by Mika Lane
Was that a stumble on his part? However brief? She smiled back at Gabe/Gil and then quickly looked down. A wave of heat washed over her. She watched, out of the corner of her eye, the entire class turn to see who their teacher had been so delighted to see. Great. She’d finally gotten on track to do something she’d always dreamed of and boom, there was already a complication. Curiosity satisfied, everyone turned back to the front to listen. Only Monika continued to look at her quizzically.
Thoughts ping-ponged around her head. How could she take a class with an instructor who was a client and had asked her out?
And the doubts piled up, bullying her into submission.
What was she doing there? Who was she trying to fool? She couldn’t write. She had no academic ability. Her mother had told her so. Her teachers had told her so. Their voices, from however long ago, still rang loud. And rang mean.
Unable to follow another word Gabe/Gil said, she stared blankly at her notebook, writing nothing on the clean page before her except the date, and willing the time to pass quickly. To avoid possibly meeting his eyes, she doodled to look busy writing.
The fifty-minute class finally came to a close, marked by the stampede of notebooks being shoved in backpacks and footsteps rushing for the door. A couple pretty young co-eds cornered Gabe/Gil and were batting their eyelashes at him, peppering him with questions about writing a great book. He seemed to politely pretend to listen with one eye searching the sea of students.
For her?
She dove into the herd pushing for the door. Before exiting through it, however, she glanced back and caught his eye. Turning quickly, she pushed out the door and ran down the stairs in her clunky platforms.
“Hey, see ya next week, okay?” Monika called after her.
Jewel waved and took off for her car.
How could she take a class with that man? Talk about awkward. She was used to seeing clients out and about. She had no problem with that. But to take a class from one? How would he ever fairly assess her work? What if he thought her writing sucked? What if her writing really did suck?
She climbed into her coupe and headed home, a mix of confusion and disappointment sucking away at the good mood she’d been in when she’d arrived an hour earlier.
Ugh. Stop that damn over thinking.
She’d dive back into her writing the minute she arrived home. That always took her to her “happy place.” In fact, she could start the next chapter in her imagination as she drove.
Graham tightened the straps that held Anna to the four-poster bed. The harder she squirmed, the tighter they got.
“Darling,” he told her with a smile, “I told you to trust me.”
“I don’t know, Graham. I don’t like this. Please untie me.” She pulled on the straps, but her efforts only resulted in cutting off her circulation and turning her hands blue. When she stopped pulling, the bindings relaxed, though they continued to imprison her.
“Anna. You know the safeword. Just mention it and all the restraints will come off. But until you do, we’re playing my game.” Graham grabbed a pillow, hoisted Anna’s hips several inches into the air, and stuffed it under her, leaving her sex exposed for all the world to see.
Anna squeezed her eyes shut. The safeword was on the tip of her tongue. Should she say it? Did she need to say it? Or did she need Graham, his steady instruction, hi steady hand, and his steady confidence—
Jewel raced up the steps of her house to get the latest bit of her story written before she forgot it. Hell, she didn’t need Gabe/Gil’s class. She’d do just fine without it.
Right?
Chapter 5
Jewel stepped onto the scale in the staff room at work. She was down half a pound. Only half a pound in two weeks? No burgers, fries, ice cream—oh wait, there had been ice cream—but anyway, that’s all she got? A measly half-pound?
Whatever. She shimmied into her lacy boy-cut briefs and pulled her kimono tight, tucking herself in where she might otherwise fall out. Walking over to the vanity mirror, she realized she didn’t look so bad. She moved “the girls” around just enough to enhance her cleavage, smeared on a dab of red lipstick, and headed to the reception area for her first client of the day.
“Hey, Devi,” she said, leaning over the reception desk to chat up her boss.
“Miss Naphine. How is your class going?” Devi said.
Jewel pursed her lips, thinking. “Well. As you know, the class met for the first time a couple nights ago. But I’m not sure I’ll go back.”
Devi raised her brows. “Really? That’s a shame. I’m a big proponent of adult education. But if it’s not a good class, maybe you can find something else—”
“It’s not that,” Jewel said. “It’s actually supposed to be a really good class. When I got there, I found the instructor was a client.”
“Okay. And that makes you uncomfortable?” Devi asked.
Jewel fiddled with her robe’s tie belt. “I don’t see how he could possibly evaluate my work fairly. It would be so awkward.”
“If he’s a good teacher like you believe he is, then he can put his feelings aside and objectively look at your writing. The real question is, why do you feel so uncomfortable?”
As always, Devi, the surrogate mom to all the girls working at the spa, was the voice of reason. Jewel looked down at her hands.
Was Gabe/Gil just an excuse to avoid failure? And was avoiding failure a sort of failure, in itself?
The spa’s heavy front door creaked open, and Jewel’s client arrived. He followed her down the hall to the Third Eye Chakra room for some sweet and sexy relaxation.
And hour and a half later, Jewel unwound in the deserted staff room. She rarely had the place to herself and intended to take advantage of her time alone. Opening her laptop to get back to her steamy story, she stared at a blank screen and blinking cursor. Gabe/Gil immediately made himself known to her thoughts.
What was up with the two names, anyway?
She had a couple more days before the next class’s meeting to decide whether or not she’d return. Still struggling with which was the bigger failure—not trying, or actually trying but then falling on her ass—she kept asking herself what was the point? Let him see her crummy writing? Nobody needed that kind of humiliation.
On the other hand, he was hot, and his silver fox-ness was just her type. And if he was an instructor, he had to be smart, right? Not like that dumbass Demian, who was really only a booty call anyway. Or used to be a booty call. She’d kicked him to the curb after he’d made an ass of himself at Left Bank.
Yes, Gabe/Gil was certainly not hard on the eyes. And who knew—maybe he’d be a good source of material for her writing. Words began to dance through her mind. Her story about Graham and Anna would have to wait until later.
Shanna knocked on the door labeled Professor Russell Deveaux.
“C’mon in,” a sexy male voice answered. A voice that made Shanna’s pulse quicken. With a deep breath, she pushed the door open.
Mr. Deveaux’s office was lined with bookcases stuffed to the gills, his desk covered in paper. The piles were neat, but there so many of them, the surface of the desk was invisible. In a corner stood a dusty, tilting coat tree, festooned with what looked like a ratty old hoodie and somebody’s long-forgotten umbrella.
“Shanna, what can I do for you?”
“Hi, Mr. D,” she said, looking around. “I’ve never been to one of my instructor’s offices before.”
He leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. He had that mussed-up professorial look—gorgeous silver hair, wire-rimmed glasses. His button-down shirt outlined what looked to be hard muscles and flat abs, proof that he didn’t spend all his time sitting behind a desk.
“I hope it meets your expectations,” he said of the dusty clutter. Or was he talking about himself?
Shanna pretended to peruse his huge poetry collection. With her back to him, she lingered a bit longer than necessary, ensuring he got a good look a
t the short skirt swinging over her ass. Reaching up on tiptoes, she pulled a book off the shelf so he could enjoy the lacy white panties she wore underneath.
Bingo!
A cool breeze ran across the back of her thighs. In a fake attempt at modesty, she brushed her hand over the hem, and found her ass cheeks hanging out just enough to hopefully whet his appetite. She whirled around to catch him looking exactly where she knew he would. When he realized he was caught, his gaze snapped up to her face, but not fast enough.
She set the book on the desk and took the seat opposite him.
“I like your office, Mr. D. It’s actually exactly how I pictured it.”
“Really? Well half the junk in here was left by the last professor. I’ve been too lazy to clear it out. Plus, I hate to throw books away.”
“Oh, I know what you mean. I have stacks and stacks of them at home, myself.”
Mr. D leaned onto his desk, hands folded before him. She took a seat.
So far, so good.
“Mr. D, I don’t think it’s any secret I’m having trouble in your class.”
He rummaged for his grade book and flipped it open. With a finger on the page, he ran through all the names until he found Shanna’s. He set it back it in a drawer.
“Well, you’re not doing horribly, but you could do a lot better. What’s going on for you?”
“I just don’t think poetry is one of my strengths. I was hoping you might be able to spend some time, um, helping me.”
Shanna took this as her opportunity to pitch her idea to him. It might not be what he had in mind, but she was pretty confident she could convince him to see things her way.
She stood from her chair and walked around the side of Mr. D’s desk. When she was nice and close to him, she rested her ass against the old piece of furniture, letting her thighs fall open just enough to offer a suggestion, but not quite enough to really see anything—
Jewel’s phone screeched and she jumped. At least it sounded like a screech, as involved as she was with her story. Annoyed at the rude interruption—after all, the words had really been flowing—she grabbed her phone. The screen revealed a strange number.
“Hello?” she snapped.
“Hello. Is this Jewel?” a deep voice asked. A deep, familiar voice.
She furrowed her brow. “Yes.”
“It’s Gabe.”
Shock slammed through her. Did he know she was just writing about him just then? No, he couldn’t know. Of course not. But still, it was uncanny…
“Oh, hi. How are you?” she asked with forced breeziness.
“I’m great. I was thrilled to see you in my class the other day.”
Oh shit. Should she tell him she wasn’t coming back?
“It was a surprise, that’s for sure,” she said with a fake laugh. “Hey, what’s up with your two names? I’ve been trying to figure that out.”
“Oh yeah.” He laughed. “I teach using my pen name. That’s how people know my writing…”
“Oh…I see.”
Pen name? She set her laptop aside.
“Wait. You’re Gilbert Carter? The Gilbert Carter?”
“Yup. That’s me.”
She smacked her hand to her forehead. Of course. Gil Carter was Gilbert Carter, the very well known—and very successful—mystery writer. She’d read more of his books than she could count. In fact, they’d practically gotten her through her hellacious teen years.
Her heart skipped a beat. “Oh. My. God. You are the reason I wanted to write. I thought you looked a little familiar.”
“Oh, c’mon. I’m sure a smart girl like you has read all sorts of authors.”
Smart. Did he just say smart?
Now she knew she wasn’t going back to his class.
“Um…thank you…” she stumbled.
“Hey. I called for a reason.”
“Yes?” Ugh. He wasn’t going to ask her about class, was he?
“Would you like to see the new exhibit at the SFMOMA?”
Yowsa!
“Sure! I love the Museum of Modern Art. That sounds wonderful. Thank you.”
Just because she didn’t want to take a class with him didn’t mean she’d skip her favorite museum.
“Super. You free tomorrow night? They’re open late.”
Tomorrow…tomorrow…
“Actually, tomorrow’s great. I’ll already be downtown, so how about I meet you there?” she suggested.
“See you then, say six?”
“Great.” She swiped her phone closed and grabbed for her laptop. She had fifteen minutes until her next client, and she had a few things to say. Fingers on the keyboard, her words began to pour.
Shanna continued, inching a bit closer to Mr. D from her perch on the desk.
“I was hoping we could work something out.” Man, he was gorgeous. He must have girls pounding his door down all day long.
“Like what, Shanna?”
“I thought we could discuss, um, some of the more prominent poets,”—she parted her legs just a bit more—“and I could show you some of the fun things college kids are doing these days.”
“Shanna.” He leaned back in his chair with a sly smile. “Do you think it’s only college kids who know how to have fun? Do you imagine that by the time a guy is in his early forties, he’s put out to pasture? Because you would be wrong.” His hand slipped between her legs, the pads of his fingers brushing the lightest touch across the crotch of her panties.
“I suspect I can show you a few things, young lady…”
Chapter 6
Jewel was blown away that, at six o’clock in San Francisco, it was not only rush hour on the streets but also on the sidewalks. She navigated through the mobs of people pouring out of office buildings, jostling with those running to catch their busses, subway trains, and carpools. More than one bicycle commuter ran a red light and nearly took out a crowd of people who yelled after him, flipping him the bird.
She rounded a corner onto Howard Street, relieved to be out of the worst of the rush. Passing a drug store, she resisted the urge to pop in to pick up a pack of M&M’s. While her efforts to lose weight were coming together slowly, in times of stress, sweets were her kryptonite. And meeting Gabe, also known as the famous Gilbert Carter, for a walk around the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, definitely caused its share of butterflies.
Oh, what the hell.
She walked into the drug store and directly to the candy aisle. Nice how they always made the junk food easy to find. Her mouth watered for the delicious chocolate coming her way, and she hovered, trying to choose between peanut M&M’s and their strange new coffee flavor. Then a light bulb went off.
She might not be dropping much weight, and it sure wasn’t coming off fast, but it was never going to happen if she kept chowing on M&M’s. And her trepidation about seeing Gabe was not going to be helped by them, either. She dashed out of the store before she could change her mind.
A couple more blocks and SFMOMA came into sight. It towered over the buildings next to it, with a funky, wavy-metal facade. Her heart pounded. Small victories.
As she got closer, she saw Gabe. Her palms began to sweat, and little trickles of perspiration ran from under her boobs—a hazard of having DDs, which she’d been schlepping around since she was almost fifteen years old. She slowed in an effort to try to cool off, but it was of no use. As soon as he saw her, he headed straight over with his crooked smile, grizzled beard, and mussed hair. Damn if he didn’t look good. His snug black T-shirt and faded blue jeans outlined his physique in all the right places, and his chunky motorcycle boots lent the air of bad-boyishness that made Jewel want to melt into a puddle of desire, right there on the sidewalk.
“Hey, beautiful.” He bent to kiss her cheek.
A surge shot through her, and in a moment, her under-boob was not the only place she was wet.
“I got you a ticket. Let’s enter over here.” They headed for a sign that said Members’ Entrance.
Well.
Once inside, a rail-thin woman in skyscraper heels emerged from nowhere, walking straight toward them.
“Gabe, so nice to see you,” the woman said with an eager smile and extended hand.
Who is this?
“Simone, this is my friend, Jewel Naphine. Jewel, Simone is head of membership here at the museum.”
“We like to welcome special members when they visit,” the woman in all black—pencil skirt, expensive silk blouse—explained. She looked up at Gabe from under some very long, most likely extension-laden eyelashes.
Gabe placed an arm around Jewel’s shoulder. “Thanks for the warm welcome, Simone. Have a good evening.”
They turned and headed for the stairs that would lead to the first exhibit. Jewel looked back over her shoulder to see Skinny Simone watching them walk away. Well, she was actually watching Gabe walk away…
“You friend was very glamorous. And thin.” She was glad she’d passed on the M&M’s.
“Ha,” Gabe said. “She’s like a hungry bird. I prefer a woman with curves.”
Jewel held her head a little higher.
“Actually, most men prefer shape on a woman. And those who don’t are idiots,” he added.
Did he say that to earn points?
They wandered into the first gallery to get a look at the museum’s permanent collection of abstract expressionism painting. It was early yet, and the crowds hadn’t arrived to fill the spacious gallery with soaring ceilings.
Gabe turned to her. “Why’d you go running out of my classroom the other day?”
Shit. Talk about being put on the spot.
Jewel looked at her shoes, wishing the floor would swallow her up. But that happened only in the movies. And paranormal novels. She returned her gaze to Gabe. “I guess I was a bit freaked out.”
“What? Why?”
“I’m just not sure that someone I know the way I, um…”—she cleared her throat—“know you, can look at my work and be objective. It threw me for a loop, and then I started doubting the whole writing thing. It’s a vicious cycle.”