by Gray Gardner
She swallowed her pride. “I’m sorry I disrespected you, Professor Frasier,” she quietly but forcefully said, looking down at her now scuffed shoes. And I’m sorry you’re a fucking asshole.
The look on her face revealed that she was thinking he was the biggest asshole on the planet, but he didn’t care. He’d just had a major revelation. He’d gotten the exact response he’d wanted out of her with one quick smack on the ass. Now he’d better be cordial. His eyes smiled kindly down to her.
“All right, Miss Tucker. You’d better get on home before it gets any later. Where is your car?” he asked, looking around the lot. If he had to guess, the little Texan probably drove a gas guzzling Hummer or something.
“Um,” she replied, half confused by his sudden change in attitude and half relieved by it. “W-well, I, um, I walk.”
“You walk?” he repeated, thinking of the twenty-minute drive to his condo building downtown.
“Yes, uh, yes sir. It’s just a couple of blocks that way,” she muttered, hoping that he would have mercy on her and dismiss her soon. Her ass was still stinging a little and now she really needed that wine.
He thought for one more second, then nodded and grinned down at her. It was dark and she obviously didn’t have anyone to walk with her.
“All right, I’ll walk you home.”
She frowned, replying, “Um, thanks, um, Professor Frasier, but I don’t need an escort. I walk to and from campus every day. It’s on a well-lit sidewalk and I carry mace.”
“Surprised you don’t carry a gun,” he commented under his breath, holding his hand out and gesturing that she should get moving. “Please allow me to walk you home, Miss Tucker. I’ve already delayed you enough.”
There really wasn’t any point in arguing and she really didn’t want to make him angry again. Hanging her head in defeat, she slowly turned and walked, hearing his steps right behind her as he adjusted his bag over his shoulder. Soon he was right next to her, grinning happily like he hadn’t just assaulted her in the parking lot. They crossed a busy thoroughfare and continued down Roosevelt. The beautiful old townhomes stacked perfectly next to one another were all three stories and all in a matching light red brick. She’d found it nearly impossible to decipher which one was hers the first couple of weeks of school the previous fall.
Now she paused at the bottom of the tall, concrete steps leading up to the large antique white door.
“Um, th-thank you,” she said, looking up at him and wishing he would just go. Why was he still standing there?
“You live here?” he asked incredulously, knowing that most of the houses on the block belonged to the likes of tenured professors and retired faculty making a fantastic living on lecture tours and book sales.
“Bye,” she muttered, stomping up the steps and fishing her key out of her pocket. She rolled her eyes as she pushed through the door with her hip and realized that he was still down there, gaping up at the house. She slammed the door and practically ran into the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of red with a twist top and heading upstairs to the large bathtub in her room. She was going to forget this day if it killed her.
She’d slammed the door pretty fiercely, but he continued to stand at the base of her steps, looking up in disbelief. Total bewilderment, really. First, well, the house… he hadn’t known that they were available to rent to students. Most of the residents around the campus hated being in close proximity to campus housing. Maybe a professor was away on sabbatical or something.
Next, well… he’d just spanked a student. And if he was honest with himself, he felt no remorse. It had been fun, actually, which led to his last dilemma.
He was very interested in her. She wasn’t his type at all. Not the submissive, I’ll-do-exactly-whatever-you-tell-me undergrad so eager to please. She wasn’t tall, with dark wavy locks, tanned skin and a slick business sense with the clothes to match.
She was practically blonde but with weird red hues, had alabaster skin that constantly looked pink, she was short like a hobbit and built like a pubescent thirteen year old, and she dressed like she’d just stepped out of a Vogue “Smart-Casual” photo shoot. On top of which she had a hot little temper and smart-ass mouth.
And in those tight little jeans her ass was sexy as hell.
He ran his fingers through his hair a thousand times on his drive home. He had three glasses of scotch to get the thrilling sensation of grabbing her small arm and smacking her out of his head, and went to sleep wishing that it were Friday so that he could see her sitting in his class again.
Turned out he was lucky, as usual. When he’d come to the aid of Dr. Anna Britta, a fellow professor who was teaching a World War II course and needed an American history expert, he was all too happy to oblige. When he’d settled next to her at the long wooden table in front of the large seminar room and found a little strawberry blonde head bending over the desk, a large smile drew across his face.
“…and with that said Dr. Frasier will now discuss the unexpected unity that the fear of widespread communism initiated,” Dr. Britta grinned, holding her hand out to her friend. Her bronchitis was making it difficult to lecture so he’d gladly stepped in. He smiled and scanned the students, noticing the strawberry blonde head sinking lower and lower into the seat.
“Well, before I begin I’d like to get people’s opinions and assessments of the origins of this panic,” he stated, nodding at his colleague respectfully and looking out into the crowd of about 40 students. He could tell this was a class of grad students mixed with seniors heading into the masters programs.
Hands immediately shot up and he called on a few turtle-necked and headbanded prisses as well as a couple of hipsters with skinny jeans and ironic logo shirts. He insightfully commented and gladly elaborated when necessary as everyone furiously scribbled down every word. When he couldn’t stand it anymore, though, he had to torment her.
“Oh, well, I see a familiar face from my 600 level Historiography class. She’s probably very equipped to add to the discussion. Miss Tucker?” he leadingly said, watching as her cheeks pinked again and her eyes slowly turned up to the front of the room.
“Uh, um,” she fumbled, closing her eyes tightly and trying to find her voice.
“We’ll have to continue this another time,” Dr. Britta sighed, looking down at her watch. The two hour seminar was over and she quickly dismissed the students with reminders about the essay due the following Tuesday.
Dr. Frasier eyed his friend as she packed up her things. “Do you know why she never speaks?” he asked, placing his glasses on his nose as he gathered up his papers from the podium.
“Miss Tucker? Of course,” Dr. Britta grinned, cocking her head to one side. “She’s your student, too. Didn’t she come and have a conference with you about how she’ll get the most out of your class?”
“No,” he sharply replied, thinking that he knew exactly how to extract that kind of information out of her now. He grabbed up his things and hurriedly brushed past the students and out to the sidewalk on Roosevelt Avenue.
Chapter 3
Mary rubbed her eyes and groaned as her foot slipped out of her hounds tooth Sergio Rossi heel again. Dr. Frasier had made her break into such a sweat during the seminar that even her feet were moist. She leaned against a tree and brought her heel back, shoving the shoe back on just as two hands grabbed her shoulders from behind and shoved her into a little cove of trees and bushes. She stumbled around as her spike heels sank into the damp earth and finally pulled her feet out, reaching down and plucking up her shoes as she glared up at her professor. Well, this should be good.
“Why didn’t you set up a conference with me during my office hours in January?” he asked, hands on his hips.
“What… I don’t…”
“You’ve obviously taken the time this semester to speak with your other professors privately. Why haven’t you extended the same courtesy to me instead of mumbling and blushing in my class like a silly little school girl?”
<
br /> Her cheeks flushed as if on cue as she stared down at the heels in her hands. God, don’t cry, she begged herself, not in front of him. “I…”
“Well?” he asked, holding out his hands.
“Dr. Frasier… I set up three appointments and… you cancelled them all,” she quietly stated, shifting back and forth on her feet as they froze on the cold ground.
Well, that wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting. He suddenly stepped back, rubbing his whiskers in thought. Had he really cancelled on her three times? It sounded like something he’d do, but now he was curious about something else.
“Miss Tucker, let’s talk now. What can we do to help you get the most out of my class?”
She quickly turned her eyes up to meet his, frowning at the sudden burst of sincerity ringing from his voice. Was he serious? He had to be. He couldn’t have looked more serious at the moment.
“Um,” she began, walking to the sidewalk and lifting her frozen feet up to brush them off, one at a time.
He watched as she slipped back into those impossibly high heels and again, looking flawless in her cranberry skinny jeans and cowl neck black sweater.
She cleared her throat and continued. “It’s just that… I get very nervous in big groups and, I get very shy if I get any attention. It’s hard for me, being a student, to avoid that, but my other professors have agreed to waive my participation points if I earn a 95 or higher on exams and assignments. It’s easier for me to pay attention if I don’t have to worry about answering questions and humiliating myself.”
He looked at her incredulously, and then burst out a quick laugh as he smiled down at her. She was shy? That was her excuse? “You’re timid to the point of it actually being debilitating to your career as a student and you’re studying to be a history professor?” He grinned until he saw her face fall, and then quickly regretted laughing at her as she turned and began briskly walking down the street. He quickly fell into step next to her as the sun set on their right.
“I’m not studying to be a history professor, in case you’re interested,” she grumbled, turning her head away from him and wiping her face, not once slowing her stride.
Dr. Frasier took long strides next to her fast short ones and prayed to the gods of all asshole professors as he followed her through the constant flow of heavy traffic at the crosswalk that they wouldn’t get mowed down by a drunken undergrad. “Jesus, will you at least watch where you’re going?” he asked, jumping up onto the curb just as a UPS truck zoomed by.
Her heels clicked quickly as she hurried towards her front door. If she could just make it to her front door, then he wouldn’t get the satisfaction of seeing her cry. If she could just run through her front door she could get him out of her head for almost twenty-four hours.
“Miss Tucker!” he called, as her strides turned into a run. Good Lord, had a girl finally made him chase after her? What a strange feeling. He hopped up to the top steps right before her key made it to the lock. She took in a sharp breath but refused to look up at him.
“Please,” she whispered, choking back another tear. She truly did not want to do this in front of him.
“Miss Tucker, I just wanted to apologize and say that I hope we can meet and work something out,” he began, moving aside as she quickly shoved the key into the lock.
She pushed the door open but paused at his kind words, finally looking up at him and saying, “Thank you, Professor.”
Dr. Frasier ran his fingers through his hair and rubbed his jaw until he’d found himself back at his office in record time. She wasn’t an arrogant little Texan, he was figuring out. The more he got to know her, the sweeter she seemed.
“Come into my office,” he barked at Brad, marching past the small desk and into his office. He stomped across his Persian rug, leaned down to grab the scotch in his large oak desk and impatiently poured a drink.
“Bad day?” Brad asked, walking in and assessing the professor from afar. His mood swings were famous.
“Mr. Adams,” he began, finishing his scotch and pouring another. “Did you cancel three appointments during my office hours set up by a student in my Historiography class?”
“I’d have to check…”
“Then check!” he ordered, standing at the old metal paned windows and staring out into the campus dotted with yellow lamps. “They were set up by a Miss Tucker.”
“Oh,” Brad suddenly said, stopping at the doorway and turning back around. “Mary Madeline Tucker? Yeah, I cancelled those.”
“I beg your pardon?” Dr. Frasier asked, turning and glaring at his TA. He’d given him many responsibilities, but taking liberties like that was simply going too far. And he would have loved to have been aware of her presence in his class from the beginning. Just to look at her.
“Yes, sir,” Brad quickly corrected himself, hands on his hips. “She came in here looking like a frightened little kitten. One minute alone with you and you would have given her a coronary, but not before… getting your fill.”
“I would never… and she’s a grad student… she should be accustomed to crotchety old professors by now,” Dr. Frasier asserted, sipping his scotch and shaking his head.
“That’s… not what I meant,” Brad smirked, watching his mentor turn and glare at him. Luckily, he was way beyond intimidation. They were friends and knew each other well.
“Well then, Mr. Adams, by all means, what were you thinking?”
“First, sir,” he mocked, “you may be crotchety but you aren’t old. You’re only 35.”
“And?” Dr. Frasier snapped, rubbing his whiskers on his jaw.
Brad smirked at the telltale sign of the professor’s anxiety. “She’s a pretty little southern girl and you would, forgive the terminology, hit it and quit it, thus robbing her of her remaining innocence and sweetness.”
“Mr. Adams!” Dr. Frasier growled, as Brad held up his hands in surrender and smiled.
“Tell me I’m wrong, sir.”
“You are immeasurably mistaken if you actually believe I would take advantage of a student,” he began, squeezing his crystal highball glass. And she wasn’t all sweetness… just mostly sweetness with that temper mixed in. It drove him crazy in a good way.
“You haven’t even been here two full years and you’ve already fucked three of your students,” Brad sighed, folding his arms over his chest.
“That,” Dr. Frasier sneered in a lower voice, “was completely consensual.”
“And you are completely mistaken if you think she wouldn’t consensually let her powerful, handsome, lustful professor take her to bed.”
Dr. Frasier sighed heavily and paced a few times in front of his windows. Was Brad right? Would he have tried to sleep with her if she’d just happened into his office in January? Would she have let him? She seemed repulsed by him. He shook his head and frowned at his TA. “I’m not sure I like your irreverence, Brad.”
“I’m the only one with the balls big enough to tell you the truth, professor,” he called, dismissing himself and sitting back at his desk.
Dr. Frasier sighed again and sat behind his big desk. Clicking on his computer screen, he pulled up the exams that Brad had scanned into his files and opened her exam. He highlighted her answer on the final question and pasted it into his Google bar. He couldn’t stop the feeling of shock followed by total gratification as his eyes darted across the screen.
He had her. Now… what to do with her?
Mary ran her fingers over her eyes as she lay on the couch and read her assigned reading for her Early Roman history course. She tapped her toes against the soft cushions as she leaned on her elbows and turned the pages quickly. Her computer pinged so she quickly flipped her book over and pulled her laptop in front of her as she lay on her stomach. She’d been expecting an email from her best friend Patty all day.
She choked on her own saliva as she opened the message.
Miss Tucker,
I do not have posted office hours tomorrow, however, I need to
see you in my office after class. If you choose to show up after 5:15 or not at all, there will be severe consequences.
Dr. M. Frasier, PhD
History Department
Eastland University
Holy shit. He wanted to meet with her? What did he mean by severe consequences? Idiot. She knew exactly what it meant… but he wouldn’t dare lay a hand on her again. Right? She kept telling herself that as she tossed and turned all night, dreaming of a tall, dark, shirtless silhouette of a man slapping a ruler against the palm of his hand.
Her nude Stuart Weitzman heels paused at the door to the seminar room. Should she go in? She should just call in sick. Students got sick all the time, right? She didn’t think she could make herself enter the room.
“Oh good. I’m glad I caught you,” Dr. Frasier said, materializing out of nowhere and causing her to jump and clutch her bag tightly to her chest.
“Caught me?” she squeaked before she could stop herself.
“Yes, caught your attention,” he smirked, placing a hand on her shoulder and leading her into the room. He swore he felt her trembling. Good. He wanted her frightened. He gave her a knowing grin. “I’ve noticed you’ve been squinting in the back row so I saved you a seat right here in the front.”
She gasped as he removed his brown leather satchel and held his hand out to the seat right in the dead center of the room. She gave a forced half grin of thanks as she slowly slid into the seat. Her stomach began to hurt as students plopped down into the chairs all around her. Roberta Greer gave her a funny look as she sat right next to her and pulled out her iPad.
Diligently taking notes as Dr. Frasier lectured about the World Wars, she couldn’t help but dread that meeting in his office after class. All of the professors had offices in that building. No way he would do anything to her except yell at her. She’d be perfectly safe. Her eyes turned up once during the two-hour period, only to find his dark eyes flicking over to her as he continued to lecture. She turned her eyes down as her cheeks warmed. Damn it.