Forbidden Professor

by R. S. Elliot

  “Where’s your car?” I ask instead, filling the silence. How convenient he hid it from view. He probably knew I’d keep driving if I saw it in my driveway. “Going for the element of surprise?”

  “No, I didn’t want to leave the Phantom running outside here. Too many…” He pauses, searching the air for the right description. “...economy cars. So I told Jim to drive around the neighborhood a few times until I’m ready.”

  “Your driver’s name is Paul, Dad.”

  “No, it’s Jim now.”

  “What happened to Paul?”

  “Nothing.” My father shakes his head, completely confused by my question. “It’s the same guy. Jim is just easier to say, so I had him change it from Paul.”

  “What, legally?”

  “Yes, legally.” He scoffs. “What else?”

  My hand rises to my forehead, smoothing out the wrinkles forming there. As the throbbing in my head persists, my fingertips move to my temples and along my brow, where my scar cuts across the two. “Dad, you can’t have ‘legally changing your name’ as a job requirement.”

  Dad waves a flippant gesture. “He’s fine. He wouldn’t do it if he didn’t want to.”

  “Why are you here?” The words fall out of my mouth before I can stop them.

  “Chloe says she saw you in San Francisco a few weeks ago,” he explains, calmly, smoothly. As if there isn’t an ulterior motive behind his words. “I see you didn’t take time to come to visit us.”

  “It was a quick trip. Had to cut it short to help out a friend.” And there’s no way in hell I’d make a trip out to visit my father. I toss back one shot of scotch. It doesn’t do nearly enough to dull the pain. “But I won’t bore you with the details.”

  “Ah. She said you two really hit it off. Picked right back up where you left off it seems.”

  “I don’t remember seeing Chloe.” I lie. I just don’t like where this is going.

  “I’ll get to the point.”

  “Please, do.”

  “You’re becoming a real disgrace.” He’s not holding anything back now. “Someone said they heard you’ve taken up with building houses for the poor. I mean isn’t this whole teaching thing bad enough?”

  I take another shot. “I can help people by teaching. The only people I help in your company are you.”

  “And the investors. Let’s not forget about them.”

  Please. If only I could. That’s all I’ve ever heard my father talk about. Catering to them and their needs, while the rest of us fell to the wayside. Though what they were investing in always seemed to change over time.

  “What does this have to do with Chloe?” I ask.

  “Her father wants to work toward a business merger, but he wants to ensure he’ll have a firm hold on the company first. That his future grandchildren will be given partial ownership even after he’s gone. Sentimental stuff like that. Chloe likes you, so...”

  “And how many sacrificial cows are you exchanging for me?

  “Knock it off!” My father’s face reddens. He stands, shaking the empty glass in his hand toward me. I flinch, immediately hating myself for it. “This isn’t a joke. It’s business.”

  “Is this the part where you bitch slap me if I say ‘no?’”

  “Watch your mouth, Zachary Rider,” he shouts. “This is the part where I deliver some hard truths. I’ve let you live in between worlds for too long, but now it’s time you grow up and take over your responsibilities.”

  “I have responsibilities here.”

  He rolls his eyes and raises his voice. “Pandering to the whims of children who will probably never end up using their degrees in the real world? Volunteering to cater to people so low in a prison of their own making they can’t escape?”

  His words hit a nerve. A sharp pain twists deep within my chest at words I know I’ve heard before. Hadn’t Aly said something similar? That all rich people think is those living beneath the margins need a handout to survive and no actual guidance. Because they are poor people, and we always need someone to shine our shoes and park our cars.

  Only now the words strike a new chord with me. Nausea spirals into my stomach. This is the man who raised me, whose DNA I share. I am part of him, and yet at this moment, I am ashamed to breathe the same air as him. Even more so, I am afraid of ever becoming like him.

  “These are people who need help, Dad,” I explain. “Not people looking for a handout and an easy ride like your business partners.”

  He levels his glare over me, a hardened stare that has made even the toughest of business moguls crack. But I stand my ground. I just focus on the glass still in his hand. His knuckles whiten as his grip tightens. One more ounce of pressure and it will shatter.

  “Those are powerful words for a man who will one day need to claim the reins to such a company.”

  “I have no desire to run your company.”

  He scoffs. “And who do you think will run it then?”

  A smile touches my lips. I’m either brilliant or foolish to follow down this path, but I can’t resist. Anything to ease the tension for even a second. “Isn’t Ezra doing all the heavy lifting for the company? I thought he was the one you’ve been grooming to take it over.”

  My father leaps to his feet. The redness in his face deepens into purple. He looks like an evil little eggplant, and I’m not sure whether to be horrified or amused. Another voice insists I call emergency services. Because that color on a human can’t be natural.

  “Ezra? Ezra?” My father is now the living embodiment of an erupting teapot. “You think your cousin Ezra can run this company on his own? Over my dead body.”

  He paces alongside the far window. Short, choppy breaths escape him, and he mutters under his breath. If I lived close enough to my neighbors, they would have heard everything. Hell, they probably would be outside now, taping it all to sell online.

  The sea of rage ebbs slightly. My father sets the glass down on the table. I’m surprised to realize I’ve been holding my breath all this time. I guess old habits and wounds die hard. He runs a hand over the back of his neck. His fingers tear into the short tufts of white hair on the back of his head, then slide down around to his forehead.

  He rests a hand along the window frame, staring out into the neighborhood. “I could cut you off, you know. All the homes, the cars, everything in your accounts revert back to me.”

  He doesn’t realize I’ve only driven one car in the last three years. Or that I barely use any of the other houses. I’m not going to lie and say I don’t enjoy the finer things. But I’m not as much of a slave to them as my father.

  “Dad, you can keep your money.” My voice is even, calm. The perfect contrast to my father’s. “I don’t need it.”

  I’ve tucked plenty of money away over the years. There are accounts my father doesn’t even know exist. Places he can’t access through bribing bankers like he does with my regular accounts.

  “Fine, but then goes all the good you think you do with it also,” he says. The muscles in my face slacken, no longer able to pull themselves up. I’m certain by the smug grin on my father’s face that he has all the assurance he needs. “Yes, right about now you’re realizing you can’t drop a hundred grand on a housing project with only a teacher’s salary.”

  I stare at him intently.

  All the possible paths I could take in this matter circle about my head in a confusing cluster. I could walk away from my family forever. That’d leave me with enough money to retire and still enjoy many of the comforts I was born into, as well. But there would not be a constant stream of cash flowing, at least not for Derek and Marianne’s charity. Marianne always assures me she’d be fine with the philanthropists who already contribute, but I’ve seen the numbers.

  I know better. They need my money to keep moving, to keep building and expanding. They would never really ask me to sacrifice anything for them. But I wouldn’t want to be responsible for putting those dreams on hold.

  Then I could
give in to my father’s plans. I could marry this harpy of a woman who wants nothing more than the jewels and fancy clothes my father’s money can buy her. I’d be giving in to the institution I’ve despised for so many years, falling into another loveless marriage like my father. Being used only for my connections, denied the passions of real love.

  Like my mother.

  Only one solution leads me to Aly though. Is she worth risking everything for? My family, my friends and my ability to help others with the resources I’ve been given? If my father disowned me, would that mean I’d never see my mother again?

  Now, that is a bargaining chip I’m not ready to gamble with.

  “I’ll give you some time to think about my offer,” my father says. His entire demeanor changes. From homicidal rage to placid bravado in seconds.

  He knows he has me. Breaking my spirit was always his specialty.

  “In the meantime, I suggest you call Chloe and invite her to the gala next month,” he adds and taps a few keys on his cellphone. “That should give you two weeks to find a suitable outfit for the occasion and rekindle some of that old spark. Who knows? Perhaps you’ll discover she’s the love of your life after all.”

  Not likely.

  “I’ll send your regards to your mother.” The full-weight of his words saws through my chest.

  Fine. We can play this little game all he wants. But when my two weeks of “courting” Chloe are up, there will be no marriage proposal. There will be no obligations. And I will be able to see my mother whenever I wish.

  Now if only I could devise a plan to make it work.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Aly

  “Ooo.”

  Lyndsey stops on her way to the kitchen. Her neck cranes over into my view to stare at me through the mirror. Her eyes rake over my clothing as she does a quick inventory of my appearance. “Is this what a woman scorned looks like?”

  Cue the jokes. I get it. It’s the first time I’ve actually dressed up in years. Not counting the club. But desperate times call for desperate measures.

  All of our communication so far has been primarily through emails. Any adjustments he needs me to make on my proposal, or notes he has on how to improve, he just sends me a quick command to fix it. There are hardly even any sentiments enclosing it, no salutations or even a “Sincerely, Zach.” Just my name on the top of the email, and his automated signature at the bottom.

  Even in class, he does not address me directly. I’m getting the impression the other students think I’m stupid. He ignores anything I have to say. I even threw in a ridiculous analysis for my weekly dream diary entry. One where I’m standing beside the ocean watching the dolphins hurl themselves into the air. Then suddenly, I am overcome by a tsunami of red apples and drown before I can escape.

  I spent three pages describing the fake dream itself, then concluded it meant I was hungry.

  He gave me an A.

  While I shouldn’t be unhappy with the fact that I’m still receiving high marks without him even reading my paper, the lengths he is taking to avoid me are insane. Does he think I’m going to write about the sexually frustrated dreams I’ve been having about him instead? Which surprisingly have subsided.

  All I know is I’m not about ready to let Zach cast me aside without fighting for him. He may think he’s doing me a favor, but these last two weeks without him have been torture.

  Almost three weeks now. Five days since Jackson sent me that awful threat. My eyes narrow. A woman scorned indeed.

  “I have a meeting for my proposal,” I say and make my way into the kitchen. I’m so nervous, all I can think about is eating something chocolatey to calm my nerves.

  Lyndsey follows me into the kitchen. She hops onto the barstool overlooking the kitchen at our breakfast bar. “With Mr. Sexy Pants?”

  I cringe. “Omigosh. Please, don’t call him that.”

  “Fine.” She shrugs coyly. “I take it he didn’t arrange for you to work with his friend instead.”

  “It doesn’t sound like it. He told me to meet him at his office, so....”

  “So, is this the last night you’re officially a virgin?” Her eyes light up, and she clamps down on her lip playfully.

  I’m not entirely sure how to respond to that. She can tell what my plans are just from the fact that I’m wearing a pencil skirt and some makeup?

  “I’m just going for a meeting,” I explain.

  “Then how come you aren’t wearing underwear?”

  My head twists around to see her so fast it’s a wonder I don’t snap my neck. “How the hell do you know that?”

  She giggles and throws up two innocent hands in the air. “Experience.”

  “I’m not sure what’s going to happen. I just know I can’t keep waiting forever, letting him treat me like I don’t matter.” This either happens now, or it never does. If he isn’t willing to take the risk, then I won’t bother with waiting.

  As for Jackson, even if he does have something to base his threats on, I have other plans in mind. If he wants to take the apprenticeship from me using his ruthless attacks, so be it. I won’t need this apprenticeship if all goes well.

  And it’s all thanks to Zach.

  “I thought you were getting Derek to replace you,” is the first thing I say when I walk into Zach’s office.

  He doesn’t seem prepared for it and pauses mid-air before finally taking his seat. One shoulder lifts upward in an attempt to brush off my words. “Yes, well it turns out he’s busy. So you’re stuck with me for the remaining weeks.”

  More like he’s stuck with me from his attitude. I know there is a wild, hot Vesuvius under all that armor of ice and steel. But he’s making it considerably difficult for a woman like me to force it out of him.

  He thumbs through my proposal, this time a paper copy with notes I’ve marked with color tabs. It takes him a few minutes, and I let my eyes wander.

  It’s been so long since I’ve been this close to him. My body responds immediately, recalling every inch his hands explored. When my gaze falls to his mouth, the whole core of my body clenches with desire. Every place his mouth ever tasted stirs with tiny fissures of electricity. I never cared about this before. I never wanted so badly to make love to anyone. But it’s Zach. And despite how cold he’s been these last few weeks, he’s the only one who makes me feel this way.

  “I see Marianne helped you with ideas for funding,” he says, suddenly. “And you have a little more of an idea on how to recruit volunteers.”

  I nod, so lost to my thoughts I forgot what he was even doing.

  “So wait…” he stops.

  He’s finally found it.

  “Your proposal is meant to help the practice you want to work for over the course of the apprenticeship, while also addressing needs in social reform. And while granted, this would certainly bring in new clients to the facility and open up the practice to receive special grants, the numbers are outrageous.”

  I raise one pointed eyebrow upward. My shoulders join me in my innocent, shrugging forward as if to say “so?” all on their own. “And what is wrong with that?”

  “Who do you plan on pitching this to? The practice you’re applying to work with can’t accommodate these numbers. So, is this supposed to be broken up amongst several places? Or is this a projected number?”

  “No. It’s a business proposal,” I explain. “For a private business.”

  “A private business? So you don’t plan on pursuing the apprenticeship anymore?”

  “No. I will. This is just the easiest way for me to convey what I want.”

  My heart flutters. Here comes the part where he tears my dreams to shreds. The Soul Collector will emerge at any moment and tell me these numbers simply aren’t possible. Not fathomable for a woman like me. But I stand my ground. I’ve done my research. I’ve consulted with people in the field, even potential contributors. This proposal will work. With or without the apprenticeship. With or without Zach’s stamp of approval.
<
br />   His mouth opens to argue, but I quickly continue with my explanation. “This would allow me to run a separate program altogether, tied to the practice I’m working for. I could run the fundraising, while they provide the credibility and someone for me to work under. They would still be eligible to receive the grants and be given higher prestige in the community for assisting lower-income families. It would also, as you said, open them up for future clients with some amazing PR campaigning. And if I don’t get the apprenticeship, I have the start of a business plan to execute on my own.”

  “And where would you get the funding for that?” he asks.

  “Marianne set me up with someone already.” The confused look on his face satisfies me more than I would like to admit. He has helped me get here. Just like he wanted. But perhaps he didn’t realize how far I’d go when given the right resources. “We would have to start out small, but then those outrageous numbers, as you call them, would just be a projection goal.”

  He stares in silence.

  That same affectionate sparkle ignites his gaze, and I know I’ve met his approval in one way or another. A smile twitches at the corner of his lips. “Have you been talking to Marianne all this time?”

  “Since you introduced us. You were right. She is indispensable.”

  “Fine.” He nods, submitting to my ideas and offering a congratulatory smile. He collects the papers and places them in his briefcase. “Give me a few days to look this over. I’ll send over any final notes I have for your plan.”

  Damn it. He’s already trying to shut me out. He’s barely even looked at me this whole meeting. I can’t go down without even trying, without laying everything I have to say out on the line. I’m not sure where I’m going to start, or what I’m going to say.

  All I know is Zach Hawthorne is not walking out that door without hearing me out.

  “Fine. But we’re not done here.”