Dirty Professor (2 page)

"I wish you luck and a bright future in business. I know Noland's school is top-notch. But I'm looking for dedicated writers, not
exploring
--" he does finger quotes-- "or
possible
writers." He pushes my writing samples across the desk toward me.

I bite my lip, seriously fighting off crying now. Could this get any worse? Could this entire afternoon get any worse?

Apparently, it can. As I gather my writing samples and turn toward the door, Chase decides to offer me one last opinion. "You'll have to oppose your parents one day, you realize."

I whirl around. "What?"

His eyes dance, which is cruel considering how he's doing nothing but slam me. "Eventually, you'll have to go against them on some issue or other."

I struggle to keep my voice even. "What does that have to do with this?"

"Everything. If you're not ready to stand up to your parents, what makes you think you're ready to take a class like mine?"

Ugh.

I'm ready to bolt out the door, but my hand freezes around the knob. I can't help myself. Who does he think he is?

I glance back at him. "You were a non-English major." I know I'm risking being manually thrown out, but I keep going "Your first degree. Before you got a B.A. in writing. What was it, again? Med Chem?"

He's stock still, eyes wide. "Biochem," he says after a minute.

"That's right," I mutter. "It was Bryce Bowker who was Med Chem." I don't know how he responds to my smart-ass comment, because I turn and shoot out the door, past the secretary, past the remaining students waiting for their turn to be crushed like bugs, down the stairs, and across campus to my dorm, where I flop onto my bed and will away the humiliated tears that come anyway.

I  hope his fifteenth book flops.

Knowing it won't makes me cry harder.

C
HASE

The last student in a seemingly endless string of applicants grimaces in disappointment before giving me a sad smile and thanking me on his way out the office door. "And thank you for creating Bryce Bowker," he calls over his shoulder. "Your books got me through some tough times, so thanks."

What the fuck am I supposed to say to that?

As the door closes behind him, I stand up from my desk chair for the first time in what feels like hours-- has it been?- and stretch, feeling like a real bastard. Millions of dollars and fame doesn't mean I don't have a conscious, or feelings, but the rational side of me knows I can't allow everyone into my class.

In fact, Miranda Wilkes, the English chair who brought me on board here at Noland, told me to go with my gut and cautioned me about how with my presence here as a visiting professor, "new" writers who'd never before shown interest in the craft would suddenly crop up. So I looked out for those types, and I definitely weeded out a few.

On the flip side, I got some decent talent, but nobody who’s obviously got what it takes. One short, angry-looking chick came at me with about seventeen pieces of work from across the writing spectrum. She'll have to narrow her shit down to novels or short stories, but she's won several awards, and her writing is gritty, which I appreciate. Besides her, there are only a scant few in my "Potential" pile, all of whom I told I'd call if I decided to let them in.

And some people tried some crazy shit-- gimmicks like you'd see on American Idol. One dude dressed up like a Game of Thrones character-- what in the actual fuck? And another guy thought his Bryce Bowker T-shirt would matter. I mean, I'm flattered, but I can't let that be a factor.

And then that one girl... Emerson? The one who had "naive, innocent and spoiled" written all over her. I fish for her application. Addison. Addison Simmons. She totally caught me off guard, and not just because she's from the business school. She levelled one at me-- called me out on something, which nobody ever does, at least not anymore. And the thing is, she was absolutely right.

I wasn't originally an English major, just like she's not. My first degree was a B.S. in Chemistry-- good old Yale-- and I didn't start writing fiction until grad school, where I sat in frustration, not coming up with any good projects, daydreaming about a scientist who kicks ass. That's what makes Bryce stand out when compared to James Bond and those guys-- he's a legit chemist, and a lot of his stories bleed into sci-fi. I might not have made it to my PhD, but I learned enough to convincingly make my hero able to science his way through anything.

That Addision chick gave me a glare on her way out that would have singed through Bryce Bowker's heart, that's for sure. How someone can throw a proper death glare and look like she's about to cry, I don't know, but she pulled it off. I wonder if she ever gives that look to her almighty parents. I doubt it, because if she could, she probably wouldn't be stuck in the business school when she supposedly would rather be an English major. Which is unfortunate, because she does have raw talent.

I shove Addison's application back into the reject pile and shut down my computer. Time to get out of here for today and have some wine. You’d think I’d be used to disappointing people, but I’m not. Usually, instead of disappointing someone, I just leave. I’ve left every girlfriend I've had-- model, athlete, or actress. I left my hometown and my crushed mom, and I left my first agent. And now, as much as I can't admit it to anyone, I want to leave Bryce.

Yep. Bryce Bowker, the guy I owe everything to-- my fortune, my awards, my notoriety, all of it. I'd still be a defrocked grad student without him, but in this next book, my fifteenth, I kind of want to kill him off. Is that horrible?

I mean, the guy's a complete arrogant asshole. Sometimes I can't believe I wrote him. He came from my mind, and somehow he just gets more loathsome with every book. It doesn't make any sense, because everyone else loves him. I have no idea what happened, but I just can't stand him anymore.

Which is fucking unfortunate, because I took this job here in the wild woods of Oregon to really hunker down and work on this next novel in peace, away from all the paparazzi and insanity of New York and L.A. I thought maybe after I arrived, I'd have second thoughts, but I still despise Agent Bryce Bowker, Ph.D as much as I did before I got here.

The late afternoon sun glints off the evergreens, and for some unaccountable reason, I think about Addison the business student the entire drive home. The house I'm renting is sick, of course, and it's pretty removed from the campus, so I don't have to constantly breathe in college this and college that, or hear the frat parties thumping away into the night. But it makes for a longer commute, and my mind drifts to Addision's face-- hopeful at first, then all downhill.

Sad, because she's hot as shit. I wouldn't have minded looking at her all semester. She's got that natural beauty thing going-- clear skin, easy on the makeup, full lips,
great
legs. She must be into hiking, like so many of these Northwest chicks. She's got that Jennifer Aniston hair-- blonde and brown at the same time. Her tan shoes would never stand out on a red carpet. If she made it down the red carpet, that is. She totally bit it in the cafeteria earlier, and it took everything in me not to flip her shit, or let her know I remembered that was her. Poor thing looked like she wanted to drop through the floor when that happened. And then she showed up in my office and was all
oh by the way, I know you didn't major in English until after your science stint.

And those eyes. I swore they were blue in the dining hall, but when they misted over in my office and she shot me that look, they were almost bright green. Chameleon eyes.

I whip out my phone as soon as I pull up to my house. My personal social media accounts are hidden, so she'll never see me, but I tap in her name and find her immediately. Her profile picture is of her smiling away with an arm draped around her, and that man has the look of a guy who's used to running the show. Addison and the old man. How sweet. A family ski trip-- looks like Park City, but I can't be sure, since I only ever have time to promote Bryce Bowker shit at Sundance when I'm there.

I was right-- Addison is a daddy's girl, a goody-goody. Too bad. If she ever stood up to her parents, maybe she'd tap into her real potential. I notice she likes my official author page, and the Bryce Bowker Line of the Day fan page. I also notice she likes Jeffrey Eugenides and some other authors who most college kids wouldn't have heard of.

There’s a picture of her laying on a beach somewhere, in a red one-piece while all of her friends are in skimpy bikinis. She’s smiling into the camera, those long legs on full display. I imagine them wrapped around my waist as I push the crotch of her swimsuit to the side. I imagine twisting that long hair around my hand and pulling on it, hard.

My cock twitches as I force the thought out of my mind. Fucking a student is not going to happen. That was one thing that was made totally clear to me when I signed on for this gig. Shit where you eat, and you’re fired.

Still, I click around for a few more minutes-- I find her Goodreads account, and skim some of her reviews-- she's written a ton of those, and they're thoughtful, like she truly enjoys reading. That's one sign of someone who values the craft as opposed to just trying to hop onto the train.

Is it possible Addison is a serious budding writer? I remember how my mom moaned into the phone when I told her grad school wasn't going so well, and how awful that felt. Maybe Addison is right where I was.

I think about her ass in her tight jeans, that damn picture of her in the bathing suit, how delicate and small she felt when I picked her up off the floor in the cafeteria.

Maybe I wasn't totally fair to this girl, I think, as the blood rushes back to my dick. I should at least try to rectify that, shouldn't I? I bet she'll forgive me. I bet I can bring that smile back, the one she flashed me for half a second when she first stepped into my office in those skin-colored heels.

Fuck, now I'm hard.

I'll give her a call later. Maybe in a few minutes.

But first, I head upstairs into the massive black marble bathroom and turn on the shower. I strip my clothes off, step inside, and close my eyes, picturing those sensible nude heels of hers digging into my back, imagining how tight her little pussy would feel wrapped around my shaft. My cock is raging hard. I palm my dick and jerk off, thinking about good it would feel to come inside of Addison Simmons.

A
DDISON

I spend the rest of the afternoon blurring into evening with my face pressed into my pillow. For a while, I contemplate taking a NyQuil just to knock myself the hell out. But I fall into a daze on my own and am half aware of Kensie inviting me to dinner and my mumbling a no, and the click of the door as she leaves.

I'm jolted awake by a dull trill. It's the landline phone, the one required to be in all dorms, even though nobody really calls us on that phone except my mom when I don't answer my cell. I roll over and pick it up.

"Hulluh," I grumble into the receiver.

"I’m looking for Addison Simmons."

Definitely a male voice. Definitely familiar. Definitely deep and sexy.

"This is her," I say. "I mean, this is me."
Ugh.
"This is she!"

There's a pause, then the voice says, "Third time's the charm."

"Is this that guy from Kappa Sigma again?" Some dudebro from the hardest-partying fraternity got all enamored with Kensie on move-in day, and he's called a couple of times, but Kensie's never here when he does and he doesn't leave his number. And I'm not giving him her cell.

"This is Chase Brooks."

Oh. My word.

My thoughts of Kensie and the frat guy kind of slam into each other. Chase Brooks?!

Calling me?!

"What guy from Kappa Sigma?" he asks, his voice laced with something. Jealousy? No, it couldn’t be.

“This guy who just keeps calling here.”

“A boyfriend?”

“No!” I say, a little too quickly. “I mean, he wants to talk to my roommate.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

"Listen," he says, as though I was going to do anything else. "I've given it some thought, and since we're pressed for time, as class starts tomorrow, I'd like you to come over here tonight. And bring your writing samples.”

"Um... what?"

"I'd like to give you another shot. But I've already left campus for the day, so I’d like you to come to my house.”

No, asshole.

"Yes!" I exclaim, sitting bolt upright. "Yes. When?"

"Now."

"Okay, sure. Just tell me where."

Chase gives me his address and I jot it down with one of Kensie's Sharpies.

"See you soon," he says, and hangs up.

I dart to my dresser mirror and yank a brush through my brownish-blonde hair. With hair that can't figure out which of those colors it wants to be, and eyes that can't decide if they're green or blue, I think how I feel inwardly is represented pretty well on the outside. But right now, there's no hesitation whatsoever. I'm going over there and claiming my rightful chance at getting into this class. I keep my jeans on and exchange my tearstained sweater for a dressy T-shirt-- indigo, my favorite color-- under my fleece. I dab on some mascara-- my eyes aren't puffy from crying anymore, thank God-- and swipe on some tinted lip gloss.

I scrawl a note about going for a drive on one of Kensie's post-its and stick it to her laptop. I feel bad, but technically I am going for a drive. I'm just driving to Chase Brooks’s house.

I fumble with my keys like I've never unlocked a car before and climb into my dad's Tahoe. It's still very much his car, and only on loan to me so I can get back to Portland easily to visit. I hadn't needed a car at PSU, but out here in this woodsy town, it's definitely less complicated with a car.

The address Chase gave me shows up on my navigation as exactly where I thought it would be-- Poet's Creek, a section of town backing up to the river with huge lots and houses to match. I wind around the long streets and admire the mansions and huge farmhouses set back from the road. My mom keeps pushing my dad to buy property out here. I hope they don't do it until after I graduate, or else they'll be in town every weekend and breathing down my neck.