See Me After Class

by Quinn, Meghan

  “I don’t trust many people.”

  “Why not?”

  “No one gave me reason to growing up,” I answer honestly.

  Her head tilts to the side ever so slightly. “You’re just going to toss that out there as if this is a casual conversation?”

  “Isn’t it?” I ask.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Me neither,” I say, just as confused. I look over my shoulder and see . . . compassion. Fuck that.

  "Arlo, I—"

  “Just leave.”

  “Arlo . . .”

  “Leave,” I shout. “Okay? Fuck . . . just leave.”

  I’m so messed up in the head and I have no idea why.

  She’s making me think about shit. She’s making me question my professionalism. She’s accusing me of punishing students to get back at her.

  And . . . hell, she’s making me wonder just how wet she was only moments ago.

  Chapter Nine

  GREER

  I take a few deep breaths and convince myself that everything’s going to be okay.

  That I’m not about to embark on another journey through the black hole that is Arlo Turner.

  Since the weekend, I’ve felt confused, even more irritated than before, and . . . well, and horny.

  Honestly, I have no idea what’s happening when it comes to Arlo. Out of the blue this man dislikes me, then he turns me on, then pulls away, then turns me on even more while arguing, and fighting, and . . . Jesus, anyone else confused here?

  Show of hands?

  Either way, I have to talk to him about Blair, and it needs to be a civil conversation, despite the war of turmoil wrestling inside my head.

  His door is open and he’s sitting at his desk, looking over papers. School let out two hours ago, and I came as soon as I could from practice. I’m thankful he’s still here. I didn’t want to drive to his house to have this conversation. Lucky for me, Gunner said Arlo stays late on Mondays to catch up on work.

  And he was right.

  With a sigh, I lift my hand and give his door a knock.

  His head turns toward me, and I’m struck by his brilliant eyes first, then the chiseled features of his handsome face.

  If I were a student of his, there’s no way in hell I’d be able to concentrate. I’d be infatuated. I know this because, even as a grown woman, I’m taken aback by just how good-looking he is. It can be distracting, getting caught up in his eyes, in the way his cardigans are perfectly pushed up to his elbows, revealing tanned and muscular forearms, or the way they lay over his carved shoulders. And his dark hair, mixed with the dark scruff on his face . . . It only highlights how symmetrical his face is.

  Positively devastating.

  Turning back to his papers, he asks, “Can I help you with something, Miss Gibson?”

  Ahh, back to Miss Gibson now. Fair enough.

  After the confusion, taunting, and angry confrontations on Saturday, I agree that’s for the best.

  I step into his classroom and ask, “Do you have a minute?”

  Not answering right away, he finishes reading the paper in front of him, flips it over, and circles a C at the top. God, so automatic, no thinking it over. A grade, just like that.

  A part of me wonders how well I would have done in Arlo’s class if I were his student. I’m starting to believe not well with my ability to barely focus when I’m around him.

  Pushing back from his desk but staying in his chair, he asks, “What’s up?”

  I study him for a second, gauging his mood. No furrow in his brow, no clenched jaw. He actually seems . . . reserved, emotionless, and I don’t know what’s scarier—Arlo Turner emotionless and shut down, or Arlo Turner charged up and ready to destroy any walls I may have erected around my libido.

  From my back pocket, I place Blair’s paper on his desk and then sit on the edge, looking down at him while I speak. “Can we have a civil conversation about Blair’s paper, please? Without yelling at each other or pointing fingers?”

  “Sure,” he answers, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands over his stomach. “What would you like to talk about?”

  Okay, he’s starting to scare me now. He’s too casual.

  Did someone slip him a tranquilizer and not tell me? Whenever I’ve been around him, there’s always been some sort of emotion grappling at him, but not today, not now, and I truly don’t know how to handle it.

  “Okay, um . . .” I clear my throat, trying to gain my bearings. “Can you explain to me what you’re looking for—”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Uh, sure,” I say.

  He picks up the paper and flips through it. “Why is it that you’re in here talking about this paper, but Blair has yet to come to me and discuss it herself?”

  Oh God, here we go, I can feel the condescending attitude rearing up and ready to go.

  “I thought if I gained a better understanding of how to assist her, it might be more beneficial. She did come to me for help.”

  “I see.” He rocks in his chair. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe your advice should have been ‘See Mr. Turner, talk to him, and maybe he can assist you’?”

  “Frankly, you don’t seem like the approachable type,” I say, keeping my voice even.

  “And yet, you’re stepping out of your day to approach me.”

  “Because I can handle my own.”

  “Don’t you think she should learn how to do that?” he asks, making a point that I don’t want to admit could be right. “She’s not going to have you in college. What happens when a professor fails her? Think she’ll ask her college coach to do the heavy lifting for her?”

  “No, I just thought—”

  He tosses the paper on the desk and says, “She’s about to cross over into adulthood. Let her.” He leans forward in his chair but keeps his eyes trained on me. “It’s nice that you care, though.”

  And then he turns back to his papers, starting on the next one.

  Uh, was that . . . a compliment?

  Did I hear him right?

  There was no sarcasm in his voice.

  No hate.

  Just a plain old compliment.

  When he sat back in his chair, did he push a button that slipped me into some kind of alternate universe?

  “Is that all, Miss Gibson?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I answer, unable to move from the spot on his desk.

  He looks up at me. “Then will you be going?” He nods to the door.

  “Yeah.” But I don’t move. I sit there, stunned, wondering what made him have a change of heart.

  Was it a change of heart?

  Or was he just appeasing me to get me out of his room?

  His pen drops to the desk and he leans back in his chair again.

  “What?” he asks, his voice growing annoyed now.

  Turning so my legs are now parallel with his body and I’m facing him, I say, “You gave me a compliment.”

  “I was merely stating a fact. No need to get emotional about it.”

  “I’m not getting emotional, I’m just a little shocked.”

  “Well if that’s the case, I’ll be sure to never do it again.”

  “Stop.” I playfully push at his shoulder. “Lighten up, you know you want to.”

  “I was having a perfectly fine time grading mediocre papers.”

  “Sounds riveting.” I smile at him and nudge him with my foot. “You know it wouldn’t hurt you to smile.”

  “Give me a reason to smile and I will.”

  “Is that a challenge?” I ask, liking this lighter side of him.

  “It’s however you take it.”

  “Fine, challenge accepted.” I rub my hands together and realize I have the perfect story. “I have a policy in my classroom that if a student’s phone rings in class, they have to give it to me to answer.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, yesterday, someone’s phone rang. I immediately stopped my lecture and found the cu
lprit. Joe Wallace. I held my hand out and he gave me his phone reluctantly. I answered it, and found out his mother wanted to tell him she found the superhero underwear he loves so much in his size at Costco, and she got him two boxes of them.”

  He doesn’t crack a smile, doesn’t even flinch.

  “Oh, come on, that’s funny.”

  “Barely comical.”

  “You’re such a liar.” I nudge him with my foot again, only for him to grab my calf and move his hand up my leggings to my thigh. God, his hands are big . . . strong . . . enticing. “Back to this, huh?” I ask.

  The corner of his lip tilts up and I nearly gasp.

  “That, you smirk at? Not the superhero underwear?”

  “I’m not easy.”

  “You seem easy.”

  He gives my leg a squeeze and pulls away, going back to his papers. “Well, I’m not. Now if that’s all—”

  I don’t know what possesses me—maybe it’s from him not yelling at me today, or the tiniest of smirks to ever cross someone’s face—but I reach out and push a wayward strand of hair off his forehead.

  His eyes lift up and focus on mine, head tilted, those blue-greens staring up at me as if I could possibly hold his happiness in my hands.

  “Who do you get your eyes from? They’re gorgeous.”

  Wetting his lips, he says, “My mom.”

  “Does she have long eyelashes too?”

  He nods.

  “Were you close with her?”

  “Not even a little.”

  I smooth my fingers over his jaw and he leans into the touch.

  “Was she the one you were talking about when you mentioned no one gave you the opportunity to trust anyone?”

  “Yup.”

  “What a nice gift for her to give to you,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. And it does just that, because the furrow in his brow recedes.

  “She’s a thoughtful one.” His eyes search mine and then he turns back to his papers. “I should get these done.”

  “Can you talk to me for a second?”

  He leans back and rolls his eyes—without the normal disdain. “What, Miss Gibson?”

  “Don’t sound annoyed or anything.” He’s about to open his mouth with a reply when I point at him and say, “Don’t say anything snarky or that will piss me off.”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  I wait for a smirk, I know he wants to, but he holds strong and gives me all his attention instead. I’ll take it.

  “So, if I’m getting this straight, you’re more than happy to speak to Blair about her paper, you’re not punishing her because of me, and we could possibly be friends.”

  “Yes, if Blair comes to me during lunch, I’ll help her with her paper. I can be an asshole, but not at the expense of a student. I invite you to remember that. And acquaintances will be just fine.”

  “Acquaintances? You think we’re mere acquaintances?”

  He sighs. “What do you want from me, Greer? You want a relationship?”

  “What? No.” I shake my head, my cheeks flaming. “I wasn’t even thinking about that. I just thought it’d be nice to . . . I don’t know, be nice to each other.”

  “I can be cordial.”

  “Heaven forbid anything more.” I take in his whiteboard and wonder what I want from him.

  “This past week got the best of me.” He clears his throat. “Don’t expect that mercurial behavior anymore. Which means, I think it’s best we keep things cordial, but nothing more. I have no interest in the way you educate, nor do I have interest in your volleyball team or any other extracurricular activities.”

  “Wow, okay, tell me how it really is.” I stand from his desk and start to walk away, when he stands as well, grabs my hand, and spins me back toward him. I catch my balance with my hand to his muscular chest, which I quickly remove.

  “You want to know what I really think?”

  “Yes, please. I want you to be real.”

  “Real. Fine.” His eyes grow darker. “Those dresses you wear are my undoing. The skirts, well, they’re a bonus. I envision peeling them off you over my desk after class. Your eyes—they’re unlike any color I’ve ever seen, caramel-colored with a hint of green on the outer ring. Enticing, curious. They bother me but intrigue me at the same time, making it hard not to give you the privilege of being looked in the eyes. And your perfume . . . it’s dizzying, mystifying, causes me to lose my frame of mind and puts me in a headspace of lust. Demanding lust.”

  Oh God.

  My stomach clenches, the thought of him peeling my clothes off is extremely tempting. What would it feel like to have his large hands roam over my body, cupping my breasts, playing with my nipples? Would his mouth be just as delicious as I expect it is? Just as demanding and rough? Would he expect me to listen to him? To his commands?

  Would I?

  Searching his beautiful eyes, I know I would. If, right now, he told me to take my shirt off, I’d oblige. I’d be desperate for his direction, knowing he’d be an expert at bringing me pleasure. And that’s not me. I’m confident in myself, in my brains and looks. I don’t need a man to make me feel good. And yet with this man . . . I feel desperate and needy. But why? I’ve been around handsome men before. I’ve been around demanding men before too. How is it one charmless, incisive man can untether me? He’s arrogant. Unyielding. But maybe . . .

  It’s the way he carries himself, the confidence he exudes, the broody attitude with the peekaboo charm that shows itself every once in a while.

  He’s devastating, and I’m very quickly realizing that.

  I’m also realizing I’m starting to have this need to see him. To be near him. To gather his attention even if it’s just for a few short seconds.

  I enjoy how he stops me from walking away, that those moments spur on vulnerability from him.

  I enjoy how unhinged he looks when he’s near me, how his hands itch to touch me.

  His fingers come to my chin and pinch it while tilting the angle of my head up a few more centimeters. A firm grip, one that has me shaking in my shoes, waiting, anticipating what he might do next.

  “This can’t happen,” he says, his voice cracking.

  “Why not? Admit it, Arlo, you want to fuck me.”

  “Of course I want to fuck you. I’ve wanted to fuck you since your interview. Your beauty has no bounds, Greer.”

  I wet my lips. “Then why won’t you? Is it against school policy?”

  “No.”

  “Do you already have a fuck buddy?”

  He shifts. “No.”

  “Are you a virgin?”

  His eyes narrow.

  I chuckle and smooth my hand over his chest. “Just making sure. So, what’s the hold up? Does my teaching technique really trouble you that much?”

  “No.”

  “Are you—”

  “I have other things I need to focus on,” he says, cutting me off before I can guess again. “Important things. I can’t afford the distraction.”

  “What important things?” I ask, feeling my eyebrows pull together.

  “Nothing you need to know or worry about.” He lowers his hand and takes a step back.

  “Okay,” I say, feeling defeated, and I really don’t understand why.

  I hate the guy.

  I like the guy.

  He irritates me.

  He digs deep into my soul.

  That kind of toxic behavior should be dropped and left to die on its own. No need for it to take up space in my head, but as he backs away, a small piece of me calls out to him.

  Let me help you.

  Let me be a shoulder for you.

  Let me be an escape . . .

  He picks up his papers and puts them in a folder, then he gathers his shoulder bag and tucks the folder into it. Turning to me, he says, “I’m leaving.”

  “I gathered.”

  “So . . . you can leave.”

  “Okay.” And as I start to turn away, I catch him give me one last lo
ok, almost as if he’s hoping I’ll say something else, that I’ll push him a little further, ask him to share with me.

  But I won’t.

  I won’t push it now.

  But I might later . . .

  * * *

  “You look quite lovely today,” Kelvin says, coming up to the table Keiko, Stella, and I are all sitting at. Every Friday, we order from the Italian restaurant down the street for lunch. Today, we bought two calzones and divided them up amongst the three of us. One pepperoni and pineapple, the other sausage and spinach. Both equally fantastic, both terrible for the hips.

  “Thank you for the compliment,” Keeks replies rigidly, scanning Kelvin up and down. “I’d share the same sentiment, but unfortunately an ungodly shade of mustard besmirched your tie, causing your appearance to be quite off-putting.”

  “Keiko,” I say sternly under my breath as Kelvin lifts up his tie and examines it.

  “What? Is it not the truth?” She gestures to poor Kelvin. “The seedy condiment splotch is arresting against the light blue of his paisley cravat.”

  She’s not wrong, but, good God, does she have to point it out?

  Tucking the tip of his tie through one of the spaces between buttons on his shirt, he nervously says, “I had a soft pretzel for lunch. Good thing I took off my Obi Wan Kenobi robe, or else I’d be a mustard-smothered Jedi.” He laughs. He snorts. My cheeks flame with secondary embarrassment.

  “Yes, bravo, Kelvin,” Keeks says before wiping her face and standing. “Care to escort me to my classroom?”

  “I’d be honored,” Kelvin says, standing taller. “Do you want me to remove my tie?”

  “No, what you have done is sufficient.” Keeks nods to us and then takes off, keeping her arms crossed at her chest as Kelvin walks next to her.

  Once they’re out of earshot, I chuckle and shake my head. “Oh God, I love them.”

  “They’re so overly polite, it’s hard to listen to,” Stella says, picking up a piece of her calzone. “I can’t believe they went on a date.”

  “And he tried to kiss her, and she went into a ten-point list as to why it wasn’t the right time to be sharing a first kiss.”