Complicated

by Ashley Love

  He giggles slightly, peeling his body away from mine and it stings a little, the chocolate adhering us together. His nose bumps mine as he kisses me deeply, his tongue surging past my lips as he tries to untangle his legs from mine to lay beside me.

  "Oh my god, look at this mess!" I say, laughing as I take in our sticky, chocolate covered bodies and the stained white sheets. It looks like someone dropped us in a mud puddle.

  "We can call housekeeping," Harry says, leaning over the side of the bed to reach for the phone.

  I watch him as he lays on his stomach, phone nestled under his ear, asking the front desk for housekeeping. and I lick my lips. I take in the little bump of his ass as it curves into his waist, the tanned expanse of his back, his freckled shoulders. I bite my lip as I crawl over him, laying so that my breasts are flat against his ass, pressing my lips to his lower back. I feel him shiver, his voice stalling for a moment before ordering more sheets to Penthouse One. I press kisses up his spine and I've reached the middle of his back by the time he hangs up the phone.

  "Woman, what are you doing back there?" he chuckles. I smile against his skin, my arms wrapping around him, pressing my cheek to his back, feeling him breathe, listening to his heart thud steadily under his ribs. I love him.

  "Nothing," I sigh and he shivers as my breath fans his skin lightly.

  "What do you say we take a shower?" he asks, his voice vibrating his skin and I grin as I rub my cheek against him.

  "We are very dirty," I giggle and his laugh reverberates through his back.

  "That we are," he says, pushing himself up and I slide off him, rolling onto my side, bounding after him as he crawls out of bed.

  I wrap my arms around his shoulders and press myself against his back, not being able to stand to be away from him for even the second it takes to walk from one room to the next. Because I love him.

  He turns in my arms, his hands smoothing up my back and kissing me slowly and deeply in that way that I love, his tongue slipping past my lips lazily, tasting me, enjoying it. My hands cup his neck, my thumbs pressing just under his sideburns, sucking his bottom lip softly and he moans against me, pulling back to survey my face.

  His eyes bore into me and I've read in books about how you can get lost in someone's gaze and I always thought it was stupid and cheesy until this moment. Because right now I'm literally drowning in him, swimming through his emerald gaze, lost in this sea of emotion that has me reeling and turned upside down, but I'm not scared. Because I feel safe with him. I feel safe with him because...

  "I love you," he says softly, his hands brushing my hair back from my face and it steals my breath because I'm ready. I'm ready to tell him.

  "I—"

  I'm cut off by a sharp knock on the door. I sigh in frustration and Harry pulls back from me and he's so far away.

  "Housekeeping," he mutters, grinning, nuzzling his nose against mine and I sigh.

  "I'll get it," I say, pecking a kiss on his lips. I'll tell him later. I'm sure he'll say it again. He always does.

  "You sure?" he asks as I reach for one of the fluffy robes hanging by the bathroom door.

  "Yeah," I say, shrugging it on and tying it in the front. "You turn on the shower. I'll be back in a sec." I give him a small smile before turning to walk back into the bedroom and out into the living area. I'm giddy and flushed and sticky and this has been one of the best nights I've ever had. Here with him, in our sanctuary. Nothing can get us here. Nothing.

  I swing the door open, fully expecting to see a short woman in a maid's uniform with a big pile of sheets and blankets. What I actually see nearly causes me to scream.

  "Hello, Scarlett."

  "P-p-professor Isbel?" I somehow manage to tremor out, my eyes wide as saucers as I take in his rugged appearance.

  "What, we're apart for a couple months and its Professor Isbel again?" He grins at me and I'm still shocked and spun and completely unable to think.

  "I'm sorry... Andrew," I say, laughing nervously.

  Andrew Isbel, my professor, my mentor, the man who brought art to life for me in college. The man who has molded me and guided me through my undergraduate and graduate studies. The same man who tried to feel me up in his office four months ago, who got me this job. The man who is supposed to be in Greece until September is here at my door.

  "Look, Scarlett," he says, his dark eyes soft and contrite. "I'm sorry about your thesis. I was...I was just tired and we were having trouble with the government. I would have told you that but the phones went down on the site and..." He shakes his head, sighing. "It was all just a mess."

  "Oh...um...yeah," I say, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and I notice the chocolate syrup that is still covering my palm. I immediately cross my arms behind my back. I've got to find a way to get rid of him.

  But I'm nervous, and I do what I always do when I get nervous; I ramble. I start to tell him about teaching, and the tour, and the music and I can't stop myself. My brain is working furiously, trying to think of anything to say that will get him to leave.

  His eyes are not on my face anymore, as I try and stutter out some form of coherent conversation. I watch as his eyes travel down my neck and the V of my robe, exposing entirely too much of my breast bone which is most likely covered in chocolate.

  "...it's been an interesting summer," I conclude, finally ending my ramble and his eyes meet mine again.

  "Well, it seems they've paid you well," he grins, looking back into the room and I smile weakly at him. I have to get rid of him.

  "Hey, Scar!"

  My eyes nearly explode out of my skull as I hear Harry's voice waft from the other room, his tone excited, and I pray to God that he just stays in there. Please, please, please.God, if you're up there do not, under any circumstances, let him...

  "Babe, have you seen the shower! It's huge! It took me forever to figure out how to turn it on...uh oh." Harry's voice cuts off abruptly and I turn to find him—oh my God—wrapped in just a towel, his eyes as wide as mine and, much to my chagrin, my chocolate handprint still prominent on his chest.

  I can't even look at my professor. I can't look at Harry. I can only look at the floor and silently pray that it swallows me whole.

  We are so royally fucked.

  25

  I knew this would happen. Well maybe not this. Definitely not my professor showing up. Andrew was supposed to be in Greece for the remainder of the summer, up until start of term. I was supposed to have two more weeks with Harry. I mean, two more weeks on tour. But I knew this would happen. I knew we would get caught. This entire affair had been leading up to that moment. When everything fell apart.

  My brain is so twisted and turned around that I just can't think straight anymore, which is not where I need to be right now. I need to get my head on straight so I can explain this. I need to shove my emotions down and find a rational way to explain my irrational behavior. And under no circumstances can I let on that I love him.

  This and about a thousand other things are racing through my mind as I make my way down the hallway toward Andrew's room. Once we'd gotten past the initial shock of the situation, an awkward introduction was initiated by Harry, whose hand stuck to Andrew's when they shook and Harry had given a sheepish grin, muttering "ice cream" which made me want to bang my fucking head into the wall.

  Andrew had given me a look like none other I'd ever seen. It was a mixture of anger, disbelief, and disappointment that left me unable to look him in the face. He had told me to get cleaned up and to meet him in his room; that we needed to talk. God only knows what it was we would say but he told me to come so it's what I have to do.

  The second the door closed on him, the silence in the room was deafening. Harry reached out to touch me and I jerked back as if I'd been burned. This is my life. That was my mentor, the man who decides if I get my masters degree, decides if I get into the PH.D program after that, and he had just caught me, covered in chocolate in a hotel room with my underage student.r />
  I was silent and staring, trying my damnedest not to break down and cry or freak out and scream. I staggered back into the bedroom as if in a daze. I needed a shower. I had to come up with an explanation, something to tell Andrew, to salvage what was left of my academic career, to make him not be disappointed in me anymore. Harry had followed me silently, his face uncertain and concerned. He didn't know what to do. There was nothing he could do. The selfish, irrational part of me was convinced he'd done enough.

  The shower was running, steam billowing out into the bedroom and I'd walked into the bathroom, letting my robe fall and just stepped right into the shower without a word. The water burned and stung but I didn't turn it down. I should get used to the heat; this would be a nice precursor to hell. He had waited by the entrance to the shower, hesitating. I didn't look at him, everything in me silently begging him to just go. I didn't have it in me to yell at him anymore, whether it was because of the way I feel about him now or just because I couldn't handle that right then. But I had snapped at him when he slid in behind me, turning to the other set of shower heads.

  "I'm just showering," he had said, his voice soft and careful and I silently cursed myself for being a bitch. Of course he is. He can't very well go back down to his room covered in chocolate.

  We stood under the water, silent, our backs to each other, watching as rivers of brown water swirled down the drain eventually turning clear. He had stepped out before me, telling me to call him when I came back, pausing for a moment. But I didn't respond and then he was gone. I had slid down curling into myself and sobbed like a child, letting the water pound into me, hating him and then hating myself for blaming this on him when the only person I could possibly blame was myself.

  I knew what I was getting into when I started this mess with him. I knew what was at stake and the consequences. I knew better. Sure, he wasn't any help, being so damn persistent and adorable and loving but I'm the adult. I should have told him no. I shouldn't have given in. I should have been stronger. I was always the one that held us together anyway; the one that made sure he didn't go too far or give away too much. Why couldn't I have just been a little stronger and told him no?

  So after pulling myself together and agonizing over what to wear—something that didn't scream I just fucked my underage student —I made my way down to Andrew's room on the fourth floor. I briefly wonder if Harry is on this floor but I push the thought from my mind. I can't think about him during what I'm about to do.

  And as I stand here in front of room 438, the number Andrew gave me, I force myself not to think of Harry. I force myself to remain neutral. I rehearse my story over and over and over again in my mind. We had sex. It was purely physical. No, it didn't just happen once. Yes, I knew it was wrong. No, I do not love him.

  My chest is tight as I bring my hand up and let my knuckles fall softly against the door. It opens and Andrew stands there for a moment, regarding me coolly before stepping aside and allowing me entry. I hang my head, very much the contrite child, his disapproval weighing on me like a ton of bricks as I step past him and into his small suite.

  "Sit down," he says, his voice somewhat strained and I do as I'm told, sitting at the small table, my eyes on the floor, flitting to him every now and then.

  Andrew Isbel is not a tall man but he isn't exactly short either. He's stocky and tan in all the places that see sun on a regular basis. He has a tendency to dress like the guy that hosts Survivor, button down safari style shirts and cargo shorts, always wearing flip flops. He has a warm smile and is quick with a joke, but he doesn't play around when it comes to art and his grading reflects that. He likes me because I'm focused and dedicated to my work, or so I thought until he tried to feel me up in his office three months ago. But I'm still convinced he sees something in me. Something like potential, or perhaps even greatness, something that proves that I can be successful. Something that makes me worthy.

  He's pacing now, like he does when I've missed the mark on an assignment and he's trying to figure out how to tell me so. He pauses and looks at me and my eyes fall to the floor, guilty and ashamed.

  "Scarlett," he says his voice soft and with a hint of a laugh, as he rubs his hand over his face. "What...on Earth...were you thinking?"

  "I—"

  "Were you thinking at all?" he asks, his tone becoming harsh. I cringe slightly, curling my shoulders in, ready to take the brunt of his disappointment. "I mean for gods sake Scarlett, he's seventeen years old. Do you know what this can do to your reputation...to my reputation?"

  "Andrew, I—"

  "Just DON'T!" he yells and I curl into myself more, silencing instantly. "Just don't say anything right now."

  He sighs, running his hand over his face again. He looks at me, his eyes angry and confused and I have look down at my sandals because I can't stand the disappointment in his eyes. The only thing I've longed for since the moment I met him was his approval. I can't stand that I've failed him.

  "Okay," he says, taking a deep breath and sitting across from me. I swallow hard. "Explain this to me."

  "Well, I—"

  "Was this a one time thing?" he asks, his dark eyes slightly hard, his hands flat on the table top.

  "Um," I pause, picking at my fingernails, waiting for him to interrupt again, somewhat hoping he does. "Not...not exactly."

  "Not exactly," he says, nodding slowly. "And exactly how many times? Twice, three times? Too many times to count?"

  I blush. "It's...it's kind of hard to explain..."

  "It doesn't seem that hard to me," he spits, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. "You've been sleeping with him, obviously for a long time because you're starting to get a little on the kinky side. Am I right?"

  I stare back at him bewildered and my face heats up. "Well, he and I, we...um... it started... um...about two and a half months ago."

  "Where?" he asks flatly.

  "Um...Columbus, Ohio...I think," I pause trying to remember the place over the way Harry slammed me up against the door.

  "No," he grinds out, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Where do you usually...do it?"

  I look at him confused. "W-what does that matter?" I ask, shifting uncomfortably.

  "It doesn't," he responds coldly and I swallow hard. "But I'm asking you anyway."

  "Um, usually in our hotel rooms," I say, shifting awkwardly in my chair, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

  "Scarlett, I don't know what to say," he sighs, leaning back in his chair, looking at me sadly, but it doesn't quite meet his eyes. In his eyes there's something else that I can't quite place. "I mean obviously his mother needs to be informed, his manager..."

  My heart stops. "What? No!" I exclaim.

  "You haven't left me much of a choice, Scarlett," he sighs again, shaking his head. "What you've done—"

  "What good would it do to tell them?" I ask frantically, thinking of any way to spare Harry, to spare myself. "We'll stop...I'll..." I grit my teeth. "I'll go...I'll quit."

  "Like that would make it better?" Andrew asks, narrowing his eyes. "No, I think they need to know exactly what you've done. What you both have done."

  There's a vindictive edge in his voice that I don't quite understand. I understand his anger, his disappointment, but this spiteful rage isn't something I was expecting. There's an antagonistic lilt in his voice that I don't understand but what he says next makes everything crystal clear.

  "You know, maybe there's something we can work out."

  He reaches across the table and takes my hand in his, his thumb rubbing over the backs of my knuckles. I pull back from him, my brows knitting in confusion, my stomach turning. He's looking at me in such a way, the way that Harry looks at me, and I feel as if I could be sick.

  "Andrew, stop," I say, shaking my head at him. His brow furrows in anger.

  "You know maybe the press would like to know about this little tryst? I'm sure America would love to know that it's Virgin Prince was fucking his art tuto
r."

  My breath catches in my throat and a paralyzing fear grips me, stronger than the one before when it was just me in trouble. Now we're talking about Harry. And his career and the careers of his four bandmates. It's so hard to believe that this is Andrew, that this is the same Andrew that taught me Survey One, the same class I'm teaching Harry, that I looked up to, that I still look up to. I guess he doesn't see anything in me after all...

  "Andrew, you can't do that," I practically sob, my throat tight with anguish. "You can't do that to him."

  Andrew sighs, his face a mask of pity and concern as he slides from his chair and comes to kneel in front of me. I feel revulsion and grief as he places his hands on my denim clad thighs, the heat of his skin searing me through my clothes.

  "Something needs to be done, Scarlett," he says, his hand reaching to cup my chin and I swallow hard as I let him do it.

  Maybe this is the price you pay for the horrible things you do. Maybe this is the price you pay to protect someone you love. You do things you would never do. You sacrifice a little of yourself so someone else won't have to.

  "I mean sex with a minor? With a student?" Andrew says, his thumb smudging over my bottom lip. "That's a pretty serious offense."

  My brain jams and anger flairs inside me. His mouth is inching closer to mine and I jerk my head to the side, breaking his hold on me. He pulls back slightly, bewildered by the anger in my eyes.

  "You're one to talk, Professor," I spit and he narrows his eyes at me.

  "This is an entirely different matter," he blusters, clearing his throat. I laugh in his face.

  "Really? Because last time I checked I was still on your roster." He opens his mouth to speak but I don't let him.

  All the anger at him over my thesis, over him coming on to me...at the knowledge that I am nothing more to him than a conquest to be won. All the anger at myself for not being strong enough...all the hatred and self loathing. Everything just boils over into this one moment and the only thing I can think of is protecting him, forget myself. I won't let anything hurt him. Not now. Not ever.