by Blake, Remy
“I’m already in one.” I don’t want to be the person to fill her in on how those study groups usually go. Considering this is King University, one of the top Ivy League schools in the country, I expected much more when I joined than what actually happens. Most of the time when we meet, it turns into one big gossip fest and a giant waste of time.
If I could find someone to tutor me, I’d probably be able to turn this around. But who? I don’t know any of the student tutors off the top of my head. My gaze swings to Ms. Martínez and find her studying me.
“Do you ever tutor students?” Her dark chocolate eyes widen and she looks like she wants to say no, so I jump back in, delaying her response. “I just need a few weeks of extra help and then I think I’ll be okay. My parents will gladly pay you.” She opens her mouth to answer and I lean closer to her, pouring on the McAdam charm. “Look, I really need this grade to keep my GPA where it needs to be. Please say you’ll help me,” I implore.
She presses her lips together while her eyes shrewdly study me.
“Please,” I beg. “My parents are going to murder me in my sleep if you don’t help me. Do you want my death on your conscience?” I jest. Sort of. And she smiles.
“I certainly don’t want that. But unfortunately, I don’t tutor students. If I make an exception for you, then I’d have to do it for everyone who asks. I simply don’t have the time to take that on.” She rises to her feet, standing next to me, placing her tits level with my eyes. They’re some impressive tits. Full and high, they call my attention before my gaze can skim up to meet hers. And when it does, I can tell by the knowing expression on her face that she caught me looking. Oh well, I’m a twenty-two-year-old, perpetually horny guy and she’s a thirty-something smokeshow. I’m sure I’m not the first to ogle her, and I won’t be the last.
Her smile is tight. “I’ll see you Thursday,” she mentions our next class day.
“Yes, ma'am. You will. If I’m still alive,” I kid, but I’m not really joking. I know my parents and how this is going to play out.
She waves her hand dismissively and clicks away on her high heels. My eyes zone in on her retreating form, the perfect distraction from the shitstorm waiting for me when I leave this room. Each step shows off her defined calves and I wonder if the rest of her is as toned. I actually hope not. Fit is great, but there needs to be a little jiggle in all the right places.
My gaze climbs up, hovering on her ass. As shallow as it might be, that was the first thing I noticed about Ms. Martínez on the first day of class. When I walked into the room, she was bent over in front of her desk picking up a piece of paper. Even though she did her best to squat down instead of bending over, there was no disguising the round shape beneath her black pants.
Staring at her ass has since become a favorite pastime of mine. It was probably the main reason I enjoyed this class so much. Come to think of it, do you think my parents will understand if I tell them my drop-dead gorgeous professor is the reason I got a fifty-five?
Rising to my feet, I sling my backpack over my shoulder and grab my exam packet. I’ve spent enough time sitting here, and enough time staring. I’ve got another class in twenty minutes. If I hurry, I can make it to King Koffee beforehand.
* * *
Standing in front of my parents’ front door, I might as well be standing in front of a firing squad. Okay, that’s a bit dramatic, but tell that to my stomach. There’s an endless stream of somersaults going on inside and I’ve felt this way since I received the text this morning summoning me for dinner. The message came from my father, so I know this isn’t a case of them missing me. Not that they’d ever miss me anyway. But occasionally my mother will invite me to dinner under that guise. Usually it’s when they have company and I need to perform like a circus monkey. ‘Good boy, Connor. Show them what a well behaved son we have.’
Most kids can come home from school and enjoy a meal with their parents. They can catch up and talk about what’s new for them. That’s not how conversations go in this place and they never have. Small talk is minimal in this ten thousand square foot mausoleum. My parents save that for people they want to impress, not people they’re related to. They only go the extra mile when there’s something to be gained. And I have nothing to offer them except obedience. It won’t always be this way, though. Soon, I’ll control my own destiny, but for now I toe the line they mapped out for me and swallow down all the truths I want to spit out at them.
If it wasn’t for McAdam Law, my father’s company, I wouldn’t put up with the way my parents treat me. But for as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to take over our family’s company. Started by my great-grandfather in the forties, it’s one of the most successful law practices in D.C. We have departments for any kind of law you might need. And someday it will be mine. My father can’t continue working forever. At sixty years of age, he’s approaching the point where he should think about retiring. And I know that my mother would like to travel more. With any luck she’ll put some pressure on him to work less and leave the country, and he’ll listen.
Pressing on the doorbell, I drag in a reassuring breath. It’s better to get this over with. Not like I had a choice, though. When Connor McAdam Sr. orders you to do something, you don’t ignore his wishes. I’ve been there, done that, and it didn’t go well for me.
The solid mahogany door in front of me swings open, revealing my parents’ butler.
I smile widely. “Arthur, how are you?”
“Connor, I’m well, thanks. How are you? I swear you get bigger every time I see you. Are you still working out daily?” We shake hands and thump each other on the back.
“I’m hitting the gym as much as I can,” I answer.
“Your father instructed me to send you to his office the moment you arrive.” His expression is consolatory. He works for him; he knows what a dick my father is.
“I figured as much.” I clench my hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Seeing you is one of the best parts of coming here.” I keep my voice soft and he doesn’t acknowledge he heard me, but I know he did. And what I said is the truth. Arthur has been more civil to me than my own parents have.
Releasing my hold, I step past him, prepared to face my father. Now is as good of a time as any. I know this visit is about my Spanish grade. My father has a knack for knowing everything about me without me having to utter a word, so I know it can’t be anything else.
His office is on the first floor in the back of the house. My sneakers squeak on the shiny hardwood floors as I move in that direction, distracting me from the impending conversation. But once I’m standing outside his open door, my heart begins to race like a locomotive.
“Connor.”
My hackles rise at his displeased tone. This is going to be ugly. “Dad, hi.” I sweep inside and head toward his desk, pausing in front of the gargantuan piece of furniture. He gestures for me to sit in one of the two chairs situated across from him. Sinking down, I relax back, crossing my ankle over my knee, feigning a nonchalance I’m not feeling.
His fingers tap over the keyboard and his eyes scan the large screen for what he’s looking for. “Do you know why you’re here?”
“No, sir.”
“You have no idea?”
This is the point where it gets tricky. If I say I know, it could potentially anger him more. If I say I don’t know, the same thing could happen.
“No, sir.”
“I figured as much,” he scoffs, turning his large screen my way. “Look at this,” he shouts, pointing at the fifty-five in the column allotted for Spanish grades. “Did you know that you did this poorly, or are you oblivious?”
I take a deep breath, silently counting down from ten, hating the way he speaks down to me. “I knew I didn’t do well on that exam.”
“Well, why didn’t you?”
“I don’t know, sir. I’ve been studying as best I can, but I’ve been struggling with the last few chapters.”
“What are you going to do about it?
You know the problem won’t correct itself.”
“I’m going to find a tutor.”
“You’ve known this whole time and haven’t managed to find a solution?” he berates.
“I asked Ms. Martínez, my professor, but she said no. Apparently, she doesn’t tutor.”
“I’ll speak to Dean Billings about that. I’m sure he won’t be happy to know one of his professors is refusing to help out a student of hers.”
“Thank you, sir.” I know exactly how this is going to pan out, and while I don’t want to cause trouble for Ms. Martínez, this is all about self-preservation. And I need to get through this as unscathed as possible.
“Get this problem under control before you end up with an unacceptable grade. I think we both know you don’t want that to happen.”
“Yes, sir.” I don’t want that to happen because it would mean listening to your bullshit some more. If only I had the freedom to say that and every other truth I’ve bottled up over the last three years. Someday the floodgates will open and all the things I’ve refrained from saying will flow through and I’ll be in the position of power, forcing him to listen. How fucking bittersweet it will be.
“You can go now,” he dismisses me, pulling me from my musings.
Rising to my feet, I pause. “Thank you, sir,” I choke out the appropriate reply before I turn and make my way from the room.
Once I’m in the hallway, my fists repeatedly clench. Fighting the urge to punch a hole in the wall, I will myself to calm down. One fucking bad grade all semester and he’s gotta bust my balls. He could’ve spoken to me on the phone, but no. It’s much more humiliating to get me inside his office and pull up the grade for me to see. As if I wasn’t already aware. Fuck him. I don’t manage to stay off my parents’ radar without keeping close tabs on my grades. This is one slip up.
But getting worked up doesn’t help, and I’m about to sit down to dinner with both of my parents. I need to find some inner peace because there’s still plenty of aggravating shit to get through.
4
Harper
I’m just about done finalizing the mid-semester reports when there’s a soft knock on my office door.
“Come in,” I call out. Surprised to see Cole peek his head through, I smile at the unexpected visitor. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same question.” He’s at my desk in four steps, standing there with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his hands shoved into his pockets. “I saw your light on and figured I’d see if you were finishing up soon. Maybe we could grab something to drink?”
I met Cole at the beginning of the school year. Both moving here from out of town, we hit it off immediately and have been somewhat inseparable ever since.
Like a surrogate brother, I know I gravitate toward him because I miss my own family. It’s the one thorn in my side, crippling me from really enjoying my time here at King.
“How about you walk me home instead?”
Cole frowns at my rejection. “It’s Friday night, and you want to stay at home?”
“I’m sure you have other plans,” I tell him. “And I’m tired. We can have drinks together any other time. Even invite Miles.”
Miles is the third point to our triangle. A local, and a King veteran, he’s the one we turn to when we need help figuring this place out. Dealing with his own divorce and three-year-old son, Miles’ time is often too chewed up to hang out, therefore using him in my ploy to deter Cole from wanting to go out is the perfect plan.
Looking at me pointedly, Cole drags out the chair that sits tucked under the front of my desk. Taking a seat, he rests his forearms on the solid wood and steeples his fingers. “What’s up with you lately?”
“Nothing.” I keep my voice calm and taper down my need to get defensive. That will only prove that his observations are correct. “I’m just busy.”
It’s not necessarily a lie, but it’s definitely not the truth.
After the adrenaline of moving to a different state and starting a brand-new job wore off, I began to settle into an unhealthy habit of avoidance.
After classes are done, I catch up on my workload. And when that’s done, I go home and eat dinner by myself. I watch trashy TV till I’m tired, go to sleep, and repeat it all the next day.
I hate it, yet it’s the perfect way to keep my feelings under lock and key. It’s a habit I’ve created out of necessity, but I’d be lying if I didn’t acknowledge how much it irks me.
The repetitive nature of it all makes me dislike being in my own skin, and in my own head. I can’t be the cagey person I’ve become; a mere shadow of the loud, secure, and happy person I used to be.
Lost, angry, and uncertain, every day I try to wrap my head around the disparagingly different life I now lead. This life without Anthony. The life without my forever.
A typical friends to lovers romance, Anthony and I were together for five years. We went to school together, but didn’t really hit it off till we were both home and settled back in from college.
I thought the fact my brothers knew of him, and that he seamlessly fit with my family when I needed him to, meant we were secure. Solid. Tight.
I was his world, or so I thought. He was the gentleman that opened doors for you, bought you flowers for no reason, and didn’t leave your side without telling you he loved you.
Every time I think back to the letter he left me, it’s so hard to reconcile that the two actions came from the same man.
The note was foreign, just like the man who wrote it.
I didn’t know him anymore, or maybe I really never knew him at all. I was totally oblivious to the world he’d cultivated behind my back, or the reasons he chose to deal with it alone.
I’d like to think that if I knew the truth I would’ve supported him. That we were strong enough to deal with whatever it was he was desperate to hide; so desperate to run from.
When the initial shock had subsided, my family begged me to talk to him. To find out what happened. What went wrong and where he disappeared to.
But I don’t need those answers. None of them will ever be enough to erase the fact that he stole from me. Stole from my family. He had no qualms in breaking my heart and choosing to walk away. That alone speaks louder than any of his endearments ever did. Any of his gifts, and any of his touches. Any history we had meant nothing to him, and now I’m ensuring he means nothing to me.
“You’re always busy,” Cole counters, insisting on pressing the issue. “And while I understand just how taxing this job can be, I’m worried about you.”
I wave my hand at him, brushing him off. “There’s absolutely nothing to worry about. I promise this workload just keeps piling up and I don’t like having to think about it on the weekend.”
Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie.
“I’m just saying, ever since I moved off campus, your hermit status has reached an all time high.”
He’s not wrong. When we first met, we both lived on campus. Wanting their newest recruits to feel as comfortable as possible, King provides subsidized, on-campus housing for their staff. It might be saving my bank account, but I hated living there.
When Cole was around, I let his friendship fill the ache from missing my family. Using it to comfort me as I tried to settle in as quickly and as comfortably as I could, him moving hit me harder than I thought it would, or even expected it to.
Now that he’s gone, I’m not friends with anyone that lives in the university-provided lodgings. Somewhere in my mind, I’ve convinced myself that if I can hide from the world, I can hide how much I hate being at King, and away from my family.
Unfortunately for Cole and Miles, they are casualties of this train of thought. Every time I see them, I associate them with work. And as the weeks go by, my dislike for this place means I’m distancing myself from them too.
I tell myself there’s nothing wrong with how I’m living. That it’s all for the right reasons, no matter how weighed down with loneliness I’ve come
to be. I can admit I’m homesick, and I can feel it suffocating me.
No matter how obvious and imperative my reasons for being at King are, I can’t seem to do anything without being reminded of the family I left behind. They’re my greatest asset and my biggest weakness, and I can’t work out how to balance the two.
Every day starts with a pep talk, but every night ends with a tear. It’s a habit I need to break, and with Cole’s worried and disappointed face staring back at me, I realize it’s a change I need to make now.
“Okay, fine,” I concede. “Where are we going?”
* * *
In forty-five minutes, Cole and I are sitting in the back of a little hole in the wall Brazilian Barbecue restaurant. With a wine in hand, I peruse the extensive menu as Cole’s fingers fly across the screen of his phone.
“Making sure you check in?” I tease. “Tell the other half when you’re coming home. I didn’t know you live with one another.”
He rolls his eyes. “We don’t, but every now and then I find a nice surprise in my bed and I needed to make sure tonight wasn’t one of them.”
Cole is deliriously happy these days, and while the reason for his happiness is still very much a vague admission on his behalf, he knows I support him no matter what.
“And is tonight one of them?” I pry.
“Lets just say I’d like to be home by midnight and preferably not drunk.”
“Afraid you’ll turn into a pumpkin, Cinderella?” I tease.
“I just don’t like the keeper of my glass slipper waiting too long,” he quips.
“God you’re sickly sweet,” I say before pouring more wine in my glass. “Part of me wants to swoon at the reference and the other part of me kind of threw up in my mouth.”
The smirk on his face tells me he doesn’t care how cheesy he’s being. He loves it.
“It’s not like you can’t click your fingers and have someone warming up your bed for you.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. I’d rather spend my time hearing about two guys go at it.”