“Fine,” I huff. “It’s a stupid elective. It’s not required for graduation and I don’t give two shits about it.” I turn away from him, opting to stare at the floor in defeat because I’m not getting out of here anytime soon. Then, it hits me. “You cursed.” My eyes widen and I wag a finger in his face.
“As adults tend to do,” he says as he scoops the pile of papers into a messenger bag.
“Not the kind that lead purity-spouting, Christian groups on campus.”
He halts the process of packing the contents of his desk into his bag. “Oh, I forgot that you read a signed copy of my autobiography.”
“I’m not much of a reader.”
“Yeah,” he says with a wink, “we’ve been down this road before.” He snaps his bag shut and slings it over his muscular shoulder. “Follow me. We’re now going to shift the action to my office.”
Action shifted.
Location: Jensen’s office.
“This is way too cramped for me,” I say as I shift my eyes uncomfortably around the tiny office. It’s a cluttered mess, with hardly enough room for a desk and a few overstuffed bookshelves. “How do you work in here? And how did you draw the short straw to have your office located in a storage closet?”
Jensen looks up from his desk with a red pen in hand. “Have you ever been to your advisors office?”
“Every Tuesday.” I smile my way through the bullshit.
“Do you complain about her equally small office?”
This charade went nowhere fast. “I’ve done all my advising over email.”
He shakes his head and laughs. He’s always shaking his head, like he can’t believe half the shit that’s coming out of my mouth. “It’s amazing you’re graduating at all.”
“Thanks to you,” I say playfully and lean my chin across the desk.
“Don’t thank me yet.” He shifts his attention back to the papers in front of him, scribbling red notes of presumed failure on student’s papers. “If you manage to screw up this gig, I’ll find a way to take back that ‘A’.”
I chuckle and push myself back against the seat of my chair. “You can’t do that.”
He looks up to me with the wickedest of smiles. You could measure the length of his smile in units of challenge. “Try me.” His smile widens further—a talented display of pushing something past the point where it should break, but miraculously doesn’t.
I change angles and decide to try him in a different way. My fingers fall to the opening in my blouse and with a deft hand, I pull it open further, popping three buttons in the process.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s hot in here.” I reach for the fourth button, and take pride in the way I seem to be able to make him sweat. His eyes shift to the door behind me. “Besides, we’re out of the public eye now.”
“Right.” His attention is back on me, his eyes drilling into my soul when they should be ogling my breasts. “If the dean should happen to walk in, I’ll simply tell him my sister, Mary Magdalene, is in town for the week.”
“I resent that,” I sneer at him.
“So would my boss.” He leans back into his chair and taps the stack of papers with his pen. “But you’re right. It’s much too hot in here.”
I raise my brow and hope for the best. “Does this mean I can go home?” It’s come to my attention that I’m going to need a new game plan with Jensen. I need to go home and plot a new course of action, because offering my breasts on display isn’t doing the trick.
“No. You’re not going home.” He stands up and straightens his tie. “We’re going to switch venues.”
11
A fucking bar? This is the change of venue Jensen had in mind? He who is holier than thou and terrified that my exposed, but bra-covered breasts could ruin him?
Men aren’t the most difficult of creatures to understand. When you remove their clothes, strip away the hair wax and lock them in a laboratory for study, all that’s left will be three things: the need to eat, the need to have their egos stroked and the ultimate need—the need to fuck. Straight men. Gay men. Chaste men. They’re all the same.
But Jensen… I can’t figure this motherfucker out. On the surface, he’s just like the rest of the lady-killers. He’s charming, but distant. He’s handsome, but off limits. He’s sexy-as-fuck, he knows it, and like all the other boys, he’ll never let you inside his head.
That’s unfortunate for me, because I need inside his head more than anything. I need to find the key and unlock his soul to figure out what drives him, and then turn that against him.
Scratch has the name of a superclub, but has more in common with the kind of dive bars you would find in any small-to-medium sized town. It’s not even close to being my scene. Located on the outskirts of the city where skyscrapers are replaced with towering trees in search of Heaven. Scratch is a long way from Gatsby’s, downtown or campus. It’s a part of the city I wouldn’t have believed to exist, if for no other reason than my own ignorance in everything I haven’t experienced.
The same stack of papers from his office is spread out across the wooden table between us. His well put together combination of slacks and a button up top, sticks out like a sore thumb against the rest of the clientele whom are content in their jeans and tees.
And I look like a cheap whore, which was my intention when I left the house earlier this afternoon, but now I’m hit with regret. While I’m fond of living my life by my own rules, I prefer to blend into my surroundings like any competent predator.
Jensen strokes a condensated bottle of beer contemplatively. He seems to have a lot on his mind, but when doesn’t he. I reach forward and spin an empty rum glass. His eyes shift to my fingers and he watches the glass as it comes to a clinking stop against the table.
Silence.
A cue ball can be heard breaking through the defense line.
A woman behind Jensen throws her head back and runs long fingers through her blonde hair as she laughs obnoxiously.
A quarter is inserted into the jukebox behind me, and seconds later some unfamiliar coffee shop music starts playing.
This is hell.
“Does it always take you this long to get work done?” I ask, annoyed that we’ve been in this dump for over two hours, sitting in silence and not getting shit done.
“Sometimes,” he says somberly.
“Okay, I have to ask.” I shift back in my chair. “Is there something wrong with you?”
“Me?” He shakes his head and smiles. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“Then pick up that damn pen and lets get some work done.”
He turns his head to the side and scratches against fresh stubble. “I’m not feeling it tonight.”
“That’s cute.” I watch him intently as he chuckles. I shake my head because he’s wasting my time, on multiple fronts. “I’m going home.” I jump to my feet and grab my purse off the crown of the chair.
“Stay,” he says from behind me and latches onto my arm.
I turn to him with accusing eyes. “Aren’t you afraid people are going to see you touching me?”
“That’s why I brought you all the way out here.”
What the fuck does that mean? I wet my lips and my eyes wander through the crowd before settling back on him. “There’s a hell of a lot of baggage in the words you just spoke.”
“Lets go outside.” He shuffles the papers into an unorganized stack and stuffs them into the messenger bag. He peeks behind him nervously before stuffing two unopened beers into the bag. “Coming?”
We sit on the hood of his black car—a BMW that glistens under the powerful full moon. His shirt is rolled to the sleeves and unbuttoned, exposing a plain white tee that clings to his chest.