by Hart, Callie
“Go fuck yourself, Pax,” Carina hisses through her teeth; it’s the first time I’ve heard her sound anything other than friendly, and the venom dripping from her words takes my breath away. She doesn’t just dislike this guy. She fucking hates him.
Pax rakes his bottom lip through his teeth in the weirdest display I’ve ever seen, his ice-blue eyes drilling into Carina. There’s something overtly carnal about the energy rolling off him, and it makes the skin on my arms break out in goose bumps. I don’t like it, but I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from him. To his right, the friend Pax was sitting with groans loudly, getting to his feet.
Where Pax looks like an ex-convict with his tattoos, his shaved head, and his bizarre attitude, this guy—who can only be Dashiell—looks like a librarian. Dressed in a white button-down shirt and tight-fitting grey pants, the guy took care in getting ready before coming to class today. The thick black-rimmed glasses he’s wearing give him the air of someone who likes to read—a sweeping, nonsensical generalization, but the quick intelligence in his tawny hazel eyes seems to back up this theory. Like his eyes, his hair is more than one color: light brown from one angle, but when he turns his head to look at me, it transforms to dirty blond.
“Sorry, ladies. Pax doesn’t know how to behave himself around such beauty. He drank a little too much coffee this morning, too, so you’ll have to understand if he’s acting out a little.”
Oh, wow. English accent. Smooth as silk, Dashiell’s voice is immediately soothing. He holds himself with confidence and certainty, as if he’s sure of his place in the world and precisely how he fits into it. It’s a neat trick—the confidence thing. In a weird way, it makes him feel safe, whereas Pax feels entirely the opposite.
Carina squirms, eyes fixed on a stack of books on the other side of the room, carefully avoiding Dashiell’s gaze. Her reaction to Pax was open hostility, but now she seems to have shrunk in on herself, shutting down altogether.
“Carrie? You’re not going to introduce us to your new friend?” Dashiell purrs.
My new friend’s stiff as a board. She looks like she’s about to topple sideways off the couch, so I save her from replying. “You already know who I am. Wolf Hall isn’t exactly a big place. Plus he just called me by my name,” I say, eyes darting over to Pax. “I’m Elodie Stillwater. I transferred in from Tel Aviv. Father’s an army man. Mother’s dead. I’m into painting, music, and photography. I’m allergic to pineapple. I’m an only child. I’m terrified of thunderstorms, and I love flea markets. There. That enough information for you?”
I list off these random facts about myself with a smile on my face, but it’s saccharine sweet and false as all hell. Pax huffs out a breath of derisive laughter, while Dashiell’s response to my big speech is to turn his full attention on me, a slow, calculating smile spreading across his face. He’s quick and clever, this one. You can practically see the cogs whirring in his head as he files away the data I just supplied. Why, all of a sudden, does it seem like a huge mistake that I handed over those unimportant facts about myself?
“Pleased to meet you, Elodie Stillwater. It’s always nice to make a new friend. Maybe you’d like to come over to Riot House some time? We’d love to extend our hospitality to you.”
At the same time, two voices speak out, one rushed and urgent, the other audibly bored.
“She can’t!”“Not happening, Dash.”
The owner of the first voice, sitting next to me, flinches. I don’t think Carina meant to blurt out her objection so loudly. She looks sheepish as she takes my hand, lacing her fingers through mine. “You know she’ll get in trouble if Harcourt finds out,” she says.
On the couch, with his face still buried beneath a cushion, Wren Jacobi growls. “She’s not invited.” The way he says it makes it sound like a decree, an order passed down from on high that is expected to be observed.
Dashiell lets out a morose sigh; he sounds honestly disappointed. “Don’t worry, Stillwater. Jacobi changes his mind like he changes his socks. His current state of attire notwithstanding, of course. He’s usually very good about changing his socks. I think that’s the thing I like most about him.”
“All right, class! Asses on a flat surface! Move, move, move!”
At the front of the room, a tall guy wearing a tight black dress shirt and a black pencil tie kicks out the wooden wedge that was holding the door open and boots the door closed behind him as he whirls into the room. In his mid-thirties, the guy is throwing off some heavy Clark Kent vibes. His jaw’s so sharp it looks like it could cut and draw blood. Dark, wavy hair, and dark eyes, I can see why half the girls in the room melt into their seats when they realize he’s arrived.
Doctor Fitzpatrick, my new English professor, is a stone-cold smoke show.
“Wren, cushion off the face, man. Sit the fuck up. You know the rules,” he commands, setting down a pile of papers onto a bookshelf. There’s a coffee cup in his other hand, which he drinks deeply from, the muscles in his throat working as he drains the contents of the cup in one go.
Miraculously, Wren drags the cushion from his face and heaves himself upright into a seated position. He glares daggers at Doc Fitzpatrick while he does it, but he complies.
This is unexpected. Very unexpected indeed. Wren gives off the impression that he doesn’t obey anyone. I certainly wouldn’t have expected him to obey an authority figure like an English professor.
Horrified, a number of things dawn on me in quick succession. It was so dark last night that I hadn’t gotten a proper look at Wren. In the light that had flared off the cherry of his cigarette, I’d reluctantly acknowledged the fact that he was good looking. But in the daylight, with the weak sun flooding in through the massive picture window right behind his head, I can see so much more of him now…and I’m so desperately, absolutely beyond fucking fucked.
He’s beautiful.
His black hair curls around his ears like it was painted onto his head, the artful strokes of a master’s brush. It’s thick and disheveled, and my fingers curl inwards of their own volition, wanting to feel the texture of it as I curl my hand into a fist.
His eyes are green, vivid and frighteningly bright. Jade—the color of fresh, new grass, and limes, and spring awakening after winter. They look borderline unreal. His mouth is unusual. His top lip is slightly fuller than the bottom, which should look odd on a guy, but Wren manages to make a sensual, feminine mouth look cruel.
I drink in the sight of him: the way his muscles shift between his shoulder blades as he braces himself on the edge of the leather couch and he pulls himself forward to lean with his forearms resting on the top of his knees. The way he smirks savagely when his quick eyes flit over the room and he catches a girl with braids looking at him. The way he steeples his fingers, all of him coming alive, like he’s just been activated, when Doctor Fitzpatrick says, “Okay, fuck ups. Listen close. I read your assignments, and they were very interesting. Very raw and emotional. Very real. And some…were just plain graphic.”
“What do you mean, graphic?” a girl sitting on an ottoman at the front asks. “The essay was on Victorian morality in English Literature.”
“Yes, Damiana. Yes, it was.”
Oh, great. I can only see the back of her head from where I’m sitting. I hadn’t realized I was in the same class as the viper from this morning.
Doctor Fitzpatrick rocks his head from side to side, turning back to his stack of papers; he shuffles through the stapled documents on the top until he finds the one he’s looking for. “This piece is titled ‘The Repressed Governess’ and went four thousand words over our two-thousand-word limit. I’ve highlighted a number of sections that I thought were rather enlightening.” He makes a show of clearing his throat, then begins reading from the assignment.
“So innocent before, now she looked terrified. The fear in her eyes made his shaft harden in his pants as he prowled forward, intent on backing her directly into his trap. Her chest rose and fell so rapidly, her large breast
s were in danger of brimming over the top of her corset. Nothing could be more titillating to him than the sight of her accidentally disrobed and made vulnerable before him. The anticipation rose in him now, as it always did when he was so close to accomplishing his nefarious goals. For months he’d labored, working on the governess, knowing her church, her faith, and her lunatic father would keep her from acting on her darkest desires. And still he hadn’t given up. He’d seen the wicked fire burning in her soul, and he was determined to unleash it and set it free.
“The governess cried out when her back hit the wall. She knew she was cornered and there was no way out. No sooner had she realized her situation than she accepted it, though. Her breath quickened further, this time from excitement. There was something to be said about relinquishing control of oneself to a monster in a black top hat, and now that he was fast approaching with such a look of menace in his eyes, the governess discovered that she wasn’t as afraid of her undeniable fate as she had first thought. She witnessed the threatening bulge of his staff, pressing against the front of his trousers. She saw the way he groped at himself, squeezing himself in the most lurid way, and surprised as she was, she knew that she was wet between her legs, her cunny slick with want as…”
Doctor Fitzpatrick cuts off, dropping his hands to his sides. Exasperated, he shakes his head. “Honestly, I have to say I’m impressed with the prose. Great use of the word lurid. And cunny? You must have had to look that one up, Jacobi.”
All eyes turn to Wren.
Of course he wrote it. I am the most unsurprised person in the world. It totally tracks that this devil in a black t-shirt handed in Victorian porn as his English assignment. He doesn’t look the slightest bit remorseful as he levels his steady gaze on the doc. “I did,” he says. “The Internet’s a remarkable place. All kinds of weird shit, if you know what you’re looking for.”
“You do realize that this piece was supposed to be on the Victorian sense of morality, right?” Doctor Fitzpatrick asks.
Wren shrugs. “I do. And they had none. The Victorians were just as horny, depraved and dirty as we are. They were just better at hiding it. There were just as many filthy books about fucking back then as there were books about sweet, subjugated women who lived by strict rules of propriety. They just didn’t get the same kind of press.”
“So, you’re saying woman were painted as weak, subjugated creatures in a lot of Victorian literature?”
Wren sighs wearily, like he shouldn’t have to explain any of this. “I’m not saying it. It’s what happened. Austin made out like women back then were virtuous, good, wholesome creatures who never once thought about getting laid. It was all a lie, Fitz. Women have liked to get fucked since the dawn of time, just like guys. The fact that the Victorians used to guard that little tidbit like it was some huge fucking secret makes them even kinkier than us.”
Doctor Fitzpatrick’s eyebrows inch up. I think he’s unimpressed by Wren’s argument, but also grudgingly impressed by it, too. Tossing the paper at Wren, the doc sends the sheaf of paper fluttering down to the boy’s feet. “Do it again. Forty-eight hours, Jacobi. Stick to the assignment brief or you’ll find yourself doing it over for a third time. This will be your Groundhog Day of essays until you do it right. And no curse words. You should know by now that shock tactics won’t work with me.”
Wren leaves his assignment on the thin Persian rug at his feet. Most guys would be irritated by the fact that they had to rewrite an essay from the beginning, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s taking the whole thing completely in stride. “Shock tactics work on everyone. I just haven’t found the right level of shocking for you yet, Fitz. I’m nothing if not persistent. Leave it with me. I’ll figure it out before the end of term.”
God, this guy’s a pro at concocting statements that sound like thinly disguised threats. I wonder if he speaks this way to his parents. My father would knock my head off my shoulders if I dared speak to him or any of my teachers that way. Wren might have army personnel for folks, but we must have had a very different upbringing if he knows he can get away with this shit.
Doctor Fitzpatrick smiles wide, pinching his tongue between his teeth as he turns away from Wren Jacobi, inhales deeply, and faces the rest of the class. “All right, kids. We’re starting a new game today. Who wants to volunteer?” His gaze alights on me, and he comically slaps his hand to his forehead. “Ah shit. We have a newcomer in our midst. I totally forgot. Fuck, I made cookies, too. Elllloiiiise, right?” he says, wincing at me.
Eloise is a common one. I’ve had all sorts, though. Emily. Evelyn. Elena. Apparently, my given name isn’t as common in other countries as it is in France. “Close. It’s Elodie. Like Melody, but without the M.” I smile when I correct him to let him know I’m not offended. He nods, wagging his finger at me. A girl sitting a bean bag three people over from me sighs deliriously when the guy spins around to face a white board on wheels and we all get to see just how tight his grey pants are across his pert ass.
“In lieu of any weird ‘stand up and tell us all about yourself’ nonsense, I’m afraid you’ll have to be nominated as volunteer for our game today, Elodie,” he says, scrawling my name onto the surface of the whiteboard in red marker. Surprisingly, he spells it correctly first time.
“She can’t be a volunteer if you nominate her,” Damiana gripes, casting a sour look over her shoulder at me. “How is that fair? Some of us have been waiting our turn for months, Fitz.”
“Oh, stop whining. I think we’re all tired of the ceaseless droning of your voice, child.”
Wow. I mean, I thought that it was wild, the way Wren spoke to Doctor Fitzpatrick, but honestly, the way he speaks to us is a little out there, too. The doc doesn’t come across like a typical professor; he seems like a normal, functioning human being instead of an academic robot, trying to hustle us through the curriculum as fast as he possibly can. It’s refreshing. Doesn’t hurt that he calls people like Damiana out on her shit when she’s being bitchy, either. I think I really like this guy.
Until he tells me to come stand in front of the class.
“Come on, Still…?”
“Water,” I supply.
“Come on, Stillwater. On your feet. Front and center. You’ve got a job to do.”
Mortified, I look at Carina, hoping for a miracle that’ll mean I can remain sitting with her. Her forehead creases, an apologetic look on her face. “Sorry, dude. I should have realized he’d do this. Best to just go up there and get it over with.”
Urgh. What a fucking nightmare. I get up from the sofa so slowly that it feels like I’m wading through glue. Once I’m at the front of the class, I turn around, donning a bright, cheery (fake) smile, and I face the class down. In fairness, this is a small class by anyone’s standards. There are probably only fifteen students lazing around like spoiled cats in Doctor Fitzpatrick’s den, which is a relief.
“What’s the game?” I ask through my teeth, trying to loosen up the smile a little—it can’t look real right now, it’s far too tense. I hate this kind of thing. I hate moving schools, and I hate meeting new people, and I hate learning all the new rules. I hate learning all the new games, too.
Doctor Fitzpatrick beams as he perches on the edge of the windowsill near Wren’s leather couch. He doesn’t seem to have a desk in here, either. “Anyone care to explain the rules to Elodie, class?” This is entertaining to him. He’s actually enjoying being here, teaching his students. In five different countries and in five different schools, I’ve never encountered another professor who enjoys his job.
A guy in the back, leaning against one of the book stacks, speaks up without raising his hand. “It’s a popularity contest,” he announces without looking up from the Rubik’s Cube he’s idly spinning in his hands. “You stand up there as directed by our venerated puppet master, and you give us a debate argument. The argument has to be related to books or the English language. If the class argues your debate topic in an entertaining way without Fitz gett
ing bored, you score an automatic A on the next assignment he sets.”
Hold up now…
What??
The doc’s going to correct the guy and explain the game properly any second now. Surely. No? Doctor Fitzpatrick sits on the edge of the windowsill, smiling quite happily. He doesn’t even object to the fact that this kid just called him ‘our venerated puppet master.’
I don’t quite know what I’m supposed to do. I’d love to say I don’t really give a shit about my grades here at Wolf Hall, but the sad truth is that the monthly allowance my father loads onto my AMEX is directly related to my GPA. I know how it works all too well: I ace my tests and assignments, and I’ll have plenty of funds to survive on here. I ding my record, or I don’t perform as well as Colonel Stillwater expects me to, then I’ll be left to eke out a very depressing existence on next to nothing.
I haven’t explored the food situation around these parts yet, but I’m assuming there’s a diner or maybe even a café. A restaurant if I’m lucky. It’d be nice to dine on edible food every once in a while, and not have to boil up water and choke down Top Ramen for breakfast, lunch and dinner, s’all I’m saying. An A right out of the gate? That’d make it much harder for Colonel Stillwater to garnish my allowance.
“Ookaaaay.” I despise having to think of clever, interesting topics of conversation on the spot. If I’d known this was going to happen, I wouldn’t have bothered going to sleep last night. I would have stayed up, scrolling for something awesome to hit these guys with in class. Regrettably, the only thing I can come up with is, “The English language is dying. Modern slang and text-speak are choking the history and the life out of an artform so rapidly that it will soon have evolved entirely. Discuss.”
Doctor Fitzpatrick leaps to his feet, clapping his hands together as he bolts back toward the white board. “I love it. You miscreants are destroying my language with your text messages and your disgusting Neanderthal-esque slang. Someone say something! You can sit down, Ms. Stillwater.” He nudges me with his elbow, and I dash back to the safety of the sofa, my eyes glued to the ground. Thank fuck he didn’t hate the topic. Thank fuck my voice didn’t crack, and I didn’t stumble all over my words. Thank fuck no one laughed.