Turn Me Loose (Paradise, Idaho)

by Rosalind James

  He looked at her oddly. She didn’t normally announce it, or rush out on him, either.

  “Remember, we’ve got that donor reception at five,” she hurried to add. “The guest list is on your computer.”

  “I’m remembering,” he said. “You wouldn’t let me forget anyway.”

  She nodded, picked up her purse, and walked out.

  She was hungry, that was the problem. Midafternoon was the weak time, when she always wanted a cookie. But the way Travis had looked at her in her bikini was worth a cookie or two. She’d get some trail mix instead. That would be protein, at least.

  Stop thinking about him. She headed down the stairs all four flights to the faculty/staff break room in the basement. No way she was taking the elevator again. Probably ever again.

  Down the deserted hallway, then, and through the door . . . and there he was. Leaning against the counter at the far end of the room in his Levi’s and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, drinking a carton of milk through a straw and looking like some kind of ad for the health benefits of dairy. Talking to Wilson Chang from Mechanical Engineering.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t just the two of them. Two other men were sitting at one of the small round tables next to the door. Nick Matfield, hired a couple years ago, whom she didn’t know that well. And Wes King, whom she unfortunately did. Clean-cut, well dressed, good-looking, and, like Nick, an assistant professor of computer science.

  Also known as Dr. Why-I-Don’t-Date-Professors-Anymore.

  All four men looked up when she walked in. She glanced at Travis, then away again.

  “Hi,” he said.

  She kept her glance brief, her voice cool. “Hi,” she said, then headed on over to the vending machines.

  Travis had chosen to hang out here rather than come see her. That told her what she needed to know right there, and she swallowed it down and shoved it aside.

  Forget it. Forget him. She hadn’t lost a thing. Maybe if she said it enough, she’d even believe it.

  “Hey, Rochelle,” Wes said. “Did you dress to kill anybody special today? You’re looking especially . . . attractive.”

  “Really?” she said coolly. “Huh.” She looked him up and down herself, opened her mouth like she was going to say something, then shut it again. You’re not, she telegraphed with everything she had. Looking attractive, that is. She gave a tiny shrug, made a business of choosing an unsweetened iced tea and a packet of trail mix, collected them, and walked out. Slowly, because she wanted to move fast. Damned if either of them was going to make her run, even though she’d been regretting the weakness that had had her choosing this outfit from the second she’d seen Wes.

  Once in the corridor, she tucked the drink bottle in her arm and fumbled to open the trail mix packet, wanting a cookie more than ever. She was vulnerable because she was hungry, that was all. That was all.

  She hadn’t walked far enough, though. She froze, her hands on the open packet, at the voice. Nick’s. Right there.

  “Holy shit. Hotter than ever. She’s divorced, isn’t she? Looks to me like she’s up for anything, too. I might see if I’d have a shot. Bet that’d be a wild ride.”

  She wanted to leave. She did. Too bad her feet wouldn’t move.

  And just like that, there was Wes. “You could say that. Or you could say that she’s the whole damn rodeo.”

  “You speaking from personal experience?” Nick asked. “You get a piece of that?”

  “A piece?” Wes again. “I got more than a piece. I got every single inch of that. Let’s say I put her through her paces until I’d had enough. That’s some pure, gold-plated tail right there. I’ll put it this way, though. If her tits were brains, she’d be a rocket scientist.”

  She’d always prayed he hadn’t talked. Now she knew. But then, it was her own bad judgment all the way around. And, of course, her own temper.

  Which she wasn’t going to let go of now. Not at work. When it came to fight or flight, she’d always preferred to fight. But not today. Not like this.

  Her hands were shaking, and sunflower seeds and peanuts were scattering over the tiled floor. She clenched her fingers over the plastic packet, squeezed it tight in her fist, and took off.

  She should have known better. She had known better. Of course, normally, it was easy to know better. There’d always been plenty of prospects, sure. The College of Engineering was still overwhelmingly male, and so was its faculty. Before her divorce, though, she hadn’t looked. And afterwards, there hadn’t been much to see.

  The problem was, she was a down-home country girl with a wild side, and she wasn’t all that attracted to engineers.

  Until she’d started going out with Wes the year before. He’d worn the same Dockers and blue button-downs as the others, but he’d looked good in them, and he’d looked at her with so much heat, so much purpose. He hadn’t lost much time asking her out after her marriage had ended, and eventually, she’d gone for it. He’d given her the full treatment, too. Dinner, wine, flowers. And he’d talked. Had told her his ambitions, his dreams. Once he got tenure, he’d start making the move into administration. Department chair first, and then dean himself someday. Maybe even a college president. Power, and money, and a better life.

  She’d thought, why not? She was a hired man’s daughter, and she wasn’t ashamed of it, but who said she couldn’t date an educated man now? Who said she couldn’t even marry one? Anyway, she wanted somebody serious, somebody steady. A man, not a boy.

  It had lasted all of six weeks. Two weeks and four romantic dates into it, she’d been sleeping with him. It had been a long time, and kissing and making out had aroused too many feelings that had demanded satisfaction, and demanded it right now. And again, as long as they kept it discreet—why not? She hadn’t needed a man, but she’d sure wanted one.

  He’d enjoyed that part, for sure. He’d been a bit selfish in bed, but a whole lot better than Lake had been toward the end, and at least it had been exciting. And often. She’d forgotten how good it felt to have your man want it every time, to have him look at you with that hunger in his eyes that said you were going to be getting some tonight. And men were selfish. If you sometimes had to finish things off yourself because he hadn’t quite gotten you there—well, welcome to the real world. She’d been working on training him with as much tact as she possessed, and it had seemed like he was willing to try.

  So it had been pretty good. It had been fine. Until the night when she’d said, as casually as she could manage, “My brother Bill’s home on leave from the Army, and my folks are doing a big barbecue Sunday afternoon. Would you want to come?”

  He was lying beside her in the dark. At her place, because he was sharing a house with another professor. He’d never even taken her there. She hadn’t wondered why at the time.

  Now, he sighed, rolled over onto his back, and said, “Sorry, I can’t make it. Not really a good idea anyway, you think?”

  “Uh . . . why not?”

  “Well . . .” He toyed with a lock of her hair. “This isn’t a serious thing, is it? I wouldn’t want to give your family the wrong idea.”

  It was warm out, but she went cold anyway. She pulled the blanket up higher and tried to tell herself that that wasn’t what he’d meant. “Well, not yet, of course it isn’t. My dad isn’t going to be meeting you with his shotgun, if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s just a barbecue. You met my ex, for Pete’s sake. Why would you mind meeting my family?”

  Because he had met Lake. Rochelle had come out of the ladies’ room at The Breakfast Spot the Sunday before to see Lake sitting opposite Wes, having a cozy little talk. That had been a shocker. Lake had stood up when she’d approached, and not out of politeness. His face had hardened, and he hadn’t even said anything. He’d just left.

  Rochelle had slid into the seat Lake had vacated, wishing there’d been another choice. She hadn’t even wanted to share Lake’s air molecules at that point, much less his chair. She’d asked, “Wh
y were you talking to him?” And she hadn’t been able to make it casual.

  “Why wouldn’t I?” Wes had answered. “Just a guy I met fishing.”

  So then she’d had to explain, and he’d shrugged and dropped it, seeming like he didn’t care one way or the other, which he probably hadn’t. But now, she was confused. Wes was from Colorado. He had enough country in him to fish, at least. If he’d liked Lake enough to sit and talk to him, what was the problem with meeting her folks?

  Wes sighed, sat up, and switched on the light, and she pulled herself up as well, taking the sheet with her. She had a feeling it would be better to be covered up for this.

  “Rochelle,” he said, his voice patient enough to make her antennae quiver, “this is a lot of fun. But obviously, it’s not going to lead anywhere.”

  “Obviously?” She wasn’t cold now. She was starting to burn.

  “Well, you’re not exactly . . .” He laughed a little.

  “Not. Exactly. What.”

  He looked at her, a rueful smile on his handsome face.

  “Oh, come on,” she said. “Spell it out.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought it was understood. I’ve got plans for the future. I’m sure I’ll settle down eventually, but . . .”

  “Right.” She threw the sheet back, got out of bed, and started gathering her clothes. “I’m not marriage material. The mother of your future children had better have PhD after her name.”

  “Well, at least a master’s, I imagine,” he said. “I mean, no offense, but we’re not quite a match, are we? Intellectually, I mean, or—well, economically, either. There are levels. You’re a fun girl, but I do want my kids to be . . .”

  “Smart,” she said. “Right. Got it. I’m good enough to screw, but your future wife isn’t a thirty-year-old divorcee with a hick accent and a high school diploma and boobs two cup sizes too big for the Faculty Club.”

  She was dressed despite her shaking hands. Now, she stalked around to his side of the bed and grabbed his clothes. Button-down shirt, stupid boring Dockers, shoes. His socks and underwear? Maybe she’d mail them to him. Interoffice.

  “What are you doing?” he asked. “Hey!” he added as she headed out to the living room with her armful of clothes.

  He was out of bed, and she could hear him tripping heavily over the comforter. “By the way,” she tossed back over her shoulder, “you’re clumsy in bed, too. I hope that brilliant future wife of yours isn’t interested in orgasms, because your sorry skills sure aren’t going to get her there.”

  She was opening her front door on the words, hauling back, and flinging his clothes out onto Main Street with all the force she had. The Dockers sailed right past the sidewalk and into the gutter. Well, they were heavy. Wallet, keys, and all. The keys came loose along the way, too. He’d been in too much of a hurry to get her own pants off to pull anything out of his pockets. Sucked to be him.

  He wasn’t even talking. He had his mouth open, but no words were coming out. There was a good group across the street, too, hanging around outside the bar smoking. Bonus.

  “Somebody’s going to be doing the walk of shame,” she told Wes. “And that somebody isn’t me. Get out of my house.”

  “I will not,” he said. “Go get my clothes. Right now.”

  He was looming over her, grabbing her arm, but she wasn’t her daddy’s girl for nothing. She swung around behind him, got both hands on his back and her shoulder into it, and gave him a hard shove like she was moving a reluctant cow out of her way. It was all in how much you meant it. The push sent him stumbling out the door and teetering at the top of the three concrete steps. She saw that before she slammed the door after him and turned the lock.

  “Hey!” He pounded on the door a few times, and she could hear the laughter and shouts from across the street.

  She took two fast steps to her front window, shoved it up, and watched him dash across the wide downtown sidewalk and into the street for his pants. He pulled them on, hopping on one foot when his toes caught in the leg.

  “You can take your PhD,” she called through the window, “and shove it up your ass. I might not have a college degree, but I know an asshole when I see one. And I’m looking at you.”

  You could run away from people who hurt you, or you could hit back. You could break up like a lady, or you could make him pay, no matter how much that might come back to bite you later. And somehow, with her? The fierce always won.

  She might be white trash, but at least she’d go down swinging.

  BAGGAGE

  Travis forced his hands to relax. Because one of them was a fist, and the other one was clenched so tight around the milk carton, he was crushing it.

  It had taken a second for it to filter through, because he’d been halfway listening to Chang, and halfway—well, more than halfway—getting ready to take off after Rochelle. But once he’d realized what he was hearing . . . he’d been burning.

  “You know,” he said, keeping his voice slow and calm, “that’s interesting.”

  King had been annoyingly friendly, and even more annoyingly full of himself, ever since Travis had arrived on campus. Like they were colleagues, like they were both on the superstar track, even though Travis was a lecturer, not a professor. Not on the academic train, and not interested in hopping aboard. Which meant that King was looking to get in on Travis’s next venture. Which wouldn’t be happening.

  Now, the other man turned a laughing face to him. “Interesting would be one word. Or you could call it, ‘Hot damn, that woman can swallow you whole. And she’s more than willing to do it.’”

  “What I’m asking myself,” Travis said, pretending he hadn’t heard him, “is why a smart woman like Rochelle would mix herself up with a piece of shit like you. Which makes me think,” he went on, noticing with satisfaction that King’s mouth had opened in shock, “that you’re lying.”

  King shoved his chair back and stood up, but that didn’t worry Travis one bit. He stood a little taller. A little straighter. And then he set the milk carton down on the counter, dropped his hands to his sides, and flexed his fingers. Just that slight straightening and relaxation of his hands, but King saw it.

  King’s buddy, Matfield, had pushed the other way. Backward, into the wall.

  Travis spared him a contemptuous glance. “Yeah,” he said, “I’d guess that pink’s a color neither of you sees much of. Offscreen, that is.”

  “What?” Matfield asked. “Pink?”

  “Work it out,” Travis said.

  King’s face was flushing, but he hadn’t taken a step, and he wouldn’t. “Hell, yeah, asshole,” he said. “I see plenty of pink. I sure as hell saw all of hers. I nailed that six ways from Sunday. I can give you a blow-by-blow account. So to speak.”

  “Creative Writing’s in another building.” Travis picked up his milk carton, walked to the door without one single bit of hurry, tossed his trash, and added, “And where I come from, guys who talk that kind of smack about a woman can get their faces beaten in. Just a thought.” And then he walked out and waited for the adrenaline to settle.

  So much for collegiality. He might have to sit by himself at the next department meeting.

  That was when he saw the nuts. Or, more accurately, felt them crunching underfoot.

  It took him a second to figure it out. When he did, he closed his eyes and swore silently, then took off up the stairs, two at a time. All the way to the fourth floor.

  He was still moving fast when he made it into her office, and she was already there. Of course she was. No stop in the ladies’ room, not for Rochelle. She was at her computer, focusing hard. She was paler than usual and that was all.

  Until she turned her head and saw him.

  “No,” she said. “Go away.”

  “Sorry you heard that,” he said, stopping a couple paces from her desk.

  “Yeah. I heard it. And I heard you, too. Oh, wait. I didn’t.”

  “Ah.” He breathed out the word. “You lef
t too soon, then.”

  “You’re telling me you didn’t sit there and laugh. You’re telling me you didn’t share. I’ve been talked about like that my whole damn life. I know how it works. Nice club you guys belong to.”

  There were a few tears in her eyes now. He could see them. He could tell that she wouldn’t be letting them spill over, though, because she couldn’t afford to let herself feel weakness, let alone show it. Something inside him twisted at the thought.

  “Hasn’t anybody ever had your back?” he asked her gently.

  “Lots of guys would tell you they have,” she said with a choked, angry laugh. “And I’m busy. Get out. Call it another narrow escape. For both of us, because you wouldn’t want to keep getting those sloppy seconds. Not a classy guy like you.”

  She’d kept her voice low, but the dean poked his head out of his office. “Everything all right?”

  “Yep,” Rochelle said tightly. “Travis was just finishing something up.”

  “Right, then.” Dr. Olsen looked hard at Travis, then headed back into his office.

  “He thinks he can look out for me,” Rochelle said. “So, yes. Somebody’s got my back. Somebody who’s over sixty, and kind.”

  Those tears were still threatening, and she still wasn’t going to give into them. “Come on,” he said. “We’re going to talk about this.”

  “I’m busy. And there’s nothing to talk about. Strike one. You’re out.”

  “Damn it.” His hand wanted to come down hard on her desk, so he shoved it into his pocket and focused on breathing. “Have some faith. Five minutes.”

  She looked at him, her eyes narrowed, and he looked right back at her and didn’t move. “Five minutes,” he said again.

  “I already took my break.”

  “Take another one.”

  He walked beside her down the hall and didn’t say anything, because he couldn’t think of the right thing to say. But then, she didn’t, either. She also didn’t explain when she shoved her key into the doorknob of the Materials Science Lab and switched on the light.

  “Right,” she finally said once he’d shut the door behind him. She turned to face him, the heavy black tables and complicated machinery stretching on either side of her, the smell of oil hanging in the air. “Talk.”