Elements of Chemistry: Parts 1-3

by Penny Reid

  “In order to determine when a solution has been exactly neutralized, an acid base indicator is used that changes color in a certain pH range…” her words are softer this time and it’s clear she’s reading to herself, like I’m not even there.

  And so the hour passes. Kaitlyn Parker goes through the motions of the experiment and I try to keep my boner hidden, all the while imagining her reaching into my pants and rubbing me off.

  While topless… Fuck it, while naked.

  These fantasies are sometimes interrupted by her being just too goddamn brilliant for her bra size. Today she quickly works through a difficult equation and solves for an unexpected outcome. The problem is, each time she demonstrates how clever she is, and how ambivalent she is to my presence, the fantasy grows dirtier.

  By the end of lab we’ve already fucked three times, she’s had six enthusiastic orgasms, and I’ve come in her smart mouth twice. Of course, she swallows like it’s candy.

  In reality, however, I’m sporting an angry hard-on, unable to lift my eyes past her tits, and she’s still ambivalent to my presence. I’ve basically become the idiot she assumes I am.

  Welcome to my Friday.

  I think back, trying to remember a time when I was half this preoccupied with a girl. I can’t. Even after I leave I’ll still be thinking about her mouth and what it would look like sucking me off. I close my eyes briefly, indulging, and imaginary Kaitlyn says something about copper chloride solution just before she takes the flat of her tongue and licks me from shaft to head.

  Clenching my jaw, I force myself to clear the image from my mind because I need to walk to my next class in less than a half hour. This girl is clearly smart, beautiful, and I’m halfway convinced she either doesn’t know who I am or doesn’t care, honestly and truly doesn’t give two fucks. And I’m close to suffocating in my need to touch her.

  “I’ll put away the equipment,” she says unnecessarily. She always puts away the equipment.

  I should offer to help but my throbbing dick protests the idea of walking, or any movement not involving satisfaction and relief. I watch her bend and reach into the science cabinet again; strangely, all I can think about is how I won’t see her again for another week.

  This thought leads me to say without thinking, “You should give me your number.”

  Yes, these words are unpremeditated, but I’m not sorry for them. If anything I’m feeling like an idiot for not asking prior to now.

  Kaitlyn frowns, like maybe I just asked her for an organ donation, and doesn’t look at me. She says nothing, as though if she pretends I didn’t speak then she won’t have to answer. The only sound in the chem lab is her packing up. This lasts for a full minute.

  I know she heard me and I know she has an excellent grasp of the English language. By now it’s clear she has no intention of responding.

  So I decide to push. “Parker, give me your cell number.”

  She stiffens, stands straighter, and stares at her bag like it has the answers to our midterm.

  But then she waves her hand through the air and says, “Nah.”

  I feel my eyebrows inch higher on my forehead. “Nah?”

  “Nah.”

  Nah. What the fuck does that mean?

  “Does that mean ‘no’?”

  “Nah means no,” she says offhandedly while she moves to grab one of the graduated cylinders and takes it back to the shelf.

  I’m not surprised.

  I’m astonished.

  This has never happened to me before. Never. When I was seventeen I asked the twenty-eight-year-old wife of a diplomat for her phone number. She wrote it on my hand with her lipstick. Usually I don’t have to ask at all.

  Therefore I can’t help but press further. “Why not?”

  Kaitlyn loiters in front of the equipment shelf like she’s cataloging its contents; still not looking at me, she answers, “I don’t give it out.”

  “You don’t give out your cell phone number?” Like a dumbass, I can only repeat her words.

  “It’s one of my life rules.”

  “So, no one has your phone number?”

  “I didn’t say that. I didn’t see you record the findings today. Do you need to borrow my notes?”

  Her tight tone tells me my pushing is making her uncomfortable. And this makes me grit my teeth. I don’t want to make her uncomfortable, I just want her to give me the time of day. Also maybe spend a week with her on a deserted island. Naked. Fucking.

  And talking… I blink at this last unbidden thought.

  I haven’t recovered from the notion that my interest in Kaitlyn Parker might be something more than carnal when she shoves several papers at me.

  “Here, these are my notes from today. Just leave them in the lab cabinet when you’re done, under the Bunsen burner tray.”

  “Under the tray?” I repeat… like a dumbass.

  “Yes.” She hitches her backpack higher and moves around me toward the door, tossing over her shoulder, “If you need to tell me something just use on-campus email or leave a note in the science cabinet.”

  I turn to watch her go. “Nobody checks their on-campus email.”

  I see her shoulders shrug but she doesn’t answer. Then, like she can’t get away from me fast enough, she’s gone.

  I stare after her, at the empty doorway, for an embarrassingly long time. I’m hoping she forgot something and she’ll come back. When she doesn’t and I realize what I’m doing, I shake my head, disgusted with myself, and glance at the notes she’s given me.

  Her handwriting is neat, small, all capital letters, and it looks like she’s used a ruler for her graphs. Not knowing why, I flip through all five pages, admiring the faultless logic seemingly intrinsic to her thoughts. But then my attention catches on a faint, errant doodle on the third page, what looks like notes to a song run along the top of the paper.

  She didn’t use a ruler for the lines and the notes aren’t neat. They’re messy. And she’s tried to erase them.

  Fantasies of my hands cupping her perfect tits fade, and I imagine her playing music. I deliberate what instrument she uses. Now I’m imagining asking her about the song. I wonder what she’d do if I asked her to play music for me.

  Admitting the frustrating truth to myself, I know she’d ignore me, ignore the question. This thought pisses me off and I don’t like that I’m thinking about Kaitlyn Parker in terms other than her perfect tits.

  The uneasiness is back, an uncomfortable sense that I’ve lost something. I fold the notes, stuff them in my backpack, and decide to skip my next class to go on a run instead. A really long run. Followed by ten thousand meters on the erg.

  I also decide I’m going to stop torturing myself. I’ll just stop fantasizing about this girl—the gap between her front teeth, her eyes that aren’t quite blue or grey, how she strums her fingers on the lab table and recites synonyms when she’s flustered, her flawless reasoning and impressive intellect, and relentless willingness to be helpful—because this girl isn’t interested in me. Why waste my time?

  Yeah, I’ll stop fantasizing about Kaitlyn Parker.

  … just as soon as this semester ends.

  About the Author

  Penny Reid’s days are spent writing federal grant proposals for biomedical research; her evenings are either spent playing dress-up and mad-scientist with her two people-children (boy-8, girl-5), or knitting with her knitting group at the local coffee shop. Please feel free to drop her a line. She'd be happy to hijack your thoughts!

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  Read on for:

  Penny Reid’s Booklist (current and planned publications)

  Sneak Peek of Book #1 in the Winston Brothers Series (Duane’s book) Truth or Beard, by Penny Reid

  Other books by Penny Reid

  Hypothesis Series

  (New Adult Romantic Comedy)

  The Elements of Chemistry: ATTRACTION, HEAT, and CAPTURE (#1)

  Book #2 – TBD 2016

  Book #3 – TBD 2017

  Knitting in the City Series

  (Contemporary Romantic Comedy)

  Neanderthal Seeks Human: A Smart Romance (#1)

  Neanderthal Marries Human: A Smarter Romance (#1.5)

  Friends without Benefits: An Unrequited Romance (#2)

  Love Hacked: A Reluctant Romance (#3)

  Beauty and the Mustache: A Philosophical Romance (#4)

  Happily Ever Ninja: A Married Romance (#5, coming Fall 2015)

  Book #6 – TBD 2016

  Book #7 – TBD 2016

  Scenes from the City – Wintertime Surprise/Series Extras

  Winston Brother Series

  (Contemporary Romantic Comedy, spinoff of Beauty and the Mustache)

  Truth or Beard (#1, coming July 21, 2015)

  Grin and Beard It (#2, coming 2016)

  Beard Science (#3, coming 2017)

  Book #4 – TBD

  Book #5 – TBD

  Book #6 – TBD

  Irish Players (Rugby) Series – by L.H. Cosway and Penny Reid

  (Contemporary Romance)

  The Hooker and the Hermit (#1)

  The Pixie and the Player (#2, coming 2016)

  Book #3 – TBD 2017

  Sneak Peek: Truth or Beard, by Penny Reid

  Book #1 in the Winston Brothers Series (coming July 21, 2015)

  CHAPTER 1

  ~Jessica~

  I pulled into the Green Valley Community Center parking lot and scared the crap out of five senior citizens.

  Even though it was Halloween, inducing heart attacks in the geriatric population was not on my agenda. Unfortunately for everyone within earshot, while I’d dutifully stopped as they crossed in front of my vehicle, my truck made a ghastly, high-pitched whining sound. This happened whenever it idled.

  The five of them jumped, obviously startled, and glared at me as though I’d commanded the truck to make the screech on purpose. Soon their glares morphed into wrinkled squints of befuddlement, their eyes moving over my appearance from my perch. It took them a few minutes, but they recognized me.

  Everyone in Green Valley Tennessee knew who I was.

  Nevertheless, I imagined they were not expecting to see Jessica James, the twenty-one year old daughter of Sheriff Jeffrey James and sister of Sheriff’s Deputy Jackson James, dressed in a long white beard sitting behind the wheel of an ancient Ford Super Duty F-350 XL.

  In my defense, it wasn’t my monster truck. It was my mother’s. I was currently between automobiles, and she’d just upgraded to a newer, bigger, more intimidating model. Something she could plaster with bumper stickers that said,

  Have You Kissed Your Sheriff Today? and

  Don’t Drink and DERIVE, Alcohol and Calculus Don’t Mix, and

  Eat Steak!! The West Wasn’t Won With Salad.

  As the local sheriff’s wife, mother to a police officer (my brother) and math teacher (me), and the daughter of a cattle rancher, I think she felt it was her duty to use the wide canvas of her truck as a mobile pro-police, mathematics, and beef billboard.

  I waited patiently for them to look their fill, giving them a small smile which they wouldn’t see behind my beard. Being stared at didn’t bother me much. After a few more minutes of confused gawking, the gang of seniors shuffled off toward the entrance to the community center, casting cautiously confused glances over their shoulders.

  As quickly as I could, I maneuvered the beast into a space at the edge of the lot. Since inheriting the truck I usually parked on the edge of parking lots so as not to be that jerk who drives an oversized vehicle and takes up two spaces.

  I adjusted my beard, tossing the three-foot, white length over my shoulder, and grabbed my gray cape and wizard hat. Then I tried not to fall out of the truck or flash anyone on my hike down from the driver’s seat. Luckily, my costume also called for a long staff, and I leveraged the polished wood to aid my descent; the rest of my costume was negligible—a one-piece mini-skirt sheath dress with a low cut front—and made stretching and moving simple.

  I was halfway across the lot, lost in delighted mental preparation for my father and brother’s scowls of disapproval, when I heard my name.

  “Jessica, wait up.” I turned, found my coworker and friend Claire jogging toward me. I set my wizard hat—which had a built-in wig—on my head and waved.

  “I thought that was you. I saw the beard and the staff.” She slowed as she neared, her eyes moving over the rest of my costume. “You’ve made some… modifications.”

  “Yes.” I nodded proudly, grinning at her warily amused expression. I noted that Claire hadn’t changed since work; she was still wearing an adorable Raggedy Ann costume. Lucky for her, she already had bright red hair and freckles. All she had to do was put her long locks in pig tails, add the overalls and white cap.

  “Do you like what I’ve done?” I twisted to one side then the other to show off my new garment and the high-heeled strappy sandals.

  “Are you still Gandalf? Or what are you supposed to be?”

  “Yeah, I’m still Gandalf. But now I’m sexy Gandalf.” I wagged my eyebrows.

  Claire covered her mouth with a white-gloved hand then snorted. “Oh my God! You are a nut!”

  A sinister giggle escaped my lips. I’m not much of a giggler unless I’ve done something sinister. “Well, I couldn’t wear it to work. But I love the irony of it, you know? All those stupid Halloween costumes that women are expected to wear, like sexy nurse and sexy witch and sexy bee. I’ve actually seen a ‘sexy bee’ costume. Am I missing something? Is there a subset of men who get off thinking about pollinators?”

  “I agree. You can’t wear the sexy Gandalf costume to work. In addition to being against the dress code, you’re already starring in the sex fantasies of all your male students as their hot calculus teacher. If you’d worn sexy Gandalf at school instead of regular Gandalf, I think they’d go home feeling confused about their sexuality.”

  I laughed and shook my head, thinking how odd the last three months had been.

  Like me, Claire was a native of Green Valley; also like me, she’d moved back to town after college. However, where I was here only temporarily—just for the few years until I paid off my student debt—Claire was here to stay. She’d become the drama and band teacher during my senior year of high school. Now we were coworkers. With her gorgeous red hair, light blue eyes, and a strikingly beautiful face, during my senior year as well as now, she was labeled the hot drama teacher.

  She even had those awesome high cheekbones that magazines talk about, with the little hollow above the jaw. Add to her stunning good looks the most laid-back, kind, generous, and all-around talented person I’d ever met, she should have been in New York or Milan living the life of a muse or a model or a concert pianist.

  But she had sad eyes.

  Claire had married her childhood sweetheart. Her husband, Ben McClure, had been a marine; he’d died overseas two years ago. Having no other family to speak of, I surmised that Claire was still living in Green Valley because she wanted to stay near his family.

  Meanwhile, I’d been in the thespians my sophomore through senior year of high school and was a therefore labeled
as one of those drama kids—so, for my school, that basically meant weird and funny.

  I didn’t marry my childhood sweetheart because I didn’t have one, though I kissed lots of boys because I liked kissing boys. Kissing boys also had the delightful byproduct of aggravating my sheriff father and overprotective brother. Essentially, I’d left home for college an angsty, but well-mannered good girl. So, a typical teenager.

  But upon my return to Green Valley High School (just a short four years later), same school with the same social order and subsets, I’d now become a new stereotype.

  I was the hot math teacher.

  I’d never thought of myself as the hot anything. Don’t get me wrong, I had a perfectly fine self-image. But I guess in comparison to Mr. Trantem—the previous and now recently retired math teacher—the fact that I had boobs and was under eighty-five meant I might as well have been Charlize Theron.

  I shivered as a gust of late autumn wind met my excess of bare skin.

  “Come on,” Claire looped her arm through mine. “Let’s get inside before you freeze your beard off.”

  I followed her into the old school building. As we neared I heard the telltale sounds of folk music drifting out of the open double doors.

  It was Friday night, and that meant nearly every able-bodied person in a thirty-mile radius was gathering for the jam session at the Green Valley Community Center. As it was Halloween I noted the place had been decorated with paper skeletons, carved pumpkins, and orange and black streamers. The old school had been converted only seven years earlier, and the jam sessions started shortly thereafter.

  Everyone in Green Valley would start their evening here. Even if it hadn’t been Halloween, married folks with kids would leave first, followed by the elderly. Then the older teenagers would go off, likely to Cooper’s field for a drunken bonfire. Those that were adult, unmarried, and childless would leave next.

  I was clumsily and hesitantly trying to find my way in this new single adult subgroup.