by Lane Hart
When the ambulance comes to a stop, the tech jumps up to open the back; and with a sigh of exasperation, Professor Daughter follows him to the pavement. He then turns around to offer me his hand to help me down.
“Thanks,” I say to him. And as soon as my palm touches his, there’s a zap of awareness that travels up the length of my arm and swirls around inside my chest before settling into my lower belly. Just as quickly, it disappears when my feet hit the ground and Professor Daughton lets me go, making me think I imagined it.
Holy cheese ravioli! What if he’s my soulmate? Could my professor be the one? How the heck am I supposed to know for sure? I need to call Josie, and once again I’m regretting the fact that I don’t have a cell phone. Maybe it’s time I give in to the technology.
“So, Reagan, right? Are you busy later?” the hottie EMT asks, and it takes a few moments of me staring blankly at him before his words sink in. Wait, he’s asking me out? Me? Okay, so maybe he’s the man who will take my virginity, and I didn’t notice because I’m too hung up on crushing after my professor. I’m such an idiot.
Squinting my eyes, I look at the tech again, staring at his closely shaved hair, like a military cut, and down his blue uniform. He’s definitely sexy in the hero to the rescue kind of way, but I’m just not getting any soulmate vibes. I desperately need to talk to Josie to see how she felt when she first met Lawson. Were there butterflies in her tummy? Did she and Lawson attack each other like feral animals? These are things I need to know!
Until she can give me more intel, I don’t want to stupidly walk away from anyone who could potentially be the man of my dreams. Not only would that be disappointing, but Josie would kill me since her continued happiness depends on me finding my own and extending the love potion.
“Ah, I don’t have any plans, but I can’t stay out late since I have an early class tomorrow,” I finally respond while nervously pushing a lock of my long hair behind one ear. Being asked out by a hot guy is totally new to me since I attend a mostly all-girl university and, well, I’m a little…unusual.
“How about I get your number and, if you’re gonna be hanging around with the old man, I can call you when my shift ends?” he suggests with a grin that starts a slow burn in my nether regions. Ooh. There might be a spark there after all.
“Um, well, I don’t have a cell phone,” I tell him. In response, his eyes narrow and his smile slips like he thinks I’m lying because I’m not interested. That’s it! Tomorrow I’m getting a freaking cell phone! “Seriously,” I assure him, opening my frumpy purse and holding it out in front of him to inspect.
“Huh,” the EMT mutters after eyeing the contents of my hobo bag. “What about you, old man? I can reach her through your cell phone, right?” he asks.
“Well…” Professor Daughton starts before lowering his eyes to his brown dress shoes.
“That would be great,” I say, not wanting to pass up the chance to meet up later if this is him, my soulmate who will finally take my virginity and hopefully soon. I mean, I have been waiting a long time. And if we’re going to spend the rest of our lives together, then what’s the harm?
Grumbling something under his breath, my professor tugs on the collar of his stained dress shirt before he says, “Sure, what the hell,” and rattles off his phone number. I don’t intentionally try to remember the seven digits. They just seem to go on repeat in my brain.
“See you soon,” the EMT says with a grin after he successfully enters the digits into his phone.
“Can’t wait,” I reply.
“Come on, sir,” the older tech says to my professor when he tugs on his elbow. “Or should I go get you a wheelchair?”
“I don’t need a damn wheelchair,” Professor Daughton says when I start to follow them. But then I realize Hottie McHero never told me his name.
“Wait, I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name,” I turn around and shout at the EMT, who is walking around the driver side of the ambulance.
“Bailey,” he answers with a wink.
Bailey.
Our neighbors once had a dog named Bailey, who bit me every single time I walked through the yard. After he had taken a chomp out of a neighborhood kid’s face, animal control made them put him down. I’m sure this Bailey is much sweeter. He has to be, right?
Shaking off those negative thoughts, I hustle to catch up with the professor and older tech as they step through the automatic doors of the emergency room. Professor Daughton must have finally realized this trip is gonna cost him an arm and a leg because his posture is now tense. At the check-in desk, he answers the insurance lady in short, terse words. Finally, they take him to one of the cubicles with a privacy curtain and a bed, and the nurse tells him to strip down and put on the cotton gown.
“I’ll just wait, um, out here,” I say before stepping back out to give him time to change. Watching the nurses scurry around the center workstation, I don’t really know why I’m still here since anything more I say or do will only hurt my failing grade even more. I guess it’s because I need to at least offer to pay for this whole visit. Oh, and apologize again for almost killing him.
“All clear,” Professor Daughton says loud enough for me to hear through the curtain. And I definitely didn’t try to imagine what he would look like stripping out of his dress shirt and slacks. Or whether or not he wears boxers or briefs. Nope, definitely not imagining his package that I’ve spent more time watching than the man’s face this semester. I can’t help it. It’s not like I usually look at men’s junk or anything, but the professor is so…prominent in khakis stretched across his groin that I don’t have to even imagine his length or girth, except to wonder if he’s a grower or a shower.
When I step back through the curtain, Professor Daughton is sitting sideways on the bed in the blue and white pattern gown with the thin white sheet pulled over his lap. The same lap I was just thinking naughty thoughts about. My cheeks blaze with heat at the reminder of my sex deprived brain taking a detour where it should never go. He’s my professor. And I’m his student. So what if he’s achingly beautiful with sparkling sapphire eyes that seem to scorch into mine, taking my breath away. I nearly made him take his very last breath because of my super clumsiness. He could’ve actually died if that woman hadn’t been there with the needle that saved him.
My dad’s the only person I’ve ever lost, and his death was devastating. I didn’t handle it well because I was still a naïve little girl who didn’t understand that bad things can happen to good people. My dad was the best, and he died way too young. He was taken from my mother and me, leaving us completely devastated. She still is after all these years.
To think of never seeing the man before me again standing in front of a classroom of students and holding them captivated by his every word, not just because he’s gorgeous but because he’s so passionate about journalism, is almost too overwhelming. I’ve sat in the library and read or watched most of Professor Daughton’s news reports. It’s obvious that he doesn’t want to use his career to just make a name for himself. He wants to share the injustices of the world with the public to try and invoke change, to make it a better place. And in an instant I almost caused his demise, ending all the good deeds he’s capable of.
“Reagan,” he says, drawing my eyes, which are filling up with tears, to his with that one word. My name from his lips sounds sweeter than any other sound I’ve ever heard. Did I imagine the warmth behind it because I’m desperate for the comfort? Gah, I really need to pull myself together.
“I’m so sorry you ended up in here,” I tell him, swallowing past the lump in my throat. “And I’ll be glad to pay for any of the medical bills, the ambulance and all since it’s my fault for ruining your day, putting you in here…”
“Reagan, stop. This wasn’t your fault. It was just a freak accident that could’ve happened anywhere. I should know better than to put something in my mouth without knowing where it’s been first.”
I couldn’t help but smile, co
nsidering his words in a slightly different dirty way.
Professor Daughton clears his throat. “That didn’t come out the way I intended, but you get the point, right?” he asks, and I could almost swear he was blushing underneath his golden tan. “Hell, I didn’t even have my EpiPen with me, which was stupid.”
“The needle thing?” I ask for clarification.
“Yeah. So, if this is anyone’s fault, it’s mine for bumping into you, being unprepared and pretty much being an idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot,” I tell him. “In fact, your lectures are the best I’ve ever had.”
Professor Daughton chuckles, and I realize that my words could also be taken as innuendo.
“If that’s so,” he asks, “why are you barely pulling a C?”
Shit.
“Well, technology and I don’t really get along.” It’s true. I’m excelling in every other course, except his.
“Which is why you don’t have a cell phone?” he asks.
“Yes,” I answer. “But I think I’ll go buy one tomorrow.”
“From your previous research papers, I can tell you have a grasp on the subject matter. You’re just a little…behind on your execution for the assignments.”
“Behind is better than saying I’m completely incompetent on the Internet I guess,” I joke.
“The world is changing, and social media is the primary source from which most young adults and many adults get their news. If you plan to have a career in journalism, then you’re gonna have to get on board.”
“I know,” I say with a sigh, resting my back against the small supply cabinet.
“What is your plan after graduation?” he asks with a tilt of his head. Only he could manage to look hot, sexy and serious wearing only a hospital gown.
“Something with photojournalism is my ultimate goal.”
“A picture is worth a thousand words,” he says with a nod. “And during the semester have you noticed how a photo can quickly go viral on the Internet?”
“Yes, in fact, my research paper is about ten of the most viral photographs, how they are alike and different, to try and see if there’s some sort of connection of what grabs the public’s attention.”
“That sounds fascinating,” he says, sounding genuinely interested. “But don’t forget that you need to incorporate your own brand into the project. Maybe add in the most popular stories or photos you posted on social media. Which ones received the most views, shares, likes and why you feel some stood out more than others.”
“Right,” I say as I glance around the room to avoid eye contact. That is the part where I’m seriously behind. Putting myself out there in public is…scary. I have a fear of rejection and criticism. What if the photos I love most are the ones everyone says suck?
“I haven’t seen any updates on your pages in a few weeks,” Professor Daughton says.
Shoot. I had no idea he would actually check up on us throughout the semester.
“Don’t worry,” he adds. “You still have two weeks to get more active, grow your audience and get your name out there. Remember, this is about helping you in the future with creating your personal brand and practice increasing traffic. No matter where you go to work, they’re gonna expect you to be familiar with social media and drawing attention to your articles.”
“I know. And I’m gonna get on it.”
“Good,” he says. “And if you need any help or, say, extra credit to pull up your final grade, just stop by and see me during my office hours.”
And there it is. The famous “extra credit” of his that I’ve heard so much about from all the girls who have taken him up on his offer.
Wait, does that mean he’s hitting on me? The thought doesn’t make me as happy as I thought it would, especially since I wouldn’t be the first or last girl he’s given “extra credit” to.
Before I can answer, a tired looking older nurse and a tall redhead breeze through the curtain. When the woman sees Professor Daughton, she gasps so hard I’m not sure how she didn’t choke on the air.
“Oh my God, Gage! Are you okay?” she asks with an insincere flourish, reaching for him and pulling him into her full bosom that’s barely covered by her revealing, skimpy cream colored dress.
Gage? And the woman’s young but obviously not a student. More like a contestant on America’s Next Top Model, only she’s definitely had work done based on the shiny, plastic look of her face, especially her duck lips that are pressed against his cheek.
“How did you know I was here?” he asks her.
“One of the EMT responders called me since I’m still your emergency contact. Why didn’t you call me?”
Huh. Maybe she’s his sister? Although they don’t look anything alike. They’re night and day.
“I’m fine,” he says. “You didn’t need to come.”
The woman scoffs. “Of course I needed to. Your parents are hours away so I didn’t want you to be alone.”
Professor Daughton’s gaze locks with my questioning one over her shoulder a moment before the woman notices and spins around to follow his line of sight.
“Who the hell are you?” she asks snidely with a hand on her lean hip.
“Re –” I start to say, but the professor interrupts. “A concerned bystander,” he tells her before giving me a pleading look that I take to mean he wants me to keep my mouth shut.
The woman’s judging gaze rakes up and down my long dress twice before her eyes widen. “She looks like a student. Is she the one you left me for when I wouldn’t play your game, you sick bastard?” she turns to yell at Professor Daughton.
Whoa.
“Trish, how many times do I have to tell you that I never cheated on you, and there was no other woman. Our marriage was sucking the life out of me, and that’s why I wanted the divorce.”
Holy cow! They’re married? Or were married?
I’m clearly interrupting a private conversation, so I clutch my purse to my side and ease my way quietly toward the edge of the curtain.
“Reagan, wait,” Professor Daughton calls out. “You don’t have to go. Trish, this conversation is over, and you need to leave. We have attorneys who will handle everything from here on out,” he tells the woman.
“You’re serious?” she asks, throwing in a fake sniffle.
“Ah, yeah. If I wanted you here, I would’ve called you,” he says dismissively to her. I could nearly feel the cold chill of his words.
The woman, Trish, huffs before she squares her shoulders. “I’m pregnant,” she blurts out.
“No, you’re not,” Professor Daughton replies coolly without missing a beat. “And if you really were, you would have to be about seven or eight months along for it to be mine. Since you’re not showing…”
“If you’re fucking her, I will find out,” she threatens, pointing a finger at me and instantly dropping the fake pregnancy she just threw out there so randomly.
“I’m not, and even if I were, that’s none of your business anymore,” Professor Daughton replies before she throws a glare at me and then storms out of the room.
What the heck sort of shitstorm have I landed in?
“Sorry you had to hear all…that,” Professor Daughton murmurs after she’s gone.
Although I don’t know her, I wouldn’t put it past the insane woman to stand on the other side of the curtain to eavesdrop.
“Do me a favor, will you?” he asks. “Pull back that curtain.”
Taking a step to the opening, I smile as I yank it back and find the redhead standing just on the other side with her back to us. She mutters something under her breath before she digs through her purse and then flees the emergency room.
“So, you’re married?” I ask the obvious when I resume my place against the cabinet.
“Was,” he replies. “Well, technically still am until the divorce is finalized.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, at a total loss for what else to reply to finding out that.
He chuckles
. “Seriously, after meeting her, you’re apologizing that it didn’t work out?”
“Ah, she seems somewhat…difficult,” I admit.
“The woman is a nightmare that I regret ever meeting.”
Dang, that’s harsh. But really, what sort of woman pulls the “I’m pregnant” card to try and get a man back? An evil, lying one apparently.
“She doesn’t want me back. She just doesn’t know what to do without her father or me taking care of her. Kind of sad, really, but I was tired of putting her happiness ahead of my own.”
“I’m –”
“Don’t,” he says with a grin, holding up a palm to prevent me from uttering another apology. “It’s fine, honestly. I’d rather be single and lonely than stuck one more day living a lie.”
“Oh,” I mutter in response to his bluntness. Just hours ago, this man was a professor I drooled over and thought about naked. Now he’s the guy I almost killed, and I know way too much about his personal life.
Thankfully I’m saved from commenting after all the drama because the doctor comes in to do his exam. I make an escape to the cafeteria’s vending machine, grabbing a Mr. Pibb for Professor Daughton and me since I’ve seen him bring one into the classroom every Tuesday and Thursday this semester. When I peek back into the curtained off room, he spies me and flashes a grin from where he’s now reclined, stretched out on the bed and alone.
“Figured I might as well get comfortable because it looks like I’m gonna be here a while since they’re giving me steroids,” he says, nodding to the IV sticking out of his left arm when I come back in.
“Sorry,” I say to which he immediately responds with, “Stop apologizing, Reagan, or I’ll start docking your final a point for every occasion.”
“Okay,” I agree. “No more apologies. Thirsty?” I ask holding out the soda in offering.