Dear Professor

by Blaire Drake

  “I don’t think bringing a professor to Dalton House is the best idea.” Especially not this professor. “But no. I drove. Thank you.”

  I backed to the door and grasped the handle. He opened his mouth as if he were going to speak again, but then he shook his head, clearly having thought better of it. I hesitated for a moment longer just in case. Whatever he’d planned to say never came, so I unlocked the door.

  I quickly walked down the hall until I found the door to the outside. Then, when I was there, I stepped out into the rain. It was a light drizzle now, more of a mist than anything, and I ran my palms across my bare arms as the light chill offset the burning of my cheeks. It rained on me as I walked across campus to the parking lot.

  Right after I’d shut my car door, the heavens opened. Almost as if they had been waiting for me to get shelter once again.

  I yawned, shuddered, and then turned my key in the ignition. I didn’t even want to think about what he’d just told me. I wanted to go home, get some chicken soup, and then curl up in bed.

  I might not have been sick eight hours ago, but I sure as hell felt it as I drove back toward Dalton House.

  “I’m going to kill you!”

  “I didn’t take it!”

  “I don’t believe you!”

  Slowly, I stepped toward my bedroom door and opened it. I poked my head around the corner and found Jenna and Bella screaming it out in the hallway.

  “I didn’t take it, Bella!” Jenna yelled, waving her finger in Bella’s face.

  “I can’t live like this!” Bella’s fingers dove into her wet hair, and she tugged them right through to the ends.

  “Wait… What did you do?” I asked Jenna, stepping out of my room.

  She turned to me, her eyes blazing. “Someone lost her fucking hairbrush and thinks I stole it!”

  “You asked to borrow it because you lost yours and never gave it back!” Bella protested.

  “I put it on your desk!”

  “I think you’re lying!”

  I think I have a headache. Good God.

  You wouldn’t believe that the three of us were best friends the way they bicker.

  “I saw her do it,” I said, interrupting them. “I needed to get my hairspray back and was in her room when she took your brush into your room.”

  Bella paused then tucked her hair behind her ear. “You did?” she questioned, turning to face me.

  I nodded slowly. “Yep.”

  She bit down on her bottom lip. It looked comical because her top lip was painted in bright red, but the bottom was pale. It was as if she’d realized she didn’t have the brush halfway through doing her lips.

  “Sorry, Jen,” she muttered. “Does anyone have a brush I can borrow? I don’t have classes this morning and I’m due on in forty-five minutes.”

  “Sure.” I backed up a couple of steps, grabbed my spare brush, and threw it across the hall to her.

  She caught it expertly and held it up. “Thanks. Nobody wants me to do a show looking like an electrocuted hamster.”

  I silently concurred. I’d seen that more than enough times. Her short hair tended to go out, and that shade of brown, which needed a touch-up at the salon, made her look a little like she was a lion or something. She didn’t say anything else as she backed into her room with a sheepish look on her face.

  The second the door shut, Jenna turned to me. Her bottom lip was drawn into her mouth, her top teeth sunk into it. “Thanks,” she lisped.

  “You’re welcome. Just shove the brush under her bed next time she leaves or something. I don’t want a five-foot-nothing elf on my ass for covering yours.” I grinned and walked back into my room.

  No sooner had I shut the door than my phone vibrated on my desk.

  I hesitated.

  What if that was him? What if he wanted me tonight?

  Tingles broke out over my skin, and instantly, I berated myself. What was the point? He’d made it abundantly clear yesterday that sex was not going to happen.

  And why was I so damn annoyed about that? Ugh… I was a goddamn ping-pong ball flitting between hatred and desire. What I needed was a manicure or retail therapy or something.

  I grabbed my phone and sighed in relief when I saw that the message was from Jake.

  Jake: Keaton is a fuckhole. Come help me study?

  Darcy: What makes you think I don’t have plans?

  Jake: Because I know Webster called in sick and canceled all his classes today.

  Fuck. Sometimes having a best friend who knew your schedule wasn’t the best thing in the world.

  Darcy: All right. Meet you in the library in twenty minutes?

  Jake: Fucking library.

  I was still giggling to myself as I pulled up in the parking lot of the library. As good as the campus one was, the one in the center of town was my preferred one. It was quieter and bigger, and I wasn’t likely to run into anyone who wanted to talk to me.

  Besides, this way, I figured I could get some research of my own done. I was still determined to take all of Jordan Keaton’s stones and turn them over so I could reveal their secrets. I knew there had to be something—and what better place to start than the library?

  I grabbed my purse and, after I’d spotted Jake’s car a few spaces away from mine, entered the old building. The smell of books assaulted my sense almost immediately, and I was powerless against the deep exhale as the musty, papery small filled my nostrils.

  Those who claimed heaven didn’t exist had never smelled a good book.

  “If you sniff any harder, you’re going to get high,” Jake muttered as I dropped into the chair opposite him.

  I grinned as I set my purse on the table. “I’m a nerd. I can’t help it.”

  “Remind me to buy you geek glasses for Christmas. You can use them for your work.” He smirked.

  I shot him a dark look. “Do you want my help or not?”

  His mouth flattened into a thin line. “Don’t joke about it, Darce. It’s driving me crazy. I was in his office this morning, and he told me that, if I don’t get this essay right this time, then he’s kicking me out of class.”

  Well, shit. “Isn’t that kind of…drastic?”

  Jake groaned and leaned forward. His upper arms bulged against the thin cotton of his red shirt. “Maybe if this weren’t my third attempt.”

  I frowned and snatched the essay from him. “Jake. This is from three weeks ago. How haven’t you gotten this right?”

  He shrugged, his face still buried in his arms. “Because I’m dumb.”

  I rolled the printed essay up and whacked him on the head with it. “You’re not stupid. You’re just…a little out of your depth.”

  “That’s code for stupid.”

  I coughed into my hand to disguise my laugh. “Here. Let me get you mine and then you can read it. For ideas, Jake,” I added when he looked up, a light in his eyes. “I got the second-highest grade on this. You can see how it’s done.”

  He tapped his finger against his lips, his dark eyes surveying me carefully. “How much would you charge if I hired you to write it?”

  I stared at him flatly. There was no way in hell I was going to write his damn essay for him—especially not on the third try. “I’m just a little nerd monkey in your eyes, aren’t I?”

  “Hundred bucks?”

  “Up your ass? Go for it.”

  “Darce,” he moaned, dragging the word out and slumping forward once more. “Please. You know I love you.”

  “Jake Haas, I am not your bitch.” I tapped my fingers against my own essay and passed it to him. Luckily for him, I’d foreseen this and printed out every history paper from the last month just in case. “It’s right there. Take it and reword it or whatever.”

  “You’re such hard work.”

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and pulled my laptop from my purse. Jake grabbed my essay while I opened the computer and fired it up. I glanced at him over the top of the screen. My teeth dug into my lower lip as I fou
ght my laughter at the look of utter confusion on his face.

  That alone told me that I didn’t want to touch his essay, not even if he’d pay me. God only knew what kind of fairytale crap he’d written in it if he didn’t understand mine.

  I’d plugged my headphones in and hit play on Spotify right before he opened his mouth to ask me something. Then I held my hand up. His shoulders visibly sank as I did it, and I felt a little guilty, but if I didn’t, he would have had me rewrite it for him. I was all for helping him, but come on.

  The guy was twenty-one. He needed to learn to look after himself a little.

  When my browser loaded, showing Google as my homepage, I opened an incognito browser tab and typed in Professor Jordan Keaton and the college’s name. A number of search results came up, including one that was the university’s website, and the preview showed his place of birth.

  Of course. For all of my searches, I hadn’t thought to check the university’s website. It would have a basic bio for him that might help me. Darcy, you idiot. I clicked on the link. The first thing to load was his picture, and I deliberately avoided looking at it while the text appeared.

  Dr. Jordan Keaton, Ph.D., graduated from the University of Colorado with a bachelor’s degree in history. Then he returned one year later to complete his master’s. In his final year of his master’s, he achieved his doctorate after what was cited as an

  “outstanding and innovative view” on seventeenth-century England and the monarchy. Although he is officially Dr. Keaton, he prefers to be referred to as Professor Keaton in his classes, and the University of Chicago respects his wishes. He uploads the same standard of grading in his classes he was held to as an undergrad and is commonly regarded as one of the toughest history professors in the Midwest. In the five years since he began teaching, his graduating classes have never averaged beneath a B.

  Dr. Keaton was born in Colorado Springs, Colorado, has a healthy interest in sports, namely the Denver Broncos, and opts for archeological or historical trips to the United Kingdom during his vacation time.

  The website went on to list his various qualifications in more detail and his university contact details. I pursed my lips as I let the information sink in. I hadn’t known he had a doctorate, but why would I have? Like the bio said, he was Professor Keaton to his students, not Dr. Keaton. The thought did make me pause. Why wouldn’t he use his actual title? He’d earned it.

  The man got more mysterious by the minute.

  He was like a murder mystery novel; every page I turned, he got more intriguing, more exciting. I wanted to know what secrets were hidden beneath the webs of his existence.

  I pulled my headphones down so they hung around my neck and looked over at Jake. “Hey. I can look up someone’s details in another state’s database, right?”

  He stared at me a moment then frowned. “Yeah. As long as it’s public. Like birth certificates and all that stuff?”

  “Yeah.”

  “This is the strangest thing you’ve ever asked me.”

  “It’s for a project.” I grabbed my notebook and halfheartedly waved it. It was obviously enthusiastic enough to be convincing, because he didn’t question me further.

  “Sure. You can get most of it for a small fee. A bigger one if you need it quickly.”

  “What if it’s for college? Would they give it for free?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve never tried. Or you could just get a hacker to get the information for you, but I’m assuming you’re trying to do this legally.”

  “No. I’m a law student who strives to break the law.” Present circumstances not included.

  “Call the office of the city or state and charm them. They may give you some basics. Anyone in particular?”

  I lifted one shoulder noncommittedly. “We were given a list of a few members of staff who gave their permission, but we have to get the info ourselves. I could maybe charm the office people, right?”

  “Or you could check Facebook…”

  Damn. He was right.

  “You know what, Jake? What you don’t know about history, you make up for in common sense.”

  He bit his pen before pointing it toward me. “And your intellectual prowess makes up for your lack of that same common sense.”

  “I’d argue that, but you’re scarily right. Okay. I’m gonna see what I can find out.” I replaced my headphones to the dulling sound of his laughter and searched for the Colorado database.

  I got there after around ten minutes of searching—this hadn’t ever been my forte—and I typed in Jordan’s details. It showed me nothing. I had to have identification and pay for copies.

  Damn it.

  I huffed out a breath. I could have tried calling like Jake had suggested, sure, but it’d get me nowhere. I wasn’t going to waste my time. Instead, all I could do was expand my Google searches and hope I’d get something.

  I peered over at Jake. He was typing furiously on his laptop with half of a Twizzler hanging out of his mouth as he chewed. I rolled my eyes and focused back on my laptop.

  Dr. Jordan Keaton Ph.D., Colorado Springs, I typed into the search bar and hit enter. It got thousands of hits, and I licked my lips as I clicked the first link. Nothing. The same for the second. They were simply his accolades and achievements in his field of study followed by praise for his high standards as a professor.

  Glad someone appreciated his slave-drivery.

  I slumped forward, resting my chin on my palm, and continued flicking through the links. Many were mundane or unrelated, and if it weren’t for my sheer determination to find something, anything, on this bastard, I’d have given up by now.

  I was reading through an article about an awards ceremony where he’d received some kind of recognition for decoding a thousand-year-old language on a stone slab when I paused and had to scroll back up a paragraph.

  Dr. Keaton was accompanied by his wife, Mrs. Amanda Keaton, and his parents…

  It felt as though the whole world stopped with those four letters.

  Wife.

  He had a wife. He was married. Married.

  Beads of sweat formed on my palms, and I had to swallow back a red-hot mouthful of bile. No sooner had I done so than my stomach churned and I had to cover my mouth with my hand.

  I’d never seen a wedding ring on him.

  I couldn’t focus on a single thing, so I slammed my laptop shut and shoved it into my purse, ripping my headphones off in the process. I stuffed them inside too, and Jake looked up in alarm.

  “Gotta go. Dentist,” I lied. My voice was stronger than I felt. My knees were quivering so badly that I felt as though they’d give way any second, and I wanted to be by my car when that happened.

  “You want this?” He held my essay up.

  “Nope. You keep it. It’s a copy.” I touched his shoulder with a shaky hand and stormed out of the library. I could barely keep walking. I wanted to run—run far away.

  I wanted to get in my car and drive the heck away from Arsen Park. It’d been my home for two years, including the summers I’d busted my butt for extra credits to graduate early, and it’d always felt like that: home. Even when I missed my parents and my brothers, my friends, or wanted to go home just to be near to Griff. It was always home, but this final year, it felt more alien than anything else.

  I just about made it back to my car and collapsed into it before the word screamed at me once more.

  Wife.

  A fucking wife.

  The taps from Jordan’s fingers drumming against the surface of his desk filled his office. He didn’t care for the freshman in front of him desperately explaining why he’d forgotten about his assignment. His rules were clear. They had one twenty-four-hour extension in the event of an emergency. Further extensions could and would be granted if serious emergencies, such as severe illness or a family fatality.

  Going home for the weekend and leaving one’s laptop at the dorm was not reasonable grounds for an extension, because quite frankly, it wasn�
��t a fucking emergency. Even if the kid’s cat had died.

  “Mr. Lawrence, I’m very sorry for the loss of your feline friend, but you’ve had a week to complete this assignment, not a weekend. Why was it not completed before you left?”

  Damien Lawrence shifted from foot to foot then readjusted his bag strap on his shoulder. “Well, sir. You see…”

  Jordan raised his eyebrows and removed his glasses. “I’m waiting.”

  “I forgot,” he murmured. “I had several other things due and…forgot.”

  “Twenty percent of my students drop out of this course by the end of their first semester,” Jordan reminded him. “Some by choice. Others because their grades weren’t up to scratch. My seniors have three days to hand in assignments if they’re lucky. You have a week. This is the first time, so you have until nine p.m. tonight to get that essay uploaded to the server.”

  “Thanks, sir.” Damien scuttled toward the door with the finesse of an elephant on an ice rink.

  “And, Mr. Lawrence?” The boy stopped at Jordan’s sharp tone. “Do it again and your mark will automatically go down as zero, which will bring your overall grade down quite considerably.”

  He nodded frantically and ran out of the office. The door swung shut, and Jordan relaxed instantly.

  Contrary to popular belief, he hated being such a hard-ass to his students. Well, perhaps he didn’t hate it entirely, but he sure as hell didn’t enjoy it. He did it because it got results, and results were what he liked. He’d been pushed to his limits during his education, and he was sure he wouldn’t have been the respected historian he’d become without that constant push.

  There was a time and a place for winging. Education in his classroom was not it. Even he didn’t wing a single bit of his professional life.

  His personal life? That was something different. He rode that by the seat of his pants, and he was wondering if, this time, he even had a grip on them. When he’d stumbled across Darcy on the Dalton Cam Girls website, he hadn’t been expecting this.

  It’d shocked him more than anything. She was his best student—the best he’d had in a long time. And he’d thought many times that it was a damn shame she was majoring in English and not history. She had an impeccable memory, and she could remember the tiniest details. Even if she did have a tendency to forget every president’s name.