Talk Dirty To Me

by Ginny Glass

  Jarod didn’t bother removing his jacket when he strode into the classroom. Students milled around, chatting and swapping weekend tales. Every word grated on his taut nerves. He barreled straight toward his desk.

  “Quiet reading. ‘When We Two Parted’ by Byron, expository quiz in five minutes.”

  “Professor, one of my fraternity brothers said you promised your Tuesday-Thursday class an A on the next pop quiz. Any chance you’ll share that wealth with us?” The frat guy with a cowlick smirked at his buddy.

  Jarod’s hands fisted on his desk calendar. He was in no mood to play grading games. “Nope. Get reading.”

  A collective sigh whooshed out beneath the sound of opening books. Jarod jerked his chair out, yanked his laptop from his bag and powered up. He wanted to call Nora, but he couldn’t do it during class. He’d e-mail her instead.

  He wracked his brain for a bit of literary magic to make his apology work. Men had been courting for centuries and royally messing things up for just as long. His hands trembled on the keyboard.

  Nora, let me use better words than my own. Lord Byron said in his poem “When We Two Parted”: “In silence I grieve, That thy heart could forget.” Please forgive me. I shouldn’t have come on so strong Saturday night. I never meant to scare you or push you in any way. I could say that I’d had too much wine, but that would be a lie. You captivated me at dinner and I forgot myself. It will never happen again, I promise you. Please, can we talk? Call me any time, day or night, (917) 555-6975.

  I’m sorry. I wish the English language allowed me to express that more.

  ~Jarod

  After calling Salih at the ungodly hour of six o’clock in the morning and faking a stomach flu, Nora hadn’t been able to go back to sleep. She’d planned on burying herself in her dissertation for a few days. She could find some way to work without those interviews. She would have to request an extension, claiming lost research files, and could only hope and pray the committee would understand. If not, she’d have to figure something out.

  One hundred and forty-three games of Spider Solitaire later, the new e-mail window popping up in her browser made her stomach roll. Firming her lip, Nora clicked the e-mail. The subject line almost made her open the message. “Forgive me.”

  Not likely. She jabbed the delete button, sending the message to the trash folder without reading it. Jarod and James could both go take a flying leap off the nearest bridge overpass. Curiosity nibbled at her and she wondered what, exactly, he was apologizing for but she refused to give in to any more of his lies.

  Still, she caught herself remembering the gentle caress of his thumb on her hand over coffee, the wind tossing his chocolate brown hair every which way, the rolling sound of his laugh. Nora slammed the laptop closed mid-game. She had to snap out of this funk. She shouldn’t be thinking nice romantic thoughts about a man who deceived her. Running a hand through not-yet-brushed hair, she decided she needed fresh air.

  Maybe she would buy a self-indulgent dinner for one, pamper herself a bit. She deserved it. And if a pint or two of ice cream just happened to jump into her grocery cart, then so be it. A quick trip to the grocery store would get her moving and then she’d buckle down and get working. Once she had her doctorate, she could look for a position elsewhere.

  Right now she would take any job, as long as it was far away from a certain silvered-tongued English professor.

  Not even the liquor could wash the taste of self-loathing out of Jarod’s mouth. He drained the last sip of Irish whiskey and stared at his empty inbox. Nora hadn’t replied. His phone never rang and she hadn’t answered when “James” called her either. He’d spent the majority of his Tuesday Intro to Lit class staring out the window, waiting for her to traipse across the quad. Even knowing she wasn’t on campus couldn’t rip his watchful eyes from the barren pathway, hoping against hope that enough longing could conjure her from frigid air.

  After the students filed out, Jarod had tried again, pulling borrowed words from literature to plead in an e-mail. She ignored that one as well. He’d rushed home to fire up his computer, only to find his inbox as empty as his apartment. His head hit the back of the couch. God, he’d really fucked up this time. He turned off the computer and the lights and got ready for bed, ignoring a stack of ungraded essays.

  He’d thought his biggest challenge was going to be confessing that he was her cell-phone lover. Instead, he’d never even get that chance because he’d quit using his brain and allowed his dick to think for him. Why had he touched her like that, knowing how cautious she was? How could he have thrown away a chance with the most interesting woman he’d met in years over a momentary sexual impulse?

  Because she felt so right in my arms after everything we’d talked about together. Punching his pillow, he stared at the blurry glow of his alarm clock. Sex wasn’t the only thing he wanted with Nora. Maybe it was what he thought he wanted at first, but that was before he knew that her laugh was like church bells in the winter air or that she took three creamers in every cup of coffee. He could see the fire in her eyes over the steaming rim of that cup. The memory made his chest tighten with a deep, unreachable ache.

  He wanted everything, all those courtship rituals that had spurred men throughout history to pursue one woman above any others. He wanted the heart-pounding ache of waiting for her to walk through a door, for every flirtatious smile, for every tiny, thrilling step toward more. He wanted more with Nora.

  Sleep was elusive and he was dressed before the sun broke over the frost-gilded mountains. He ate out of habit, not tasting the muffin but Nora’s kisses. He drove through gray morning light but saw only the blush on her cheeks. He automatically stopped for a newspaper and coffee, but his mind never left the dark-haired Helen of his personal Troy.

  Jarod paused as he handed the cashier a five-dollar bill to pay for his purchases. His gaze landed on a magazine cover. Some actress in a too-tight gown at some Hollywood party clutched a bouquet of cream roses, the tips tinged in dark blood red. Roses like the one he’d given Nora. The picture stayed with him as he drove onto campus. He pulled into the parking lot, peeled through a U-turn and headed back out into traffic.

  Jarod still made it back before Ankar Salih’s little red sports car sped into its designated spot. Dr. Salih grimaced when he saw Jarod waiting, but Jarod was ready for him.

  “Look, I’m not a love-struck frat boy so don’t treat me like one. I made a mistake. You can’t tell me that in thirty-one years, you’ve never been in the doghouse.”

  Salih stared for a beat, then snorted. “A time or two.”

  “I know it’s none of your business, but I’m asking for your help.”

  WEDNESDAY 4:41 p.m.

  Extension denied—Scrambling to recover.

  Will check with a Women’s Studies group in Concord,

  they may be willing to be interviewed.

  Revenge idea: send Jarod a litter of kittens.

  Nora caved and retrieved Jarod’s e-mails from her trash file. She blamed it on her skyrocketing blood sugar from the mostly frozen diet she’d existed on since Monday. The first e-mail nearly made her laugh in brittle irony.

  He thought she was angry because he’d touched her breast? After all the dirty things they’d talked about, the whimpering orgasms he’d coaxed her to with only his voice, he thought a little boob feel had ticked her off? How obtuse could one man get?

  A chink was gouged out of her indignation as she read. There was a lyrical hint of chivalry in his words. This was the Jarod she missed—the debonair gentleman with the old-world manners. Swallowing the rush of tenderness that brought a blur to her eyes, she clicked the next message—the one with “Please, Nora” as a subject.

  Nora, I can’t blame you for ignoring me. I had hoped we were beginning something that might grow, and I am so sorry I messed that up. My behavior was brash and forward, too much for so new a relationship. It’s impossible for you to be any angrier at me than I am at myself.

  I miss ou
r time together and pray you’ll give me another chance. I can’t make it right but I can try to make it up to you. Please answer this or call me. Even if it’s just to tell me to go to hell, let me talk to you. If not, in the words of Edmond Rostand’s Cyrano de Bergerac, “…you will leave me with nothing—neither the laurel nor the rose.”

  Hopeful, Jarod

  She slammed the netbook onto the cushion. Hopeful? Well, he wasted his breath there. No way in hell was she going to respond to those, those…

  Incredibly sweet notes of apology and concern.

  Beside her on the futon her phone rang but she didn’t even bother to check the number. Dr. Salih had left a string of terse voicemails she was ignoring quite well. She had stopped jumping each time the phone shrilled after these long days of silence. She didn’t care. She liked the quiet. Sequestered in her apartment, surrounded by the detritus of much moping—empty ice cream pints, Fresca cans and a stack of chick-flick DVDs, Nora was dangerously close to permanent hermitdom. Maybe nutty Aunt Margie needed a roommate.

  Nora glared at her computer. There was a desperation in Jarod’s e-mails that tore at her. She wanted to go to him, but it wouldn’t be logical. Her eyes trailed to the stack of movies. Cosmic misunderstandings always led to the perfect kiss just before the end credits. Too bad real life wasn’t like that. Woman scorned, in the thinking woman’s brain, always equaled no second chances. So why did she want to run back to Jarod and slap him silly, just before she kissed him senseless?

  Her doorbell rang and the chime startled her. She scrambled, her heart racing. Jarod couldn’t have found out where she lived, could he? There was no way she could face him. No way she could look into those hypnotic green eyes and cling tight to her fury. No way she could watch that incredible, delicious mouth spill out some weak apology and not crave to lick the words from his lips.

  When she jerked the lock and then the knob, the door opened not to Jarod’s sheepish face but the sour expression of Professor Salih. Nora froze. Her frayed flannel pj bottoms and worn tank top weren’t exactly proper conversation-with-the-boss clothes.

  “P-professor.”

  Salih looked at her down the bridge of his nose. The man never seemed to smile. “Ms. MacGregor. I apologize for my unannounced visit, but you haven’t returned my phone calls.”

  Nora crossed her arms. “I’m sorry. I needed to take a few days for personal reasons. I promise I’ll catch up on work as soon as—”

  “Yes, it’s your personal problems I’m most concerned with.”

  “Profes—”

  “Your biggest personal problem has been haunting the faculty parking lot like a whipped dog for days.” Nora’s reply was lost in shocked silence. A slow weakness stole into her. Salih’s eyes softened. “I feel like a fool for humoring the man, but he does grow on a person.”

  “Like mold?” Nora forced ice into her tone.

  Salih untucked something from inside his coat. “Certain molds have great use, become medicines that save lives. Anyway, I agreed to play go-between this once. I’m to leave you with this and tell you ‘All my laurels you have riven away, and my roses.’”

  The ice cracked and a sigh escaped on an uneven breath. “Cyrano.” Nora held out trembling fingers to touch the perfect white rose tipped in scarlet that Salih held.

  “I suggest you resolve this situation with Dr. Reed and get yourself back to my lab as soon as possible.”

  Nora nodded dumbly. She raised the flower to her nose, breathing deep. The slender stem was wet and cool, tiny notches marking the green stalk. No thorns. No risk of accidentally drawing blood, of inflicting pain. She blinked away hot tears to see Salih’s back striding toward his car. She closed the door with a soft click.

  Jarod’s e-mail shone from the computer screen and she sank into the couch, rereading his words with the fragrant bloom held to her nose. Something niggled at her brain and she did an Internet search for “de Bergerac” for the quote about the rose. She found the line in Act Five but a few lines away, something else caught her eye.

  “How obvious it is now—the gift you gave him. All those letters, they were you…All those beautiful powerful words, they were you! The voice from the shadows, that was you…”

  Realization parted her lips, and the flower fell to her lap.

  “I don’t think you’re broken.”

  “You have all the control here. Hang up and I’m a memory.”

  “I’m the ultimate safe lover. I can’t touch you except with my voice.”

  “Do you want me to hang up, Nora? I will. I don’t want to make you feel anything but good.”

  Jarod had given her a choice. A choice she’d made based on her hormones rather than her common sense. Yes, he’d lied technically, by omission, but he wasn’t solely at fault. Jarod had prodded her to think beyond the biology and into the intangible of passion. Jarod might have more polish when not in James-mode but his intelligence hadn’t dimmed, his word choices hadn’t varied, his style remained the same. Jarod called her “sweetheart,” touched her, held her in broad daylight. Jarod kissed her with raw need.

  Her anger fled as her more scientific mind kicked into gear. Why would an educated man take such a daring risk when she’d openly shown she was willing to go out with him? There was that whole pepper-spray thing and she had been less than trusting at first. Had that weighed into his decision? Why hadn’t he simply told her when they had dinner? Sure, she might have reacted in anger first. That was human nature.

  “Most of the Romantic Era classics aren’t just stories. They’re studies of human nature.”

  “You can’t explain away passion like that with DNA sequences, sweetheart.”

  “Passion and love aren’t an equation. They simply are.”

  “Lust is temporary, easily satisfied and forgotten. Passion consumes you.”

  Nora buried her face in her hands with an ironic wail. Jarod had become the anti-hero of her dissertation. He said her theories were flawed and damned if he wasn’t right. Sex was sex, a strictly biological function of reproduction unless you added the mysterious, invisible element of passion. Of love.

  Did she love Jarod? No. Not yet, anyway. But the seeds were there if she could let them grow. She picked up the rose, twirling it between her fingers. Jarod was like the creamy petals and James was the fiery edges. Together, they were perfect.

  Jarod was James and both men struck a fundamental chord in her. He’d seen it even when she couldn’t, coaxed her to respond and to enjoy. On some level, maybe she had known they were the same man. Maybe her subconscious was smarter than she knew.

  She slid the rose under her nose, the deeply vibrant scent warming her blood. She lifted the computer off the couch and fingered her lip. Her subconscious was also a little wicked. She took a minute to consider backing down. Nope, Jarod deserved to suffer from a little bit of subterfuge. Her nails clicked on the keyboard.

  Jarod,

  I received your rose and your messages. They were beautiful. Thank you.

  I should be the one apologizing, not you. Please forgive me. I’ve had a lot happen in my personal life in the past few days and I needed a little while to sort out some things, get my head on straight. One thing I’ve realized is that I like where we we’re heading and I don’t want endanger that.

  I think I hurt your feelings. For that, I’m very sorry. You were absolutely correct. Saturday night I should have skipped my research phone call. You deserved that much. I’ve found that my friend no longer lives up to the standards I need. If he calls again, I’ll tell him that. I’d like to make it up to you, if you’re still interested. Meet me before class? I’ll be in the Sciences Building by eight.