Oh, I’ve had him all right. He’s screwed me every way from Sunday. God, what a mess. Shaking my head, I rub my fingers over the ache blooming between my eyes. “No, this is my first class with him,” I lie, “but what a jerk.”
“Maybe he was teaching you a lesson for not paying attention,” she says with a soft chuckle. “Whatever his problem is, I think you’re in trouble. Either he’s pegged you as trouble and is going to make your life hell or you’re about to become teacher’s pet.”
My lip curls in distaste. “This is why I like to sit in the back.” Maybe back there, I could have slipped under his radar the whole semester. Now, any hope of that is gone.
“Too late for that.” With a quick hug, Annie waves as she breaks away in the direction of the science building. “Catch you later!”
I lift my hand in a limp wave and watch her go. Teacher’s pet? A part of me is adverse to the idea, while another part of me is thinking of all the benefits that could come from it. We’ve never had sex bent over a desk before.
I’m getting ahead of myself. Nothing good can come of this, I tell myself. This man could fail me if I piss him off. My future is literally in his hands. Annie’s right, though. It’s too late to change anything now. The damage is done, and I need this class to graduate.
The thought is depressing, because I know he has me over the barrel, whether he realizes it or not. But I don’t have time right now to stand around pondering my fate. I have four more hours to get through before I need to get ready for my shift at the club—Mirage. Putting the last hour behind me, I beat feet toward the English Department.
FOUR
The second my last class lets out I’m running for my car. Although the sun is still high and it’s barely dinnertime, business at Mirage will be going strong as ever. There’s always a steady flow of patrons when booze and naked bodies are on the menu.
Opening the trunk of my sun-bleached Toyota Camry, I toss the tote full of books and tonight’s homework inside and exchange it for the black mesh bag that holds tonight’s costume. A secret smile tugs at my lips as I picture it. For a brief moment, I allow myself to wonder if my mystery man—erm, Professor Scott—will show. If he does, I wonder what he’ll think of the black, men’s dress shirt and emerald green tie and thong I’ll be sporting. I wonder if he’ll know that I’m wearing it for him.
As I maneuver through the parking lot, I catch sight of a familiar figure. He’s standing in front of his own car, a shiny silver BMW, staring into the open hood with a look of consternation. He’s stressed—I can see it in the firm set of his shoulders, and when he ruffles his dark hair and the frown grows deeper, I decide to pull over.
“Do you need some help?” I ask.
Professor Scott turns the full weight of those onyx eyes on me, and I shiver at the same time I flinch. He’s not just stressed, he’s pissed. In his hand, he grips his cell phone, and he lifts it, using it to point at the car. “The piece of shit won’t start. It just keeps clicking,” he growls.
When he recognizes me, his eyes narrow, and I hope it’s just the glare of the sun that incites that reaction. Although, I know better.
“That’s the first time I’ve ever heard of anyone refer to a BMW as a piece of shit,” I quip, choosing to ignore his attitude. “Have you called anyone to come out and take a look at it?” The question is rhetorical. Obviously, if he’s holding a phone, he would have already called someone.
“Of course,” he snaps, giving me a look that says just how dumb he thinks the question is. “I pay almost two hundred a year and they tell me I have to wait an hour and forty-five minutes for the truck to arrive.” He curses and the colorful language makes him somehow less a professor and more a person. More the man I am accustomed to.
This aggressive side reminds me of our last night together. Of the hard door abrading my back and the bruises he left behind on my thighs from where his fingers dug into my flesh—I feel a needy ache blooming between my thighs at the memory.
Staring at the open hood for a minute, I weigh all the options. If I stick around, I’ll be late for work. If I go, I’m pretty sure that makes me a dick. Even though he ticked me off earlier when he kicked me out of his room and attempted to humiliate me in front of the entire class, I don’t really get the impression he intends to be such a jackass. In fact, I think intense is just part of who he is. But he seems really freaking vulnerable right now. Maybe if I pull the Good Samaritan card, he’ll let me lay low for the rest of the year.
With that little spark of hope simmering inside my head, I put the car in park and open the door. Professor Scott eyes me as I step out of the car as if it’s the first time he’s ever looked at me. That’s absurd, since he’s been watching me strip bare on a stage for months, and stripping me bare in private for nearly as long.
His is a slow perusal that starts at my face and works its way down to my feet and back up again. When he lingers on my chest longer than necessary, I glimpse that telltale spark that lets me know he likes what he sees.
I can’t really fault him for it. I witness that same look in the men at the club every day. It’s classic visceral attraction. The man likes what he sees, but he doesn’t really know me, so that’s where it ends.
Unless one of us decides otherwise.
Perhaps this newness is due to the change of scenery. Outside the walls of the club and the hotel, I’m a real person. Not some fantasy that he can fuck and set aside for later, like some kind of porcelain doll.
I stand a little taller feeling that infusion of power that usually only comes when I’m working the stage. “You said it clicks when you try to start it?”
“Yeah, it just clicks.”
Brushing past him, I walk around to the driver’s side and slide into the buttery black leather seat. This car is a luxury in both price and style, and I take a moment to commit the elaborate dashboard, hand stitched leather and chrome details to memory. Hell, even the little tree, that smells of men's cologne and hangs from his mirror, holds a special place in my head. Through the windshield, I see the professor blink hard and collect himself.
Right, time to teach him a little about who I am.
Although the car won’t start, I try turning the ignition anyway so I can hear it for myself. It clicks once, and I watch for any signs of life from the dashboard. “Did it try to turn over the first time you attempted it?”
Crossing his arms over his chest, I can’t help noticing how the material of his shirt pulls at the shoulders and around his biceps. I had my hands on those last night, I think, smiling to myself.
“The stereo lit up for a second, but it stopped working. Everything stopped working.” His eyes narrow as he watches me get out. He tracks my movements, pivoting out of the way as I brush by him again to get a look under the hood. I know what he’s thinking. What does this girl think she knows about fixing cars? The answer: more than him.
My ’92 Toyota, a car that should last forever, is a lemon. The constant cost of repairs was eating up money as fast as I could make it, so I’d taught myself a few things. For instance, I know exactly what is happening to the professor’s overpriced hunk of metal.
“Your starter is bound up,” I say, looking over my shoulder at him.
His eyes widen in surprise, but then narrow into suspicion. “Let me guess, your dad or brother taught you a few things growing up.”
Again, he’d know the answer to that if he’d ever taken the time to get to know me. I can see this is about to turn into a crash course for him.
“My dad’s dead and I’m an only child,” I say casually, though I can see, by the way he drops his arms down to his sides and takes a step back, that he is shocked and regretting that last statement. “What I know about cars, I taught myself. Your starter,” I say, pointing at the car, “is shot. It’s a relatively cheap fix, especially if you can do it yourself.” I scan his fancy clothes critically. “But something tells me you’re not up for the challenge.”