Call Me

by Gillian Jones

  His office, of course. Found it!

  I hear him say something but like a stupid fangirl, my brain goes on lockdown as the eleven-year-old boyband fan in me loses her mind at the thought that he might have just paid me a compliment. Reluctantly, I pull away, straightening myself with a bit of his help. God, I want those arms around me. His green eyes are intense behind his glasses, almost boring into me, his annoyance evident tenfold. His eyes are vibrant, matching the intensity of fresh cut grass in the summer. I could get lost in them, loving the thought of never being found.

  “Sorry, I know I’m late. I missed my bus,” I start, a bit confused, wondering if I heard him properly. Did he say I smelled good?

  I try to ask him to repeat himself only to have him dismiss me. “You’re late. I’m pissed. I’m going to grab a coffee. Go sit down. I’ll be back in five. Be ready to impress me with your thesis topic and research, Ms. Hughes.” His rigidness leaves no room for argument. Hearing him telling me to get ready sends a pulse right between my legs, leaving me in no doubt that I’m absolutely already ready.

  Stupid mandatory staff meetings. Destiny neglected to tell me that every third Thursday of the month is staff meeting day from four- to six p.m. Her late night text sent me into panic mode. I texted, telling her I couldn’t go, gave her shit for dropping the ball and not telling me. She apologized again before calling me to explain that by mandatory it means no show equals no job. With that tidbit of info, I decided to take a chance and email Professor Ryan. There was no way I could risk losing my job, not that I could risk losing a grade either, but I figured it was worth a try. To my surprise, he agreed. A part of me wondered if it was because he had as soft a spot for me as I did for him. I know it’s silly, but the way we look at each other, I swear we’re heading down a path where our eventual collision will be explosive.

  So here I am now, late for my already rescheduled appointment, flailing with how to start an apology after he’d granted me a favour, one I know he didn’t grant lightly. And all I can seem to think of is how much my face is missing being buried in this beautifully brilliant man’s chest. After a beat, his words finally register with my lagging fangirl brain. I nod and apologize again before he bristles past me, muttering under his breath.

  “Again, really sorry I’m late,” I whisper as he closes the door behind him.

  Moving into his space, I breathe in his familiar scent. I wonder if he realizes just how good he smells or how it affects other people? I would gladly suffer smelling that scent for the rest of my life. Taking in the smallish space, I note the dark-stained desk positioned in front of a pretty big window, a comfy-looking leather chair tucked against it. I also spy a small stack of unpacked boxes, and movie posters of all genres hang on the walls, giving it a relaxed feel. I smile when my eyes land on posters for Star Wars and Casablanca, and I wonder if Ace likes all the classics I do. I wonder what else we might have in common, and admit that I’d be more than willing to find out. I see a few Tarantino ones and smile, thinking back on our game at the gym.

  The more I take in his space, the more my imagination begins to conjure up little fantasies. The fact that I’m alone in his office after hours isn’t lost on my imagination or my ladybits for that matter. I’m starting to think my short time at Breathless Whispers is affecting not only the vividness of my imagination but also my needs as a woman. Maybe I’m not so prudish after all?

  Moving towards the window, I run my fingers along his desk. It’s sturdy. Immediately a scene of Ace going down on me while I lay splayed out on top of the dark piece of furniture plays in my mind. Biting my lip, I wave off the thought. There’s no way that would ever happen. It cannot happen. Besides, it’s such a stereotype: the professor and his student…

  “Knock it off, Els. He’s your teacher,” I chide myself, heading to stand in front of the window. The sun has set, and the skyline has that familiar hue it gets during the transition between early-October evening and night. It’s that perfect mix that accompanies the fall weather; a subtle line of pink sky getting lost among the blues and greys of the season. I wish my phone wasn’t dead so I could take a photo of it.

  The streetlights flicker on, illuminating the small pathways scattered around the campus and highlighting the small nature reserve that we’re lucky to have at U of T. A reserve that Ace has a permanent view of when standing in his office like I am now; how he lucked out as a brand new prof is beyond me. I imagine in the daylight he can easily see the lush gardens and the small pond, which are home to some ducks and geese, among other smaller animals. I stare off into the distance, trying to see if I can spot any of them still out. I lean closer against the glass, resting my hand to brace myself, trying to get the best-angled view.

  That’s when I see his return reflected in the window. He really is a fine specimen of beauty, brains, and brawn, it occurs to me, watching him walking towards where I’m standing. Hitching a breath, I steel my nerves, preparing for him to be angry that I didn’t listen, that rather than have my things prepared like he’d asked me, I’m busy gawking out the window like some disobedient troublemaker, like the one he saw back on the first day of class. Swallowing my defence, I watch as he stops directly behind me.

  He’s silent. Brooding. Is he waiting? Watching? Waiting for me to speak? Whatever he’s doing behind me excites me, and my stomach dips at the notion that maybe he’s affected by me too. I watch his eyes catch mine in the reflection in the window before he bends his face towards the crook of my neck. He’s close to touching me, but not touching me. Close, but not close enough.

  “It’s a stunning view you have, Ace. Sorry, I mean Doctor Ryan,” I correct, casting my eyes downward, no longer sure he’d like me to refer to him by his first name.

  Feeling the loss of his presence, I look up to see that he’s standing tall again. Thankfully, he’s still close enough that I can feel his heat, his response to my comment whispered in close proximity to my back. “Yes. It is a stunning view, I couldn’t agree more. I think I’ve lucked out this semester, honestly.”

  Clearing my throat, I turn around to face him, the move causing him to step back a few inches, making me question if I imagined the whole thing. I digest his words and wonder if he means he’s lucked out with the view outside or with me as a student?

  Either way, I’m sure of one thing. I’m ready to explore this pull between us. I’d gladly hop on the Ellie-Ace ride to see where it might go. For some reason, the feeling I have is that it might just be the best ride of my life. I don’t know this man, but from what I do know and from our brief time together, the words more, more, more loop on repeat in my mind.

  “Ace.” It’s barely audible.

  Shaking his head, he places one hand on the side of my face, running his thumb along my cheek, and I feel the shift. I know we can’t, he knows we can’t. “I think we better make it another night, E,” he says, setting his coffee on his desk. “It’s probably best if you go now. I’ll email you a better time.”

  We’re silent for a moment. Ace watches intently while I stand before him, silently relishing all the thoughts of what I just lost. Leaning into his touch, I close my eyes, soaking in the fleeting moment. I’m sad, but I understand. Ace Ryan is my teacher; we cannot do this.

  “Sounds like a good idea, Professor.” Never ever have I felt the loss of something that I never had to begin with like I feel the loss of Ace Ryan at this moment.

  “I’ll look forward to your email, sir. Again, I’m sorry,” I say, as I move further away and out the door.

  Chapter 22

  Ace

  “Hey, boys. Long time no see. What can I get you to drink?” Liz, our petite waitress, asks Mercer and I as we settle into our usual booth at Riffs Tap House, along with Dylan and his moustache.

  After Ellie left, I was more pissed off than before. I’m furious with myself, I fucked up tonight. I let her see that she’s having an impact on me, which it turns out is reciprocated, which, hey, makes me one happy son of a bitch.
But the reality is, we can’t do anything about it. At least, not now. I hated having to brush her off, especially when I know she’s that perfect trifecta of brains, beauty and wit. Images of Ellie staring up at me, trying to make out my cryptic words, are doing my head in. Doing that to her was tough, she doesn’t deserve mind games, but I needed to reset some boundaries no matter how much it hurt.

  Watching her beautiful face fill with hurt and confusion when I flipped the script on her, going from hot to cold, was a hard pill to swallow. I felt like a dick, leaving her embarrassed, seeing her blanch when my demeanour changed abruptly, telling her we needed to reschedule instead of touching her like we both desperately wanted. And what the fuck was I thinking, calling her ‘E’ again? That’s not my place. I can’t give her a nickname. I’m her teacher, not her lover or friend, regardless of how friendly we were at the gym or the other times we’ve bumped into each other. I shouldn’t have done any of it. I’m an idiot for putting us in this position. I should have assigned her to Jax, Sam, or Joelle in the first place. I’m such an asshole. Shit. How are we going to get through the semester?

  “Pitcher of 100th Meridian, please, Liz.”

  Dylan’s order interrupts my inner tirade. I look up, catching him offering Liz one of his perfect smiles.

  “You two need to go out. You both spend most of our nights here staring at each other,” Mercer says to Dylan once Liz is out of earshot from our booth. “That way, you and that revolting ‘flavour saver’ thing will never sniff out my sister, so you truly have my blessing.”

  “Naw, man. Liz isn’t really my type,” he says, his eyes trailing after her.

  “Dyl, she’s breathing. What do you mean ‘not your type’? You’re a regular cocksmith,” I add, chuckling. “Isn’t that what all your first-year philosophy dudes would say?”

  “Whatever, they’re all idiots.” He shakes his head. “Liz is great, and she’s smart as a whip. She’ll be done her Ph.D. in a couple of months; she only works here a few nights a week to help her uncle out. But between my work and her school, we’d never see each other. I’m not looking for anything long-term right now, anyway. And she’s more of that long-term material.”

  “See. That right there, how you said that. I agree with Mercer, you got a thing for her, it’s obvious.” I say.

  “Whatever, Nancy Drew. Enough about me, what’s up with you and that sweet-looking auburn-haired beauty I saw you ogling earlier in your office when I came to meet you? Tell us about that, why don’t you?” Dylan volleys back at me.

  “Shut up. She’s my student.”

  “Oh yeah? She pretty?” Mercer, my thickheaded friend, asks.

  “She’s gorgeous. Short, but gorgeous,” Dylan chimes in again.

  “Watch it,” I interject.

  “Whoa, man,” he says, raising his hands, “I was just giving my opinion.”

  “Save it. I don’t want to hear what you think of Ellie. Better yet, don’t think of her. Ever,” I spit out.

  “Well, then. How ’bout them Jays?” Mercer asks, trying to break the tension that’s taken over. “Wait…Ellie Hughes?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Wow, she’s a bombshell. Sweet girl. Messed up her knee, used to run for the Varsity Blues. Was fast too. I’ve helped her with physio a few times. Don’t think she’ll compete again, though.”

  “Yeah, see? Told you she was smoking,” says Dylan interrupting.

  “On the field you mean, right?” I give him an out, but of course he just laughs.

  “Sure, if it will help calm you down, then, yeah, that’s how I meant it.”

  I need to get a grip. “Sorry, Dyl. She’s doing my head in. I want her. She is sweet, on top of looking like a pin-up. And she’s smart. I enjoy hearing what she has to say; she’s got a quality to her that’s rare. It’s like I’m a moth drawn to her flame. Seems we have some things in common from what I’ve seen and heard so far. I’m struggling with my moral code here, hard.”

  “Didn’t realize it was that bad. Ace, you have to be careful. I’m all for taking risks, being the deep thinker in the pack, but this is a big one,” Dylan adds.

  “Fuck if I don’t know it.” I smile up at Liz as she places our pitcher down and begins to fill our glasses.

  Dylan breaks the silence once Liz is gone, having stared at her the whole time. “Maybe I should ask her out. She’s a pretty cool chick.”

  “Great Scott! I think he’s getting it.” Mercer cuffs him upside the head. “As for you and Ellie, all you’d have to do if you wanted to pursue anything is keep it a secret until the semester’s over, or better yet, take two cold showers a day and hold it until the semester’s over. It’s already late-October. I’m sure you could be just friends for the next six months until she graduates,” Mercer supplies, like it’s the simplest thing.

  “Yeah, but I’m pretty sure as long as she’s not your direct student, they can’t do anything to you. There’s some code or something, listing all the infractions and the fines or whatever,” Dylan drops his two cents in, before taking a sip of his beer.

  “That true?” I ask, looking to Mercer to confirm it.

  “All joking aside, yes. Well, for the athletics department it is. I’d imagine the rules apply across the board. But I think there is a loophole. If you’re in a position where there might be a conflict of interest, I’m pretty sure if you write to the chair of your department there are appropriate steps they can take. So, I guess, if you needed to, there might be a way you could pursue things. You could look it up.”

  “Huh. Good to know,” I nod, taking a swig of my beer. The cold bite is exactly what I need. I’m not going to be able to keep resisting her. Christ, I almost kissed her neck when I found her standing by my window, her tight ass displayed in her dark jeans, a black sweater hugging her curves like I wish I could. The whole space smelled like her perfume. Walking back in to find her waiting for me was a feeling I liked a lot. A hell of a lot.

  The sound of Dyl clapping shakes me from my thoughts.

  “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but enough girl talk. It’s documentary update time, son. I need to know, how goes the battle? Did you find my perfect girl yet?”

  “I might have,” I laugh. Dylan is always on the lookout for a girl who can keep up with him in the dirty talk/kinky sex department. Being a philosophy teacher, he’s big on sharing every thought, all the time. Sex is an experience in movement and voice and trying out new theories, he claims. Mercer and I just nod and smile most of the time.

  “There’s this really hot stripper out by the airport. Name’s Carly. She’s looking for a sugar daddy to take her away. You want her number?” I joke. “She’s a real talker, I promise,” I chuckle, taking another swig of cold beer.

  “Hey, maybe,” he replies, laughing. “Think I’d get free lap dances?” He smiles, raising his brows questioningly. “No, for real, man. How’s it going?”

  “It’s good. Really good. I’m about to start the last of my research. I’m going to be investigating phone sex lines for a bit. I’m going to call a few different ones, see what makes one better than the other, hopefully get close with one or two calltakers that might open up, share their stories, their reasons for working. Tell me how it all works; give me some stats to see if calls are on the rise, see if phone sex could pose a threat to places like peep shows and strip clubs. It should be interesting. I’m also hoping I can test how versatile they are, how far they’re willing to go to make a buck. Can they roll with the punches, slip into any role, handle any call, see if they ever get tripped up, and so on.”

  “Hey, I almost forgot,” Mercer says, sliding me a piece of paper, “here’s the list of names and numbers of lines Chelsea says are top notch. She worked at the one with ‘whisper’ in the title. She said it’s the most private and high-end, and she mentioned it being all about ‘Class, Discretion and the Happy Ending’, or some shit.”

  “Fuckers took my motto!” Dylan interjects, gaining another cuff upsid
e the head, from me this time.

  “Anyway,” Mercer chides, “Chels said the owner is all about discretion, so you might not get too many willing employees to interview. He pays them all very well, making them loyal, keeping them willing to be pretty hush-hush. She said it’s a lucrative job, a solid environment with no reason for people to give up any information about it. You might have to become an actual client, build some sort of report. But Chelsea said to call her if you get stuck, and she’ll call a woman she knows who works there.”

  “Okay, cool. I was planning on being a caller, anyway. I want my research to be authentic. Then, hopefully, I can convince one or two to let me do an interview and get some footage of them in action on the job.” Looking at the list of six numbers, I laugh. “The one with the word ‘whisper’ is good, you say?”

  “Yeah, she said it’s the best.”

  “Idiot, three of them have ‘whisper’ in the title.”

  He just shrugs. “Guess you’ll have to call Chelsea after all.”

  “It all sounds interesting, man. You nervous about pretending to be a caller?” Dylan asks. “Hey, think you might actually get off? Wait. Fuck, maybe I wanna help with this one. Let me call and you can video me, in all my glory.” We all laugh at Dylan.

  “You’re such a tool.”

  “Honestly. You don’t plan on getting off? Won’t it be hard not to?” Dylan asks perplexed.

  “Nah, I’m a professional,” I say. “I have a job to do and there is no reason I should need to get off while working on this. It’s not about me. My goal is research. Besides, how bloody typical would that be? I’ll already have critics busting my balls, thinking that’s why I chose a sex trade as my topic. The last thing I need is for it to be true. I know it could happen and if it does, it’s only me who will ever know, but still, I like to think I can keep control and save myself for real-life action.”