The Professor: A Standalone Novel

by Akeroyd, Serena

  I thought about how long it would take me to baby proof the apartment and set an alarm. As soon as that was done, I leaned back in bed, then reached for my phone again and set it thirty minutes earlier.

  Sure, I had a housekeeper who came once a week, but she wasn’t due for another four days, and this place wasn’t safe enough for a baby, so I’d have to work on that tomorrow.

  No one had lived here with me since Rosa and Cara had died, and Gina had moved out, and because of that, I was getting a rep among my few friends for being a confirmed bachelor.

  I wasn’t.

  I’d been burned, literally, and had no intention of it happening again.

  That was why I hated Phoebe.

  She was walking fire and she didn’t even fucking know it.

  My jaw clenched as I thought about her earlier that day.

  Over the weeks, she’d started finding it easier to come. At first, she’d been tense and it had taken her a while. Now, it was disappointingly fast how quickly she reached orgasm, even though a part of me was pleased by that too.

  She’d taken to plunging her fingers in and out of her cunt, whereas at the start, she’d inserted one and had kind of left it there. Now, though, she was greedy for her release and fucked herself with those slender digits that were callused from her work.

  I wanted those fucking hands around my cock more than I wanted my next breath, wanted to ram myself inside her, give her the pleasure she craved with my body, but I wouldn’t.

  Couldn’t.

  It was both heaven and hell to have her watch me back. For her eyes to be open, trained on me, as she made herself come.

  Some days, the urge to tongue fuck her had me almost tearing off the leather on the armrest. Everything inside me wanted more, but that was why I held back.

  And those were the days I was spiteful.

  Mean.

  I hated myself for it, and watching her shoulders droop as I denigrated her, twisted me up as much as it did her, but words were weapons.

  I’d learned that a long time ago.

  Still, today hadn’t been too bad. I’d been busy, aware of the faculty meeting, and hadn’t had time for her to really get herself off in front of me. I always made time, of course, but I’d been glad for her speed, and had enjoyed the show even though it had frustrated the life out of me.

  There was one advantage to her living here, I guessed.

  I could watch her more often.

  Hear her more often. Have her make more noise, and not risk my position by making her do the crazy things I needed from her in my office.

  I could take advantage of her closeness, not have to rush things, or worry about where she was and with whom.

  As the thought sank in, and my eyes began to close with the promise of sleep, I recognized that maybe I wasn’t so stupid after all.

  ❖

  Having received a short text from Phoebe, I knew she was on her way.

  My home wasn’t exactly ideal for a baby, but it was clean now. Safe. I couldn’t have her or her brother who, even though I loathed children, was quite cute—it helped that he looked like a miniature Phoebe—on the streets.

  When I’d learned she had a baby, I’d hated the infant immediately. My disposition had improved the second I’d learned he was her brother, and my jealousy had been further alleviated when I’d seen him outside the funeral home.

  With all that hair?

  With those sparkling green eyes?

  Phoebe in the flesh.

  How could I not find him adorable? Even if he did make a mess and a lot of noise in the restaurant I’d taken her to, he’d done it with a smile that reminded me of her.

  I should have known then I was doomed.

  Still, my loft wasn’t child-friendly. As I stood at the doorway, trying to picture what she’d think, I had to wince.

  The open floor plan was split into two sections. To the left was a doorway that led to the bedrooms, bathrooms, and the kitchen and utility room, but directly ahead was a raised platform that was separated from the lounge area by a wall.

  Once upon a time, the walls had been blank, then I’d stumbled upon a Yayoi Kusama print in a store and had bought it, framed it, and placed it there.

  Whenever I walked in, I saw the print first and it reminded me of both Phoebe and myself.

  The print was almost like a cross-section of a cell. With its endless dots and looping shapes, bloodred eyes, and the spiky perimeter that reminded me of dripping blood. But what resonated were the faces. I guessed they were crude, but one watched another and that was me watching Phoebe.

  In that print, I saw infinity.

  An endlessness to the obsession I had with her.

  The need to watch her seemed epitomized in that print, and it was the only bolt of bright color in the entire place.

  The table and chairs were dark wood, modern in style. The lounge consisted of a navy sectional on a thick-pile cream rug. Opposite was a fireplace that ran the length of the wall, and above it, a TV that I never used. Beside the sectional was a small stand that carried a lamp, and in the corner was my desk. Its twin was in my office at the campus, as was the desk chair, and it was neat. Most of the paperwork was housed within the drawers and never on the surface.

  I sat there mostly, staring out at the street or the tree opposite my building, unable to relax in a place that was my home and yet, felt detached to me.

  When the buzzer to my door sounded, I jolted in surprise as I realized how long I’d been staring at my apartment. Knowing she was there, I felt a curious buzz churn through me. It was a mixture of nerves because I wanted her to like the place even though I didn’t, and also, relief.

  She was here.

  She hadn’t run.

  She’d be safe and I could rest.

  My heart calmed when she buzzed again, and I pressed the release, coolly stating, “Yes?” It was amazing how cold I sounded, not just cool, when I felt anything but around her.

  It was like I was constantly running a fever in her presence, and hell, maybe I was.

  She was my own personal sickness in the flesh, and I adored her for it.

  “Professor?” she answered, her voice faintly high-pitched, her nerves bleeding through and as always, because I was a sick fuck, that calmed me down. “It’s me.”

  “Who’s me?” I asked, my lips curving even while my tone was stern.

  She cleared her throat. “Umm, Phoebe? Phoebe Whitehouse?”

  Like there was any other Phoebe, any other woman who was allowed here.

  This was, did she but know it, her place.

  “I’ll be down in a moment,” I informed her.

  “Oh. You don’t have to. If you don’t want me to come up, it’s ok—”

  “I’ll be down in a moment,” I repeated, interrupting her without compunction.

  I knew her confidence issues wouldn’t resolve themselves with me barking at her all the damn time, but my barbs were a means of self-defense.

  If she was going to live with me, though, and I fully intended on keeping her here, I’d need to stop that.

  Her hesitations and stuttering irked me.

  She was glorious.

  A creature made to be worshipped.

  Such glory did not stutter.

  Such a being did not whisper her way through difficult statements.

  Resolving myself to not being curt with her, even if that made for a few awkward conversations where I couldn’t speak what first came to mind, I cut off the intercom, grabbed my keys, and headed out the door.

  I was only two floors up, so I always took the stairs, and when I saw Jackson, the doorman, both eying her up and staring at her things with dismay, the beast inside me reared to life.

  Glowering at him until he dipped his chin and turned his head away, I stared at Phoebe, looked at the sleeping child in the car seat, and then at the four bags she had with her.

  Blinking at the sight, I asked, “Is the rest in the taxi?”

  Her c
heeks bloomed with heat. “Um, no, this is everything.”

  Everything?

  Their lives, their worlds, were in these four bags?

  Jackson coughed. “Sir, I paid the taxi.”

  I cut him a look, retrieved my wallet, and gave him a fifty.

  “It was thirty dollars,” Phoebe squeaked.

  “Keep the change,” I told him, ignoring her.

  When she flushed again, I sighed, then held out a hand. “Take it,” I urged, when she stared at the key resting there.

  As her fingers brushed against my skin, I realized that was the first voluntary, non-sexual touch I’d ever had from her. Christ, my cock leaked pre-cum from that single, caressing touch of the tips of her fingers against the tender skin of my palm. So innocent yet so powerful.

  My jaw clenched, but I hid my agitation by ducking down, grabbing two bags under my arms, then clutching the other two by their handles. I didn’t wait for her to follow, just left her to carry Scott as I headed back up the way I came. When I heard her tentative footsteps against the stairs, I sighed in relief and remained silent as I led her to my apartment.

  Backing up so she could reach the door first, I motioned at it with my chin when she made it up the stairs.

  Keeping her eyes downcast the way she did always irritated me, even if I understood why—if you kept your eyes trained on the ground, you remained a stranger to the world itself. You could blend into the shadows, and slip through the cracks until everyone forgot about you.

  Of course, she hadn’t slipped through my cracks.

  I’d seen her.

  Seen her and made her the center of my world.

  As she opened the door, she released a sigh as she went inside, and I followed her in. I didn’t wait for her to look at the place, to critique it, instead, I headed down the hallway to where my personal torment had begun.

  There were four bedrooms in the loft.

  I could easily have put her in the room the farthest away.

  Instead?

  I put her beside me.

  “You can use another room for Scott if you want,” I rasped, my voice loaded with the strain that having her here, so close and yet so fucking far, would present.

  Her smile was faint. “Call him Scottie. I don’t even know if he’ll answer to Scott.” Then, she cleared her throat and mumbled, “I wouldn’t want to put you out even more so he can just sleep with me.”

  She’d been doing that for eighteen months and hadn’t even known it. Why should this be any different?

  My life had changed that day I’d seen her on campus, and when she’d ultimately signed up for my class? Christ, it had gone from bad to worse.

  I ignored her and placed her things in the bedroom.

  It was a woman’s room, and I’d left it as Gina had decorated it because it seemed pleasant enough.

  The back wall was lilac, with a print of a blue leaf in a black frame. It hung above a sleigh bed made from rich oak, and housed a matching dresser and nightstands. There was a comforter rolled up on top, as well as fresh sheets stacked there for her.

  It was probably rude of me not to have made up the bed, but feeling cotton that was about to touch her would have been an effort in torture.

  Yes, I knew I was a freak.

  It wasn’t like I needed the reminder.

  Eyes shuttering at the thought, I turned to her once her bags were on the floor and murmured, “I’ll let you get settled in.”

  She blinked as she looked at the room, then to my retreating back, managed to get out, “Thank you, professor.”

  It was stupid, so stupid, but I couldn’t stop myself. Couldn’t have withheld the words if I tried as I turned to look at her over my shoulder. “Inside these walls, Phoebe, you may call me Nicholas.”

  When she gnawed on her bottom lip and whispered, “Thank you for helping me, Nicholas,” I almost came in my pants.

  Jesus, this was going to be more of an issue than I’d originally anticipated.

  “You’re welcome. Treat it like your home.”

  If it looked like I fled the bedroom, that was because I did.

  I got the hell out of there as quickly as I could and headed to the kitchen where I downed a shot of tequila. Did I give a fuck that it was ten in the morning? Did I look goddamn eighteen?

  I’d stopped giving a shit about the bounds of normal society when my wife had divorced me on the grounds of cruelty when, if anyone had been treated badly, it was me.

  And I had the fucking scars to prove it.

  My jaw tensed as thoughts of Gina flushed to the surface. It was odd timing for her to show up last night. She had a habit of hovering around the place, flirting with whichever doorman was on duty and sneaking up here. I’d long since stopped getting pissy at the doormen though. They were only men and Gina was sex incarnate.

  All she had to do was flash a hint of her cleavage at some walking dick and he’d get a hard-on.

  I’d thought Phoebe was like my ex.

  I’d thought she was like that too.

  But she wasn’t.

  She was her antithesis.

  She didn’t know her beauty, didn’t know how desirable she was, and God, I wanted to keep her.

  Wanted to keep her for myself and no one else.

  Lust for her had me tightening my fists, and the sound of a baby squawking had me stiffening in surprise. I mean, I knew Scottie was here, but the noise just took me aback.

  These walls were hallowed.

  A crypt, a sanctified place that was both memory and reminder wrapped into one unhealthy ball.

  This place was where the accident had happened.

  But after the divorce, I hadn’t sold it. Hadn’t moved on and moved out. I stayed living here, stayed within these walls because they never let me forget what a woman could do to a man.

  This place was borne of misery, not of joy, so the sweet gurgling giggle took me aback.

  Not in a bad way, but a good one, and that, more than anything, surprised the shit out of me.

  ❖

  She stuck to her room for most of the day, and when I slinked past—way too many times than was healthy—I heard Scottie giggling or silence interspersed with the clacking of a keyboard.

  Scottie’s existence had surprised me. I thought I’d known everything there was to know about her, but I’d never seen her with him. Not once. Of course, now I knew why. Mrs. Linden. A neighbor. One who Phoebe grieved, who had gifted her with the set of Rolexes that currently sat in my desk drawer.

  I didn’t appreciate how much I was unaware of where she was concerned, but she led a relatively quiet if busy life. She worked more than I liked but I’d thought her reasoning was the same as every other college student in my class—student loans. I’d never imagined she had a baby brother she was caring for, and I’d never known her mother was an alcoholic.

  In truth, my behavior wouldn’t have changed had I had access to this information, but I intended on using this enforced proximity to learn everything I could about her.

  With her having quit her job at the coffee shop, I was relieved that she only went out at night. I believed the cafe was far more dangerous than the bar because she was tucked safely behind the counter and surrounded by security, whereas at the coffee shop, she was left alone with a cash-filled register and only patrons to protect her.

  Of course, it didn’t always work out that way. Just recalling that night when I’d seen one of the clubbers grab her and haul her into him made rage seethe inside me. Before I’d been able to go to her, protect her, she’d protected herself.

  I’d never been happier to watch a man nurse his balls because Phoebe had damn well handed them to him. Still, knowing she could protect herself, didn’t ease the inherent need within me to keep her safe.

  It was a compulsion.

  One, I feared, was linked to my ex. I didn’t want Gina back, but Phoebe was like a fresh start, a new leaf, one I wanted to make sure didn’t rot and perish away to dust.

 
; That obsessive need had led to me creating the transcribing job for her. I paid her above average rather than a high rate, because I didn’t want her to suspect I was behind the new position. I knew enough about her to accept that she would reject any charity, so I’d dug out my old diaries, the books I’d handwritten, and had scanned each one then sent them to her.

  I had thousands of them.

  Back in the day, when my muse hadn’t dried up and had been more than a withered sack, I’d been quite prolific. I’d never needed to be published, had just found joy in getting the story down on paper.

  At the end of a long day, when Gina had been reading or primping or going out with her friends, I’d found a simple joy in sitting on the balcony attached to the apartment, watching the world go by, and writing down my thoughts and the stories that inspired me.

  I was uneasy with her accessing those intimate moments, but I was even more discomforted with how hard she was having to work. Now that her mother had revealed herself to be unreliable, I was doubly glad.

  Making a mental note to scan more of the documents later on for her to transcribe, I lay back on the sofa and drummed my fingers against the cushioned leather.

  Phoebe Whitehouse was in my loft.

  Inside, I was probably as excited as I’d been at my first frat party.

  Outside?

  I was still. Calm. Quiet.

  That was my life now.

  The old Nicholas had died that night, and this one was born from those ashes.

  I didn’t like the new me. In fact, in many ways, he disturbed me.

  I never imagined I’d be a stalker, and my only consolation was that I didn’t stalk randomly, just the one woman.

  Of course, when I phrased it like that, I sounded just as psychologically deranged as any run-of-the-mill whack job who followed Lady Gaga from concert to concert.

  But I wasn’t.

  Was I?

  I didn’t think I was, even if I was obsessed with her. But my obsession took the form of ensuring she was safe, untouched. I’d never hurt her.

  Ever.

  Verbally was another matter entirely, but physically, she was safer with me than without.

  When she stepped out of her room, rupturing my philosophical musings, I tensed, wondering what she was doing. There was a connecting bath so she was either hungry or she was seeking me out. I looked at my phone and saw that it was too early for her to be heading out to work.