Grade A Ahole (ABCs of Love Book 1)

by Vanessa Booke

  Grade A A$$hole

  ABCs of Love, Book 1

  Vanessa Booke

  Illustrated by

  Cormar Covers

  Copyright © 2018 Vanessa Booke

  Grade A A$$hole (ABCs of Love, Book 1)

  By Vanessa Booke

  All Rights Reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, brands, media, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Contents

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  Prologue

  1. Parker

  2. Josie

  3. Josie

  4. Parker

  5. Josie

  6. Josie

  7. Parker

  8. Josie

  9. Parker

  10. Josie

  11. Josie

  12. Josie

  13. Josie

  COMING SOON

  Foreword

  About the Author

  Also by Vanessa Booke

  This book is dedicated to Professor S.

  Thanks for the material asshole.

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  Prologue

  JOSIE

  I eat professors like him for breakfast.

  My fingers pulse as I sit waiting with my English paper in hand, and an argument on the tip of my tongue. There's no way I deserve this grade. My cheeks burn at the sight of the bright letter F on my most recent class essay. Poetry has never been my forte, but the only reason why I signed up for English 401: Poetry and Prose is because I assumed we would be doing more reading than writing. I didn't sign up because I care about fluffy imagery or the complexity of Keat's love for nature. I signed up because Professor Dorian's class is known among campus as an easy A.

  I have one year of college left and nothing is getting in my way from graduation. Three years ago, I made a deal with my parents. Graduate from college with a degree and trade my diploma in for a 5.4 million dollar inheritance. Check payable to Josie Wilde, heiress of Wilde Entertainment Industries. The biggest production company this side of the Hollywood Hills.

  At this point, it's the only thing motivating me to finish school. I'm over the busy work, over the pretentious professors who act like they know everything, and especially over the so-called great author we're forced to read. If I have to read The Bell Jar one more time, I'm going to stick my head in an oven. There's no way I deserve an F on this paper. I had this essay in the bag. Sure, I wrote it last minute but all of my papers have been written last minute, and all of them have been A papers. There's no way I'm failing an English class in my last year of college. I'm an English major for fuck's sake. This is not happening.

  I eye the birch colored desk next to me as I wait for Professor Dorian to arrive. My fingers itch to clear the shabby looking thing. It sits cluttered with textbooks, graded papers, a grocery list and covered in coffee stains. It's like the man lives out of his office. So why isn't he here? Office hours started almost an hour ago. It's not like it's the day after mid-terms when Oceanside's campus is as quiet as the dead, with everyone either out celebrating in town or writing their future obituaries. Speaking of obituaries. God, my parents are going to flip when they find out that the nearly twenty-four thousand dollars of tuition is yielding an F in English.

  It could be worse, right? I could be failing English. This is just one little essay.

  "One little essay worth 30% of my grade," I groan.

  My forehead is in my hands when I hear footsteps echoing down the hallway. Relief washes over me as I silently recite my well conceived argument for Professor Dorian. I'll just make my case and he'll have to let me rewrite my paper. Right? There's a reason why I chose his class. Professor Dorian is known among the University of Oceanside as an easy A. He uses a curved grading scale and he's well known by students on the site Grade The Professor as a softie. Now, I'm beginning to wonder if I've been led wrong.

  The footsteps I heard earlier are now outside the door. I straighten my shirt, picking the lint off my sleeve and then direct my gaze to the doorway. The relief I felt only moments earlier quickly melts into confusion as a man in an expensive suit strolls into the office.

  Who the hell is this? Instead of the short, old man with a white beard and giant glasses I was expecting, a stranger walks in.

  The mysterious man is definitely not Professor Dorian.

  This suit is tall, with silver highlighted brown hair, a 5 o'clock shadow and piercing green eyes. His shoulders are so wide they nearly swallow the tiny doorframe. I gulp, suddenly aware of how little of space this cubby size office has. If he steps any closer, he might as well be on top of me. If he's even one tenth surprised to see me as I am to see him, he doesn't show it. The silver-haired fox gazes at me with neither interest or surprise.

  "Can I help you?"

  The disdain in his voice is clear. Piercingly so. He sets down the leather briefcase in his hand and leans it against the tiny bookcase across from Professor Dorian's birch desk. He does so without ever taking his eyes off me. It's as if he's predator slowly approaching his prey.

  I clear my throat, feeling a dryness setting in.

  "I'm sorry, I'm here to see Professor Dorian."

  A silence falls between us, leaving me to twiddle my thumbs as I wait for the green-eyed stranger's response.

  "My English professor."

  "I'm your professor."

  My jaw falls open in confusion. Have I been hallucinating this entire semester? I'm pretty sure my English professor is the embodiment of Santa Claus. This guy looks like the embodiment of the naked man on my fireman calendar. I'm willing to be that even under that suit and tie, there's abs without an inch of fat.

  "No, no your not. Professor Dorian is old and -"

  "And dead," he says, cutting me off. "Professor Dorian passed away. I'm Professor Grant. I will be taking over your English class."

  I haven't even told him which class I'm in.

  "Oh," I say, trying to cover my surprise.

  Guilt sets in. Professor Dorian wasn't my favorite professor but he is - or rather was- one of the sweetest. If you forget the fact that he liked oggling tits and asses all day.

  "Let me guess, you're from English 115."

  Ouch. I'm not a freshman.

  "Do I look like an eighteen year old trying to figure out who she is?" I ask.

  A smirk hits his lips and my skin is immediately set on fire by the sight. Sweet baby Jesus. I try my best not to get even more flustered than I already feel. I'm suddenly all too aware of the fact that Professor Grant is really hot and probably twice as old as me.

  "Actually, I'm in English 401," I counter.

  He looks at me as if t
rying to decide whether I'm lying or not. His gaze is intense and unrelenting in his search for truth.

  "You look -" his eyes rake over me. He takes a moment as if measuring what he's about to say. "I mean…how can I help you this morning, Ms-"

  "Wilde," I offer.

  He makes it a point to step around me before taking a seat at Professor Dorian's desk. The moment he passes me I smell the faint scent of hazelnut and citrus. It's so intoxicating that I can't help but lean in.

  "Ms. Wilde?" he says, with a look of confusion.

  Shit. Was I just sniffing him like a dog?

  "How can I assist you?"

  I straighten my body and lean further back into my chair, creating as much distance between the two of us as possible.

  "Is there something you need?" he presses on, as he removes his jacket.

  Like your clothes completely off and you fucking me over this desk?

  Josie, get a grip on your libido.

  "Um, yes. I came to speak to Professor Dorian regarding my grade on our last essay assignment." My fingers grasp the paper wedged between my textbook. I almost feel ashamed to show Professor Grant my grade and I don't know why. The man in front of me doesn't even bother looking at me as he fires off another question. He begins to scribble on a notepad as if my presence no longer bares any importance to him.

  "The paper on Jaques Derrida's theory of deconstruction?" he asks, still staring at his screen.

  "Yes, that's correct."

  His lips slightly curve into a smirk and despite the movement the rest of his face remains completely unmoved.

  "What's wrong with the grade you received?" he asks, sounding bored.

  "It's just wrong," I bite back.

  My tone stills him. Anxiety crashes through me as he drops his pen and turns his full attention toward me.

  "I'm quite sure it's not. In fact, I'm certain. I'm certain the grade you received is the grade you deserve." It takes me a moment to realize that maybe just maybe Professor Grant was the one to grade my Derrida paper, not Professor Dorian.

  "I've never received an F on an English paper."

  And I've certainly never deserved one. Not even now. The essay prompt was ridiculous and pretentious.

  "There's a first time for everything, Ms. Wilde."

  Irritation seeps through my veins. Is he serious? I can practically hear him laughing at me, despite the stone cold expression he wears.

  "I would like to contest my grade and ask for a rewrite," I say, refusing to back down.

  "Contest all you want, Ms. Wilde. The grade isn't changing."

  "So you're not going to let me rewrite the paper?" I ask.

  "No, but I'll tell you what I will do. If you show up to class and work hard, I'll let you remain in my class." His lips emphasize the word my. He turns back to his computer and begins to type away once again.

  "Now, if you'll excuse me I have some work to do."

  He dismisses me as if I'm just a child. I stare at his silhouette and curse him.

  Who does he think he is? My eyes trace his broad shoulders up to the clean cut of his jaw. My annoyance only grows as I take in his all too appealing face. I've never wanted to punch and kiss someone as much as I do now.

  "I would like an exception to withdrawal from your class."

  "Denied."

  I don't have to see his face to know he enjoyed saying it.

  "I didn't sign up for your class. I signed up for Professor Dorian's class."

  "Ms. Wilde, let me make this clear. You can choose to stop attending my class. It makes no difference to me, but if you do, I will fail you. Your only choice is to continue my class and work hard or fail and accept the blemish on your record."

  "Blemish? This isn't the Scarlett Letter."

  "Take the easy way and fail my class."

  "You're an asshole!"

  The words escape my lips before I have the opportunity to think them through. He turns to me with a look of irritation, as if allowing me to still be here is a gift from God.

  "And you Ms. Wilde are nothing but a petulant child. Although I hate to insult my daughter by calling you a child. That is obviously what you are."

  My cheeks heat at his brash words. Why is he affecting me this way? And why do I care? I stand taking my paper with the large letter F, turn and exit the office. There's no way in hell I'm letting this jerk get to me. Fuck him. My chest is on fire as I practically flee down the hallway. Don't cry, Josie. Don't cry.

  1

  Parker

  "You're an asshole."

  Her words sting in a way I never imagined possible. I can't really blame the infuriating woman, she caught me in a bad mood the other day when she showed up for office hours. Only an hour earlier my daughter, Olivia, decided to show her contempt for my outfit by throwing the closest thing to her - a steaming cup of black coffee. While I was grateful that she didn't burn herself, I couldn't say the same for me. All of my pent up anger got the better of me, and then Ms. Wilde showed up with her smart little mouth.

  The audacity that she had asking, no, demanding a rewrite. My fingers still itch at the thought of bending her over my knee and giving her a spanking she'll never forget. One lesson from me would set her straight. Instead, like a school boy with a crush, I spent the majority of the conversation ignoring my growing erection and pressing all of her buttons. Nothing could hide my amusement as I watched her squirm under my gaze. Her feelings were written all over her face and she certainly made it known that she didn't particularly like me - a reaction I've become accustomed to when it comes to women.

  My students don't have to like me in order to learn, most of the time they don't. I'm not there friend. I'm their teacher. Although I almost wish I wasn't her's. Josie Wilde is the kind of trouble I need to avoid. The kind of trouble my younger self would love. If I'm lucky, she'll take my advice and take an incomplete for the class. And that'll be that. I'll be done with her.

  "Parker! You actually showed up?" My younger brother Derrick pushes past a crowd of rowdy frat boys playing pool and heads in my direction. After spending hours rifling through paperwork for my classes at Oceanside University, I'm exhausted and in no mood to entertain company tonight. Although bailing on my brother on this ridiculous commercialized holiday and his plans to go drinking isn't an option, but it doesn't stop me from making my annoyance known.

  "I see Valentine's Day is on steroids again this year," I grumble.

  I've always hated this fucking holiday. Now even more so. It's hard to believe I once celebrated the day and even looked forward to it. The memory of it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

  "C'mon, let's get a drink," Derrick says. "I never thought you'd actually come."

  "There's only so many times I can take you asking me." With the arrival of my signed divorce papers, I needed some air. Tonight I'll put the past three years behind me. I'll put her behind me. Parker Grant is officially a divorcee.

  "Don't be such a grouch. It makes you look older."

  Derrick winces at the biting glare I shoot him. He knows I'm more than willing to kick his ass into next week. A grin spreads across his face as the two of us stand in between a disarray of pink and red streamers. Derrick seems to take joy in making me uncomfortable. I'm not sure if we stepped into an actual bar or my sixth grade homecoming dance. It feels like the latter. Any moment now another depressing song by Depeche Mode song will begin to play.

  "Jesus, it looks like someone threw up balloons in here," I grumble.

  Derrick laughs as he claps me on the back in a gesture that is meant to be reassuring, but is more annoying than anything. I swat away strings of balloons from flying into my face as we head for drinks. There isn't an inch of the shabby bar that isn't covered in Valentine's Day decor. From the cheesy smiling cherubs hanging from the ceiling to an influx of metallic paper hearts taped to the walls. God, even the bar menu is tailored for couples. Shots for two? Fuck me this is depressing.

  I'm officially no longer a plus one.
That realization is both comforting and embarrassing. To hell with all that baggage.

  "I'll take a uh…cupid's asshole," I say, trying in vain to read the bar menu's swirly pink font.

  The bartender with double Ds arches an eyebrow at me. Despite her obvious irritation, I catch her gaze lingering on the tan line on my ring finger. I take my hand back suddenly feeling self-conscious about the entire event.

  "Married?"

  Her question hits me like a kick to the gut.

  "Divorced," I answer.

  "You want a Cupid's Arrow?" she asks, correcting me.

  "Whatever cuts this conversation shorter."

  Derrick swallows a laugh as he watches the bartender walk away with a pissed off expression. It isn't long before she returns with my order. A smug look of satisfaction crosses her face as she slides my drink over. The damn thing sparkles.

  "What the fuck is this?" I look down at the fruity drink with a glittery pink umbrella. The smirk on her face is malicious enough to tip me off. She most definitely spit in this. I take the cup with no intention of actually drinking it and discreetly toss it in a nearby trash.

  "Dude, wipe that sour look off your face. You're a bachelor again! Time to bury yourself in pussy and forget about that bitch."

  He makes it sound so easy.

  That bitch my brother Derrick is referring to is my ex-wife, Scarlett Jones. Hollywood's newest beloved actress. A year ago, she confessed that she was having an affair with her co-star, some cliche douche with abs of steel named Miles Storm. I should've been angry. I should've told Scarlett she was a Hollywood cliche. But she was everything to me.