The Fall of Troy

by Dr. Rebecca Sharp

  Instead, I saw bronze and almond. I saw ill-proportioned red lips and fire in her stare. I saw the smirk on her face from earlier, mocking mon accent, transform to the little ‘o’ of shock when she ran into me. It was the same ‘o’ from the coffee shop.

  And then I saw that ‘o’ wrapped around my cock. Groaning, my hand drifted over the front of my pants, feeling my erection bulging against the fabric. I saw her top lip completely disappear as she pulled the head of my dick into her mouth. She would be too small. I wouldn’t care. I saw myself driving into that mouth until I came, pumping her so full of my cum that there would be no more room left in it for her attitude.

  I shot up out of the chair, my fist slamming into the desk. My heart was racing. Breathing hard, I stared resentfully at the thick ridge outlined in my pants. It had been too long; I needed to get off. I needed to get out of here.

  It was still raining outside, so I left my coat hanging. I needed cold, wet punishment.

  This is what happened when I had space to think. And it couldn’t happen again.

  And neither could seeing her. So, avoiding the school shoppe was without question.

  “Troy!” Gertie yelled from the other end of the bar. Her purple hair in two buns on either side of her head like a hippie Princess Leia. Her outfit though said total Storm Trooper. Military-style pants. Combat boots. Tight black tank with a black pocketed vest over top that hardly did anything to cover her giant (not fake) tits. Informing me that her breasts were entirely real was one of the first things that Gertie explained to me once I was hired. At some point, I expected to realize its critical importance, but that moment had yet to come.

  “We good on the Goose? I’m whipping up a special for tonight.” She stood with a variety of alcohol and liquor bottles on the counter, experimenting with tonight’s special.

  I turned around, crouching down to check the back-up stash of alcohol that was kept underneath the display shelves behind the bar. One… two…

  “Yeah, we got three!” I yelled back, closing the doors. As I stood, I hit my head on one of the ornate faux sconces that were interspersed along the back shelves. “Shit.” I groaned, rubbing my head. Give it five minutes and my head would be pounding.

  Just what I needed right now, more punishment inflicted from the inside of my head. Like my thoughts weren’t enough.

  At least it was dark in here—the decor in grays, greens, and blues, like a sea after a storm. Rhymes—what the name was shortened to—had a speakeasy vibe to it with the dim, old lighting, vintage bookcases lining the walls, and menus contained inside book covers. Even the doors to the restrooms, private rooms, and to the main vestibule had faux bookcases on them so it looked like guests were constantly entering and exiting through secret passageways. Accordingly, the cocktails were changed almost every week depending on what Gertie was in the mood for, and all of the ice was hand-shaved.

  It was boutique—just like most Providence establishments. It tread the line between uniquely vintage and trying-too-hard hipster very loosely. A forgivable sin once I realized that it was also one-hundred percent unique to Gertie and she didn’t give a shit what anyone else thought. Plus, the money was good and I needed the reason to be out of the house. And, not for nothing, although no one here was Baudelaire, I did like poetry.

  I pulled the glasses out of the dishwasher under the bar. We opened twenty minutes ago but I didn’t expect a crowd for at least another half an hour.

  “Taste this.” A martini glass appeared in front of my face filled with blue liquid. In normal light, the Blue Curacao would look a royal blue. However, in this lack-of-lighting, it looked much darker.

  I took a sip, letting the alcohol burn the tip of my tongue. Gertie didn’t care that I wasn’t twenty-one. Not that she force-fed me drinks, but she looked the other way if I had a few sips or a shot here and there. “Good. Really good.” I licked my lips. “What’s in it?”

  I wiped my hands on my black pants. Black wasn’t the required uniform for the place, but it hid stains and was really the only color in my wardrobe. It also worked wonders to let me disappear into the shadows. Especially tonight because Wes was going to be reading, and if there was one thing that guy liked more than hitting back drinks, it was hitting on me. So, black pants and full coverage black tee it was. In my hurry though, I’d forgotten change bras. The lace one I wore had zero anything to conceal my nipples if they got hard.

  “Vodka. Cranberry juice. Blue Curacao. And a few other secret ingredients,” she said with a wink. As I turned to stack away more glasses, she asked, “What should I call it?”

  When I faced her again, the deep blue of the drink glowed in her hand. “Twenty-Thousand Leagues.” I hadn’t thought about it, the words just left my mouth—kind of like how those eyes of his just appeared in my mind with no warning or reason.

  Her head cocked to the side. “Interesting. I like it.” She nodded. “Alright, let me write down how to make it so you can keep a cheat sheet on this end. Later, we can talk about where the name came from.”

  I didn’t respond. Gertie liked to think I opened up to her on the regular just because I’d told her—when she asked why I moved up here—that I caught my dad fucking my best friend. Literally. Naked. Sweaty. Groaning.

  Yeah, I was scarred for life.

  ‘The classic daddy issues,’ had been her reply.

  I wasn’t offended. The truth only hurts if you let it.

  I told her a lot of stuff, but none of it was worth anything. I told her about my dad and Lilith (but not about the whole not-killing-myself bit.) I told her about picking classes (didn’t give a shit about those.) I told her about needing to get another job (but not because I was trying to avoid my mom and her boyfriend.) I even told her earlier about meeting Kevin at the Wise Bean (but I didn’t tell her about the man whose sad anger mirrored my own, the man whose crippling broken kind of beautiful made my core ache every time I thought of him… the man whose eyes came to my mind when she asked me to name the dark blue drink.)

  We had a long line-up tonight. By the time we were done, the name of the blue drink would be the last thing on her mind.

  Sure enough, not even twenty minutes later and the place was packed. Hipsters literally coming out of my ass, packed. An older gentleman offered to buy me a shot and I actually accepted because if I had to deal with one more whiny little prick coming up to me, telling me that there was this ‘super-special’ drink that someone had made them ‘this one time’ and that they weren’t sure I had all the proper ingredients—only to describe a Vodka Cranberry, I was going to stab someone in the eye with my sharp ice shaver.

  The ‘Twenty-Thousand Leagues’ was a hit.

  Except every time I poured the deep blue depths into a chilled glass I was reminded of Mr. Melancholy and his coldness. I wondered if he ever came back to get whatever paper he’d been looking for; he hadn’t that day. I even wondered if he was going to be in my class, but he didn’t seem like the type to be taking a freshman course just for fun.

  The soft music and rhythmic beat of the reciting put me in the zone. Maybe it was that one shot, but my body began to feel a little bit on fire—like red coals that could turn into a flame with just the right amount of persuasion.

  The shaker-cup freezing my hands, I flipped it over to dump the blue contents into the martini glass. Only this time when I held the cocktail out to the emo chick who’d ordered it, the only blue I saw was the eyes of the man who’d inspired it.

  Still disheveled. And still sad. His long, wavy locks still begging for someone to run their fingers through them. And possibly still even in the clothes he was wearing from yesterday. His gaze pierced me as his hands planted flat on the bar like he owned it. He looked like an angry god, the way he stood at least a foot taller than the rest of the crowd who waited next to him for drinks.

  “Are you old enough for this?” he demanded flatly, looking at me and then nodding to the fact that I was working in a bar. The curt accent of his voice w
as far too familiar for the few brief times that I’d heard it. And the cold stare he gave me too callous to be warming my body the way that it did.

  I bristled. The nerve of this guy. I was small, but I didn’t look that young.

  “If I’m not, you won’t be getting a drink tonight,” I retorted, crossing my arms over my chest. “So, do you care if I’m old enough?”

  His dark eyes deepened into black-and-blue pits at my question. Like we were no longer talking about alcohol. Eyes that had never ventured farther south than the tip of my nose now drifted reluctantly down to my chest and I watched his frown deepen. I could feel my nipples poking against my shirt. I should have changed my bra. And the way his bruised stare dragged back up to mine was like a lion marking his prey—anticipating each bite and slice and practically foaming with the need to tear me apart.

  Moisture drenched between my thighs. Guess my body like the idea of being ripped to shreds. Maybe not just my body…

  “Non.” His full lips thinned, barely moving to let the word out.

  Maybe it was the different inflection. Maybe it was the low rumble of his voice. But it felt like he’d taken that small word and shoved it up all the way against that aching spot deep inside me. And left it there to torture me. Like one of those sex toys that make normal movements excruciatingly pleasurable.

  Only this was a word. Intangible. So I couldn’t remove it.

  I shifted my weight, trying to ease the pulsing between my thighs. Worse. It throbbed worse. I coughed to try to hide my response to him. Forcing a polite smile to my face, I asked, “So, what can I get you?”

  It was really the last thing I wanted to ask him.

  Who are you? What are you doing here? Why were you at the school store when you don’t look like a student?

  Why can’t I stop thinking about you?

  “Grey Goose. With ice.” Figures. Frenchman. “I hope,” he added gruffly, “you at least have that in stock.”

  Too distracted by the tingling in my body, it took a moment to realize he was being rude again. A moment to realize that the school store had been our first skirmish, and now we were face-to-face again with our weapons drawn. But two could play at that game. And I didn’t have to be rude to parry his attack. Oh, no. The pit of desire in his eyes when he looked at my tits was more than enough ammo.

  En garde.

  “Of course,” I said throatily, slowly licking over my lower lip.

  The perfection of the thick, rasped voice came from one night of too many rom-coms with Lil where we’d gone back and forth trying to see who could sound sexier saying the stupidest things. I’m sure that night came in handy when she was trying to seduce my dad.

  Reaching behind me, I grabbed a glass, setting it next to the giant block of ice. Standing on my toes because I really should be taller in order to do this properly. I took my sweet time shaving some ice off of it, making sure to push my boobs together with each pass.

  My eyes flicked up and I almost dropped the glass. He looked at me like he was either going to stab me with the ice shaver or fuck me with it—whichever seemed like it would be the greater punishment.

  I hoped the lighting hid the heat that flooded my cheeks.

  I filled the glass halfway—which was the normal amount—and pushed it toward him.

  “Fill it.” His tone dared me to protest.

  I didn’t. I conceded… Too hot and bothered to do anything but. I topped the glass off with vodka, almost overflowing it, only this time, I didn’t set it on the bar, I held it out to him to take from my hand. If I was going to concede, so was he. And this—forcing him to touch me—seemed like something that would make him mad. And I found more and more that I liked making him mad.

  His jaw ticked when he realized what I was about. The momentary battle of wills could have started the first major war between France and America that I was aware of.

  “Hey there, gorgeous.” I hadn’t realized how thick and heavy the air between Mr. Mystery and me had become until it was blown away by one of the many banes of my existence: Wes Morrison.

  I groaned. Loudly. Not that Wes—or anyone—could hear it and not that he would care anyway.

  Wes Morrison did not belong here. Wes Morrison belonged in a different area of New England that was filled with preppy little assholes who wore pastel plaids and got more jollies from swinging a golf club than from swinging their dicks.

  But there always had to be a village idiot and this kid was it. Short of telling him I was a lesbian, I had turned him down in every polite and impolite way known to me. It made no difference. Every night he was here he approached me, flirted with me, bought rounds of drinks to show me how much money he had, and then asked me out.

  I dragged my gaze back to the only man holding my interest in this bar. The small smirk on his face said that he had heard my groan and that he was going to enjoy this.

  “Thank you,” he said with a low voice, dropping cash on the bar and cleverly and carefully grabbing the glass from underneath to avoid grazing any part of my fingertips.

  It was ridiculous and completely asinine how much I wanted that brief, innocent touch. And not feeling it was like he’d denied my body an orgasm.

  Asshole.

  With each passing encounter, I found more and more reasons (that were less and less logical) to despise this man.

  Anger. Spite. Carelessness. There were a variety of excuses I could list for what I decided to do next. The sad truth was that he’d left me hungry. Craving. Our battle cut short from fulfilling me in whatever way had been planned.

  They say it’s a good thing to do something new every day.

  So, with a coy smile on my face, I turned to Wes and did just that; I flirted with him like it would actually lead somewhere. And who knew—maybe with Mr. Mystery watching, it would.

  I watched her like she was my next meal. The way her youthful form moved to make drinks. The way that body transformed when she saw me. Merde. She was too young. Too small. I allowed my eyes to only ever look at her face because that was damaging enough. Those eyes I wanted to widen farther in shock. That mouth that—I swallowed down the rest of my drink. It was supposed to last me all night, but I doubted anything could last all night when I was thinking about that mouth.

  I shouldn’t have agreed to meet Jack here, but it was better than having to agree to dinner with him and Katie. And I should have left when I spotted her the second I walked in the room. Instead, I insisted on getting my own drink when Jack offered because I was drawn to her like a fucking shark to the scent of blood. She made me rabid with the need to consume her and her poorly concealed anger.

  She who fascinated me, who lit a spark inside my chest—the same one that would have prompted Da Vinci to paint the Mona Lisa. She lit the spark that made it essential to my life to capture her secrets and show them to the world.

  She who was too young to be working here and too young for me.

  How old did one have to be to work at a bar? I’d have to work into the conversation with Jack what the laws in America were.

  And I definitely shouldn’t have continued to watch her after that connard came over to hit on her. But it was entertaining—this game we fought. The one where she made an effort to entice him because she knew I was watching. The same one where I made an effort to look like I could care less whose dick she sucked tonight because I couldn’t let her see how badly I wanted to choke her with mine.

  “Léo!” Giselle’s wide, shining smile blinded me as she sauntered through the crowd.

  Fantastique—another mistake.

  Giselle was my assistant in Paris. My babysitter. Really she was the wizard behind me—the broken man. She handled all the details and organization, communication, meeting with students, testing, grading, etc. for my classes in Paris. What did I do? I threw sharp objects at snarky little bastards. I told students that their works were huge piles of merde. I yelled. I even made some of them cry. And, most of the time, I did it with an appreciable amou
nt of alcohol in my blood. Yet, I was still somehow an expert—a genius… a Master. My classes still somehow ended up being overfilled. And in order to survive, I refused to believe it was because of the scandal, of their fascination to learn more, or worse, their pity. The day I believed it was that would be my last.

  “Giselle,” I said tightly, holding back a flinch as she leaned in and kissed my cheek for a second too long.

  “Hey, I’m Jack.” My friend saved me the trouble of an introduction. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  I cleared my throat so I didn’t laugh. I hadn’t even mentioned her. Or the fact that I’d asked—demanded—she join me here to continue to keep track of my life. Leaning back in the chair, I tossed my glass on the tray of a passing waiter and demanded another.

  Giselle was gorgeous. The kind of gorgeous that should have had her standing in front of the class as a model instead of behind the scenes as mon esclave. Tits. Ass. Legs. The kind of woman who could make you blow your load just looking at her, let alone being inside her. I would know; I’d done both.

  I didn’t make a habit out of sleeping with her; she worked for me. It wasn’t right, but sometimes it was necessary for the both of us. Things like this were a little more lax en France; half of my department was sleeping with either their assistants or their students. She wanted me. Sans doute. But she was very adept at keeping our relationship professional when required. If she wasn’t, I would have fired her.

  But there were days when I was weak.

  There were days when I had more to drink than the normal ‘too much.’

  And there were days when external factors brought my anger to a breaking point and fucking something—especially something as pretty and tight as Giselle—managed to take the edge off and keep me out of jail.

  Today was one of those days.