by Vi Keeland
The guy smirked. “Some Pharrell, delivered from my Bose speakers in my bedroom while I was getting it on.”
The class snickered.
“Thank you, Mr.…”
Caine held out his hand to invite the man to fill in the blank, and he did. “Ludwig.”
Caine nodded and turned to head back to the front of the class. “All the examples today are appreciative listening. Before the next class, I want each of you to download Jason Derulo’s ‘Trumpets’.” Listen to it using whatever method you last appreciatively listened to music—with your headset on, while commuting on the train, in the truck while you’re working delivering packages, or, in Mr. Ludwig’s case, listening on his Bose at home while masturbating.”
The class cracked up.
“When you’re done, I want you to answer the questions on this page.” Caine began to hand out papers for the students in the first row to pass back. “This isn’t a test of any kind, so your answers should be honest. Don’t read the questions on the paper until after you’ve listened to the song once. Otherwise, your brain will be searching for the answers as you listen instead of truly appreciatively listening. In our next class, we’re going to compare the results you get with the results you’ll get while doing other types of listening.”
A few minutes later, the hour and a half class was over, and students piled out the door. I waited until the room had emptied and went down the stairs to the front to talk to Caine.
“On time and no stains on your clothing,” he said as he packed his laptop without looking up. “Impressive.”
“I’ve always considered fourth impressions the most important, you know.” I smiled.
Caine zipped his bag. While I’d thought our conversation was playful, apparently I was wrong. His tone was stern, and he leveled me with a look that matched. “You shouldn’t fraternize with students.”
“Fraternize?”
“Whatever you want to call it.”
“I don’t understand.”
He huffed. “Fuck. You shouldn’t fuck the students. Is that clearer, Rachel?”
“Well, yes, it’s clear what you meant now. But I’m not sure what would give you the impression I was screwing a student. I don’t sleep with college guys.”
“Does Mr. Ludwig know that?”
I had a feeling that’s what this was about. “You don’t need to worry about me giving anyone a preferential grade like your last TA. I promise.”
Caine held my gaze for a few seconds, possibly assessing my sincerity, then gave me a curt nod. “So, which princess is it?”
I furrowed my brows. Then I realized he must’ve caught the quiz I was doing in the back of In Style magazine before class began—Which Disney Princess are you? I’d tossed it on top of my book bag on the floor once class began.
“Jasmine from Aladdin.” I smiled.
“They get it right?”
“I like to think so. Jasmine is logical and skeptical.”
“You know those things are a bunch of crap, right?”
“God, I hope so. Last month I took one in Men’s Health called How healthy are your testicles?, and it wasn’t looking very good for me.”
Caine’s lip twitched. “Wiseass. You ready to finish going through the syllabus?”
“I have about an hour before I have to get to work.”
He lifted his bag from the desk. “Everything go okay with picking up your car?”
“Actually…no.”
“What happened?”
“When they took off the tire, they found my ball joints were bad—whatever they are. They’re replacing those, too, today.”
“You need a ride to work?”
“I can take the bus. There’s one right on campus that drops off two blocks from O’Leary’s.”
“I was going to suggest grabbing a bite while we finish up planning. I have a department meeting tonight and need to eat before then. Why don’t we grab a bite at O’Leary’s? Then you’ll already be at work when it’s time to start your shift.”
“That would be great. And I’ll treat.” I grinned. “Since our food will be free and all.”
“Looks like someone went to the supermarket?” Charlie looked over my shoulder at Caine standing behind me.
“Umm…no. This is Professor Caine West. I’m his teaching assistant at the music conservatory. Caine, this is Charlie. He owns O’Leary’s.”
Caine reached out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Charlie.”
Charlie shook. “You got a record, Professor?”
“A record?”
“Yeah. I don’t like my girl hanging out with trouble.”
I piped in. “Charlie—he’s my professor. I don’t think an interrogation is necessary.”
Charlie shot me a look. “Fine. But I’ll be keeping my eye on you.”
Caine didn’t seem bothered in the slightest by Charlie’s threat. If anything, he seemed amused. “Good to hear.”
Finally releasing their handshake, Charlie lightened up a bit. “What can I get you, Professor?”
“I’ll take whatever beer you have on tap. I was in here the other night. A friend of mine just moved in around the corner and said you made the best wings. But the kitchen had already closed for the night, so I didn’t get to try them. How about an order of wings?”
Charlie was old school. Two things made him like a man: A firm handshake and complimenting his wife’s wings. His face lit up proudly. “That’s my Audrey’s own secret recipe on those wings. Two orders coming right up. By the way, if you’re ever here after the kitchen closes, just let someone know you’re a friend of Charlie’s. My crew is pretty friendly.”
“Yes, they are. Rachel was very welcoming when we first met.” He glanced over at me with a wicked gleam in his eye. “I should have asked her to make me a batch. I’m sure she would have been happy to.”
None the wiser, Charlie poured Caine a beer and me a Diet Coke, and then headed to the kitchen to make our wings himself. It was that in-between time of the afternoon where the day crowd had gone home, but the evening crowd hadn’t started to trickle in yet, so there were only a few regulars sitting at the bar—most of whom were retired cops.
“Cute. Very cute, Professor.”
“I thought so.”
Caine and I went to sit at a quiet table in the corner where there was room for us to spread out and work while we ate. Since I was teaching the next lesson, he talked about what he wanted the students to take away from the assignment he’d given them today.
“The locked closet in the corner of the classroom has two hundred pair of Bose noise-cancelling headphones. Teach them about how appreciative listening can become critical listening just by changing the mode of delivery. Have them listen to the song I assigned again in the same place—on the train, or at work—only cutting out the background noise. Then have them answer the same questions I gave out today. At least half the class will notice things they didn’t the first time. The trumpets are synthesized.”
“They are?”
“It’s a good lesson on understanding the method of delivery and leads perfectly into the upcoming lessons on synthesized music.”
“Wow. Okay.” I furrowed my brow. “So, you let the students take home two hundred pair of Bose headphones? The professor didn’t do that when I took the class a few years back. The college has certainly upgraded from the crappy headphones they used to give out in music-recording class.”
“They’re mine, personally. Not the college’s.”
I did the math. That was at least five thousand dollars for one lesson. “What if you don’t get them back?”
“It’s never been an issue.”
I smirked. “Because all the students are afraid of you.”
“Unlike the smartass TA,” Caine muttered.
Charlie had his hands full with trays of wings, so he used his ass to push open the door that led from the kitchen. I slipped out of the booth to grab them from him.
“You should have wh
istled for me like you usually do. You shouldn’t be carrying trays with your back.”
“I didn’t want to interrupt your date.”
“It’s not a date.”
He looked over at Caine and shrugged. “Looks like a date to me.”
“It’s not,” I said flatly. “We’re working on lesson plans for class.”
“Whatever you say,” Charlie trailed off as he headed back to the bar.
I set the trays down at our table and noticed Caine’s beer mug was empty. “Want another beer?”
“If you’re joining me.”
“I don’t drink.”
Caine’s brows furrowed, but then an understanding crossed his face, and I realized what he’d thought.
“I’m not an alcoholic, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Okay.”
I really didn’t want to elaborate, but he was waiting for me to speak again.
“I grew up around alcoholism. At one point, I found myself drinking a little too much when my life was spinning out of control. I didn’t check myself into rehab or anything—I’m not a formal friend of Bill with a lifetime membership card or fancy sobriety chips—but I try to limit my drinking to celebrations and special occasions.”
The reason I didn’t normally elaborate was because people looked at me with sympathy in their eyes when I made such a statement. Oh. She had a bad childhood. Oddly, that wasn’t what I found on Caine’s face. His seemed to have admiration for what I’d just said, and I wasn’t sure what to do with that. It made me uncomfortable.
“So…I’ll grab you another beer, and I’ll have an O’Doul’s to join you.”
He smiled warmly. “Sounds good.”
When I returned to the table, I redirected the conversation back to work. “I was thinking—when it’s time to collect the Bose headphones from the class, I’m not touching Mr. Ludwig’s set. They need to be disinfected first.”
Caine’s beer was at his lips. “He was drawing you today, you know.”
“Drawing me? He was sketching headless women with great bodies.”
He sipped his beer. “And your point?”
“He wasn’t drawing me.”
Caine narrowed his eyes, and I got the feeling he was weighing whether or not to say whatever was on his mind. Apparently, he decided to go for it.
“You have two freckles on the left side of your neck.”
My hand flew to my neck. He was absolutely right, but my hair was covering them. “What are you talking about?”
“You have a tendency to push your hair to one side—the right side. I noticed them the other day when we were in my car.”
“Okay…”
Caine caught my eyes. “The sketches your friend was drawing. They had necks, but no heads.”
“Yes. I noticed them. They weren’t exactly appropriate to be drawing during class. But he’s a really good artist.”
“Yes, he pays attention to detail. All of the women had one thing in common.”
My eyes widened. “No.”
Caine nodded. “Two freckles on the left side of the neck. He was sketching you.”
“But he’s never seen me naked.”
“He has an imagination.” Caine’s eyes dipped down for a glance at my cleavage. They gleamed with wickedness when they returned to meet mine. “Pretty damn good one, I’d say.”
That caused a flutter in my belly that quickly traveled south.
Oh, God.
I tried to shake it off with a joke. “And this is why I don’t date frat boys. Needless to say, I won’t be collecting beanie boy’s headphones or sitting next to him anymore.”
“Good call.” Caine smiled. “Stick to men.”
He was right. Although I was starting to question whether my sticking to men meant getting stuck on one in particular.
Rachel
It was that time of the month. Not the dreaded time, but the time I actually looked forward to. Davis’s monthly texts came in like clockwork. I looked down at my phone.
Davis: Next Wednesday 7pm? Miss you.
On the first Wednesday of every month, my three old college roommates and I got together for dinner. Davis had been one of the roommates for the last two years of college. We’d had a thing for a short period—but the timing wasn’t right for him.
I typed back.
Rachel: Can’t wait.
Just as I hit send, Ava walked in. She worked the early-evening shift waiting tables, which meant I moved to behind the bar, and Charlie went home.
“Hey, Rach.”
“Hey. Davis just texted. He’s going to be at dinner next week.”
Ava wiggled her brows. “It’s about time. He’s missed the last three. Maybe you can liquor him up and break that dry spell finally.”
“Shut up.”
Ava was the only person who knew about me and Davis. I threw the towel I’d been using to wipe the bar down at her. “I should never have told you.”
“Told me?” she said, then proceeded to caress her torso with her hands as she groaned, “Oh, Davis. Oh, Davis.”
I laughed. “God, I can’t stand you.”
While Ava went to change for her shift, I thought about my old roommate. Davis wasn’t the typical college student—not by any means. He was southern, full of yes, ma’am and no, ma’am polite manners, and had spent eight years in the military before coming to Brooklyn to study business. When he’d first moved in, he was also going through a divorce, having married his high school sweetheart at eighteen in a romantic gesture before leaving for his first tour in Iraq. As Davis told the story, their marriage had seemed to work for a long time. He’d occasionally visit and sent her home his paychecks. It stopped working when he left the military and his wife realized it was difficult to sleep around without getting caught when her husband wasn’t halfway around the world.
Over the two years we lived together, Davis had become one of my best friends—until the night we celebrated his graduation. We both had too much to drink. One thing led to another, and before the night was over…Oh, Davis.
Even though I’d never honestly thought of him in that way before, the next day I was like, Huh. Great guy. Nice looking. Giving in bed. Suddenly I saw him in a new light.
It lasted a little over a month. While I’d been growing into the idea of coupledom, Davis apparently was not. He ended things, saying it was too soon after his divorce to be in a new relationship, especially with someone he already cared deeply about. I understood—well, sort of. Shortly thereafter, when our lease was up, we parted as friends…with promises to take some time and maybe explore things in the future. Between his years in the military and being married, he’d earned his freedom.
Although my dating hiatus since then could have had something to do with hoping his promise to explore things in the future might come to fruition, after eight months, I was finally taking the hint.
My phone buzzed with another text.
Davis: What? No miss you back?
Smiling, my fingers hovered over the keys as I tried to decide what to text. Ava emerged from the ladies’ room in her server polo and ponytail. She tied an apron around her waist as she spoke.
“I almost forgot. You’re never going to believe what I watched today.”
“What?”
“Come on, guess.”
“Okay. Porn. You watched porn.”
“Nope,” she smirked.
“You finally finished your Walking Dead marathon?”
“Nope.”
“I’m going to need a little hint here. You’re giving me nothing to go on.”
“Okay.” She tapped her nails on the bar deep in thought, then grinned from ear to ear. “It rhymes with undress her best.”
I laughed. “I think you’ve lost your mind.”
A couple I’d seated a little while ago at table two motioned they were ready to order. I lifted my chin to my crazy friend and pointed with my cell phone.
“It rhymes with cable glue.”
>
She repeated what I’d just said out loud a few times. “Cable glue, cable glue, cable glue...” Then her eyes lit up. “Table two!”
I took an ordering pad and pen from the box under the bar and slid them over to her. “Go take the order, crazy lady.”
I was still staring down at Davis’s text, trying to figure out my response, when I figured out her riddle. Decoding it, I suddenly lost interest in my phone and tucked it under the bar where I kept it while I was working.
Ava took the order from table two and dropped it in the kitchen before returning to where I was pouring a beer.
“Undress her best—Professor West?” I asked.
“Very good! Although his name wasn’t Caine West in what I was watching. It was Able Arsen.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I was in a TA meeting today, and I met a guy who used to be the TA for Dr. Anderson.”
“The music department chair?”
“That’s the one. By the way, the TA’s name is Norman—really bad name for a guy in his twenties, but he’s cute. He asked me to get drinks with him and a bunch of other TAs this Friday, so you’re going with me.”
“Okay…” I was glad to see Ava had found something to cheer herself up with after the way she’d been feeling about Owen. Although I still didn’t make the connection to how this guy related to Caine or who the hell Able Arsen was. “But what does this have to do with Professor West?”
“Dr. Anderson told him Professor West used to be in a band. Had a contract with a major music label, too.” She pulled out her phone and began to swipe. Landing on what she was looking for, she pushed some keys and turned the phone to face me. “Meet Able Arsen.”
The video was grainy, and the sound quality was horrible—probably shot on a first-generation flip phone. All I could make out was four guys playing onstage at a distance.
“Keep watching,” Ava said.
Eventually, toward the end of the video, the person recording zoomed in on the drummer, who was also singing. His head was down as he banged away on the drums, bobbing along to the beat. There was something so sexy about the assertive way he gripped the sticks and the way his muscles flexed with each wail of the drum pad—what stamina must be required to move like that for hours on end.
