One Hot Fall Term (Yardley College Chronicles Book1)

by Sharon Page

  On the way out of the club, I meet some of the regulars. They recognize Jonathon and look at me with interest, assuming I’m his partner. Jonathon has a quiet word with some of the women, then they speak with me. It’s a testament to his power that they reveal fairly personal things—they tell me whether they have ever known abuse in their lives or not.

  He is correct—not every member of his club is there because they have abuse issues in their pasts. Some do, and they are surprisingly candid. Without giving any details, I explain I know a little of what they’ve gone through. But maybe I haven’t. I’ve known sexual abuse, but I was never physically abused. I feel there is a huge difference. I never lived in fear of pain or broken limbs. I don’t know how I would have survived that.

  Jonathon takes me home and walks me to the door of my room. I’m worried Lara will see us. Not that we’re doing anything wrong, but I don’t want her to think I’m the kind of roommate who would move in on an ex-boyfriend. I’m not.

  “Goodnight, Mia.” Jonathon lifts my hand to his lips, kisses it gently, and leaves.

  He never answered my question.

  Chapter Eight

  All the time I was in Jonathon’s club, I kept my phone turned off. When I step into my dorm room, I discover Lara is tucked in her bed, fast asleep. I lock our main door, slip into the bathroom, close the door so I can put on the light, and check messages.

  I don’t know why I’m so driven to do it since I don’t expect there will be any.

  But there is one from Ryan. My heart’s pounding as I read it. I feel guilty to have spent the evening with Jonathon, even though nothing happened.

  Ryan’s text reads: Mia, I’m worried about my dad. He got drunk and he’s been missing for two days. He’s not at the places he usually crashes. I need to go find him.

  Oh no. I quickly send back a message. I don’t know what can happen to Ryan if he ditches school. I assume it’s more intense for him—wouldn’t it be like going AWOL or disobeying orders? I type: Ryan, you can’t. You have school. Let me call my mom. She’ll help.

  All I can do is pray he didn’t already leave because he didn’t hear from me.

  I can’t call mom until morning. I can’t focus enough to do any work, and it is 3 a.m. anyway. I slip into bed quietly and lay there awake. Guilt grips me. I was checking out a kinky club while Ryan has been going through a crisis. What kind of girlfriend does that? While I don’t have to tell him the truth, this isn’t about just not getting ‘caught’. I should have been there for him.

  Around five, I must fall asleep, then I jolt upright in a panic at nine. Lara’s already gone, since she has a class at 9:30. Mine is an hour later but I don’t care if I get there. I call my mom. Today, she doesn’t work until the afternoon.

  When I hear her voice, my throat aches. I haven’t told her that things at Yardley are going badly. I want her to think this is working for me, that I’m being successful.

  “Mia, I’m so glad you called,” she says, cheerfully. “How are you?” Then her voice drops a little. “Nothing’s wrong, is it?”

  “Not with me. I’m fine. But I got a message from Ryan. He’s worried about his father.”

  Mom tells me that Ryan’s dad, Steven Taylor, had an accident. He was drunk and crashed his car into a tree. He didn’t hurt anyone and he got off lucky, with only minor cuts and bruises. Taylor was taken to the hospital for observation, then was released. But he was charged with a DUI.

  I let out a sob of despair.

  “Mia, it’s okay. Perhaps this is going to be a wake-up call for him.”

  “I doubt it.” My voice is shaky. It’s just going to be hell for Ryan.

  “Tell Ryan not to worry,” she says. “I will keep an eye on his father for him. I know Ryan’s father is seeing Lorelei Mason from the Snip ’n Style, and I know Lorelei. I’ll tell her to watch his drinking. If Ryan wants, I can take his phone number and I will call him right away about anything he needs to know. But I won’t bother his studies if it’s not necessary.”

  I love my mom. “Oh Mom, thanks. Thanks so much. I just don’t want Ryan to leave college to look after his father.” Then my temper flares and all the anxiety inside bursts out in a resentful rush, “Why does his father have to do this to him? All he has to do is keep out of trouble until Ryan gets finished. Does he want Ryan to fail? Does he want Ryan to have a dead end life like his? It’s not even like he doesn’t care about Ryan, it’s as if he’s deliberately trying to ruin his son’s life.” What is it about fathers? Why do some them try to actively screw up their kids’ lives?

  “Maybe he is afraid of losing Ryan,” my mother points out softly.

  “He is going to lose Ryan if he ruins Ryan’s life,” I counter bitterly. “How can he think Ryan will stick around if his dream is stolen away?”

  “Ryan’s father has an addiction problem,” my mother says.

  “That doesn’t give any father the right to destroy his child’s dreams.”

  “Mia, I know you’re angry. But Ryan can’t control what his father does. He can only control what he does.”

  That’s true. It’s like my life. I can be emotionally manipulated by my circumstance. I can feel anger, bitterness, pain. But I don’t have to if I can fight it. The only reaction I can control is mine.

  I almost say that, but then I stop. I don’t want to bring up the past. I don’t blame Mom. Not in any way. And nothing happened after she found out and we made the pact with my stepfather: she would stay but he had to keep away from me. Talking about it will only hurt us both and that’s just plain counterproductive.

  I chew on my lip until I taste the coppery tang of blood. So I funnel my frustration into words. “But there’s fallout from what his father does. You know Ryan. He’s decent and noble. What happens when his father is found guilty? He will want to come back and take care of his dad’s garage business.”

  “We will do everything we can to stop Ryan from doing that.” My mother uses a steely voice I’ve rarely heard her use. And I believe she can do it.

  “Thanks. I’d better call Ryan.”

  As soon as I hang up on Mom, I call him to make sure he knows.

  “Mia?” Ryan’s husky voice, sounding sleepy, makes me tremble to my toes. I imagine him sitting up in his dorm bed. He wouldn’t be sleeping naked, but maybe bare-chested, wearing only sweatpants.

  Ooooh…

  This is serious. Not a time for desire.

  I sit on my bed, carelessly dressed for class in sweats of my own—I’m tired of trying to impress professors who have already labeled me as not appropriate for the program. This is serious and Ryan will hurt when he knows about his dad. “I talked to Mom.” I tell him about his father. “Mom told me to assure you she would keep her eye on him. She really doesn’t want you to worry.”

  “Mia…thanks. It means so much to know she’ll watch over him, but it should be me who’s there. He needs me to look after him.”

  No. No. No. “Ryan, please don’t think that.” I try to talk him into staying at the college.

  He listens to me then sighs. “Mia, it’s complicated. I should go home.”

  “Don’t.” I’m sick with fear that he will quit.

  “It’s a lot harder here. I was prepared for it to be tough, but not like this. My grades are dropping and I could get kicked out anyway if they go any lower.”

  That can’t happen. He would never go back.

  “Have you talked to your professors?” I don’t even know if they are called professors in a military school. Maybe they go by their rank. “Or to a guidance counsellor? They need to understand what you’ve been through—”

  “No, they don’t. There are no special exemptions. I should be able to handle this. You showed me how.”

  But I now doubt my expertise in the area of scholastic success. I am barely passing myself. Since I’m scared of the shops, I suspect my C minus is going to look like an Enstein-ian accomplishment compared to the zero I will get if I don’t build my model.
But I am not important here.

  “Ryan, you are so distracted by your father’s problems how can you concentrate? It’s not your fault.”

  “Mia, I’m concentrating. I am trying. I study every night. The stuff just doesn’t go in. My dad says it’s because I just don’t have book smarts. He says I’m stupid that way, just like him.”

  “Your father is not in a position to make any kind of judgment. I agree he is stupid—he’s the one who drinks and drives, which is not exactly a sign of brilliance. You are nothing like him.”

  Ryan is quiet. Then he says, “I know he looks like a mess, but he’s got his reasons.”

  Ryan defends his father loyally every time. It frustrates me, but, deep in my heart, I admire him for it. I’ve kept my family’s secrets. Not so much out of loyalty to my stepfather, but because I was afraid of the outcome if people knew about it. I had just wanted it to stop—I didn’t really want to ruin anyone’s life.

  I know Ryan is loyal, but I still fear that loyalty won’t extend to me. When he finds out how screwed up I am, I’m scared he’ll want out.

  “I wish I could go there and help you out,” I say. It is so tempting. I could get a plane ticket online. Getting to the airport… a little harder but not impossible. By late afternoon, if I were lucky, I could be with Ryan.

  “You can’t, Mia. I have to handle this by myself.”

  “They have to understand!” I say, sounding very plaintive. He could barely read when I met him thanks to his father’s hopeless parenting. And Milltown schools just kept passing him. Partly because I don’t think they failed students anymore, but mainly because no one wanted to get on the bad side of Steven Taylor, a notoriously mean drunk.

  “They want to make their students strong and tough. No excuses.”

  “I don’t care what they want. ‘Suck it up’ doesn’t work in the world anymore.” I’m so scared, I’m sputtering. I don’t think I’m making sense anymore. They have to help Ryan and make allowances for what he’s been through. I don’t care—they do.

  “Where are you right now?” he asks. “I’ve missed you so much.”

  “I’m sitting in bed in my dorm.”

  “Me too.”

  I don’t want to argue with him. I want to reach out and touch him. I want to hold him in my arms and love him. And I want to do something naughty to thrill him.

  I lower my voice and ask in a sultry tone, “Are you alone?” My attempt at vixen makes me want to giggle in sheer embarrassment.

  I expect him to laugh. He doesn’t. He lets out a pained groan. A sound filled with the torture of sexual arousal. “Yeah, I wish you were here.” Then he adds, “In bed. With me.”

  Ryan has never been a talking dirty kind of guy. I think that’s why he abandoned our earlier attempt at sexting.

  I giggle. I want this but I feel kind of awkward. “I really want you. I’m…uh…taking off my sweats right now. I’m reaching down into my panties and playing with my—” I really have a hard time with this. I could go to the club, though I did chicken out on a few things there. I definitely have a tough time talking dirty. “My pussy.”

  Go for it, I tell myself. “I’m rubbing my clit which makes me so wet for you.”

  Ryan takes over. “I pull down your panties, Mia. Then I lick your pussy. I’d run my tongue all over your clit.”

  I’m whimpering.

  “Oh God, yes.” I moan into the phone. My fingers do slide down into my sweatpants. Is he doing that? Did he put his hands down inside his pants, then into his briefs? Has he wrapped his hand around his cock?

  I remember the delectable smell of his hard-on on the dock, the way it filled my mouth, and the sweet taste of it against my tongue.

  I want him. Want him. Want him. Want him so much it hurts.

  I flop back on the bed, spread my legs wide, my hand in my panties. Aggressively, I rub my clit. Almost viciously. Frustration and anger make my fingers scrub it hard.

  “I want to eat your pussy, Mia, and make you come on my face.”

  Oh god. Suddenly I have a wild fear that this conversation is being recorded. How much privacy does military college give its students? Surely they don’t tape conversations. They must have to listen to a lot of kinky phone calls if so.

  Blushing and playing with myself, I say, “Then I want to suck you. I want to suck you deep and hard. I want to take you right down my throat.” It was supposed to sound hot. It came out a bit squeaking.

  But am I revealing too much in everything I say? Talking is dangerous. Doing is not.

  I let out a really loud, throaty moan. “I’m playing with myself,” I admit.

  “Me too.”

  I can imagine it. His strong hands. His thick shaft. The beautiful, swollen, kissable head swelling as he pumps his fist hard.

  I rub myself like wild. All my frustration comes out. I’m almost raw when the climax finally ignites. I cry out into the phone. “Oh God, Ryan. I’m coming. Oh! Oh!”

  He lets out a deep moan. I can picture him coming, just like he did on the dock. I want to sob in regret. Why didn’t I seduce him months ago? On our second date? Oh hell, why not on the first date? Why didn’t I spend every minute in bed with Ryan that I could?

  I breathe heavily into the phone and so does he.

  “That was so sexy,” he tells me softly.

  Five years of college are required for me to get a degree in Architecture. I can’t survive it. I really can’t. Not when I want to share my life with Ryan.

  “We could do it again,” I say. “A lot.”

  ***

  At the end of the week, Lara’s asleep but I’m up at midnight, working on my sketches of the Parthenon for my History of Western Architecture project. I’m working on my desk in the corner, sprawled over the page because I’m working with only one light on so she can sleep and I need to be that close to see detail.

  Outside the door I hear footsteps. That’s not unusual as people come and go from their rooms all the time. People roll in from parties at all hours of the night. But the footsteps stop outside our door. Someone raps lightly on it.

  Jonathon?

  At midnight? It could be, but he doesn’t ever come to the dorm room. Well, he came once to drop me off, but he didn’t want to come in. It would be way too awkward. I haven’t hidden my friendship with Jonathon from Lara but haven’t exactly told her about it either. I mean I wouldn’t lie about it if she asked. She just hasn’t asked.

  The photos. Is it possible whoever took them found out which room is ours? That he is standing outside the door right now?

  But you can’t get in residence without a key after ten, unless someone lets you in. So the stalker guy is either someone who lives in this dorm. Or has a friend in here.

  All I have to do is go to the door. Open it. I’d find out who he is.

  Yeah, and then have him clamp his hand over my mouth, drug me, rape me, kill me, dump my body in a garbage chute. I’ve seen enough CSI episodes to know that my brave action would lead right to my demise.

  Something slides under the door. A sheet of paper.

  Sitting up and utterly motionless, I watch it slip in, inch by inch.

  No, this is insane. He is right there. I can end this now. I pick up my cell phone and dial 911. What am I going to say? I don’t know if I’m in danger, but could you hang on for a minute?

  Still, he won’t know that 911 is not listening to everything, if I can bluff.

  I’m wearing a sweatshirt and my pyjama bottoms, so it’s not like I’m creeping to the door in a baby doll negligee. Phone pressed to me ear like I am speaking to a 911 operator, I stalk to the door. I wish I had one of those whips from Jonathon’s club in my hand right now.

  The paper scoots fully under the door.

  I twist the deadbolt knob as silently as I can. I turn the door handle gently, and open the door an inch. Our security chain is in place. I try to make it not obvious I am opening the door. Really, as if I will take the guy by surprise.

 
; Someone is running away from the room, down the hall. Damn it. Now I want to get a look at him—if he’s fleeing I’m not in danger. I could learn what he looks like and have the door slammed again before he could do anything. I fumble with the chain and yank the door open. But the figure has vanished through the fire door at the end of the hall and must be running down the stairs.

  I’m not crazy enough to follow him down an empty stairwell.

  Was it a guy? I don’t know. The person wore a shapeless coat of army green and jeans, I think. A ball cap. I don’t know if I saw shoulder-length dark hair or just shadow.

  I would make a perfect witness for a defence lawyer, I know.

  Two girls come up the stair. As they pass, I ask them about the guy.

  They both shake their heads. “We didn’t see anyone.”

  But then I realize he must have ducked out onto the second floor when he heard them. Damn.

  I close the door, pick up the paper.

  This time it’s a print out of a picture, and it’s taken of Jonathon and me inside the Irish pub. One word is written below it. Slut.

  My hands shake.

  I’m tempted to rip it up and destroy it. Who gives this psychotic idiot the right to judge me? Even if my behavior was questionable in the past, that is my business. With Jonathon I was completely in control and did nothing wrong. But some idiot jumps to assumptions and makes it his duty to try to hurt me.

  Then my anger dissolves. Someone followed me to the Irish pub? Crap, how did someone do that? Why?

  I want to make this picture go away. I really want to set it on fire, so it dissolves into ash as if it never existed. I can’t—I’d probably set off the sprinklers.

  And I don’t want to wake up Lara.

  I know I have to keep the picture intact. Channeling CSI, I know I have to keep it in case I need it for clues.

  CSI could dust for fingerprints after my body has been found.

  Stop it. Tomorrow, I’m going to show it to campus security.