Read Online Third Degree by Julie Cross - Free Book Online Page A

expect to accurately perform a heart transplant?
    “I can help you hit the bull’s-eye.”
    My aim falters at the sound of a familiar voice, and the dart goes wild, sticking itself into the white wall three feet away from the board. Marshall walks over and plucks it from the wall.
    “Is that part of your RA duties?” I keep my eyes on the board, preparing to throw again. “Helping freshmen learn proper dart usage?”
    “Safety is important.” He walks up beside me and places the loose dart into my free hand. “You get wild with these things and you could put an eye out.”
    “That expression is extremely inaccurate.” I miss again, hitting the top corner of the board, outside the point zone. “Are you here to babysit me some more? Make sure I don’t create any more drama for floor two?”
    He ignores my questions and drills me with one of his own. “Where were you all day? Did you go off campus?”
    I hesitate, keeping my eyes on the dartboard. Part of me wants to tell him I left and then came back because the dorm sucks about two percent less than my house, but I’m not ready to say it out loud. “Shopping,” I respond without further detail.
    “Well, my help has nothing to do with RA duties. Just a friendly bet between classmates.”
    My arm falls to my side. “A bet?”
    He shakes his head. “It’s more of an exchange. I’ll get you to hit the bull’s-eye, and you have to answer one very important question for me.”
    I snort back a laugh. “Deal.”
    Questions I can handle. But bull’s-eyes, not so much.
    I’m a little startled when Marshall’s hands grasp my hips, turning me so that my side and not my front faces the board. “Turn your head but not your shoulders or hips.”
    His breath lands on my neck, causing a shiver to run down my spine. I shake it off and pretend to roll my shoulders. This is beginning to feel a lot like Becca’s ridiculous orientation game. I feel his front brushing up against my back. His blue flip-flops slide between my feet.
    Okay, talk about crossing the RA/resident line . I think those words first and then let them spill from my lips before I have a chance to stop myself. Marshall laughs but doesn’t move away or reposition himself. He raises my left hand, the one gripping the dart, and holds my wrist. “Shoulder height, no higher, got it?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    He releases my wrist and allows me to throw in this new position. The dart barely makes it onto the board. “I said not to move your hips or shoulders.” His hand snakes around my waist, his fingers splayed across my stomach, holding my midsection in place. I try not to let myself get distracted by our proximity and how nice his fingers feel against my shirt. “Now try again.”
    This time I get closer to the bull’s-eye, but not any closer than I’ve already gotten in the past couple of hours.
    Marshall places a new dart in my hand. “Stop thinking so hard.”
    Loose strands of brown hair fall from my bun into my eyes. I blow them off my forehead. “How can I do this right without thinking? I’m trying to improve my surgical skills. Thinking is kind of a must.”
    “Muscle memory,” he says. “Rely on muscle memory. Thinking is for when something goes wrong.”
    I glance over my shoulder at him, surprised. I’ve never really analyzed surgical skills that way before, but I’ve watched my dad perform numerous surgeries from the hospital gallery and every movement is precise, almost rhythmic. “But how can I rely on muscle memory if my muscles have never experienced hitting the bull’s-eye?”
    “You’ve been training them to do something for the past two hours, so now we need to clear your head and find out what that is. Might be good muscle training, but it could also be bad training. Only one way to find out.”
    How does he know that I’ve been in here for two hours?
    “Practice makes permanent,” I recite. That’s Dr. Rinehart’s favorite saying.
    “Exactly.” Marshall nods. “