Speak No Evil: A Secret Society Student Teacher College Romance (The Society Book 3)

by Ivy Fox

  I stretch out my arms on top of it and clasp my hands together, making sure to block his view.

  “From what I hear, Owen Turner is quite the likable guy.”

  “If by likable you mean he’s a cheating scumbag who likes to fuck anything in a skirt, then yeah, my dad is a peach.”

  The apple didn’t fall far from the tree, from what I hear either.

  But instead of saying what instantly came to mind, I force myself not to divulge my inner thoughts, too keen for him to elaborate further. I school my features as best I can so that Colt doesn’t realize how truly interested I am in learning more about his family. Not that I care much about his father’s extramarital affairs, but you never know what small detail Colt might let slip that can help me in my quest for some answers.

  “So the rumors are true.” I probe further.

  “Where there is smoke, there is always fire, Professor,” he replies, leaning back in the chair, cupping his hands behind his head, the shine in his eyes back to their usual predatory shade.

  It’s just another one of his signature moves, primarily used to show off his taut forearms and broad physique. I wonder how much time he’s spent perfecting each vain gesture, each alluring move. Is there anything genuine about him at all? I let out an aggravated sigh, unimpressed by the gun show.

  “I’ll bear that in mind,” I mutter disappointedly, focusing back on my notes rather than wasting my time.

  Colt is like a forgery of a beautiful painting. Yes, it might hold the same elaborate colors, skillful strokes, and defined textures that are meant to please the senses, but it will always lack what only the original can offer—soul. The true beauty of art is that it appeals to and connects with our basic human emotions. That it stimulates and coaxes out feelings that overwhelm and leave us forever changed. And although Colt ticks all of the boxes of being a living, breathing work of art, all I see is a lackluster canvas with pretty colors but little depth.

  Dull.

  Unimaginative.

  Uninspiring and worse of all—completely soulless.

  Aside from a fleeting moment of pleasure, there’s nothing real in this man for anyone to truly experience or appreciate—nothing life-altering at least. It is a shame how someone could be gifted with such breathtaking features and yet be so painfully empty on the inside.

  “So what are you up to?” he ventures, his tone sounding less confident, almost as if he can read the thoughts running through my mind.

  But that can’t be. Colt is too vain to care about anyone but himself, let alone be affected by my inner condemnation.

  “You’re not going to give me a little clue?”

  “Just because you have no qualms in divulging personal information about yourself doesn’t mean I am as likely to do the same.”

  “Ah, come on, professor. Whatever happened to quid pro quo?”

  I let out an exaggerated exhale because he’s relentless and won’t leave me alone until I answer him. Right now, all I want is for Colt to return to where he came from and let me get back to work. He might be a beautiful distraction to admire, but he’s a distraction all the same.

  “If I tell you what I’m doing, will you leave?”

  “If that’s what you want.”

  I don’t miss how his jaw clenches, obviously not used to having someone less than eager to bask in the glory of his presence.

  “It is,” I state evenly.

  “Fine, then. I’ll leave, but only after you tell me what you’re doing.”

  “Research.”

  “Research for what?”

  “A book.”

  “A book?” he repeats, confusion etched on his face.

  “Yes, Colt. A book.”

  “I didn’t know you were a writer.”

  “I’m not.” I shake my head. “Or not yet, at least. I am, however, an enthusiast of American history, most importantly on the side of history that you can’t find merely by searching Wikipedia.”

  “I thought you could find anything online these days.”

  “Not everything can be learned with a simple push of a button. Sometimes you need to dig deeper. Work harder to get to the nitty-gritty of things.”

  “How long have you been working on this?”

  “Four years now,” I admit, hoping he doesn’t hear the feeling of failure in my voice.

  “That’s a long time, Em. This must be very important to you if you’ve dedicated so much time to it.”

  “It is.” I bow my head, not liking the sound of empathy in his tone.

  “What’s it about?”

  “I think I’ve answered enough of your questions for one day, Colt,” I interject, not comfortable with the way his eyes are assessing me much in the way mine had been scrutinizing him a few minutes ago.

  “A promise is a promise.” He smiles, getting up from his seat, but to my chagrin, he doesn’t leave quite yet, preferring to walk over to my side of the table first. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, Em,” he whispers and then leans down to place a gentle, subdued kiss on my cheek.

  True to his word, he doesn’t say anything else and leaves so that I may continue with my work in peace. But as I watch his figure slowly vanish from my sight, reinstating the familiar silence within the library, his parting words summon an unnerving feeling settling within me.

  I hope you find what you’re looking for, Em.

  Hope is of no use to me, Colt.

  I need a miracle.

  I’m still thinking about the unexpected visit I got yesterday in the library when a light knock on my office door brings me out of my reverie.

  “Come in,” I say without lifting my head from my lesson plan.

  The smell of sandalwood cologne seeps into the room, making me stifle my groan when I realize who I just invited into my domain.

  “Dean Ryland. What a pleasant surprise.”

  “Emma. Are you busy?” he asks with his usual well-mannered tone, closing my office door behind him.

  “If I tell you that I am, would you leave?” I think to myself while pasting on the fake smile he expects to receive from me. “I always have time for you, dean.”

  “Now, now, Emma. I’m sure we know each other well enough to discard such formalities. Please. Call me Montgomery.”

  My false smile hurts every inch of my face as I widen it for him.

  “How does the first semester look?” he questions, grabbing the seat in front of my desk.

  “So far, so good. I have a few students that are struggling but none that I didn’t expect.”

  “Both Jefferson and Kennedy are doing well, I hope?”

  “They are.”

  “That’s what I like to hear.”

  “Is that why you came to see me today? To check up on your children’s progress in my class?”

  “Actually, no. I popped in because I was wondering if you gave my proposal some more thought. You know, the one about having dinner with me?”

  Shit.

  I totally forgot he had asked me out a few weeks ago. Usually, I wouldn’t have forgotten such a thing, but my mind has been split into too many directions to keep it all straight in my head. Between my book’s deadline, trying to get a verified source on record about The Society, and the fantasies of riding Colt Turner like a mechanical bull keeping me up at night, the dean’s dinner invitation completely slipped my mind. Now, instead of a simple text turning him down, I’ll have to do it face to face.

  Shit.

  “Dean—”

  “Montgomery.”

  What is it with these Asheville men and their first names?!

  “I’m not sure us going out is wise. I have a lot on my plate at the moment.”

  “Too much that you can’t spare an hour or two to have a meal with a colleague?”

  We’re not exactly on the same paygrade, Montgomery. You’re my boss, not my colleague.

  Montgomery never passes up the opportunity to touch me in some fashion or another whenever I walk into a room.
Be it a light squeeze on the shoulder or a graze on the small of my back, I can always count on his hands finding their way onto my body to some extent. The only reason why I put up with it is because he’s not sleazy in his unsolicited affection. However, if I accept his offer of us going out to dinner, I’m not sure if he won’t misread my intentions and blur the lines of professional decorum.

  “Emma, it’s just dinner. Not a marriage proposal,” he adds playfully.

  “Doesn’t the university frown upon such things?”

  “I am the university. Do you see me frowning?” he jokes, but I can read the expression on his face that he believes every word of what he just said.

  No, you’re not, Montgomery.

  You’re not a Richfield.

  You only wish you were.

  Aside from his self-inflated sense of importance, Dean Ryland is actually quite appealing to the eye. Although his sense of fashion consists mostly of sporting the traditional tweed jacket with suede elbow patches, his dirty blonde hair and light blue eyes make him look younger than his forty-something years. Always clean-shaven and well put together, he’s a dead ringer for Harvey Specter in Suits, sans sarcastic repertoire that is. If our roles were different, I probably wouldn’t hesitate to go out with him, even if only to eat a meal with someone who at least could carry an intelligent conversation.

  “We could go to Alphonso’s if you like?”

  “That’s quite a fancy restaurant.”

  “It is,” he retorts confidently, thinking the overpriced restaurant will be the thing that convinces me to go out with him. But it’s not the extravagant French menu that has me considering his invitation. It’s my editor’s words that give me the extra push to concede.

  You moved to Asheville because you assured us that was where The Society originated from, but so far, you haven’t been able to have one source on record to back up your findings.

  Montgomery Ryland might not be a Richfield, but it’s a well-known fact his past is entangled with the elitist family to some extent. Born and bred in Asheville, he’s climbed the social ladder with enough ease to have gained the favor of the most prominent Northside families. So much so that, if it wasn’t for his humble origins, he too could have been a candidate worthy of The Society’s notice, which means he may have some knowledge regarding the organization that might be of use to me.

  “Alright. Dinner sounds lovely. But as friends.”

  I add the last part just so he knows that his notion of dessert is off the table. If my snub offended him in any way, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he stands from his seat, all smiles like he’s just won the state lottery. He’s about to say something else when another knock on my door stops him in his tracks.

  In his majestic six-foot-two frame, Colt Turner waltzes into the room like he owns the place. And unlike Dean Ryland, he can honestly boast about this being his university.

  “Am I interrupting?”

  When Montgomery’s wide, cheerful smile disappears, his face morphing into a stern authoritarian expression, I can’t help but assess the two men’s odd interaction with one another in odd fascination.

  “Colt.”

  “Montgomery.”

  Seeing as Colt’s family is the one who holds rank over the dean, I never assumed they were at odds with each other. I would have bet good money that Montgomery treated all the Richfield heirs like royalty, yet here he is poking holes in my theory by gifting Colt this less-than-lukewarm greeting. As the temperature in the room continues to plummet down into sub-zero conditions, my curiosity only increases.

  Interesting.

  “If you’re busy, Professor, I can come back at another time.”

  “I was just leaving. Emma, I’ll call you later to set things up.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  Montgomery throws Colt another curt nod before passing him by. Colt immediately closes the door behind the dean, mumbling something under his breath too low for me to hear.

  “Mr. Turner, two unexpected visits in as many days. What can I do for you this time?”

  “You once said that if I needed your assistance that I should see you during office hours.”

  “I did, didn’t I?” I take a good look at him, his serious expression giving me pause.

  “You gave me an F on the last exam. I’ll need at least a C to graduate.”

  “Then I suggest you study. You still have time to improve your grade.”

  “I do. But I’m not my best when taking your tests. I get distracted. I think I’ve told you this before.”

  It’s a miracle my skin doesn’t turn beet red, but thankfully I’m able to look unaffected by his remark.

  “Yes, I remember. So what do you suggest as an alternative?”

  Images of him on his knees, widening my legs so his tongue can lap at my clit surge in my brain.

  Jesus, Emma. Get a hold of yourself, woman.

  “I was thinking about the book that you’re writing and all the work that you’ve been putting into it on your own. I was hoping that maybe you would consider taking me on as a research aide and that it could qualify as extra credit for my grade.”

  “You want to help me research my book?” I ask, dumbfounded.

  “I do. I figured you might need a hand with that side of the project so you can focus on writing.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you.” I bite the end of my pencil, taking stock of this Asheville god before me. “I didn’t think you were capable of being so noble.”

  “Is it noble to want to spend more time with a beautiful woman and get my grade up? All my intentions are purely selfish. I can guarantee you that much.”

  “That does sound more like you.” I relax, remembering who I’m talking to.

  “So is that a yes?”

  “Just a minute. If I accept, then I have to tell you there will be long hours. I won’t take any excuses about you not having time for your hectic social life or other courses you might be failing that need your attention too.”

  “The only class I’m failing is yours. And you don’t have to worry about my social life being affected by me helping you. I’m not what you would call a people person.”

  “I’ve heard the contrary.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear.” He throws me a wolfish grin.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Good. So is that yes?”

  I tap my fingers on my armchair, taking in every inch of the man before me.

  “It is,” I finally relent.

  “When can we start then?”

  “This afternoon. Meet me at the Charlotte Library once your classes have finished.”

  I half-expected him to protest about the long ride over to Charlotte, but he surprises me yet again by not complaining.

  “I’ll see you there.”

  When Colt leaves my office, I rush out of my seat and lock the door behind him, knowing that the call I need to make shouldn’t be disrupted or overheard.

  “Emmaaaaaaa!” Jenna singsongs on the other line. “What’s up?” The weight of anxiety that I had been carrying for the past four years begins to disintegrate, and miraculously enough, a new feeling takes its place—hope.

  “Tell me you have good news for me?”

  “I do.” I smile. “You wanted a source, Jenna? How does two sound?”

  Chapter 10

  Emma

  I’m typing away on my laptop when a familiar shadow blocks the little afternoon sun remaining from my view. I tilt my head up and see Colt boasting his trademark panty-dropping grin, ready to wreak havoc on my work schedule.

  “Mr. Turner, you’re late,” I greet, less than impressed with his tardiness, returning my focus to the open word document on my screen.

  “Couldn’t be avoided, Professor. The drive here was a bitch. You sure we can’t do this back at school?”

  “No, Mr. Turner, we cannot. Here,” I state before he has time to say anything else. “I need you to fact check everything wri
tten on that list.”

  “Putting me to work already, huh?” He smirks.

  “That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?”

  The roguish gleam in his eyes makes the pulse between my thighs throb. While my head insists on telling me that Colt has nothing worth offering me aside from information on his family, my traitorous body doesn’t seem to share the same mindset.

  “Whatever you say. You’re the boss.”

  My lips turn to a fine line as I drag my focus back to my chapter, forcing myself not to pay any mind to my body’s natural reaction to him. When Colt grabs the chair next to me, my spine goes ramrod straight with his unwanted proximity.

  “You haven’t told me what your book is about yet.”

  “Yes, I have. American history, remember?”

  “American history, huh? I didn’t know the Illuminati had a hand in molding our country.” He jokes, pointing to one of the quotes I need him to double check.

  Seeing as I’m not going to get anything done until his curiosity is fed, I stop what I’m doing and look him dead in the eye.

  “Precisely why I’m writing about them. To educate the clueless as you seem to be.”

  “Is that what you want to do?” He smacks his lips.

  “Very much so, yes.”

  “And writing a book on what… secret societies is how you’re going to enlighten the world?”

  The way his forehead wrinkles when he says ‘secret societies,’ as if the topic is completely ludicrous and idiotic to him, hits a sensitive nerve. My grandfather had to endure the same ridicule when he told people about his obsession. They laughed in his face and made fun of him at every turn. So much so that he pulled me out of middle school and decided to homeschool me. He took every precaution that in no shape or form would I be bullied or ostracized for his eccentric beliefs. But while he went to great lengths to shelter me from such ugly behavior, he braved going to work every day as a college professor, knowing full well he’d lost the respect of his peers and was the butt of every joke on campus, as well as the staff room.

  “I never figured you’d be into this type of thing,” he adds with a hint of disillusionment, only increasing my defensiveness.