by T. K. Leigh
“How I like it,” I finish, recovering. “I hope only a hint of sweetener is okay.”
“That’s fine.” His lips curve up in the corners. I wonder if he’s recalling the few times I brought him coffee in bed. Along with another kind of morning “pick me up”.
“Tell her if it’s not,” my father insists. “You shouldn’t have to drink something you’re not happy with because Chloe wasn’t paying attention. I taught her better than that.”
“Actually, it appears I take my coffee like she does.” His eyes remain locked on mine. “Even if I didn’t, I’d never depreciate someone’s kindness and generosity that way,” he adds, but my father glosses over his comment.
“Right. I just got off the phone with the legal department of a small newspaper down in Texas where that school shooting happened.”
Lincoln nods. Normally, I tune out once my father discusses anything work-related, since it acts as a reminder of how he’d never love anyone as much as he does that job. But something about watching the wheels spin in Lincoln’s head turns me on, has me glued to him. The same way I find myself mesmerized in class when he plays devil’s advocate with the other students, sometimes to the point of almost being an asshole. The passion he exudes for the subject is unmatched by anything I’ve ever witnessed.
“The court sealed the criminal record of the accused’s father, from whom he stole the gun he used in the massacre. They’ve asked us to help prepare an emergency motion unsealing it. I don’t have to tell you the importance of this information, so let’s get back to work.”
He spins on his heel, walking out of the kitchen, past the living room, not acknowledging Midge. I wonder if he even wished her a happy birthday. Based on my experience, he most likely didn’t.
Lincoln hesitates, his gaze locking with mine, and I can sense a part of him wants to stay to clear the air we’ve now muddied.
“Are you coming?” my father calls from down the hallway once he realizes Lincoln didn’t immediately follow him.
My eyes beg him to tell my father no, to ask me to go somewhere with him, regardless of how wrong it is. This once, I want a man to choose me, to want me, to fight for me. But he doesn’t. Instead, he shakes his head, turning from me without a single glance back.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Earth to Chloe,” Owen sings. I lift my eyes to his, wondering what we were talking about, having zoned out. “Welcome back, sunshine.”
“Sorry.” I offer an apologetic look. “I’m a bit preoccupied.” I shift my attention to the front of the room where Lincoln will deliver his lecture. It’ll be the first time I’ve seen him since our near kiss this past weekend, and I’m not sure how to act.
I’ve spent the past several days convincing myself that everything having to do with Lincoln Moore has been one big mistake. From sleeping with him in the first place, to agreeing to give him a chance, to nearly kissing him during Midge’s birthday party.
With a few sweet words, I allowed him to see behind the mask, to peer into my soul. Never again. From now on, I’ll treat Lincoln exactly how he’d asked when we started this charade back in January. I’ll act as if I have nothing more than cold indifference toward him.
“Everything okay?” Owen asks.
“Yeah. I’ve had a lot on my mind. The last thing I want to do today is sit through this class.”
“Well, you might get lucky.” He gestures to the clock right above the doorway. “It’s ten minutes after. Five more minutes and we get to leave.”
“That’s odd. Li— Professor Moore is usually punctual.”
“True. Unless he got distracted with Professor Gordon.” He playfully nudges me in the side. “If you know what I mean.”
Heat washes over my face, my heart plummeting. “Actually, I don’t.”
“Everyone knows about Professor Gordon and Professor Moore.” He looks at me as if I just asked what color the sky was, as if it’s a fact that just is. No explanation necessary.
“Professor Gordon and Professor Moore are an item?” My voice comes out more like a squeak.
“I figure you knew. Like I said—”
“Yeah, yeah. Everyone knows.” I chew on my lower lip, doing my best to pretend this news has zero effect on me. It shouldn’t, but I can’t stop the myriad of questions that pop into my mind. Was he dating her when we met? When he begged me for a chance? When I gave him that chance?
The relationship makes sense. He’s ridiculously handsome. Intelligent. Successful. And Professor Gordon is what many of the guys in the department refer to as a solid eleven on a scale of ten. Like Lincoln, she’s young and incredibly ambitious. In fact, she’s the driving force behind a website, the sole purpose of which is to give unbiased news in an age when corporations and big money buy newspapers and television stations in order to skew the message.
“I guess I just kind of tune out all the gossip here at school,” I add, my voice lacking any emotion. Owen doesn’t seem to pick up on my sudden change in demeanor, though.
“I can understand that, considering you must get your fair share at work.”
“Yeah.”
When the door opens, all eyes shift in its direction, watching as Lincoln walks into the room. His hair is a bit disheveled, his tie not as tight and straight as it normally is. I do my best not to glare, but fail miserably.
“Well, I guess he was able to pull himself away, after all,” Owen mutters.
Jealousy, raw and ugly, rears its head. There could be a perfectly reasonable explanation for his harried appearance and tardiness. Maybe an emergency filing at the paper. But a sinking feeling forms in my stomach that it has nothing to do with work.
“I apologize for the delay. I had something to take care of. Now, who wants to tell the class about the infamous ‘cake’ case?”
Owen leans toward me. “I bet he did.” He waggles his brows.
“Mr. Campbell.”
“Dammit,” Owen utters under his breath, barely audible.
“Why don’t you tell us the background of this case.”
Owen straightens in his chair, looking through his notebook. When he speaks, his voice evidences his nerves. It doesn’t matter how often he gets called on in class. It’s more than apparent he hates public speaking.
“A couple went to a popular local bakery to discuss a design for their wedding cake, but the owner refused to serve them because they were gay.”
“Did the owner refuse to serve them?” Lincoln shoots back. “Or was it something else?”
“Well, he refused to make the cake for them.”
“Better, Mr. Campbell. It may not seem it, but there is a difference. Technicalities are extremely important in the law. Now, what did the couple do?”
He hesitates, flipping through his notes, searching for the answer. I shift my notepad so he can see, subtly pointing to my own scribblings on the case.
Owen offers me a grateful smile as he glances at my notes, which are surprisingly much more organized than his. “Filed a complaint with the local anti-discrimination commission.”
“And why does that matter?”
Owen looks at his pages again, but it won’t be in there. He can talk about social injustice and current events with an understanding and expertise I doubt I’ll ever possess, but when it comes to the law, he has trouble wrapping his head around procedure and how it all fits together.
I tap loudly on my notebook, getting his attention once more, and he steals a glance.
“Oh,” he says after reading, lifting his eyes to address Lincoln. “Because the state had enacted an anti-discrimination statute, preventing any business from discriminating on the basis of race, gender, or sexual orientation, among other things.”
“Correct. So it sounds like this is an anti-discrimination suit. Then why are we studying it in a First Amendment class?”
Owen stares, uncertain, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth as he attempts to formulate a response. “I—”
“I’ll wait w
hile Miss Davenport gives you the answer.” His tone is biting, and I hate that he seems to pick on Owen disproportionately to the other students in class simply because we’ve formed a friendship over the past several weeks. Well, I’m done playing this game. Done letting Lincoln use Owen as his own verbal punching bag.
“The owner of the bakery argued the anti-discrimination law violated his First Amendment rights,” I say without raising my hand.
Lincoln shoots his eyes to mine, as does everyone else, considering I’ve yet to speak in class.
“More specifically, the Free Exercise Clause. He claimed the state overreached in commanding him to make a cake for a wedding he objected to on religious grounds.”
“Thank you, Miss Davenport. Should I assume you’re Mr. Campbell’s mouthpiece now?”
“I suppose that’s better than the other way around.” I pinch my lips into a tight line, crossing my legs.
Lincoln scowls, an unspoken warning in his eyes, before he shifts his attention back to Owen. “Now, Mr. Campbell, what did the court decide?”
I don’t even give Owen a chance to respond before answering. “They sided with the asshole baker. But not on the bigger issue of the intersection of using the First Amendment as a defense to an anti-discrimination statute, but because they believed the commission exhibited hostility toward the baker’s religious beliefs in its decision.”
“Thank you for that rather astute analysis, Mr. Campbell,” he barks out in a condescending tone. “As you so succinctly put it in a voice that’s much more feminine than your normal one, the court never decided the issue of the intersection of anti-discrimination statutes and the Free Exercise Clause. So why would I require you to read this?”
“To demonstrate the lack of balls the court exhibited,” I quip sarcastically.
“Lack of…balls?” Lincoln repeats. Several of the other girls in class giggle at his statement.
“Exactly.”
He folds his arms in front of his chest, widening his stance, turning his attention fully to me. My pulse increases as I focus on his biceps, the flexing muscles stretching the material of his suit jacket. I push down the memory of having those arms wrapped around me, how it felt to be enclosed within them.
“And if you were on the court, what would you have decided, Miss Davenport?”
All eyes in the room shift toward me. Most every other student would probably say something well-thought-out and educated, based purely on legal precedent. But that’s not me. I’ve always been much more emotionally driven.
“That the baker shouldn’t be permitted to not serve a customer just because of his bigoted view, which he shrouded in religion. I’m not an expert, but I’m pretty sure Jesus would be pissed. Or God. Or whomever makes the rules.”
The corners of his lips curve up. “So you wouldn’t afford him his constitutional right to the free exercise of religion?”
“Where would it end?” I counter, everyone’s attention shooting back to me. “Should we allow restaurant owners the ability to refuse service to gay couples, too?”
Lincoln grins. I thought he’d be upset by my persistence. Maybe he was at first. But now I can’t help but feel he’s getting some kind of satisfaction out of me arguing with him like this.
“Then let’s take the anti-discrimination law out of it. Let’s just look at this from a First Amendment standpoint. Should a state be able to force a citizen to create art for someone else? Regardless of whether they’re straight, gay, black, white, woman, man. Take away all the complications here. Shouldn’t people who create have the right to decide which commissions to take?”
I smirk. “So baking a cake is a protected form of speech now?”
“Art is considered speech. Just a different form.”
“But where does it end?” I say once more. “Going back to my example from before. A chef could consider plating his entrees art. Does he get to deny people service?”
“That’s not the same thing. Those entrees, although pleasing to the eye, aren’t created for their aesthetic qualities.”
“And a cake is?” I arch a brow.
He shrugs. “While I’ve never been married myself, I have plenty of friends who have. Choosing the wedding cake is one of the most important items on their to-do list. They go over designs for what seems like days. Hell, some of these people aren’t even called bakers or pastry chefs, but cake artists. These cakes can take days to finish. If we were discussing a simple sheet cake with a layer of plain frosting, like one you’d buy at a local grocery store, I’d be inclined to agree with you. But that’s not a wedding cake. At least no woman I know would ever stand for something so ordinary and trivial. You may not like it, but these distinctions are important. These lines are important.”
“Of course,” I shoot back, my voice growing louder and increasingly annoyed. “I understand how important it is to have clearly drawn lines.”
My words come out biting, causing Lincoln’s eyes to darken and narrow on me in a look of warning. I should stop right now. Get back on track and apologize for my outburst, make up some story about having a gay friend who should be able to have the wedding cake of his dreams. But I don’t. All the heartache at having to sit in Lincoln’s presence for weeks and not be able to touch him, feel him, kiss him has come to a head. Add in the knowledge that he’s been seeing someone else, and I’ve lost the ability to give a shit about keeping my mouth shut.
“I’m sure your anal-retentive nature needs the ability to put everything into boxes. Boss. Employee. Male. Female. Rich. Poor. Teacher. Student.” I pause briefly, noticing Lincoln shift uncomfortably, the cords in his neck straining, his fists clenching. When I continue, my voice becomes increasingly agitated with each word. “No gray area. No crossover. No risk. But lines sometimes get blurred. Sometimes those blurred lines are okay because you finally feel something so perfect and beautiful and you just want to tell society to fuck off and let us be together.”
My voice rings out as shocked gasps fill the space. Lincoln’s posture stiffens as he gives me a death glare. It’s not until I see his reaction I realize exactly what I’ve said in front of a class of several dozen journalism students who love nothing more than a juicy story.
“Them,” I correct softly, my tone wavering. “Let them be together.”
His jaw twitches as his lips curl almost into a snarl, his stare cold and vindictive.
“Class is dismissed. Miss Davenport, my office. Now.”
Without another word, he collects his things and storms out of the room, leaving everyone in stunned silence. Including me.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The walk from the classroom to the faculty corridor seems to be miles instead of the dozen or so yards it is. I can’t help but feel like a condemned prisoner heading to the gallows. Hell, I can practically hear the warden yelling “Dead man walking” in the recesses of my mind.
I almost turn around countless times, deciding it isn’t worth it, that I should withdraw. But my father’s biting comments and my drive to prove him wrong push me forward.
With my head held high, I steel my resolve, about to knock on Lincoln’s door when it swings wide, my executioner standing before me, his anger having only increased in the past several minutes.
Oh shit.
He yanks me inside, closing the door behind me. I barely have a minute to catch my breath before he leans toward me.
“What the fuck was that?” he seethes, the vein in his neck engorged. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?”
He paces, tugging at his dark hair, more frazzled than I’ve seen him before. A part of me wanted this reaction, wanted to see this passion, this intensity, this humanity, instead of the unfeeling, unaffected human who’s been standing in front of the class for weeks, doing everything to ignore me, to pretend he never met me.
“What were you thinking?” He stops, turning toward me, his voice choked. “I promised I’d keep whatever we had a secret. For you.”
I blow out
a laugh. “Right. For me. Not because you didn’t want a certain someone to find out about us.” I roll my eyes, allowing my heavy bag to fall to the floor with a loud thump.
He advances on me, his expression flashing with rage, jaw tense, lips achingly close. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what I said.” I step back, increasing the distance between us, my mouth formed into a tight line. “Did you not think I’d find out?”
“Find out what?”
I place my hands on my hips. “About you and Professor Gordon,” I hiss. “Why did you beg me to give you a chance when you were already getting a piece of ass? Or is this part of your game?” With every word, my voice becomes more strained, the hurt that he was never serious about me causing my fists to clench, my body to quake with anger. “See how many women you can get to fawn over you as some boost to your fragile male ego?”
I fight back the tears threatening to fall, hating that this man has brought out these kinds of emotions in me. I’ve often prided myself on not allowing anyone to get to me. But Lincoln has. It makes me despise him even more.
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh please… Don’t play dumb now. It doesn’t suit you, Professor.”
“I’m not playing dumb. I… You think I’m dating Tess? I mean, Professor Gordon?”
“Not just me. The entire student body of the journalism department claims you guys are an item. Apparently, it’s common knowledge.”
“And what makes them say that? Because I agreed to talk to her students about defamation one day?”
I shrug, not answering. The truth is, I’m not sure of the details, didn’t stop to verify any information, not like I normally would, the shock of it rendering me momentarily incapable of doing so. Stealing a glimpse at his face, I study his features, searching for any sign he’s playing me. But all I see is genuine confusion.
“Or maybe because I’ve been seen having dinner with her on occasion, considering she often reaches out to the Times for help with FOI filings when they affect matters of national importance.”