And even as my heart sank for Mrs. Linden, that was just the beginning of my day turning to shit.
❖
The cafe was practically empty.
No one was in there except for a guy who’d been sitting in a corner booth since before my shift had started. This place was a twenty-four hour, privately owned coffee shop, and some nuts came in at three AM and stayed for hours.
I wasn’t sure why they weren’t asleep, because I sure as hell would be in their shoes, but frankly, I was grateful they were weird, since it meant I had a job. So, yay for insomnia!
Still, the man hadn’t moved from his position since I’d checked in, and the till was calling to me.
I knew it was stupid.
Knew I’d lose my job and maybe end up in jail if I was found out, but ten bucks?
Who’d miss that?
And from the tip jar?
Who’d miss a twenty?
I needed thirty dollars. But thirty goddamn dollars might as well have been thirty thousand.
I’d already taken the twenty from the tips, but I knew I’d have more chance of being found out since the staff were pretty vigilant about counting them before the start of a shift. The till was even more dicey, but what choice did I have?
My bosses wouldn’t pay me early—that would be like finding one of the unicorns on Scottie’s blankie had come to life. They paid every second Thursday, and unfortunately, that was next week.
I didn’t know anyone who’d loan me thirty dollars, because if I had, I’d have asked them already.
I wasn’t a thief.
I wasn’t.
But this morning, I had no choice.
Cheryl, Mrs. Linden’s neighbor, said she’d look after Scottie for thirty bucks, and knowing it was either that or leave him alone for fourteen hours with my mother, I’d had no other option.
I should have expected this. Mrs. Linden was old and ill. I should have budgeted better, should have allotted money for a time when I’d have to pay for childcare, but I didn’t have the luxury of savings.
Hell, my last luxury had been Scottie’s blankie eight months ago.
There was no budgeting when there was nothing to budget with.
Nausea swirled through me as I stared at the register. There was over a hundred bucks in there, since I’d had a pretty busy morning so far, and though I was desperate, I wasn’t a fool.
Closing my eyes, I keyed in the till and let the drawer open with a snick.
Sucking down a breath, I told myself I’d pay it back the second I got my paycheck, and slipped my hand into the old-fashioned register. If it was one of the new ones, I’d have been screwed, but it literally added up what we entered.
Grabbing the ten I’d put in there twenty minutes ago when my last customer had paid and I’d had the idea, I slipped it into my pocket.
God, the hole it burned there was as damning as anything. Dread filled me the instant I did it, and the nausea? Jesus, how did people steal for fun? How was this fun?
“Phoebe?”
Heart sinking at the sound of my name, I turned and expected to see my boss. It wasn’t unheard of for Lorenzo to come in this early to get ahead on the day, but when my eyes clashed with Professor Maclean’s, my heart dropped, and the nausea that had made me want to puke all over the freshly-baked muffins I’d just plunked onto the counter?
It doubled.
“Professor, I didn’t realize you were here,” I squeaked, my gaze darting to the corner booth that had contained the cafe’s sole occupant.
He’d been here all along?
Jesus.
“No, I bet you didn’t.” He frowned at me, darted a look at the till, then stated, “I expect to see you in my office after class ends.”
My eyes widened. “Sir?”
His narrowed. “Don’t you understand English now? Your last paper was certainly reminiscent of someone who doesn’t have a full command over the language, but it appeared you could at least understand the basics.”
My cheeks burned and my fingers curled into fists that had my nails pricking my palms. I’d worked damn hard on that paper, damn hard, and he’d graded it a C.
One of the best things I’d ever written, and he’d given it a goddamn C.
But reasoning with him was futile—I knew from other students who’d tried and failed. Plus, Maclean had a rep around campus. There were professors who got off on looking at their students’ asses and tits, some who might be flirted into an upgrade on their final grades, but Maclean?
Nope.
He was squeaky clean that way.
Rather than snap at him, not when he had to have seen what I’d just done, I whispered, “I’ll be in your office after class, sir.”
That beautiful mouth of his curved in a snarl, but his tone was quiet as he simply said, “Good.”
When he walked out, I staggered back into the counter, jostling some of the silver mugs and canisters awaiting their next use. As they tumbled to the ground with a clattering sound that had my ears ringing, I had to liken the cacophony to the shit storm that was heading my way.
Maclean was going to report me to my boss, hell, maybe even the police…
My mouth quivered and tears burned my eyes, because I knew no amount of reasoning would make him understand or empathize.
Three months to go, three months until I had something to offer the job market with my degree, and I’d blown it.
All for thirty damn dollars.
Chapter Two
Having changed out of my uniform, and into a pair of jeans that had been laundered so many times they were close to falling apart at the seams and a simple white tee, I left the coffee shop with a heavy heart.
Lorenzo wasn’t the best boss I’d ever had, but Maria, his wife, was a sweetie. She’d often give me leftovers to take home and had even bought Scottie a few cuddly toys over the past year.
I’d hated stealing from them, but Lorenzo would never have given me the thirty dollars, and if I let Mrs. Linden’s neighbor down, if I didn’t have the money to pay her, maybe she’d never babysit for me ever again.
Mrs. Linden had taken care of Scottie for free. I knew it was because she was bored and lonely. She’d said she enjoyed his energy, even though I knew he had to tire her out. Mostly, I thought she did it for me.
I was, this morning aside, a good girl.
Sometimes, there was no evading what you were. I was born to be walked on—be it by a parent or a boyfriend. I could only thank God that I was too busy for a partner, because if I had one, I knew he’d dump on me too.
As it was, dealing with my mom, Scottie, and Mrs. Linden was enough to handle.
But, as a child, when I’d seen Mrs. Linden struggling up the stairs with her shopping bags, I’d helped when I could.
The day her dog, Charlie, had been put down? I’d been with her.
And these past eight or so years, when I was too young to be doing my own grocery shopping, never mind someone else’s, I’d even grabbed her food for her because the elevator was continuously broken, and the stairs were too much for her.
She was my only friend, and that friend was nearly ninety and in a hospital I didn’t know the name of.
If I wasn’t terrified for Scottie, I was terrified for Mrs. Linden. And where those two terrors dueled, there was the fear over what I’d done and what Maclean was going to say to me to worry about.
I spent most of his class avoiding those beautiful brown eyes of his. They were, I swore, as dark as molten chocolate and set in a face that would make the angels sigh. But those angels didn’t know what he was capable of.
Cutting words.
Menacing looks.
Disgusted sneers.
I wasn’t sure what I’d done to him, but ever since I’d plunked my ass in the seat in his class that first day, he’d hated me on sight.
Not only was I barely passing because his grading was impossible to predict, but because attending his classes was torture. And I knew what torture w
as.
Being tied to a mother who trapped you with a child she didn’t want, who delved the depths of degradation to get her fix, was misery.
Yeah, I knew what suffering was, but for three hundred and sixty minutes a week, this torment was worse.
“A story isn’t just words on a paper. If you approach any project with that in mind, you’ll get nowhere. People don’t want to read words, they need a visual representation of a world they wish they could dive into, but one they’re glad they’re safe from—”
His eyes cut to mine again, as they often did, catching the gaze I’d forgot to evade while I was mesmerized by his beauty. More often than not, he watched me. Like he thought I’d steal something. Like this morning was what he’d expected of me, and that I’d fulfilled his dire prediction of my character.
I ducked my head, letting his words spill over me like water.
He didn’t know me.
He didn’t understand what my situation was.
To him, I may have been a filthy thief, but I wasn’t.
I was a good person in a desperate situation.
My palms grew slick as I stared at the clock above the whiteboards behind Maclean.
As the minute hand approached twelve, my nausea grew to the point where I wanted to puke in my bookbag.
Only knowing that my uniform for tonight was in there stopped me.
God, I’d never felt so sick in my entire life. This was worse than when my mom had undercooked the chicken at Thanksgiving one year and I’d had salmonella—I’d thought I was dying back then. That was how bad I felt right now.
When Maclean gave us our homework, I felt the sweat beading on my face as my terror manifested itself. With shaky hands, I wrote down what I needed to read before the next class, and as the rows of seats slowly emptied, I slunk down into the chair and waited.
And waited.
And waited for everyone to leave.
Of course, Maclean didn’t.
Did he think I’d run off? That I was going to avoid him?
I saw the bastard three times a week, and apparently, he visited the coffee shop where I worked—how had I only just realized that? But, with him at school and potentially at work too, how was I supposed to avoid him?
“My office,” he ordered grimly, that steel-like jaw clenching as he stared at me like he hated me.
Like I was his worst enemy.
I was nobody.
I was just some girl who’d barely made it into this college, who’d only done so by working her ass off at high school, and who was in this place from a scholarship.
I didn’t deserve to be loathed.
I really, truly didn’t.
And it wasn’t even related to this morning. That was the kicker. He’d judged me that first morning I’d come to class, and had condemned me ever since.
Inhaling a shaky breath, I got to my feet and hauled my book bag over my shoulders. It bulged with all the clothes inside it, and wouldn’t you know?
That split seam I’d been worrying over for a month?
It just happened to burst open right at the moment I made it to the stairs.
As my uniforms dropped to the ground, my books too, eliciting echoing thuds, a deep, resonant silence filled the lecture hall.
I stared down at the ground and wanted to bawl my eyes out. Seriously, I’d never wanted to cry so damn hard in my life, and this was a day for tears. A day for misery.
My bottom lip wobbled as I got to my knees and began collecting things. When I heard footsteps, I shuddered and, keeping my head bowed, carried on methodically folding clothes and gathering books together.
When brown Oxfords peeped into my line of sight, I gnawed my bottom lip and huskily whispered, “Sorry.”
He didn’t say, ‘Don’t be. It’s not your mistake.’
Didn’t tell me I had nothing to apologize for—it wasn’t like I’d wanted my damn bag to break at that moment, was it?
Instead, he just stood there.
Looming over me.
I could feel his eyes on me, crawling over my body and finding me wanting.
I’d never felt so small in all my life. So humiliated and mortified to be at this man’s feet, picking up my crappy clothes, stuffing them into a crappy book bag, and smelling of the cinnamon and coffee from the cafe.
I was everything he wasn’t, and I’d never felt that more keenly than I did now.
The only thing that could have made this more unbearable was if I allowed my rumbling stomach free rein. Puking over his three hundred-dollar shoes would really set the tone for our meeting, that was for sure.
With my shit stuffed into the open sack, I tipped it so the weight rested against the strong half of the bag, and hugged it to me to keep it upright. When I got to my feet, I wobbled a little as all the blood rushed to my head.
Dizziness hit me, but any color that came into my cheeks disappeared when I saw the look in his eyes.
“Why do you hate me?”
The words were whispered, stolen from me by circumstance rather than intention.
“I don’t care enough about you to hate you, Phoebe,” he replied calmly, as though his words weren’t like a knife to the belly.
If anyone knew the power of words, it was him.
How such a beautiful mouth could say such mean things, I didn’t know.
“Now, if you’re done making a spectacle of yourself, my office. Now.” He didn’t wait for me to respond, instead he turned on his heel and began his descent to the classroom desk.
After he gathered his things together in an elegant attaché case, he began to move toward the door and I, like the beetle I was to him, scurried in his wake.
The door almost banged in my face, and I gritted my teeth, refusing to let his lack of politesse affect me.
He was a jerk.
I knew that. This wasn’t breaking news.
Leaving behind the fluorescent-lit classroom, with its uncomfortable wooden seats, and the glare that made my tired eyes ache all the more, I was relieved to find myself in the dimmer corridor.
Traipsing after him wasn’t how I wanted to spend the short break I had between now and my next class, but what choice did I have?
No choice, that’s what.
Hot and cold flashed in alternate waves over my body, and in the end, I was relieved when we made it to his office—at least I’d get to sit down before I fell over.
That was my thinking, at any rate.
As he opened the door to his own personal kingdom, I slipped in behind him and headed to the chairs in front of his desk.
It was a surprising office for a professor. It was neither modern nor old fashioned, and yet wasn’t anonymous either. He’d made it look this way.
Unlike the other offices I’d been in, he hadn’t painted the walls. These were a bland magnolia, which somehow made everything else stand out all the more.
His desk was expensive—he’d brought his in—formed from a rich-hued oak and the grains were visible, darkened even, making the black leather chair with chrome accents stand out all the more. To his left, there was a black ash bookcase that didn’t actually house books, but stones. Though I didn’t get much opportunity to look, I realized quickly they were carved jade figurines.
I’d done my best not to be called into this office, because Maclean scared the bejeezus out of me with those eyes of his that should have made me burn, but instead froze me out worse than a cruise to the Antarctic. It sucked that his focus was now one-hundred percent on me, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.
“Take a seat,” he directed, his tone allowing for no disobedience, not that I had it in me to argue. Something about him made me jump before he even asked, and I never even questioned how high.
I plunked myself down, grateful to be off my shaky legs. The chairs in front of his desk matched his black leather and chrome one, but were smaller and, I recognized, lower to the ground.
Great, like I needed to feel more inferior than I a
lready did.
With my bookbag on my lap, I hid my fidgeting hands beneath the weight as I stared at him, watching as he unfastened his sports jacket, and hung it on a rack that was screwed to the door. As he did, he revealed a broad back, and the linen of his shirt was so fine, I saw the play of muscles beneath it.
There was speculation that he’d once played football for a big team over in Missouri, but I had no idea if that was true or not. Until now, I’d had no interest either.
Suddenly, that seemed stupid.
In this world, the only way to survive was to know your enemies, and I’d failed at that.
Maybe if I’d known his weaknesses, I could have played on them? Used them to my advantage?
Instead, I was in the dark. But, hell, who was I kidding?
To a man like Maclean, I was a bug and he could swat me away with his hand anytime he wanted.
When, finally, he took a seat, I tried not to notice that I could see his nipples through the fine lawn of his shirt, thanks to the shadows offset by the overhead light, but the very fact I could see something so private? It had my cheeks burning as I stared down at my bag, just waiting for him to start speaking.
“What did I see this morning, Phoebe?”
My nostrils flared. What did the bastard want from me?
Blood?
I wanted to stare him straight in the eye and call him out, but I didn’t. Couldn’t. I needed to be nice. Needed to make this go away if I could. If he’d let me.
“You saw a girl who needed thirty dollars to pay for—”
He snorted. “Need? You needed to steal?”
My throat closed. “No. I needed the money. My babysitter…” Mouth working, I finally got out, “She’s in the hospital, and the emergency childcare was more than I could afford.”
“You’re a mother?” he barked, and I stared at him, wondering at his sudden surge of temper. His usual ‘deep freeze’ insouciance caved in as the lava-hot rage surged around me like a tsunami.
Frowning, I whipped my head from side to side. “I look after my brother.”
His eyes narrowed. “How old is he?”
God, was he going to try to take Scottie away from me? No. He couldn’t do that. Could he? Maybe he could send the CPS around—oh, God, one look at my mom, and they’d haul him out of my apartment as fast as it took my mother to fall asleep after an all-night booze fest.
The Professor: A Standalone Novel Page 2