Litany Of Sins

8 LYLE

CHAPTER 8

LYLE

L I L A

2012

Everett shifted in his seat, the metal legs scraping against the linoleum floor as he turned his entire body toward me. He propped his chin on his palm, his sleeve rolling back to reveal a thick, tanned wrist, and he looked at me with an expression that was entirely too cozy for a room filled with preserved organs.

“So, Lila,” he began, his voice dripping with that signature cocky drawl. “Since we are officially stuck together, we should probably skip the formalities. What do your friends call you? You know, besides Calculated Saboteur or Ice Queen?”

“hey call me Lila,” I replied flatly, staring straight ahead at the blackboard. I pulled my notebook out of my bag with a sharp snap, trying to create a wall of stationery between us. “And I do not recall giving you permission to worry about my social life.”

“Oh, come on. Everyone has a nickname,” he pushed, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the table. “Lili? Lil? L-Rod?”

“No,” I said, my voice tight. “And I do not need to let you know even if I did. We are lab partners, Everett. Not confidants.”

“Everett? Ouch.” He jokingly placed his hand on his chest, as if he was hurt. “We are back to the full name now? I thought we were on a Rett basis.” He chuckled, undeterred by my cold shoulder.

He began ticking names off on his fingers, leaning closer until I could smell that annoying, minty scent again. “Let’s see... Rhodesy? No, too masculine. Rose? Too soft. How about... Lyle?”

I paused, my pen hovering over the paper. I finally turned my head to look at him, my brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “Lyle? That is a man’s name.”

“Exactly,” he whispered, a mischievous glint in his hazel eyes as that dimple made its unwanted appearance.

My brows knitted together in a hard line. “I am not a lesbian,” I stated with cold, clinical intensity. I didn't appreciate the insinuation he was making about my identity just because he found my personality stiff.

Everett let out a low, melodic chuckle that vibrated through the metal table, his gaze dropping to my lips for a fleeting second before meeting my eyes again.

“Relax, Lyle. I was not questioning your preferences,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a velvety, intimate pitch. He leaned in even further, his shoulder nearly brushing mine, effectively dismantling the wall of stationery I had built.

I rolled my eyes at him as he reached out, his fingers hovering just inches away from the pen I was clutching. “Besides, it is unique. It is clunky. It is kind of annoying—just like you are trying to be right now. It fits perfectly.”

“Do not call me Lyle,” I hissed, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks from sheer irritation.

“Too late, Lyle,” he smirked, leaning back and crossing his arms over his broad chest under his white shirt on. “It is already growing on me.”

I did not blink. I simply reached across the table, pushed the scalpel toward him with the tip of my pen, and gave him a look that was as cold as the cadaver in front of us while Doctor Kline had already given us an activity to do together as a pair.

“You can call me whatever you like, Everett, but if that mouth of yours costs us a passing grade on this practical, I will make sure the only thing dissected in this room is your ego. Now, pick up the tool or get out of my way.”

He let out a short, sharp laugh, seemingly delighted by the fact that he had managed to get a rise out of me. Before I could snap back with a rebuttal about his lack of maturity, he reached across the table and pulled the heavy, leather-bound anatomy atlas toward him.

His fingers flipped through the pages with a practiced ease that made me pause. He stopped at a complex diagram of the brachial plexus—the tangled web of nerves that supplied the arm—and his expression shifted. The playful glint in his hazel eyes did not vanish, but it was joined by something else: a sharp, focused intelligence.

“Fine, if you are going to be the professional one, Lyle, let us look at the task,” he said, his voice losing some of its teasing lilt. “Since Dr. Kline is obsessed with the anterior compartment today, we are going to have to be careful with the Musculocutaneous nerve. If you just hack away at the Coracobrachialis, you will sever the innervation to the biceps and the Brachialis before we even get to identify the vascular structures.”

I blinked, my mouth parting slightly. I had spent three hours last night memorizing that exact pathway, and he had just recited the clinical significance of the dissection as if he were reading a menu.

“You…” I started, then cleared my throat, trying to regain my composure. “You actually read the manual?”

He looked up from the book, catching my look of pure shock. That insufferable dimple reappeared, but this time it felt more like a challenge than a taunt.

“I might be a bulky, mindless asshole in your eyes,” he said, quoting my words from the day before with a smug wink, “but I did not get into this program just by having a pretty face and a spare key to Arlo’s room. Anatomy is all about the layers, Lyle. You have to know what is underneath before you start cutting.”

He spun a scalpel between his fingers with a dexterity that was honestly aggravating. “So, are we going to stand here being surprised that I have a brain, or are we going to find the Cephalic vein?”

I watched as he expertly maneuvered the scalpel, exposing the vein with a precision that bordered on surgical. It was frustratingly impressive.

“Actually…” I hesitated, my pride warring with my academic curiosity. “I was reading about the Musculocutaneous distribution last night. I could not quite wrap my head around the sensory component of the lateral antebrachial cutaneous nerve. It seemed... inconsistent in the diagrams.”

He did not even look up, his voice smooth and conversational. “It is not inconsistent, Lyle. You are looking at it too linearly. Just remember: it is a sensory continuation. Think of it as a bypass, not a terminal point. It branches at the elbow, deep to the cephalic vein. If you visualize the cephalic vein as your anchor, the nerve distribution makes perfect sense.”

I stared down at the specimen, then back at him. He was right. It was so simple when he laid it out. I felt a flush of annoyance—he was supposed to be the mindless one, yet he was effectively tutoring me.

“How do you…” I started, then bit my lip. “How do you know that?”

“Know things?” He smirked, wiping the blade on a gauze pad. “Maybe I pay attention when I am not busy getting banned from buildings.”

He leaned back, his eyes dancing with a sudden, audacious thought. He studied my face for a moment, his gaze sharp and assessing. “You know, this partner thing... it is a waste of potential if we only do it in this chemical-smelling dungeon. You are clearly obsessed with getting an A, and I am clearly the only one in this room who can actually explain this mess without boring you to tears.”

I narrowed my eyes, bracing myself. “Where are you going with this?”

“I am going to be unbanned next week,” he said, tapping the metal desk rhythmically without stopping. “And I happen to still have Arlo’s spare key.”

My breath hitched. “You are absolutely not stepping foot in my room again.”

“Come ooon,” He tilted his head to the side, “I am talking about study sessions, Lyle. High-intensity, high-grade study sessions. I come by, we go over the difficult concepts—I keep you from pulling your hair out—and you get the grades you want. It’s a win-win.” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low, teasing whisper that made the air between us feel heavy. “Plus, I think we both know you study better when someone else is there to keep you focused. And let’s be honest—I am way more interesting than a textbook.”