Grade A Ahole

by Vanessa Booke

  "Shall we?" Derrick asks, holding out his hand.

  The man's soft eyes fall to my best friend. She turns to me with an expression that says she's over the moon. A bright blush spreads across her cheeks as she waits for my approval. We've always had one a rule about going to the club. We always leave together. I get the feeling that we might we breaking that rule tonight.

  "Go," I smile.

  She pushes her glasses up as if trying to get a better view of the hunk in front of her. Vicky, even if you wipe the hell out of those glasses he's not disappearing.

  "Let's go," she practically squeaks. I bite back a laugh trying hard not to giggle at my friend's demure manner.

  "Have fun," I laugh, mentally shaking my head at my oblivious friend. Her eyes widen as she glances at me and then at the man beside her with green-honey colored eyes. He pulls her next to him, ready to take her to the dance floor. A sliver of envy hits me as I realize they're leaving me behind with Professor Grant, who's remained silent this entire time.

  "Wait," Vicky says, sounding unconvinced. She looks back at me. I signal her to go and have fun as a gentle reminder that I won't vanish into the crowd.

  "Derrick, I'm leaving now." The words are uttered by a voice dripping with distain. "Take a cab home."

  My gaze turns to Professor Grant as he stands to my left. He stares directly at his brother, completely ignoring my presence. I'm privy only to a side view of his shoulders and the dark stubble on his square jaw.

  Rude.

  "Parker, stay. Enjoy tonight."

  Her scoff's at his Derrick's suggestion despite the pleading look in his eyes. It's the same look you give your wingman when he's about to bail because he got the ugly chick.

  "Nothing in the world could tempt me to suffer through another depressing song. Enjoy your company," he says.

  "Maybe you could ask dance with Josie?" Vicky says just as he's about to turn. "I'm sure she would love the company."

  My cheeks heat at her suggestion. Love the company? Not ever. I'm sure he doesn't even like to dance and that's a dealbreaker in my book. Besides, he's my professor. I'm not that drunk. Professor Grant turns and fixes me with his gaze. The man who I've been thinking about all night is standing right in front of me. Professor Grant is tall with dark brown hair and a jawline sculpted by the Greek Gods. I hate him for it.

  Bright green eyes pierce me with an expression of annoyance that sends a startling amount of heat to my belly. What did I do to deserve his animosity? All I asked for the other day was a chance to rewrite my paper.

  I'm tempted to throw Vicky a glare for even suggesting a dance with him, it's obvious this man has issues. I'm just about to object when his voice stops me yet again.

  "No, I'm afraid not."

  My cheeks burn as I swallow the lump in my throat. Well this is utterly embarrassing.

  "Parker," Derrick begins. "C'mon, you can't stand here all night."

  "I don't see any reason to dance, if that's what you want to call it. It's more like mating season in here."

  Derrick turns toward me with an expression of sympathy.

  "I apologize on behalf of my brother he's a bit of an asshole. As of lately, he prefers his own company."

  "It might do him some good to actually get laid," I mutter.

  Vicky's audible gasp is my first indication that I've spoken to loud. The second is the coaxing sound of the arrogant man's voice speaking inches from my ear.

  "Is that an offer?" His quick-witted reply sends an irritatingly delicious shiver up my body. I peek up at him all too aware of the heated gaze he wears. Suddenly the club feels uncomfortably stuffy. I bite my lip so hard I taste blood.

  "You must live a sad life that you prowl the local college bar for women."

  "Does it bother you that I'm looking at other women?"

  Irritation hits me like a match igniting a fire. If he thinks I have any concern for him and other women he's an idiot. He's my professor not my boyfriend.

  "I'm leaving," I declare.

  Vicky turns to stop me but I walk past her and head out the back of the club. To my dismay, it's raining. Fuck! The downpour soaks me from head to toe within a matter of seconds. I'm briefly blinded by droplets of water and mascara smearing in my eye. Something yanks me backwards and the sound of the back door opening fills my ear. I'm practically sputtering when I look up to see Professor Grant staring down at me.

  He's wet and his chest his heaving like he just ran.

  I catch sight of my reflection in one of the hallway mirrors and cringe. I'm a wet raccoon who was just rejected by an older man.

  "I hate you," I say, turning to Professor Grant.

  He stills behind me.

  "What?"

  "I hate you."

  A deafening silence fills the space between us as his gaze takes me in. A flicker of emotion passes his face and I'm immediately hit with a twinge of regret. Hate is a very strong word for how I feel about him. Attraction is a better word. I move to put space between us but he grabs me from behind.

  "Show me how much you hate me," he says, practically growling in my ear. His hand snakes around my neck as his lips graze my ear. "Your tits seems to say otherwise."

  I gasp at my reflection in the hallway mirror and the arousal of my breasts on full display. Parker stands behind me, his hand falling to my waist and the other inching down my dress. HIs eyes never leave mine even as I feel him pulling at the hem of my dress. A moan hits my lips as his fingers slide between my thighs, pushing my legs apart.

  "Parker?" A voice echoes down the hallway.

  Without warning Professor Grant releases me from his touch. Fuck. My whole body aches to be touched. To be caressed by him.

  "Goodnight, Ms. Wilde." His breath is on my neck and then like a ghost he's gone before I even have the chance to tell him to stop.

  To tell him touch me again. To pet me until I see stars.

  4

  Parker

  It's 10 AM and I'm already dreading the classes I have to teach today. My head is pounding with a hangover from the other night and No amount of coffee is going to hide the fact that I look disheveled. The black circles under my eyes and yesterday's clothes don’t lie. Taking over Professor Dorian's class wasn't on the top of my priority list this year, but if teaching this class means more money in the bank, so be it. I have a mortgage to pay and a daughter to feed. Hangover be damned.

  My cellphone rings as I cross campus toward the Gamma building, but I ignore it. I know it's Derrick calling. It's like this every year, on February 15th. My wedding anniversary with Scarlett or what used to be. My brother thinks I'm a fragile man who's about to fall apart at any moment. Every year, since Scarlett left me, he insists on calling every day, all day. Derrick claims he just misses seeing me but I know better. Although after the fiasco last night, I thought it would be another month before I heard from him again. He seems head-over-heels for Vicky, a truth I'm not all together thrilled about. If he starts seeing Vicky, that puts me one step closer to Ms. Wilde.

  My phone rings again and this time I answer it.

  "So are we getting shit faced again this weekend?"

  My brother is only four years my junior but at 35 he still acts like a fratboy during rush week.

  "Derrick, we don't have to go out every weekend. Besides, I have papers to grade." His tired sigh on the other end of the line is all I need to hear to know he's frustrated with me.

  "If you had a girlfriend, I wouldn't have to worry about leaving you alone."

  "I'm not suicidal," I sigh. "I'm single."

  "You've been single for three years. You're not getting any younger."

  "Thank you for the reminder. I'm not turning to dust over here."

  "You know, you can only play the angry, divorcee for so long before it gets old. You scared off that pretty student of yours last night at the bar."

  I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. I can feel a headache coming on. My brother might be the most immature person I'v
e ever met. Yet, he's still able to pick up more women than me.

  "Maybe if you weren't such a picky dick-"

  "I'm surprised you haven't contracted a venereal disease the way you go through woman," I say, cutting him off.

  "I'm sorry, not everyone can be Saint Grant," he laughs. "You should call her."

  He's not going to let this up no matter how much I want him to.

  "She's my student."

  "I'm sure today will be awkward."

  I grunt. "If she shows," I answer reluctantly.

  "I wouldn't blame her. You gave her the cold shoulder."

  "I'm her professor. What do you supposed I should've done if another student saw us together?"

  "Who cares? You should've danced with her. You were obviously attached to her."

  "I don't fuck my students."

  "Whoa, Parker. No one said fuck. Get your mind out of the gutter. Besides this one might change your mind. I saw how she looked at you."

  I roll my eyes at the long chuckle on the other end. "You mean the look of disdain?" I ask.

  "You know, I was thinking about asking her friend Vicky out again…"

  "Do you have something important you need to tell me?" I ask, ignoring his comment about Ms Wilde's friend. I'm not in the mood for small talk.

  "We could do a double date."

  "Are you sure she likes you enough?" I ask, knowing all too well that I've given my brother someone else to obsess over.

  "That was a dick thing to say."

  "I'm hanging up," I warn. "I have a class to teach in half an hour."

  "Fine, Parker. I just don't want to find you at home singing All By Myself and eating Ben & Jerry's ice cream."

  "You've watched Bridget Jones's Diary way too many times."

  "Chicks dig it. I've gotten so much pussy-"

  I hang up on Derrick all too aware of the sordid details that he's about to get into. I don't need to hear it because it isn't helping my mood or the lack of sex I'm getting. I'm beginning to feel my age when it comes to the dating scene. Everyone is on apps line Tinder and I'm still walking around with the world's last flip phone.

  Thoughts of Ms. Wilde plague me as I round the corner of the Gamma building and run into a familiar face. A gasp escapes her as our bodies collide, sending the books in her arms flying everywhere. She's so off guard that she doesn't even notice it was me that she ran into.

  "I'm so sorry," she starts, but her words die in her throat at the sight of me. Her cheeks grow red as fumbles to say something.

  "Do you always walk with your nose stuck in a book?"

  There's no denying the irritation in my voice. After last night's fiasco, I thought she'd be slipping a drop slip request in my inbox. Looking at her now, I'm reminded of the way her body felt curved against mine. Fuckin' hell. Ms. Wilde slides a strawberry curl behind her ear and then leans down to pick up her books. It takes all of my willpower not to reach out and tug it, suddenly feeling like a pubescent boy eager to tug on a pretty girl's hair.

  "Do you always make it a point to run over your students?" she counters. She dusts off her books and then slips them into her shoulder bag.

  "Are you still my student?" The question has been on my mind since this morning.

  "I'm not accepting an incomplete if that's what you're getting at."

  I direct my gaze to the remaining pile of books left in her possession. She catches my attention as she reaches for with one title in particular. Between two textbooks sits a romance novel with a man's naked back on the front of the cover. The sight of it both amuses me and ignites a fire inside me.

  "Interesting literature you have Ms. Wilde," I note. "I'm not sure it would fall under our course curriculum."

  Her blush deepens as she picks up the book and hides it under her arm.

  "There's no harm in reading romance novels. It's an escape from reality."

  Why would you need to escape? I've met plenty of women like Josie Wilde. They come from wealthy families with the world at their fingertips. They fly private jets, own multiple homes and never have to worry where their next meal is coming from.

  "Other than creating unrealistic expectations for women everywhere, no nothing's wrong with it," I say.

  "I think most women can tell the difference between reality and fantasy."

  "Can they? I can't help but wonder if women who read romance novels are delusional."

  "There's nothing delusional about refusing to settle for just anyone. Maybe the problem is some men need to step up their game," she counters.

  "Is that what you like? Little boys who play games?"

  "I don't date little boys," she scoffs. "They can't handle me."

  I believe her.

  Without warning Ms. Wilde whirls around and stalks off, leaving me little room to shoot off a remark. My chest feels heavy as I watch her make a bee-line across the wet lawn toward the Omega building, exactly where I'm headed. I glance at my watch and smile. Class starts in less than fifteen minutes, but it seems Ms. Wilde is on a mission to get there a few minutes early. A growing sense of dread fills me as I watch her. The attraction is there, no matter how deep I bury it.

  5

  Josie

  The heat on my cheeks spreads like wildfire as I enter the classroom for English 401. Rows of curious gazes turn in my direction. The 10 AM lecture is nearly filled, leaving only a few seats in the front row. It seems only a few students are brave enough to venture more closely. I slip into one of the broken chairs furthest from Professor Grant's desk. At this point, I'd sit on the floor if it meant putting more distance between us. As I scan the over-crowded room, the realization hits me. This is the most packed class I've ever seen. I'm sure that has everything to do with the fact that our new professor is a tyrant. Despite being one of the bigger lecture halls in the Gamma building, I'm not sure its size is big enough to fit Professor Grant's ego.

  Our strange and infuriating encounter moments ago left me ill prepared for his lecture. My nerves grow as I glance up at the clock that serves as another reminder of my sentence. Ten minutes pass and I can feel myself itching to crawl out of my own skin. Where is he? My embarrassment from moments earlier returns with a vengeance. Why are you so eager to see him? It was only minutes go that he branded you as delusional as the rest of the woman in the world that read romance novels. I'm not sure what's more embarrassing the fact that he found a copy of my latest guilty pleasure, or that he assumed I have no love life because of it. So what if I read romance novels? It's not my fault fictional men are better than the real thing. I'm still waiting for the guy who can make me orgasm more than once. Is that too much to ask?

  After twenty excruciating minutes, Professor Grant enters the classroom. I bite my lip as I watch his cool and collective manner. If he notices my presence, he doesn't show it one bit. I silently watch as he unpacks his bag, placing a stack of books on top. He meticulously sets things on his desk, all in perfectly aligned order. My hands itch to shove all of his things to the floor just to rile him up. It's irritating how perfect he wants his things. Or maybe it's just irritating how imperfect I feel near him.

  "So nice of you to join us, Ms. Wilde."

  His deep, rumbling voice echoes across the room sending shivers down my body. I glance up to find his sharp gaze looking at me. In a vain attempt to hide my blush, I turn mine to the textbook in front of me. I know pretending I haven't heard him isn't the greatest plan but I'm completely out of options. A female student next to me turns and whispers, "I think he's talking to you." If I wasn't embarrassed before I most definitely am now. My silence is greeted by a low chuckle from Professor Grant. Curiosity gets the better of me and I glance up to find him smirking.

  "Ms. Wilde, will be leading today's reading." His expression tells me that he's more than willing to make an example out of me for the benefit of the rest of the class. Dozens of eyes turn to me in wide-eyed curiosity, including the female student next to me. "Uh oh, what did you do?" she whispers.

  "
Please open your textbook to page 30 and read the poem aloud for the class," Professor Grant commands. Irritation hits me as he sits back on his desk, crossing his arms over his chest. The haughty look turns me on in more ways than I care to admit. "You'll find this poem is not part of the course syllabus, but I think it's important to set the tone for this class."

  A stream of whispers echo around me as I reluctantly turn to the requested page. If he thinks I'm afraid of reading aloud, he's wrong. I've spent the past three years analyzing and discussing all the classics. My stomach twists into knots as I scan the page Professor Grant direct me to. Son of a bitch. To my surprise, the poem isn't the standard, boring Keats poem. It's Please Master by Allen Ginsberg's. I remember it because one of my high school teachers was almost fired for having us read it. It's not every day you read a poem about begging to be fucked in the ass.

  "Ms. Wilde, we're waiting."

  Professor Grant stares at me with a startling intensity that borders on possessive. The voices around me fall silent as I clear my throat and begin reading. Within seconds, I realize exactly what he meant by "making an example out of me."

  "please master can I have your thighs bare to my eyes

  please master can I take off your clothes below your chair

  please master can I kiss your ankles and soul"

  My skin begins to heat again as I read over each provocative line. Please Master is nothing like the flowery poetry I've been reading for the past three years. In fact, most Professors wouldn't be caught dead assigning this poem. It's "too controversial." Although I'm not surprised that Professor Grant is having us read this, he seems to have a knack for making people uncomfortable. His gaze locks onto mine as a few laughs erupt from the classroom. My eyes are drawn to the slight curve in his lips -- the beginning of a smile. Annoyed, I turn back to the poem and begin reading through each line. Determined to let Professor Grant know that he hasn't nor will ever rile me. Ginsberg doesn't hold anything back with his poem. The further I read the heavier my breath grows. I fumble over words several times, too wrapped up in thoughts of my professor's hand slipping between my thighs.