The Professor: A Standalone Novel

by Akeroyd, Serena

  Still, that was for another day. For the moment, I could pay Cheryl, so I just needed to get to work.

  And hopefully, Professor Maclean would distract me from my misery.

  Of course, I should have realized there was no ‘hopefully’ about it.

  The professor was here for blood, and like a shark, he circled around me the instant Jose had left with a tired yawn and the promise of an empty bed to climb into.

  I envied him.

  God, I just wanted to go to sleep too.

  He left his booth and headed to the counter where I was wiping down the small mess Jose had left behind. I didn’t mind cleaning up after him. Jose was a messy worker, but he didn’t have a problem with me running a few minutes late. We had a good relationship on that score—I cleaned up his mess, he didn’t mind if I wasn’t always punctual.

  Symbiosis in the workplace. What more could any employer hope for?

  When Maclean approached me, I stopped mopping up crumbs and discarded coffee grinds and turned to face him.

  “Good morning, sir, how may I serve you?”

  His eyes were narrowed slits as he stared at me—seriously, did the guy know how to do anything but glower when it came to me?

  “I’ll have a cafe latte.”

  “No please or thank you?” I retorted, staring stonily at him.

  His top lip twitched as he passed me a twenty-dollar bill. “Keep the change. That’s ‘thank you’ enough.” When I took the note, his other hand shot out. “Use the bathroom and insert this.”

  My body tensed at the strange object he passed me, but though I practically lived like a nun, that didn’t mean I was stupid.

  “Would you like me to stick a dildo inside me before or after I serve you coffee?” I snarled at him, aware that my cheeks made a beet look insipid in color.

  “Before.” He smirked at me. “Don’t be long.”

  I glowered at him and took a look at the thing. It was bright pink, had a ‘C’ shape that was thick at one end, and had a kind of tab on the other, which, I assumed, sat on my clit.

  It looked like a spermatozoon had gotten high on LSD and had ingested a crap ton of cherry Kool-Aid.

  Mouth tightening, I shot him a look, saw that wicked glint in his eye that I was coming to learn spoke of his amusement, and with a huff, turned on my heel and retreated to the bathroom.

  On my way there, I kept my back to him and questioned, “Watch the storefront?” I was supposed to lock the door when I was ‘alone’ and needed to use the restroom.

  “Of course.”

  I nodded and headed on to the bathroom.

  Was I irritated that he hadn’t asked me why I’d been crying? Yeah, I figured I was. But also, whatever he was doing with me wasn’t about him caring about how I felt, and I got that.

  Still, the situation presented me with an issue.

  I was drier than toast and no way was that thing going inside me in my current frame of mind.

  Plunking the toilet seat down after spraying it with the disinfectant bottle there, I wondered how the hell I was going to do as he asked. The last thing I wanted was that thing inside me, but staring at it like it knew the answer to world peace wasn’t going to get me anywhere.

  Realizing I needed to clean it, I got up, headed back out of the stall and to the sinks. Washing the toy with the liquid soap, I dried it off with a paper towel, stared at it, then looked at myself and whispered, “How the fuck did this even happen?”

  Shaking my head, I retreated to the stall once more, dropped my pants to knee-height, and tried to think about sex. The good stuff. Ya know, the stuff I hadn’t had.

  Seriously, I’d had more orgasms with Professor Maclean glowering at me than I ever had. I’d never had a penetrative orgasm, and the two experiences I’d had, had been with a boyfriend who’d ended up in jail for eight years on a grand larceny charge—apparently, I had shitty taste like my mother.

  “Okay, thinking about Shawn isn’t going to get you wet,” I muttered, so I did what had worked for me last night.

  I thought of Maclean’s stern features, of the tic in his jaw, the vein that pulsed in his temple. I thought of that bitterly snarled mouth and those eyes that could make me burn with both fire and ice.

  Like that, I felt it.

  Heat.

  In my belly.

  I released a shuddery breath and slipped my hand between my legs. I was wet, not like the Niagara Falls or anything, but enough to work this thing inside me.

  As I leaned against the bathroom door, my head cushioned by my forearm, I touched myself, tried to get wetter, and only thinking about the schmuck tormenting me worked.

  Christ, I needed more than a therapist, I needed to be tossed in the local asylum.

  With the hot pink vibrator inside me, I got myself fixed up and went to wash my hands. As I stared at myself in the mirror, I wondered what he saw when he looked back at me.

  My hair was wavy, thick and lustrous—probably my best feature. It was a dark brown and it complimented my skin tone, which was a warm olive. My eyes were green and, at the moment, they sparkled. Same went with my cheeks—they were bright pink from what I’d just been doing.

  As I stared at myself in the dowdy uniform, with the black cap that shielded my forehead, and the apron that made me look frumpy, I wondered what on Earth he was getting out of this.

  He looked like that, and I looked like this.

  We were worlds apart.

  I mean, last night, I’d seen those chicks on the dance floor eying him up like they were piranhas and he was a fresh meal. But not once had he looked their way. Not once had he gotten up to dance.

  Gnawing on the inside of my lip, I shrugged off thoughts of how drab I was, how he had to be doing this for some kind of joke, and as I sucked down a sharp breath to spur me on, I headed for the door.

  The second it was open, the vibrator turned on.

  Even though I’d suspected as much, it still came as a surprise. A startled and breathy, “Oh,” escaped my lips and I stared blankly at nothing as I felt the low-lying vibrations pulsing through my sex.

  Unable to bear it, I clenched my eyes at the same time as I bore down on the toy, and when that happened, my face rearranged itself as the painful pleasure hit me.

  It wasn’t an orgasm, but Jesus, it was close.

  The thought spurred me on and I realized I needed to make his coffee. I was a little brain-dead as I worked, making him his drink all while staring blindly into space when he messed with the different vibrations. He’d surge them up, then lower it to almost nothing.

  The bitch of it was, the nothing hurt more than the whole-heap-of-something.

  When I grabbed his drink, I hurried over to his seat, thankful he’d turned down the vibrations as I carried the hot coffee over to him, and whispered, “Here you go.”

  He grunted when his gaze flickered from his laptop to the beverage I’d set down before him. “I didn’t ask for a cappuccino.” He tsked. “Get me my latte.”

  His commanding tone got my back up, and I racked my brain, trying to think about his order but it was no good. I didn’t remember.

  I picked up the coffee cup, but he grabbed my wrist. “Leave it.” With his other hand, he shoved a five-dollar bill at me. “Go and get the latte.”

  Dazed when, with my first step away, the vibrations surged higher, I felt the tremor all the way to my bones. Shuddering a little, I carried on walking, aware that he was watching me the whole time. Not just as I stepped away from him, but as I made his drink.

  When I returned with the latte, he was polite. “Thank you.” I nodded, intent on returning to my duties, but he murmured, “Take a seat.”

  In time to that demand, he sent the vibrations soaring high. Higher than before. So high, my knees buckled and I settled into the booth with relief.

  His chuckle set me on edge, but his words calmed me some—he hadn’t been mocking me. “So sensitive.” His voice was a croon that worked on me just as hard as the vibr
ations did.

  I blinked at him, aware I was a little dead-eyed. Licking my lips, I whispered, “I’ve never—”

  “Never used one of these?” Though I didn’t see how he was controlling the device, he fiddled with the vibrations as they surged high before sweeping low, and once again, my face crumpled as I felt his ministrations deep inside my body.

  “No,” I confirmed on a shaky sigh. These things cost the fortune I didn’t have.

  “This one is quite interesting. It’s synced to a song.”

  Well, that made sense now I thought of it. He hadn’t looked away from me the second I’d taken a seat, and the vibrations were all over the place, haphazard rather than remote-controlled, something that would fit with a deep, heavy bass. “Which song?”

  His lips curved. “That would be telling.”

  Gulping, I whispered, “Can you turn it down a bit?”

  “No.” He tilted his head to the side. “Why do you look like you’ve been crying?”

  Stunned that he’d asked, I whispered, “The woman who helped raise me and my brother died last night.”

  His eyes flared wide and he reached for his phone. “When?”

  “About two hours ago.” I grunted as the vibrations died down to nothing—was it weird that I considered that to be a respectful move on his part? “S-She was the reason I—” I sucked down some air. “I’ve never stolen anything in my life. But when she was taken to the hospital the other day, I had to arrange for childcare. I didn’t have the money.” My eyes burned with shame. Swallowing thickly, I murmured, “She died all alone and I couldn’t go see her again because I was working.”

  I bowed my head, hating my words, hating how they’d made me feel.

  I’d been sleeping while Enid had taken her last breaths on this plane. I’d been sleeping with a lighter load thanks to the gift she’d given me…

  God, I hated myself.

  When his hand gripped mine, it had me jerking back in surprise. Of course, I couldn’t have just done it neatly. Nope. Couldn’t have winded myself as I slammed myself against the cushioned wall behind me. Oh, nope. Too easy.

  I knocked over the scalding hot coffee, managing to drench my arm in the stuff.

  The instant the heat hit me, I yowled, and he stared down at me like I was a time bomb that he felt sure was about to explode.

  As pain assailed me, I released a whimper and that seemed to work. He shuffled out of the booth and quickly hustled me onto my feet. Together, we rounded the counter toward the kitchen, and he instantly turned the faucet on the second we approached the sink.

  When he stuck my arm underneath the cascade, he muttered, “Keep it there. Where’s the first aid kit?”

  Though I blinked at him, I pointed to the wall—it was right in front of him. He shook his head. “Need glasses,” he grumbled, more to himself than to me, I figured. But damn, I’d pay to see him in glasses.

  As he pulled out bits and pieces from the kit, I let the cold water soothe the scald and chided myself for being an idiot.

  Who the hell burned themselves on coffee?

  Christ.

  The kitchen scented of freshly baked muffins and coffee from the front, but also, his aftershave… and as someone who adored Lorenzo’s recipe for blueberry muffins, I could attest to the fact that Professor Maclean smelled better.

  The place was typical for a mom-and-pop joint. Kind of grody, in need of a new layer of paint, but painfully clean to the point of being Maria’s obsession.

  When I cut him a look, saw his brow was furrowed as he delved into the kit, I realized how out of place he looked and how much I fit in.

  He was made for faculty events, boring cocktail parties in smart suits where other professors gathered together and talked about boring shit. He belonged in casual designer gear like the polo he was wearing—legit gear, too, not fake—and those shoes of his probably cost more than my past five pairs combined.

  What the fuck was he doing messing around with me?

  I was a student; he was my professor.

  Wasn’t this a breach of the rules?

  As much as he was blackmailing me into keeping quiet about what he’d seen, didn’t I hold leverage over him? I had proof of his calls, could attest to the fact he’d been in my place of work… Hell, if I got to the Dean first, I could make it look like he was stalking me. Sure, they would probably laugh me out of the office, believe him over me, but there was still a threat.

  So, why?

  Why was he doing this?

  When he headed out and began searching the counter for something, I watched him. His thick blond hair was mussed up, like he’d been running his hands through it over something hard he’d been working on. His brow was creased as he hunted down whatever he was searching for, and in his casual outfit, he looked all the more handsome. Enough that I stared at him and wondered what he’d look like without the clothes, without all the gloss.

  I bet he’d look even finer.

  When he returned with Clingfilm, I didn’t argue. The wrap was basic 101 in scald treatment, but I was surprised he knew that. Most people didn’t know first aid unless they had to know it for a job, and it made me wonder if, back in the day, he’d worked in a place like this, had strived to reach his lofty position.

  Somehow, that made me feel better.

  Made me feel less like a lost cause.

  When he turned off the water, I winced because the heat instantly hit me. He gently dabbed the area with clean swabs from the kit, and moving fast, loaded my arm with a burn cream before rolling some Clingfilm on it and covering it up.

  When he shoved a couple of Ibuprofen at me, I shook my head. “It isn’t that bad a burn.”

  “Doesn’t mean it won’t sting.” He stared me down until I accepted them and put them in my mouth. Under his watchful eye, I reached into the fridge under the counter and took a deep sip of the water I pulled out.

  He released a relieved sigh. “Good. It will feel better soon.”

  I stared up at him, wondering at the concern on his face.

  “What’s happening here?” I whispered.

  His lips twisted into a half-smile that looked the antithesis of amused. “That’s for me to know.”

  “And for me never to find out?” I shook my head. “It doesn’t work like that.”

  When he reached up and traced a finger along the curve of my jaw, I realized it was the first time he’d ever touched me intimately. Not just the comfort of hand-to-hand contact, but an intimate, personal caress.

  My body froze into one huge piece of ice before it flowed molten hot as I shuddered at the simple, negligent touch.

  My response to him was beyond anything I could have anticipated.

  I’d never expected this.

  Never thought to feel so much for someone who was intent on making me miserable.

  I was sick.

  I had to be.

  Who got off on the person who bullied them? Who made them do things no one should ever ask of another human being?

  Me, that’s who.

  My eyes closed as his finger trailed down my jaw and across my throat. Every single nerve ending leaped up in response, and I shivered, completely in his control as he whispered, “That’s exactly how this works.”

  And with that, he moved away, leaving me cold, alone, and wanting him.

  Chapter Six

  Mrs. Linden, Enid, had arranged her own funeral.

  I wasn’t sure if that came as a relief or not. It meant that the State didn’t rely on her nonexistent next-of-kin to settle the debt of her burial, and it meant that I wasn’t obliged to help out—like she’d undoubtedly known I would.

  God, I missed her.

  I missed the cup of tea she had waiting for me each morning after I left Scottie at her place so I could drink it on the way to work.

  I missed her telling me about Jeopardy and bitching about Mr. Gardner on the eighth floor who I was certain she had a crush on.

  I missed her perfume th
at filled my nostrils when I hugged her.

  I just plain missed her.

  If there was one advantage of being overworked, underpaid, caring for a baby, preparing for finals, and being blackmailed by my professor, it was that my mind was all over the place.

  I was grieving, and it was at the forefront of my mind, until something else got in the way. It was a low-level pain, like a toothache. Possible to ignore until you did something stupid like eat.

  When the hospital told me her body had been moved to the funeral home, I contacted them and discovered her burial was two days away.

  Though I was surprised at the swiftness, I was also relieved. Thinking of her in a fridge somewhere just made me uneasy. I’d watched way too many John Oliver vids on YouTube to not want her buried quickly.

  Enid deserved to rest in peace. She’d lived a long life, and I wanted her settled. Silly? Maybe, but she was my mother, and that was that.

  The only black I owned was my uniform from the coffee shop, and it felt weird wearing that, but I didn’t have a choice. I paired the black pants with a white tee-shirt, and used one of the wraps I’d found in her apartment to cover up. I also wore the scarf I’d taken, and before I hauled Scottie into my arms, I took a deep sniff of it, aware that today I was going to get closure before I was even ready for it.

  Of course, Scottie instantly played with the scarf and his gurgles had me smiling as I carried him downstairs and began the short walk to the funeral home.

  It was only twenty minutes away, and I was too used to carrying Scottie and hauling beer kegs that I didn’t even feel the strain as we walked.

  It seemed apt that the sun was shining today, and I tilted my head back, using a pair of shades that I’d taken from Enid’s place to enjoy the light breeze and faint warmth on my face.

  I’d taken the morning off from the coffee shop and, since it was Tuesday, I didn’t have any classes until three, so I was as free as I ever got.

  Brownsville was one of the only places in Brooklyn that hadn’t been totally gentrified, but it still cost a lot to live here. I was used to its shabby ways, and believed this was home, even if my apartment had seen better days.