Forbidden Heat

by Jordyn White

  “That rat bastard better not try to blackmail you,” Chloe says, “or I’m gonna kick his ass.”

  I’m still terrified, but I appreciate Chloe’s fervor, since Sam’s not here to provide it.

  But as I think about it, I realize Chloe may be on to something. That bastard could want something. I can think of only two things Justin Kirby might want from me: sex or money. Or maybe both.

  I groan.

  “Maybe nothing will happen,” Ashley says. “Maybe he just wants to be able to torment you more?”

  We all know she’s grasping at straws, but no one seems to want to say so.

  Sam and Jack walk through the door with sober expressions. Their eyes land on me and they exchange ominous glances.

  I straighten as Jack quietly closes the door and Sam comes up to me. She kneels down.

  “I’m so sorry about the pictures,” she says.

  My skin starts pricking horribly. “How do you know about the pictures?”

  Her eyes widen, then she looks to Chloe and Ashley.

  Jack steps away from the door. “You didn’t see?”

  “Oh God, what? See what?”

  Sam pulls out her phone and hands it to me. Chloe and Ashley scramble off the couch to look over my shoulders.

  “Oh my god,” Chloe says.

  There on the Hartman College Student page—the biggest, most active social media group of Hartman students in existence—is an album of pictures. There’s four in all.

  The first is Shane walking toward me with that sexy look on his face. I’m in the photo too, but my back is to the camera and not really identifiable. The second is Shane’s hands on my arms, looking like he’s ready to kiss me. The third is a little blurry. It’s when he was starting to turn away, but you can make out the shocked expression on his face just fine. The last is just me, facing the camera now and looking caught as well.

  The post above the album reads: “Sex Scandal at Hartman?? (Thanks to an anonymous source for these photos.)”

  There are 290 likes and 157 comments.

  The blood rushes out of my head. I give Sam her phone before lying all the way back on the floor. “Oh my god.”

  No one says anything for a moment. What is there to say?

  I stare at the ceiling, noticing the air conditioning vent placed high on the wall. It really needs to be dusted. I vaguely think how strange it is that I would notice a thing like that at a time like this, but I can’t take my eyes off it.

  “Look,” Ashley says. “Justin Kirby isn’t even the one who posted them. Bartholomew Russell did.”

  “Justin Kirby?” Sam says heatedly. “What’s that asshole got to do with it?”

  “He’s the one who took the pictures,” Ashley says.

  “God I hate that guy,” Sam says, then the room falls quiet for a moment. “Bart? Isn’t that his frat buddy?”

  “Yeah,” Jack says quietly.

  I glance at Chloe and Ashley, huddled around Sam’s phone, and can tell they’re reading the comments.

  “What are people saying?” I ask, going back to the dusty vent near the ceiling.

  There’s a pause.

  “That good, huh?”

  Jack disappears into the kitchen. How can he eat at a time like this?

  “You don’t need to listen to a bunch of ass hats,” Sam says.

  “Uh huh.”

  “These pictures don’t even really prove anything,” she continues. “I mean, yeah, it looks kinda bad, but it’s not like they got a shot with his wanger inside you or something.”

  “Nice, Sam,” Jack says, coming back out of the kitchen with a glass of what looks like whiskey. “Come on, honey,” he says to me. “It’ll help you feel better.”

  “I don’t want to feel better.” I don’t move. “And you’re blocking my view of the vent.”

  He furrows his brows and looks up behind him.

  I close my eyes.

  “Some chocolate?” he asks. “Ice cream?”

  “Jack,” Sam says softly.

  “Well if you’re dolling out favors,” Chloe says, “how about kicking Justin Kirby’s ass for us?”

  “Done!” Jack says and I hear him set the glass down on the table hard.

  “Jack, stop,” I say, still looking at the ceiling.

  Silence fills the room again. I pull myself into a sitting position and look blankly at Sam.

  With a somber expression, she picks up the glass and holds it out to me.

  I take it and toss it back, the whiskey burning my throat. I pinch my eyes shut and exhale forcefully.

  “Do you think Shane’s seen it?” Chloe asks.

  Oh geez.

  I jump up and get my purse. There are no calls or texts from him. This isn’t a texting sort of moment, so I try calling but it goes to voicemail.

  I almost leave a message, but then a feeling of paranoia sweeps over me. What if somebody checks his messages? Would that be more proof?

  I end the call without leaving a message and look at my phone. I decide to send a text after all.

  Me: Please call.

  I hit send, feeling even more nervous. Am I just piling on damning evidence? Then again, if someone searches his phone, that’s not the text we would need to worry about. I don’t know if anybody would be searching his phone.

  God, I’m a jumble of nerves. “He could lose his job,” I say.

  “I don’t think so,” Jack says. “Like Sam said, it’s not really proof. He might have to answer for this, but they can’t do anything without solid evidence.”

  Chloe and Ashley nod their heads in agreement. “Even some of the commenters were saying it doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

  “Really?” I ask hopefully.

  “Not... a lot... but yeah. Some. It’s a valid point of view.”

  I guess. I look at my phone, wishing Shane would call me.

  An hour later, we’ve finished off the pizzas we ordered (at least, they did, since I don’t have much of an appetite) and we’re watching a movie. To help distract me, they said.

  It’s not really working.

  I’ve managed to not text Shane for some time, but can’t resist any longer.

  Me: Will you please call me?

  Why isn’t he calling? Does he know what’s happened? If he does, is he mad at me? I’m the one who seduced him to start with. I’m the one who started this whole fucking thing.

  We finish the movie and are halfway through another when my phone finally rings.

  “It’s him!”

  Jack hits the mute button on the TV and the room falls silent as I answer. “Shane?”

  “Hi.” His voice is dull.

  “Did you see—”

  “I saw.”

  “God, I’m so sorry Shane. This is all my fault.”

  “No,” he says, his voice still dull. “It’s not.”

  “How long have you known? I’ve been trying to get a hold of you. Did someone show it to you?”

  “Uh... yeah. Dean Jennings.”

  I look at Sam with a mortified expression. They’re all watching me, waiting.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Dean Jennings called me into his office and pulled it up on his computer.”

  My head is spinning. This is the worst thing that could’ve happened. I grip Sam’s arm and try to think of a way out of what he’s saying. “But the pictures don’t really show anything. There’s no proof—”

  “I told him.”

  All the blood in my body plummets to the floor. There’s a rushing sound pulsing in my ear. “You what?”

  “He asked me point blank if we were having an affair.”

  “Oh my god.” I let my head fall into my hand. Of all the scenarios I played out in my mind tonight, why didn’t I see this one coming? The most obvious of all.

  “I just... couldn’t do it any more, Isabella. I’m done.”

  Done with what? Lying to everybody? Or done with me?

  “So...” I say slowly. I don�
�t know what to say. “What does that mean? What did he say?”

  “I’m suspended pending his investigation, but most likely he’ll let me go.”

  My head snaps up. “What?”

  “I just thought you’d want to know.”

  “No!”

  “Isabella.”

  His tone stops me cold.

  “I really don’t want to talk right now,” he says slowly, and I hear it in his voice. He does sound done. Done with everything. “Alright?”

  I nod my head. And even though he couldn’t see or hear my answer, the phone goes dead.

  Chapter 23

  I sit there for one full minute, staring at the TV in silence. Scenes from the movie we were watching flash mutely across the screen.

  Jack turns off the TV.

  I continue starting at it.

  “What happened?” Ashley asks gently.

  “The dean called him in and he confessed to everything.” I’m still staring at the TV, but I see Ashley’s hand go up to her mouth. “He’s suspended pending an investigation, but he’ll probably lose his job.”

  “An investigation?” Sam says. “Does that mean the dean’s going to talk to you?”

  I shrug my shoulder. “I don’t know.”

  We sit there in silence a minute longer. I sigh and lean my head back on the couch, looking at Sam.

  “Maybe this is how you guys will end up together,” Chloe says sadly and uncertainly. “Maybe he can go with you now.”

  I swing my eyes to her. “So he can resent me for getting him fired from his dream while I’m living mine?”

  She bites her bottom lip.

  I drop my head in my hands. “God, this is awful. I can’t let them do this to him.”

  “I’m not sure there’s anything you can do about it, honey,” Jack says gently.

  I look at my phone again, then stand suddenly and head for the side table by the door. I grab my keys and my purse.

  “Uh, where do you think you’re going?” Jack says. “You’re in no condition to drive.”

  “I’m not going to just sit here.”

  Jack stands and pulls his keys out of his pocket. “Alright then. Tell me where you want to go.”

  I stare at him, ready to argue, but I see the look on his face. I know when Jack means business.

  “Fine.” Seconds later, my shoes are on and we’re out the door.

  By the time Dean Jennings opens his door to find me standing on the front porch of his two-story French colonial in the middle of the night, I’m starting to wonder if coming here was such a good idea. How exactly is this going to help?

  Dean Jennings says nothing. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t tell me to get the hell off of his porch. He just looks at me like I’m the biggest disappointment he’s ever laid eyes on.

  Jack’s waiting for me in his truck. I could turn around right now and Jack could take me home.

  Instead I look down at my feet. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  “It’s midnight.”

  I hear the disappointment in his voice.

  He’s right. It is midnight. And I’m no longer the girl he thought I was. And I’m here to save Shane’s job. “Please.”

  Dean Jennings leads me into the den just off the entryway, turning on a lamp and leaving the door open. It’s a comfortable room with dark wooden bookcases and desk, and a pair of soft, high-backed chairs. He gestures for me to sit and I do, fiddling with my fingers.

  He sits across from me, not smiling.

  He’s never looked quite so intimidating before.

  “Well? Are you here to deny everything?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “Well that’s something at least,” he says harshly. “How could you do this?”

  I cringe and press my lips together.

  “I understand,” he continues, “that if anyone has the lion’s share of the blame here it’s Professor Brooks. But I thought you knew better, Isabella.”

  I nod and look down. “I’m sorry.” I take a deep breath. “Listen, I... I know I’m in no position to ask for favors...” I peek at him.

  He slowly raises one white eyebrow, raising my nerves right along with it.

  “But,” I press on, “I’m really hoping you’ll let Shane keep his job.”

  “It’s Professor Brooks to you, young lady, and you don’t get to tell me what to do with my professors.”

  “Yes. I... I understand that.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes, I... just wanted you to know that he...” I stop. This is going to be harder than I thought. “... wasn’t trying to seduce me. He tried to keep things professional.” I take a deep breath. “I’m the one who crossed the lines.”

  The look on his face is killing me.

  “But it wasn’t...” I’m rushing ahead, trying to explain, “I’ve never done anything like that before.”

  “I should hope not.”

  “It’s... I’m in love with him.” God, the first time I admit this out loud and it’s to the fucking dean.

  He exhales sharply and runs a hand through his snowy hair. “You know, Isabella, sometimes young girls in situations like this think it’s love when it’s really something else. Especially for the professor.”

  I can’t ignore the sting of that. The truth is I don’t know how Shane feels about me. He’s never said he loves me. But our relationship isn’t what Dean Jennings is trying to say it is either. Shane wasn’t on the prowl for me.

  “The bottom line is this, Professor Brooks abused his authority over you.”

  “Look, if he were fifty or something, fine. But he’s only four years older than me. He was a senior here when I was a freshman. Even you have to see this isn’t the case of an older man taking advantage of a young girl, and he did not abuse his authority as a professor. I can guarantee you that.”

  “You can’t guarantee shit, Isabella!”

  This shocks me into silence.

  The dean sighs and rubs his eyes.

  This isn’t going how I wanted it to go at all. I don’t want Shane to lose his job. He can’t. He loves working here and living here and he can’t lose all that because of me.

  In desperation, I try another tack. “You know who did this, don’t you? The person who took the pictures?”

  Dean Jennings looks at me dully. He looks completely worn out.

  “Justin Kirby.”

  The dean’s eyes go hard. “You’re sure?”

  “I saw him do it.”

  “Well,” he says, bustling, “that’s neither here nor there.”

  “How is it that that asshole, who actually does prey on women, sees no consequences for his actions but Shane’s the one in trouble?”

  With some frustration himself, Dean Jennings says, “I know Justin Kirby’s reputation, but I’ve never been able to get any proof and believe me, I’ve tried. I can’t do anything without proof.”

  “Well you don’t have any proof against Shane either.”

  “Professor Brooks,” he corrects me.

  “Can’t you overlook this too? Those pictures aren’t proof.”

  “He confessed,” Dean Jennings says, his voice rising. “You’ve confessed.” He gestures sharply toward me. “What do you really expect me to do about that?”

  I take a deep breath, holding my ground. “Have you told anyone that he confessed?”

  The dean is scowling at me.

  “Does anyone know but you?” I press.

  “No,” he says finally.

  “Then let it blow over. Please. Eventually everyone will forget about those pictures.”

  “Let it blow over,” he says lowly, “and pretend I don’t know one of my professors is banging one of his students.”

  I cringe against his crude verbiage and look down. “If we stopped?” I ask quietly. “Then can Sh— Professor Brooks keep his job?”

  Dean Jennings let’s out a humorless laugh. “You’ve always been a persistent one, haven�
�t you? You’re going for any angle you can think of.” Frowning, I look down at my lap. “I’m surprised you haven’t gotten around to offering a nice, healthy donation to the college’s fund to make this all go away.”

  A thick silence settles about us as I slowly look up at him.

  I press my lips together, barely containing my glare of disgust, but in that moment I know I would do it. Hell, I’ve already compromised myself by sleeping with my professor and asking a personal favor from the dean in order to get everyone out of trouble. I’m already asking for special treatment, the one thing I’ve always said I never wanted. What difference does it make if I write a check on top of it all?

  But I’m angry at him for asking. Inexplicably, in spite of my recent shortcomings, I’m more than willing to judge him for his.

  “Is that what you want?” I say lowly.

  He gives me a disgusted look. “Don’t insult me on top of everything else. That was meant to be sarcastic.”

  There’s a noise in the hall and we both turn to see the dean’s wife come down the stairs and onto the landing. She looks into the room. “Sorry, dear. I didn’t realize you were with a student.”

  “I’m sorry for disturbing you, Mrs. Jennings.”

  “Not at all. I hope everything’s okay, Isabella.” She gives me a sweet smile I don’t deserve and leaves us again. We watch her ascend the stairs in silence.

  Dean Jennings stares at the empty doorway for a moment and sighs. He gets up and goes to the mini fridge in the corner. He opens it, grabs a beer, looks at the beer a moment, then puts it back and shuts the door.

  “Okay, here are the options. One. Professor Brooks is fired and gets the hell off my campus. Two. Professor Brooks gets to keep his job and find ways to make me happy about that, but you both agree to publicly deny any wrongdoing.”

  I’m nodding slightly.

  “And,” he says, holding up one finger, “starting this instant you agree to zero contact. No goodbyes. No nothing. You’re just done. Understand? If either one of you try to contact the other in any way, you’re both out. Which is what should be happening anyway and don’t ask me why I’m even considering doing this for you.”

  I blink at him, terrified to do even so much as say thank you.