Because of Dylan: A forbidden student teacher slow burn romance (Riggins U Book 3)

by Erica Alexander

  I roll my eyes. “Tommy is just a friend. I told you that already.”

  “Yeah, but you two spend so much time together. I thought he was working his way into your pants.”

  “Nothing to work on. I like the kid. He’s nice.”

  “You don’t do nice.”

  I pause. True. She’s right. I don’t do nice. So what?

  “He’s different.”

  “In my experience guys always, always want something. They’re never in it just to be nice or friends,” River says, and I can almost see her twirling a long strand of hair in her fingers.

  “That’s because you look like a freaking supermodel. Can’t blame them for going stupid every time they see you.”

  “Ugh.” River rejects all mentions of her good looks like I reject any notions of nice guys and love. Except for Tommy.

  “I’ll let you get back to work. Don’t want you to get in trouble.”

  “Nah, you can’t get me in trouble in this hole-in-the-wall. Gus doesn’t have anyone else to take over the bar. I call the shots, and he doesn’t care.”

  “Okay, boss lady, if you say so. But I’m tired. Going to bed. See you tomorrow?”

  “Sure. Meet you for coffee in the morning.”

  “Bye.” She hangs up with a yawn, and I pocket my phone.

  River may not believe Tommy is just a friend and not a future boy-toy, but that’s okay. I like the kid. It feels like having a younger brother. I know it's crazy, but I feel somewhat responsible for him. I enjoy having someone to talk to who doesn't try to get into either my brain or my pants. I can let my guard down around him.

  I snatch a dirty shot glass from the bar and put it upside down in the dishwasher tray before going back to wiping the counters. When was the last time I had a drink? River’s birthday? And I haven’t hooked up with anyone since … meeting Tommy.

  Wow. I didn’t even miss it. Being around Tommy calms the constant churning in my chest. I don’t feel the need to always be on the move or to be a step ahead of everything I left behind. Why? I don’t have any romantic feelings for him. Is this because he’s a break in my routine?

  No. It’s more than that. I care about him, and I care about what he thinks—what he thinks about me. The idea of disappointing him disturbs me.

  My phone buzzes in the back pocket of my jeans. I toss the rag I'm using to clean the counter into a bucket filled with cleaning solution, and wash and dry my hands before picking up my phone.

  Tommy: Hey, you working tonight?

  It's like Tommy knows I’m thinking of him.

  Becca: Yep. Till midnight.

  Tommy: Mind if I stop by?

  Becca: It's a free country.

  Tommy: I was thinking of bringing my brother with me.

  Becca: You have a brother?

  That’s what I get for not asking personal questions. How much does Tommy know about me? Less than I know about him for sure. When you ask those kinds of questions you open up the floor for them to ask them back. Then the lies and evasion start, and Tommy deserves better than that. But even thinking about opening up to him, or anyone else, puts a vise around my chest that makes it hard to breathe.

  Tommy: Yes. I never told you about him?

  Becca: Duh, no. If you had, I wouldn't be asking, would I?

  Tommy: LOL. We'll stop by. I think you'll like him. He's a nice guy.

  My somewhat rude words never faze him.

  Becca: Whatever you say, Tommy boy.

  Tommy: See you in a few.

  I look at the time on my phone. Eleven PM.

  Three locals sit at one end of the long and scarred dark, wood bar top. They're here nearly every night, always in the same spot. I swear those stools are the exact reverse shape of their asses. They're in their late forties or early fifties, and based on their conversations and bitching about their wives, they come here to escape the nagging they get at home.

  They try to pull me into their conversations, asking for my opinion on this or that or to settle an argument, and I play my part well. Smile, serve their beers ice cold, replenish the bowls of stale pretzels with more stale pretzels, but for the most part I try to stay out of their conversations. They’re harmless. But this is my job, I’m not here to socialize.

  It's only me tending the bar right now. The owner, Gus, is out back. He keeps out of the way most of the time, which works just fine for me. The lights around the aged room are dimmed, not for ambience, but to hide the dirt and neglect that has accumulated over decades of not updating the space or not caring enough about it. And because Gus is a cheap bastard who likes to cut corners everywhere he can. But he doesn't get on my back or demand much of me, and I don't have to share the tips with anyone. Also, he doesn't expect me to be warm and fuzzy to the customers.

  The only thing Gus really asks of me is to wear a black T-shirt with the bar name and logo. The word Players, with two dice hanging from the letter Y. I have no idea why. The only game in the place is darts. The board sits on the back wall, and every time someone goes to the bathroom, they risk getting hit by a flying dart. The whole setup is a lawsuit waiting to happen.

  “Becca?” One of the regulars calls me, and I step up to their corner. Their glasses are half full still, so this is not a call for a refill.

  “You're a woman. We're trying to understand. Our wives are always so cranky. Why do women get like that?”

  It's his fourth beer of the night, and Joe is the smallest of them, no more than one hundred thirty-five pounds on his skinny frame. The alcohol makes his words slur a bit.

  I lean into my side of the counter, like I'm about to share a secret. All three of them lean closer to me. Their attention is on my face, expectant, hopeful even. As if I alone hold the Holy Grail answer they’re looking for.

  “Let me ask you a question first, Joe.”

  He nods, eager.

  “When was the last time you gave your wife an orgasm?”

  His mouth opens and closes in a perfect imitation of a fish. No sounds come out, but I half expect air bubbles to float out of it. The other men snicker.

  “And the same question goes for both of you.” I point at his two friends. “You want to know why your wives are cranky all the time? Maybe it's because they haven't gotten laid properly in years.”

  The snickers stop, and all three of them avert their gazes.

  “If you spent half of the time you waste here every night bullshitting and complaining about your women on actually paying attention to them, I guarantee they would not be cranky.”

  I lower my voice, lean in a few inches more. Their eyes are back on me.

  “You want a happy woman at home? Fuck her. Fuck her often, and fuck her well.”

  “Now, it's not as easy as you say. What if she doesn't want to be fu”—his words stumble—“made love to?” This question comes from Arnold, the more outspoken of the three.

  “Would you want to make love to yourself?” I ask, making quotes motions with my fingers when I say make love. “Switch places with your wife for a second. Would you be receptive and eager if the roles were reversed?”

  He says nothing.

  “Go home and think back to the time when you first met. What did you do? How did you win her over? You already know what to do. You did it before. The problem is not that she's cranky or that you're too tired. The problem is that you're taking your wives for granted. And start appreciating them as women and individuals. Stop seeing them as extensions of you or your kids. Win them over again.”

  The three of them look at each other and, as if by mutual agreement, push their unfinished beers away and stand up. Bills drop on the counter. More than enough to cover their bar tab three times over.

  “Keep the change,” they say.

  They leave the bar with brighter eyes than when they walked in, and they stand a little taller as they walk across the room. I know it won't be as simple as that, but's it's a start. I smile to myself while closing their tab and pocketing the very generous tip. T
he extra money will go straight into my savings. Every penny I save adds more distance between me and my old life. I'll never be that hungry or scared again.

  “Move over, Doctor Phil. Here comes Doctor Becca.”

  I glance up, a smile already on my face as I recognize Tommy's voice. I grab a glass and fill it with ice and Coke and place it in front of him.

  Then I notice the man sitting next to Tommy. He's judging me. Even though his handsome face is schooled into a neutral expression, I can pick up the clues. I have lived my entire life under the judgment and scrutiny of others. There's always a tell. They always think they’re so good at hiding how they feel. But I’m better at reading them.

  His eyes narrow on me, his jaw tenses. He casually drapes an arm over his brother’s shoulders as if protecting him from me and pulls him a little closer.

  Professor Dick.

  Tommy’s brother is Professor Dick.

  His gaze is like a slap in the face. A sucker punch you can’t anticipate.

  The universe has a sick sense of humor. Just when I met someone I like and want to be friends with, I get a reminder I’m not good enough.

  The professor’s eyes are fixed on me—ice and fire. He wants to freeze me out and burn me alive at the same time. It hits me in the chest. The coldness and the burn. Professor Dick’s dislike and disdain slithers across the space between us like an invisible snake ready to pounce.

  I take a minuscule step back and stop myself. I will not allow this judgmental asshole to make me feel like less than I am. I put on my imaginary armor, forcing myself to raise an eyebrow in defiance, step closer to the bar top and lean in. I look at Tommy with a real smile on my lips.

  Now that I see the two side by side, the similarities are undeniable. Tommy’s brother is taller, bigger, with wider shoulders and more muscles. His hair is shorter, and he’s sporting a scruff I know won't be there in the morning. Every time I run into him on campus, he’s clean-shaven. His attire is also different from what I'm used to seeing. He’s wearing jeans and a Henley instead of the slacks and button-down shirts he usually wears at Riggins. Also gone are the glasses, and without them his eyes are brighter, the color more vivid. That's one thing he doesn't have in common with Tommy. No baby blues for the professor. His eyes are whiskey colored, and I’m a little drunk gazing into them.

  “Becca, this is my brother, Dylan. Dylan, this is my new friend, Becca Jones.”

  Dylan … well, that puts an end to the mystery. I know him as Professor Beckett. The nameplate on his office door says D. Beckett, and in my head I’ve always called him Professor Dick. A little snicker escapes my lips at the thought.

  As if he can read my mind, his eyes narrow further, hiding the beautiful amber color under a slash of dark eyebrows.

  “You know each other?” Tommy asks. His curious glance bouncing between the professor and me.

  “Yes.”

  “No,” I say at the same time.

  Tommy laughs. “Which is it? Yes or no?”

  “I have run into Miss Jones a few times.”

  “But, we have never been formally introduced, and I'm not in any of his classes,” I clarify.

  “Yes, I guess ethics is not something you're interested in.”

  His dig hurts, but it goes unnoticed by Tommy. I know he's not referring to his class. This is a reminder of the time he caught me making out with Lucas in his then-empty classroom. It's not like we were naked. It was just kissing. But after that, every time I ran into him, he gave me a dirty look. And I run into him often because River’s in a classroom next to his, and I often meet her there after class.

  “What can I get you, professor?”

  He takes his sweet time answering. His gaze takes me in, staying on my breasts an extra second. He's discreet, but I caught him. I guess Professor Dick has some not-so-ethical issues of his own.

  “I'll take a Dos Equis.”

  “Lime?”

  “Please.”

  It's all so polite and aloof, but underneath the surface, in the two feet of space between us, there's a silent war waging.

  I slam the beer bottle on the bar top harder than I intend, and, even with the lime on top, some of it slushes over. A few drops fall on the back of my hand, and, on instinct, I lick it. Professor Dick’s eyes track the movement like a heat-seeking missile.

  I curl my lip. He’s too big. Too tall. Too beautiful. Too much of an ass. And yet my stomach doesn’t revolt, my throat doesn’t clench. The need to run and hide is not there. I want to dig into this revelation, analyze and understand it, dissect it like a bug under a microscope, cut it down into tiny bits until there’s nothing left. Doesn’t matter … as attractive as he is, he’s still Professor Dick.

  I tend to what few customers I have and go around the bar, cleaning tables. The night is winding down. Another thirty minutes and I can leave. Gus always comes back exactly five minutes before midnight and shoos away whatever stragglers are still around. He pays me in cash for the night, plus the tips I have already pocketed. It's not exactly legal, but I prefer it this way. Cash can't be tracked the way paychecks can. He gives me extra when we don't have a busboy to clean the tables. Lucky for me, tonight is one of those nights. Every dollar counts.

  I make my way back to the brothers as Tommy gets up and walks toward the restroom.

  I look at the nearly empty bottle sitting in front of Dylan. “Last call. Want another one? If so, you gotta get it now, we're closing soon.”

  He shakes his head. “I'm driving. One is enough.”

  I'm sure he can handle more than one beer, but who am I to question him?

  “What are you doing with my brother?” His fingers play with the etched label on the bottle. If it were a paper label, it would clearly be in shreds by now.

  “Nothing, he's a friend.” For once, I can say that about a guy I picked up at a party and be truthful. It's been a few weeks since that night, and nothing has happened between Tommy and me.

  “I know all too well how friendly you can get.” His voice is disdainful. Sharp.

  Jesus! Asshole much? He saw me kissing one guy. How dare he make a judgment about me like that?

  Heat flares in my chest. “You're a dick.” The words are out before I can stop myself. I don't care if he's a professor and can get me in trouble. It's the truth. He's being a dick. I call it like I see it.

  “That shouldn't be a problem for you, then.”

  I tilt my head, still staring at him. Did he imply I like dick? For real? The urge to throw something at him is so overwhelming I fist my hands until I feel my nails dig painfully into my palms.

  His fingers tap the scarred wood top. “I want you to leave my brother alone. Do I make myself clear?”

  “You talk like I'm some kind of predator.”

  “Aren't you?”

  The question is a spear through my heart. I’m not a predator. I'm not a pervert. I have never been with anyone under eighteen. Not even when I was under eighteen myself. I’m the furthest thing from it. I hate anyone who preys on kids with an intensity that scares me. I don’t prey on kids. I’d kick anyone’s ass who tried the crap that was done to me.

  “You don’t know me. We've never even had a conversation before—”

  His voice lowers. “I know enough. I've seen enough. I've heard enough. Tommy is a sweet kid. Sweet and naïve.”

  I grip the edge of the counter. Fingernails digging into the wood. “We’re both adults, and Tommy can make his own decisions.”

  He leans into the bar top, eliminating the space between us to mere inches. “I don't want him to get hurt or catch an STI. Stay away from my brother.”

  The fuck? He just about called me a whore. I know Tommy is sweet. That's exactly why I like him. That and the fact that he's one of a few guys who treats me with respect. Who talks to me like he cares. I'm not giving up on him. Not that easily. I ignore the not so veiled insult.

  “And if I don’t?”

  He stretches to his full height and looms
over me, puffing his chest out, causing his shirt to strain over his shoulders. He shoves his barstool aside, and its legs screech across the linoleum. He leans across the bar top, hands holding his weight, and stops like he’s loath to get too close to me.

  “I wouldn't try me if I were you.” His gaze is so cold I have to hold back a shiver.

  I don't have a chance to respond as Tommy comes back then.

  “What’s going on? You’re leaving now?” Tommy asks, oblivious to the tension.

  Professor Dick’s demeanor does a one-eighty. He leans against the wood, smiles and wraps an arm around his brother, tucking him into his chest. The smile transforms his face and illuminates the entire space around me.

  I'm unsettled by the warmth and love in that smile. It tugs at something in my heart I thought was long dead. And for the briefest of moments, I'm filled with envy and jealousy that anyone could be loved that much when I never was. But as quick as the feeling comes over me, I kick it to the curb.

  Self-pity never helped anyone. I have never allowed myself to feel sorry for the life I had, and I'm not about to start now. Especially not because of him. Professor Dick can kiss my ass. I will not be intimidated into losing one of the few good things in my life.

  The professor squeezes Tommy’s shoulder. “Ready to go? They're about to close. I'll drop you off at your dorm.”

  Tommy looks at his brother. “You sure? That's out of your way.”

  Before either of them can say anything, I speak up. “I can drive Tommy. His dorm is right next to mine.”

  Tommy smiles. The professor glares at me.

  “That's okay. I wouldn't want to impose.” Professor Dick tries to gain the upper hand.

  “Oh, it's no trouble at all, professor. I've taken Tommy home many times before. It won't be the first time.” I give him my sweetest smile. “Or the last.” I blink twice, feigning complete innocence.

  Tommy laughs, still unaware of the silent battle he's in between. God bless his naïve little heart.

  “You can call him Dylan. Professor makes him sound like an old guy, and he's only twenty-eight.”