Stuck With You Page 5

  "Excuse me?" Alyssa says.

  "I mean her," he nods at me. "I put a lot of work and effort into what I do. I don't just run the ball. I lead the team. I'm respected."

  "Well, if this was Senior Football Seminar, that would matter. It's not. Moving on." I turn back to Alyssa. "Teach?"

  "Yes," she says, brightly.

  After I've solicited future plans from each of them, I launch into my introductory spiel. The usual stuff: I'm going to introduce them to graduate level concepts in historical study like historiography, blah blah blah. I've already done this five times and they can't tell I'm half phoning it in, thinking about that picture and trying to keep my mind off of Tyler, sitting there at the end of the conference table, massive arms folded, giving me a heated look that proves difficult to ignore.

  Finally I make a show of checking my watch.

  "We're about done. Before you go, I want everyone to be clear: Next time we meet, you will bring me five ideas for your senior paper and we will workshop them as a class. The assigned reading is in the syllabus. Remember that the next time we meet is on Friday, as this course gives you a 'reading period,' but I will be here during the scheduled time and during my office hours if any of you have any questions or concerns. Everyone understand?"

  They all nod, Tyler being the last and slowest to join them.

  "Do I really have to say 'class dismissed'?"

  They rise and file out. Tyler...lingers. I start for the door, and he clears his throat.

  "Office hours," I mutter.

  I rush out, ashamed at myself for letting him fluster me. No sooner have I unlocked my office and sat down behind my desk with the door open than Tyler walks in and swings the door shut behind him, then walks over and stands over me with a mercilessly handsome cock-eyed grin on his face.

  "Open that door," I say. "I'm not comfortable being alone with a student with the door closed."

  "Can I just have thirty seconds?"

  I stand. "Tyler, do you have any idea what kind of message it sends when you walk in here and close the door and refuse to open it when I ask? I'm not your coach, I'm a five-foot-nine, one-hundred-and-eight-pound woman and you're a six-foot-twenty, nine-hundred-pound linebacker, or whatever it is you do."

  "Okay, number one," he says, "I don't know what kind of guys you've been around, but you don't need to think that way about me."

  "I don't know that."

  "Two, I'm a quarterback. There's a difference."

  "Fine, whatever."

  "Three, you weigh a little more than a hundred and eight. Trust me."

  "Okay, one twenty—"

  He gestures upwards with his thumb.

  Scowling, I snap, "Does it matter exactly how much I weigh?"

  "I'm not calling you fat, Doc. Maybe thick."

  "What do you want?"

  He sighs and straightens a little.

  "Believe it or not, I wanted to make sure that you're okay."

  "Oh," I say. "Oh, yes, I'm fine. If I seem annoyed or distracted it's because you made a joke about fucking me two minutes into my senior seminar. I am not going to put up with that."

  "I just said you'd never had me in a class before," he says, smirking. "I can't help if you read something into it."

  He leans against my bookcases. They groan, and I glare at him. I haven't had a guy do the lean to talk to me thing since I was in eleventh grade.

  "Just stop," I say. "If you don't have questions about the coursework, please leave. I have work to do."

  "You forgot, didn't you?"

  "What?"

  "We scheduled a meeting."

  "No, we didn't."

  "To talk about the internship."

  Sighing, I close my eyes and pinch my nose.

  Oh.

  "I told you to sign up for a time, didn't I?"

  He shakes his head. "You said Monday after class. It's Monday, it's after class."

  "Alright, fine. Then open the door and sit down, and stop doing...that."

  Nodding, he complies, flopping into my one guest chair. It creaks beneath his weight.

  "I do need to make the internship assignments. As I said, we're going to be working on restoring a historical property in advance of opening it as a historical attraction."

  He barks a laugh. "Is anybody going to visit that thing? I looked it up. It's in the middle of nowhere."

  Exasperated, I clench my fists on the desk and force myself to breathe calmly.

  "Has anyone ever told you that you're beautiful when you're angry?"

  "Yes, and I hate it. A lot. You're testing me, Tyler."

  "Okay, so what do I have to do at this house?"

  "That's what I need to work out when I make the assignments. We have ten of you. I wanted to assign two to work at the state archives pursuing records about the building. Probate and that sort of thing."

  "Sounds boring, pass."

  I press my lips into a thin line.

  "The other option is working directly at the museum. There will still be some scholarly work to be done, but a little manual labor, too."

  "Where will you be?"

  "I'll be coordinating. I won't be on site every day."

  "I mean, will you be in charge of the historical stuff or working at the mansion, or...?"

  "It's not really a mansion. I'll be floating between both as needed, but the archival work should be mostly autonomous. Lots of working with microfiche."

  "Micro...fiche? Okay, I just wanted to know where you'd be. If I'm going to be taking a position, I was hoping my position would be directly under you."

  My eyes narrow.

  "Tyler, stop with the innuendos. You went to way too much trouble to set that up, by the way."

  "What innuendo?"

  "You know damn well what I mean."

  He shrugs. "I really have no idea. My interest in you is purely scholarly."

  "Uh huh," I say.

  "Doc, I don't know—"

  "My formal title is Dr. Mills. I am not a cartoon rabbit."

  "Okay, Dr. Mills, I don't know why you're being so hostile just because I find you interesting. It's almost like you're annoyed that you're not scaring me off."

  "I am not interested in scaring anyone off."

  "Good, because I don't give up easily."

  Leaning over my desk, I look him directly in the eye.

  "Let me be very clear," I say. "This relationship is going to be purely professional. As far as I'm concerned, what happened this weekend was a serious mistake on my part and I deeply regret it. I'm grateful that you showed me some kindness, and I didn't give you much reason, so beneath your thoroughly irritating exterior I know there is something of a good person. I'm appealing to this good person now. It's better for both of us if Friday night just never happened."

  His voice is low, thrumming, as he stands up. "Doc, I helped you into your apartment. We didn't sleep together."

  "I know that. I'm not implying we did. Someone else might not see it that way. For your own sake, Tyler, don't ruin your last chance. I'm trying to appeal to you."

  "You do appeal to me."

  I roll my eyes. "Tyler, I have a daughter. I don't have sole custody. I might lose what rights I have if my tenure falls through. I have as much to lose as you do. I can't believe I'm saying this, but you were very sweet, but you were doing a near stranger a favor and that's where it has to stop. This is about my child as much as it is about me."

  "So you think I'm sweet?"

  "Tyler."

  He shrugs. "Just answer me one question. That's all I want."

  "Fine, but I want you to stop hamming it up in my class. If you want to argue a point of historical fact with me, that's fine, but do not flirt with me anymore."

  He smirks. "Was my omelet good?"

  "Yes," I sigh. "It was good. I was impressed."

  "Good," he says. "If you ever want me to make you breakfast again, just ask."

  My mouth falls open and he winks at me, turns, and saunters out of my
office. I fall back in my chair, yank my glasses off, and pinch my nose, huffing into my hand. The worst part of this?

  I like it. When he provokes me, I like it. He doesn't quail when I look at him, he doesn't keep his voice in meek hushed tones, he talks to me like...like what? What am I going to say? A woman? A potential date? A piece of ass? Am I really going to let this happen to me again? I should have learned my lesson the first time.

  Damn it, I have freshmen at eleven. American History II.

  They're getting it with both barrels.

  Chapter Five

  Tyler

  I really need to stop, but every time I see her it gets worse.

  First, she was a challenge. Then, she needed to be taken care of. Now, she's bubbling with emotion beneath that hard exterior. Doc just has something about her; a fire in her eyes that's never been matched by anyone else I've ever seen.

  "Hey, Tyler!" some random person yells at me as I cross campus.

  I wave a greeting.

  When she walked in this morning, Mills was sex on legs. Very nice legs. Professional dress can't totally hide that body she has under there. Makes me wonder how the hell she maintains it eating that crap in her apartment. I feel bad for the kid, not getting real food. Then again, kids love that shit. I know I did.

  Though I'm not cold, I shiver. When I close my eyes she's there again, lying on the bed, pulling on my belt, inviting me, almost commanding me, sultry and seductive with lidded eyes. I did the right thing. I'd have been taking advantage of her. No matter what people think of me, there are things I won't do.

  Shit, I'm really stuck here. I can't get her out of my life. I'm stuck with her for an academic advisor and I'm stuck with her in my class and I'm stuck with her as my internship coordinator. I have to report back to her tomorrow for the meeting, out at this dumb farm or whatever it is where I'll be working.

  Grunting to myself, I jog up the stairs to my new digs.

  I've got three roommates. Someone's idea of a joke. The three of them bonded fast and spent Saturday night playing some role-playing game on the table in the common room. I duck inside, hoping to avoid them.

  "Hey," one of them says.

  "Hey," I grunt and disappear into my room.

  My cheap school-issue desk is stacked with so many books it seems to bow. Mills' seminar class has twelve books assigned. A couple of them are short, yeah, but it's still more than one per week on top of everything else I have to do.

  At least the rest of my schedule is pretty light. I only have one other senior level class—American History 404, 1945-Present. The prof is a thoroughly boring dude named Sterilizer, an adjunct who stands at the front of every one of his classes and delivers a lecture off the cuff, often the same one several times in a row. I had him one year for American History 202 and he gave the same lecture on Cotton Mather for three weeks.

  Most of the students sleep or miss half the classes, since he only grades based on exams and the books cover it all anyway. It'll be a breeze. Besides that, I have the odds and ends of a college career to wrap up—a couple of 100 and 200 level core requirements I never got around to or have to retake after there were, uh, issues.

  The "gentleman's C" was never an option for me. I had to maintain a B- average or get kicked out of the football program. I have no idea why Coach is so hard on me, my grades have always been similar to the rest of the team, some real meatheads. Like Brick.

  Brick texted me.

  Yo, where you at

  Yo? Are we still doing yo?

  A minute later my phone buzzes as I try to read about Brown vs. Board of Education for Terwillger's class.

  Where you at

  In my dorm studying

  lol really where u at

  I told you

  I go back to studying, trying to keep my mind focused, and not think about Mills lying sprawled on her bed, and the way her sweatshirt twisted around her body, shocking me with her curves. I knew she wasn't a straight line under there, but lying on her back, her body was all lush curves, like some kind of marble sculpture, and yeah, call me crass, she's got great tits, nice meaty thighs and a big ass. The kind of ass that makes me want to do things to her.

  At this rate I'm not going to be able to concentrate unless I rub one out to Mills. Again. I should just slam my pecker in the textbook until it's numb so I can concentrate on this shit. The first exam is only three weeks into the semester and it's not like I'm going to pick up any of it from Professor Broken Record.

  Despite the proven boner-killing qualities of historical studies, my cock doesn't get the message and continues to nag me, growing harder in my pants as I keep mentally drifting back to Mills—now I'm wondering what she was like when she was younger. That must be when she got that tattoo. There has to be a story there, doesn't there? I didn't get a good look at it, but a brief glimpse suggested a kind of belt of thorny rose vines inked around her waist, low on her hips so they'd be concealed by low rise jeans. Suddenly I'm picturing her in the bed topless, demurely holding a sheet to her chest to display a full back of ink. I have a weakness for tattooed chicks.

  Hell, she could be rocking full sleeves under her dowdy frumpy outfits. Has anyone around here ever even seen her arms?

  There's a knock at my door and I jump, suddenly realizing I’d lost track of time. Who the hell is it? It better not be one of my roommates, I told them—

  "Open up!" Brick shouts.

  Standing, I have no choice but to adjust myself. I grab Little Tyler and push him up against my stomach to hide my erection until it fades and swing the door open. If I ever need a new door, Brick—his real name is Brandon—would serve. He has a couple of inches on me in height and a couple of feet on me in width and could probably smear me against the wall if he ever really got pissed off, which, thankfully, he doesn't.

  "I'm busy. What?"

  "You're not that busy. We got invited to a party."

  "I'm not going. I have work to do."

  "What work, man?"

  "College work, you big lummox. I'm this close to being kicked out and losing my shot at my degree."

  I told him all of this already, but he reacts as if it's new. He helped me move in here, for fuck's sake.

  "Yeah, but there's a party."

  "What party?"

  "Alpha Alpha Rho. The sisters are going to be there."

  Ah yes, the party frat and their associated sorority, which everyone on campus calls "I Felta Thigh" because everyone called it that when they got here.

  "It's Monday. Monday is not party night."

  "Every night is party night if you believe in yourself."

  I stare at him, awestruck. If he were any more dense he'd collapse in on himself.

  "I can't, Brick."

  "Come on."

  "No."

  "Come onnnnn. I told everyone you'd be there. Think about your reputation."

  I think about what Mills would say if she heard about it. I can easily picture her turning red with fury, stamping her little sensible shoes and rising up on her tiptoes to yell at me face to face. Or maybe she'd just greet me with cold indifference and tell me to get out, I'm done. Thinking about it, I'd rather have the fire than the ice.

  For some inexplicable reason I want to argue with her. She gets my blood up, prompts some kind of hormonal release, something.

  "I know that look. You're thinking too much about a girl that won't give you the time of day. Come on, man. This shit isn't hard. You got it."

  "I have an internship meeting early in the morning."

  "Come onnnnnnnnnnnn."

  Maybe he's right. If I indulge a little—have a few drinks, maybe have some fun with one of the legendary sisters of I Felta Thigh—it might put Mills out of my head, let me move on. Yeah, that's it. It's not even that I'm developing a thing for her, she was just vulnerable and it got her into my head, and yeah, she's hot, but I'm just being young, dumb, and full of cum, and if I spread it around a little I can start thinking with the other head agai
n.

  "Fuck it, fine. When—"

  "Now." He puts an arm around me and we go.

  The virtue of the start of the second semester is that it gets dark early and thus the parties can start early. Frat Row is off campus, about a twenty-minute walk on the other side of some train tracks and an old record store that perpetually smells of sour ditch weed. Brick and I walk up the hill, noticed and nodded to by a throng of students, spread out as they try to find a party to get sloshing drunk now that they're away from home again.

  Getting into the AAR frat house is the campus equivalent of getting into Studio 54 or something. All the line of college kids out front would need, as they wait all the way down to the sidewalk, would be a velvet rope, but they've got the bouncers down—two big blockheaded senior brothers that give me a curt nod as I approach, cutting ahead of the common rabble.

  Inside, the beat is already pounding and the music is already flowing. I practically conjure a red solo cup of questionable liquor merely by extending my hand. I resolve not to drink it, just to hold it so I can look like I'm partying until I get the lay of the land, but after a couple of sips, oh hey, it's gone, and boom, here's another.

  I really shouldn't drink.

  Half an hour later, I've shouldered their shitty bartender out of the way and I'm keeping myself out of the booze in the best way, by keeping it flowing to others. The house is thronged way beyond any kind of safe occupancy, and the party is getting wild. It's hot and humid in here and Brick is dancing, if you can call it that, between two girls who may not be old enough to drink and are definitely, stature-wise, too small for him, but it doesn't seem to bother him or them when they rub their tits on him or grind their asses on his hip.

  Someone taps my arm, and I turn.

  I don't know her name, so I immediately dub her Sorority Barbie. She's got the works. “Sweater” that barely qualifies as a crop top, improbable booty shorts over leggings, fucking Uggs, and glitter makeup. She's a total ten, an absolute hottie, and she's looking at me with fuck me eyes, anticipating a chance to notch Tyler Sinclair, Big Man on Campus and God of Football, onto her bedpost. Half the time there's barely any talking involved in these things. When the beat is pounding and the sauce has been flowing and there's a stink of weed and sex in the air, communication gets short circuited.