I’ve got a nagging suspicion I’ll have to be away from a few days to tie off some loose ends.

  I want us to have some time before then though. More than time. I want her, me and a bed. Alone for a very long time.

  It’s all a lot to tell her now, so I’ll see how things pan out once I get the heads up on who and why the feds are poking around in my yard in the first place.

  Second, but not least important. “We’ve got a house to clean,” I remind her, making her groan.

  “Can’t we just grab some lunch first?” she asks, my own belly groaning at the thought of food.

  I’m pretty sure we didn’t have dinner last night either.

  “Sure,” I tell her. “You’re still at the medical center?” She confirms that.

  “I’ll come get you myself, but if you see some guys in dark suits and sunglasses wanting all your x-rays and taking your doctors away, don’t be upset, okay?”

  “What?” she asks, but I just want to get to her.

  “I’ll explain when I get there.”

  Or not.

  “Just concentrate whether you want waffles, pancakes, or steak,” I add, feeling like all three myself.

  “You will come?” she asks a nervous edge in her voice now.

  “Gillian, I had no idea those clowns were coming today. It won’t happen again. I won’t leave you like that again, I promise,” I tell her, wincing as soon as the words leave my mouth.

  I know full well I’ll have to leave her just one more time, but it’ll be for the last time.

  “Just hang tight, I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I tell her. “Oh, and Gillian?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I...I love you,” I tell her, chickening out a bit and hanging up. But now she knows.