Dirty Professor Read online

  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.

  ADDISON

  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.

  Chase's house is quintessential Pacific Northwest-- tan shingles, lots of glass, lots of trees-- so many that you can't even see much of the house from the street, which is probably why he chose it. I pull up to the gate and tap in the code he gave me, and a few seconds later, I slow to a stop in front of the enormous double doors.

  A tall figure is silhouetted behind the translucent glass doors. When I alight from my SUV, one of the front doors opens and Chase Brooks steps onto the porch, clad in jeans, a white T-shirt, and socks. He looks like he could be any regular guy just hanging around his house. Well, any regular seriously hot guy hanging around his own house.

  "Thanks for coming," he greets me. He flashes a smile that I definitely didn't see back in his office at school, his teeth perfectly straight and gleaming white. "Sorry this is short notice. I just thought about our conversation a lot after you left, and I decided to see if you were up for a do-over."

  "I'll consider it," I tell him, and his bright blue eyes alight with something I can’t put my finger on, almost like he sees me as a challenge. Is this the same guy who unceremoniously dismissed me outright before even reading my writing samples? If I wasn't standing here on his front steps beholding his friendly grin, with the same perfect nose, same strong jaw and deep dimples beneath those same ice blue eyes, I wouldn't believe it myself.

  The house is even more stunning on the inside. Everything is exposed wood and beams, and the massive windows frame perfect swaths of evergreen forest and mountains. The living room is open so I can see out the windows on both sides of the house, and I notice the backyard blends into the forest. It feels like a contemporary ski lodge, and the fire in the grand stone fireplace twists and burns and pops, casting a glow on the room. And on Chase, who looks unfathomably hot striding to the fully stocked bar across the gargantuan living room and plucking an opened wine bottle from where it sits on the bar.

  I take a seat on the L-shaped couch, and Chase joins me, seating himself on the adjacent section. Not quite facing me, but not next to me, either. I briefly wonder what it would be like if he did sit beside me, then shove that thought away. I need in this class. That's why I'm here. My heart is thrumming a staccato beat against my rib cage, and I will it to calm down.

  "I like a nice Spanish red," he says, pouring two goblets and handing one to me. "Don't you?"

  "Definitely," I fib, even though most wines taste the same to me. Oh, hell. I'm not about to start pretending now. "I mean, I don't know."

  "Oh?"

  "I'm not that experienced. With wine," I add hastily, hoping he doesn't notice the blush coating my cheeks.

  "You're a good girl," he says, with the tiniest smirk indicating he does notice.

  I half-shrug, not really wanting that label but knowing it's accurate. "The good girl bit got me into Noland, so there's that."

  "And Noland is grateful." Chase's eyes smile at me above the rim of his wine glass.

  I wonder if he's grateful. I shouldn't care, after being rejected from his class, but I can't help hoping so.

  "Should..." I wonder how to get him to read my stuff without interrupting this chillaxing thing he's doing. "Should we go over my work?"

  "We'll get to that." He sips his wine and observes me, but his gaze isn't condescending or intimidating like it was in his office. It's more searching, like he's genuinely trying to learn more about me.

  "I like this music," I announce, not sure what else to say if we're not going to talk about my writing yet.

  "Spanish guitar. Goes with the wine."

  "It reminds me of Gaudi's Curse," I say. Chase's eyebrows arch up in interest at my mention of his tenth book. "The movie, I mean. It had more music and scenery in it than the book." God, what a stupid thing to say. Of course it had more music and scenery in it than the book! It's a movie. "I mean, you could actually hear the music."

  Luckily, Chase is nodding. "I know what you mean. And yeah, that was one of the more well-done Bowker films."

  "Did you get to go hang out on the set?"

  "Of course. I do at all my movies. But Spain, I mean, come on. I didn't want to leave."

  I wonder if that was because of the actress who played Bryce Bowker's love interest in that movie, that one with the Grecian goddess name. I open my mouth to ask Chase if the rumors were true that he dated her during the filming, but think better of it. Do I really want to know? And besides, who hasn't he dated? Normal people. Average people. Just red carpet walkers and catwalk strutters.

  Chase might just be reading my mind. "I liked shooting in Spain because we weren't bothered as much. By the paparazzi, that is."

  "So you gave them even more reason to hound you by dating what's-her-face?"

  Oops.

  "Touché," he admits, giving me a you got me smile. "But, it's funny. I never really liked that whole scene much."

  "So
someone held a gun to your head and made you date famous women?"

  Chase laughs. "I guess I got swept up in the glamour of it. I kept thinking it could all go away in an instant. And those women? Like Athena?" Oh, that was her name. "There wasn't a thing on her that was real."

  Yet he was still with her, and for how long? I just grimace a smile at him and sip my wine. It really shouldn't bother me who he's been with or how long they were a thing.

  "That's why you intrigue me," he says slowly.

  I intrigue him? My bell warms again, and this time the heat settles a little lower between my legs. "How?"

  "You're different." He sets his goblet down on the coffee table and stares at it like he's asking it to help him form a sentence. "You're authentic," he finally says.

  "Well, yeah. I can't afford plastic surgery."

  "You don't need it. You're beautiful without even trying."

  There's no way I can stop the blush that sweeps over me this time.

  "And I'm not even just referring to physical authenticity. You have a genuine air to you that follows you around. Like, this 'No BS' vibe, while still being nice. You're like the girl next door, but you don't take shit. I could take you home to my mom right now and she'd love you."

  "She didn't love Athena?"

  "Hated her." He rubs his hands on the knees of his jeans and tilts his head at me. "But then, I've never let my parents dictate how I live my life."

  The silence hangs thick in the air. I don't think he meant it as a jab, but it feels like one. Or maybe it's because I inwardly jab myself whenever I think about my parents and what I'm doing.

  "I need more wine." Chase gets up and brings the bottle to the coffee table, refilling his glass. His strong biceps flex under the material of his t-shirt, and the ache between my legs intensifies. I shift on the couch and avert my eyes from his muscles.

  "Tell me," he says, sitting back down. "What would your parents say if they knew you were interviewing for my class?"

  "They'd ask if it was an elective." I decide to leave out what they'd say after I told them it's not an elective.