Crossing the Line

by Lauren Landish

  It says that he works with the Department of Defense, but it doesn't give a lot of details, which tells me that he's probably involved in some pretty cool shit. They don’t tell details on the really super-duper cutting edge projects. Maybe I’ve gotten a bit lucky for once in my life.

  I drop out of the main school website and Google Rafe Meyers. A perfect four-star rating on Rate My Teacher, and a one-star rating on Check Your Boss. Review number one, rated the most helpful . . . Professor Suicide earns his nickname easily. Ridiculous demands for both being on time and knowing just about everything even before he asks are coupled with never-ending pressure to perform. Everyone has a name they call him, but I just call him an asshole. Unless you want to stay up all night being pushed to your limits seven days a week, avoid him like the plague. After dealing with him, I'm changing my fucking major.

  I scroll down and see a single five-star rating. I open it up and take a read. Despite what most of the others on this site say about Professor Meyers, I rate him with top ratings. Why? Because everything said about him is true. He pushed me to perform. He demanded I give my all with no compromise, and he challenged me in ways that no other professor did. He’s not unfair. He only asks you to work as hard as he does. When I was let go, I felt bad not because I was fired, but because I let him down. Yes, I was angry at the time. I bet a lot of these reviews were written hours after he fired them. But two days later, I received notice from my dream internship that they'd gotten a letter of recommendation from Professor Meyers, totally unasked for and something I'd never even revealed to him. I was floored. The director even read a quote to me. It said, 'he has a lot of potential, and his failings as my assistant I lay on my shoulders and on the shoulders of those who mentored him before me. Not on him. With good guidance and patience, he shows promise.' Thank you, Suicide Meyers. I hope to live up to that promise you saw in me.

  I think quickly, trying to figure out how much I want this position. It all comes down to how much I'm willing to take on the challenge. But I've never backed down from a challenge in my life, and I get up, going over to my closet to pick out my best clothes for the interview.

  I swallow the tension in my throat as I stand outside Professor Meyers’s door. I'm six minutes early, but it was something taught to me long ago, to always be five minutes early to an important meeting. More than five minutes, and you impose. Showing up on time is okay, but never, ever show up late. So I shoot for five minutes early and look at my watch, waiting . . .

  Suddenly, the door to his office opens, and without warning, I'm ten inches from him, and he's even more handsome than his online profile shows. He's maybe about six foot one or so, and based off the tight, muscular physique that he has beneath the dress shirt and jeans that he's wearing, he's in tremendous shape. And those searing eyes . . . my God.

  “Oh, I'm sorry,” he says, stopping. His eyes widen slightly, and he does a slight double-take. “You're Shawnie Holliday.”

  “Yes, I am,” I stammer in reply, still caught up in his magnetism.

  He steps back, taking a deep breath and composing himself. “Come on in. I was just going to get some coffee for our interview. I guess this will save me some time. Do you like sugar or milk?”

  “Sugar, if it's okay. But I can get it if you'd like,” I say, setting my backpack down right inside the door. It doesn't go with my slacks and blouse, but I don't have a better bag that doesn't come from the other side of my life. “I saw a sign for the coffee room when I came down the hallway.”

  Professor Meyers's eyebrow lifts a fraction of an inch, and I wonder if he planned all of this. In any case, he looks slightly impressed and nods. “Okay, but we'll go together. You don't know my coffee, and I’m particular on that.”

  We walk down the hallway, Professor Meyers leading, and as he does, I can't help but catch a look at the way his back muscles flex under his shirt and the way his ass fills out those jeans he's wearing. They're not skinny jeans either. It’s easy to see he’s in great shape. Between my legs, I can feel a hint of heat warming me, and I clamp down on it before it can grow and get out of control. I'm here for a job, nothing else. Besides, that side of me should not be in control after last night.

  “You showed up early,” Professor Meyers says, turning into the coffee room, which is pretty nice. I also note that there's more than just a simple coffee pot here. There's a K-cup machine and a digital monstrosity that was totally put in by a coffee geek. “You always show up early looking ready to go to work?”

  “Yes sir.” The words out of my mouth before I realize it. I never, ever call a man sir except in The Club, and I shake my head, cursing myself out silently. Yeah, he's hot, but this isn't the time or place for this shit. Still, the Professor doesn't catch my delay, and I continue. “I probably wouldn't teach any classes like this, though. I don't have the wardrobe for it.”

  Professor Meyers doesn’t look too worried. A lot of engineers aren’t big on fashion. He grabs a big cup, more a soup cup than a coffee cup, from the cabinet and puts it under the big machine. “Double espresso, single caramel cappuccino most days for me,” he says, hitting two different buttons on the machine and standing back. “Grab something. It has pretty much everything you can want that’s based on coffee.”

  I look over the touchscreen menu while the Professor's cup fills and select a caramel latte. “Thank you. I have to admit, this is the tastiest start to an interview I've ever had.”

  He chuckles and grabs his giant cup, putting a normal-sized one under the dispenser for me and hitting the start button for my choice. “Might be the easiest part of your job. And trust me, Miss Holliday, it’s going to be a job. I suppose you've done your homework on me?”

  “What I can in four hours. You have a reputation of being a strict person to work for.”

  Professor Meyers nods and hands me my cup. “Very. Follow me to my office.”

  We go back, and he goes around to sit down at his desk. “Your transcript is impressive. Tell me, is it because you are that good, or because you're taking softball courses so far?”

  “There's not a single example of underwater basket weaving in my entire expanded transcript,” I reply, feeling my pride start up but still trying to keep my voice level. Lots of men have tried to underestimate my brains, and more often than not, I left with their nuts in my backpack. “I tried for your courses the past two semesters but didn't get in.”

  “Mmm, that's because there’s a long line and you didn’t do your undergrad work here at Stanford,” the Professor replies, tapping at his computer. “So let’s see what Georgia Tech taught you.”

  For the next hour, he peppers me with questions and I'm working hard to keep up. Finally, he sits back, nodding. “Okay, last series of questions. They're about you. First, your file says you're originally from South Carolina. What are you doing out here in California?”

  “The best aircraft in history have been designed on the West Coast. I want to join these teams and learn.”

  “And you don't have a problem going from the backwoods to the West Coast?”

  Backwoods. Now that's one I haven't heard in a while. “It took me a little while to adapt to it living in Atlanta, but I got used to it. Coming to Cali had the same challenges, and I'm comfortable with it now. Although I do miss some of the cooking. That's something I indulge in when I've gone home to visit friends and family.”

  “And who is your best friend back home?” he asks, making a note on his computer. “Are they as driven as you say you are?”

  I shake my head. “I don't really have any friends left from my high school days. There weren't too many people who were as driven as I am. I didn't fit in all that well with them, although a lot of the boys were at least superficially interested.”

  It's the closest I can get in an interview to acknowledging my body, which has continued for the past hour to yearn for Professor Meyers to take a sample. Just watching his hands move, I know he could do things to me that would have me climbing the w
alls. He stays professional though, nodding. “I see. And at Georgia Tech?”

  “Her name was Abby Rawlings. Abby Bell now,” I tell him, smiling at the thought of Abby. “She and I met during our freshman year, and even though we had different majors, we stuck together through it all. She's about as different from me as you can get, a country club blonde girl, but she's got a good heart. She’s working on her Master’s too, staying at GT.”

  Professor Meyers hums and switches gears. “Okay. Well then, last question. If you had the chance to work on any historical aircraft program in the world, which one would it be?”

  I smile, knowing the exact answer. “The XB-70 Valkyrie.”

  Meyers lifts his eyebrow, surprised. “The Valkyrie? That program was canceled. Why would you want to work on a dud?”

  “Because they pushed the envelope. They had to push the limits beyond what technology could do at the time, maybe even more than what technology could do a decade later. That takes balls.”

  “But they failed, despite the size of their balls,” Meyers comments. “Where do you think they screwed up?”

  I'm caught. This is way too complicated a question for me to try and sum up off the top of my head. I hem and haw a while, then finally own up. “I’m sorry, Professor. I can't tell you. I don't know enough about the Valkyrie beyond what I saw on a Discovery Channel special when I was back in high school. I just always thought it was interesting.”

  Meyers nods, looking disappointed and tapping on his computer. “Okay then. Well, I have a busy day. This is about all I have time for. Thank you for coming in, Miss Holliday. I'll be in touch.”

  I swallow my disappointment and grab my bag, getting up. Just as I reach the door, he stops me with another question. “Miss Holliday, just a moment. You look disappointed. So what are you going to do now?”

  I turn back and square my shoulders. “I'm going to go back to my room and find out the answer. I'm pissed off that I got stumped. If I can say, though, Professor . . . I don't give up.”

  I leave the office, saying what I needed to say, and head out to my car, tossing my bag inside and sitting down with a sigh. Maybe the Starbucks down the block from my place is hiring. I can probably do pretty well with tips if I wear some V-neck tops as I serve. I put the keys in the ignition and crank up my Miata when I get a buzz from my phone. I've got an email.

  Bring me a paper outlining what you think were the two main flaws in the design of the XB-70 and a rough idea of what you would do to correct those flaws by Monday morning. If it's good, you'll be shadowing me for my eleven o'clock class.

  Congratulations, Miss Holliday. Or condolences. You're my new assistant.

  And in the office, it's Rafe. Something else that got your predecessor fired.

  RM

  I can't help it, I give myself a little cheer as I put my phone away and turn off my engine, grabbing my bag to head for the library. I've got work to do.

  Chapter 4

  Rafe

  I take a moment to look at the email I just sent Shawnie, wondering if I've done the right thing. Maybe I’m realizing I’m a bit too much of a perfectionist. Or maybe I’m going soft after the Dean’s little chit-chat.

  She’s a bit of a mysterious little thing. Most start shooting off with life stories and all of their accomplishments, trying to make themselves look like the next super-stud in the field. But she didn’t say much about anything. She let the facts do the talking for her. It's like her entire life is hidden behind a private wall. Some would probably take it as arrogance, but I don't think it's that. When I asked her questions, she answered straightforwardly, and her confidence was refreshing. She was respectful but knew her strengths, and I have to admit at the end, her weaknesses as well. She didn't try to sell me any bullshit.

  Still, there's something about her that says she's hiding something. I check my clock and see that I've got two hours until I have to start getting ready for my dinner date for tonight in San Francisco, and I decide to spend a little bit of time doing some research on Shawnie Holliday.

  Two Girls Kidnapped in Twenty-Seven-Hour Trip to Hell! the headline screams, and I click, curious. It's not a normal news website. It's one of those sensationalist tabloid-like sites that have spawned in the past few years. As I read, I feel my stomach twist into knots as the story lays out on my monitor. Abigail Rawlings and Shanice Holliday . . . a lake house near Atlanta, kidnapped and bound. The story doesn't come right out and say it, and the name isn't quite correct, but the hints are all there. Kidnapping, torture, and I suspect nastier things that would scar most people for life. Even worse was that the kidnapper was a socially connected man, Chris Lake, from one of Georgia's richest families, half-owner of a chain of car dealerships in the area.

  I do a quick search on this Chris Lake, and it’s not pretty. Two kidnappings proven, suspected in the rapes and possible murders of other women throughout the Southeast, serving time after he was arrested for what the legit papers are calling 'sadistic molestation of two local university students.' There's only one type of crime where the victims' names are withheld as a matter of course, although since the tabloid site has them, the cops didn't keep their lips sealed as much as they should have.

  I reach for my phone and dial up an old connection of mine, Fox Scalia. He’s an FBI agent who did security checks for me, and I returned the favor when he was stumped on a case. He owes me one still. “SSA Scalia.”

  “Can the official cop speak, Fox? It's Rafe Meyers.”

  Fox at least sounds semi-happy to hear from me. “Rafe! Good to hear from you. How's it going at Hottieville?”

  Fox, who apparently has a thing for coeds, has called Stanford 'Hottieville' ever since he came onto campus twice in order to conduct interviews with me. I don't quite understand it, since he actually lives in San Francisco. I doubt there’s a shortage of attractive young women for him to drool over, considering the size of the city.

  “Not bad. Listen, I need to cash in my marker with you.”

  Fox shifts around by the sound of it, and when he speaks next, he's whispering. “Are you kidding me? This isn’t the right time, Rafe. I'm looking at a promotion soon, getting on a real action team. I can't keep running this records department and background check bullshit.”

  “I understand that, but this is totally within your own department. I just need you to look up the specifics on a case for me.”

  Fox sighs, then nods. “Fine, whatever. But we're even after this. Like seriously, unless you've got some Phi Theta Kappas or something that you're going to introduce me to, I've got other things on my mind. What's the fucking case?”

  “An Atlanta kidnapping case, a little over a year ago, name of Chris Lake. I'm interested in one of the victims, Shawnie Holliday.”

  I can hear Fox type at his computer, and then he whistles between his teeth. “Damn, you called in the chips on some sick shit, you know that? Why the fuck do you want to know about this case, anyway? It's not even officially closed. The Atlanta field office is tracking down more women this fucker drugged and raped.”

  “What about Shawnie?” I ask, my voice intense with a part of me that I normally keep under a tight leash demanding answers. “What happened to her?”

  Fox gulps before replying. “Bound for over twenty-four hours, suffered a dislocated shoulder, apparently the result of trying to actually free herself from the chains that fucker had her bound up with. Numerous cuts to the arms, torso and thighs, nothing life-threatening but most likely leaving scars. Why do you have me looking this shit up?”

  “What did that asshole do to her? I'm asking because she was just in my office and I need to know.”

  Fox grumbles, but answers. “She was drugged. Specialized cocktail of some sort. Basically a souped-up date rape drug. The chem lab boys are still trying to figure out how he got his hands on it. This was one sick, twisted fuck, Rafe.”

  “Was she . . . was she raped?” I ask, and he reads some more.

  “The results were in
conclusive. Victim was too delirious to testify, and the other victim states that she was drugged too, so she doesn’t remember much. The notes about the drug say that she probably wasn’t in control of her body and that there’s a good chance she was unwillingly aroused during the ordeal. There's a note that she's seeing an FBI-approved counselor. You happy now?”

  Happy? Hell no, but I have my answers. “I got what I need. Thanks.”

  “Yeah . . . listen, Rafe, what I just told you, you know you didn’t get that from me, right?”

  “I know. And I'll use the information correctly. I don't want to hurt this girl. Actually, I'd like to help her if I could.”

  Fox goes silent for a bit, then mutters, “I'm not going to ask how you plan on doing that. Knowing you, I wouldn’t understand it anyway. Good luck, Rafe.”

  He hangs up, and I sit back, letting the pieces fall into place in my mind. Kidnapped, tortured . . . drugged. Now that I think about it, I remember some clues. The first thing I noticed, of course, was just how beautiful she is. Long, curly hair with a natural bounce that would make a shampoo company envious, those light brown eyes that glow with intelligence, a face carved by an artist. She has the body to go with it from what I could tell. She looked almost impossibly voluptuous, but she didn't wear overly sexy clothes. If anything, she was covering up her body. A long sleeve blouse for a woman in August? She's hiding her scars.

  Even more noticeable was when she got nervous, she would roll her left shoulder unconsciously, wincing slightly before answering. And the way she paused after calling me sir in the coffee room, then almost emphasizing the use of my title of Professor afterward. She's suffering from PTSD, and I suspect she’s broken inside as well. Maybe that’s why I sent her the offer as quickly as I did, seeing someone else who's been subjected to mental torture, taught that they're worthless and put through hell.