Summer's Temptation

by Ashley Lynn Willis

  I peer over the side of the bed. Sure enough, the comforter and top sheet are on the floor. I’m currently lying under the fitted sheet.

  Liz sits on the edge of my bed and holds out two pills. “I’d ask you how the sex was, but I think I already know.”

  It was spectacular.

  I take the medicine and swallow it down with a gulp of water. “How did you know I’d need ibuprofen?” Sex has never caused cramping for me, but I’ve also never had sex like that.

  “I used to take some after Caleb and I got it on.”

  I nod. Liz had told me sex with her ex was the best she’d ever had, but I never understood what that entailed. That’s not to say I’ve had bad sex. Making love to Jeremy and Wyatt had been fun and sexy and exiting, but it didn’t hold half the passion of sex with Tyler.

  “Now I understand why you gave him a second chance. And a third.” After one night with Tyler, I can’t imagine giving him up.

  She screws the top on the medicine bottle and stands. “Just be careful, Cassie. Great sex can cloud your judgment.”

  I know she’s speaking from experience, but that won’t happen with me. Unlike Liz, I went into this knowing it was just sex. That should make all the difference in the world. I hope.

  Chapter 14

  My kitchen is straight out of the fifties with white cabinets that have seen too many paint jobs and Formica countertops with deep gashes from when someone forgot to use a cutting board. The yellow backsplash lightens the space like the sun, and the turquoise table with chrome edging and vinyl chairs is the planet it shines upon.

  The first time I walked in here, I felt like putting on a housedress and high heels. Today, I can hardly wobble to the coffeepot while wearing slippers. After a week of nonstop sex with Tyler, everything hurts, especially my back. The pain’s so bad, I should probably see a chiropractor.

  “You look like shit,” Liz says from the table, peering at me over the top of her coffee cup. “And you’re glowing. Tell me how the hell that’s possible?”

  I sum it up in one word. “Tyler.”

  She nods, blowing on the surface of her steaming mug. “What’s going on with you two?”

  I can tell her question is loaded because under her cool façade lies wariness, maybe even a little annoyance. I see it in the way her eyes shift over my face as if she’s hoping she can read what’s going on in my head. She’s suspicious of our fuck buddy status. She has every right to be because he’s been over every night since we started this liaison.

  “He’s spending a lot of time with you,” she says casually then takes a sip of coffee.

  I pour a cup, hoping it’ll wake me enough to make it to class. “He’s insatiable, and I can’t tell him no.” Well, that’s not entirely true. I tried to take one night off, but he used a booty call pass.

  “Aren’t you the one calling him to come over?”

  “Details, details.” I hobble to the table and sit across from her. As I take a sip, I realize sex with Tyler is like caffeine. It’s addictive and energizing until the effect wears off, and I’m left exhausted. I sigh. “He’s like a drug, and I’m becoming dependent. I don’t know how to break the cycle.”

  “Based on the sounds coming from your room last night, I think you’re both addicted.” She yawns, and I wonder if we kept her up with those sounds. “What time did he leave?”

  “Five-ish.” Every night he’s been over by midnight and hasn’t left until after four. I love every second spent with him, but I’m exhausted. Dark circles hang under my eyes.

  “Maybe you need to start the Tyler twelve-step program.” Her words are teasing, but her tone’s serious.

  “If only it were that simple.” Turning down the kind of sex Tyler and I are having is impossible.

  Liz twists in her seat to check the clock on the stove. “You have class in thirty minutes, right?”

  I nod.

  “Are you going?”

  I shrug, not sure I can limp across campus on time. “Probably not.” The whole purpose of having a fuck buddy was to keep my head straight and my grades high, but God, I hurt.

  Liz slams her nearly empty mug on the table. “All right. I’ve had enough!”

  I recoil, surprised by her sudden anger. I’ve known about Liz’s temper since she took the position as pledge leader last year and had to deal with the pledges’ shenanigans. She’s slow to anger, but when she does, everybody watch out. Whatever I’ve done can’t be good if she’s past her boiling point.

  “Enough of what?” I try to look innocent even though I have no idea why she’s pissed.

  She leans back in her chair and crosses her arms. One eyebrow rises, seeming to say, “Are you a moron? How can you even ask that question?”

  “Talk to me, Liz, ‘cause I’m clueless.”

  She takes a deep breath through her nose and blows it out slowly through her mouth, a tactic I’ve seen her use when talking to a pledge who’s upset her. “I told myself I wouldn’t get in the middle of you and Tyler. I said to myself, you’re both adults.” The breathing technique must not have worked because her eyes light up with fire. “But this is absolutely fucking ridiculous, Cassie. A fuck buddy does not come over every night and screw you senseless for hours! That’s what honeymooners do. This has to stop. Now.”

  I cringe. I know she’s right. Our sex is getting out of hand, and I need to pull back. Going even one night without him will be hard because for the first time in two months, I haven’t been obsessing over Wyatt. “It’s just good sex. And it’s new, so we’re a little more enthusiastic than normal. Things’ll calm down soon.”

  “Do you remember Logan and Jessica?”

  I grimace, afraid she’s making a comparison. Logan had been a major pothead who’d dropped out of Vandeveer to work off a DUI. Jessica had been the pom squad captain and a straight-A student until she met Logan and they fell in love. She dropped out of school and became his pothead sidekick.

  “He didn’t rise to her level,” Liz says. “She sank to his.”

  I know what she’s getting at. Tyler’s vice is sex, so that would make me... “I’m not becoming a nympho.”

  “Maybe not, but if you don’t go to class, then your relationship with Tyler’s affecting your school work, and that’s just as bad.”

  If I’ve learned one thing over the past two years, it’s that Liz is always right. In this case, she’s doubly right. I have a scholarship to think about, and I can’t let another man derail me. I drag myself out of the chair, grab a granola bar, and hobble to my room to change. I’ll make it to class if I have to crawl.

  After taking two Advil, I hurry across campus, well aware I’m going to be late. Philosopher Dan is only a blur as I run full speed past him.

  “Where’s my sandwich, pretty girl?” he calls after me.

  “Running late!” I huff, out of breath. “I’ll bring you lunch!”

  He grumbles something, but it’s lost in the whoosh of blood pounding in my ears. I throw open the front door to Murral Hall and dash down the corridor. Mr. Westbrook’s warning revolves around my head. I will not tolerate tardiness. Anyone entering my classroom after ten a.m. will suffer the consequence. I’m afraid I’m about to suffer the consequences. I wish I had that lollipop Freddy mentioned a few weeks ago. Distraction might be my only salvation.

  I open the door to the classroom quietly. Maybe I can slip in without distracting from his lecture, and he’ll forgive my tardiness. Mr. Westbrook stands to the side of the podium, using a laser pointer to emphasize a bulleted topic on the projector screen. All eyes turn to me. I feel their stares as if they’re trying to ignite me with shame. So much for being inconspicuous. Shoulders slumped, I head toward my desk.

  Mr. Westbrook clears his throat, and I stop walking. “Nice of you to join us, Miss Faye. Do tell me, did Mickey Mouse’s hands fall off your watch?”

  The class chuckles.

  I turn to face him and square my shoulders. “Sorry, Mr. Westbrook.” I search for a reason
able excuse, but I doubt he’d find my sexual escapades a sound reason for interrupting his class. “I won’t be late again. I promise.”

  “Yes, well. I think that’s a true statement.”

  My tense muscles relax a notch, and I turn toward my seat.

  “Not so fast, Miss Faye,” he says. “The first day of class, I said I will not tolerate tardiness. You have disregarded my warning, therefore, you will pay the consequences.”

  I guess I shouldn’t expect preferential treatment just because I provided material for his new book, but it would’ve been nice. Pivoting toward him, I wait for him to dole out my punishment.

  He lowers his glasses and peers at me over the top of them. “I’m feeling kind today, so I’ll give you two choices. You can write a five-thousand-word essay on a topic of your choosing, as long as it’s technical in nature. It will be due on Monday. Or you can entertain the class.”

  One girl gasps, but the rest of the class breaks out in snickers.

  Freddy laughs the loudest. His bass chuckle permeates the entire room. “Give us a show, Cassie!”

  We already have a paper due on Monday. I don’t want to add another one to my list. “What kind of entertainment?”

  Mr. Westbrook’s eyes widen slightly, as though he’s surprised I’m interested. “A song, perhaps?”

  Freddy yells, “Let’s hear the bird sing!”

  I whirl and narrow my eyes at him. He only smiles wider, especially when the rest of the class agrees. They yell out a list of potential tunes ranging from “I Touch Myself” to “I’m Sexy and I Know It.” The room gets so boisterous, I can’t even hear myself think.

  “Settle down, class,” Mr. Westbrook says, and the room quiets.

  I’m so going to regret this, but I’m not doing the homework. “Fine, I’ll sing. But next time I’m running late, I just won’t come to class.”

  Mr. Westbrook shakes his head. “Part of your grade is calculated on your attendance. I suggest you not do that.” He steps aside and motions for me to come forward.

  I shuffle to the front of the room and turn to face my audience. “What am I singing?”

  “‘I’m a Little Teapot!’” Freddy yells.

  Mr. Westbrook cracks a smile. “Perfect, Mr. Jones.” He sits in a vacant seat in the front row and clasps his hands on the desktop as if politely waiting for class to begin.

  Everyone’s smiling and waiting. I hone in on Freddy and give him a glare that promises retribution. He shrugs and winks. I scan the rest of the class, hoping for one sympathetic grimace, but all eyes shine in anticipation. A few guys in the front row are staring at my chest, the jerks. With Tyler wearing me out, I haven’t been to the Laundromat in over a week, and my clean clothes are dwindling. I had to pick a shirt that clings a little more than I’m comfortable with, and the boys, with their appreciative stares, seem to be noticing.

  “Go ahead, Miss Faye,” Mr. Westbrook says.

  I drop my book bag and draw in a large breath. I can do this. It’s only a moment of humiliation I’ll never live down. “I’m a little tea pot,” I sing quietly. “Short and stout.”

  “Louder,” Mr. Westbrook says, brow furrowed. “We can’t hear you.”

  I roll my eyes. No one said I had to sing loud enough for the back of the class to hear. Before I start over, I notice one of the boys nudge the guy sitting next to him and hold his hands up as if he’s cupping huge melons. The other guy snickers, leering at my breasts. I clench my jaw, resisting the urge to wrap my arms around my boobs.

  Mr. Westbrook taps his watch. “We’re waiting, Miss Faye.”

  I shake my head. I can’t do this while a bunch of perverts undress me with their eyes. They make me feel ashamed just for being female.

  Mr. Westbrook raises an eyebrow. “I have a large volume of material to cover today, Miss Faye. Please proceed.”

  I’m about to tell him I’ll do the homework, but I’ve already wasted class time with my indecision. I should just get it over with. I cringe and fold my arms across my chest to combat the vulnerability I’m feeling. In a booming voice, hoping it’ll detract from my self-conscious stance, I sing, “I’m a little tea pot, short and stout! Here is my handle, here is my spout!”

  “Miss Faye,” Mr. Westbrook says over my singing, “are you forgetting the choreography?”

  The class roars with laughter. I huddle into myself, cursing the day I met Mr. Westbrook. This is a worse humiliation than being kicked out of Tyler’s room.

  Training my gaze on the back wall to avoid the ogling stares, I start over. “I’m a little teapot, short and stout.” I curve one arm at the elbow and plant a hand on my hip. “Here is my handle”—I hold my other hand high in the air to my side—“here is my spout. When I get all steamed up, hear me shout.” I bend at the waist and tip the spout toward the floor. As I tilt, I feel my breasts shift, and I know exactly where every eye in the room is locked. I can feel their gazes burning a hole in my nipples. I chance a look at Mr. Westbrook.

  He’s glaring at the jerk who pretended to cup fake breasts. “That’s enough, Miss Faye. Have a seat,” he growls, but his venomous tone isn’t directed toward me.

  I breathe a sigh of relief that it’s over as I straighten and sling my book bag over my shoulder. Everyone must be surprised by our teacher’s harsh voice because no one says a thing as I walk toward my desk. An occasional chortle rises from the group, but that’s all.

  Mr. Westbrook scribbles something on a piece of paper, folds the note, and passes it to the guy who ogled me. Then he turns toward me, his eyes a little stormy. “Don’t be late again, Miss Faye.”

  I glare at him. “Yes, sir. Of course not, sir. Never again, sir.” I revel in the way he bristles every time the word sir crosses my lips. By the time I sit down, he’s watching me as though he’s afraid I’ll go postal on him. Not till after class, I want to tell him.

  Freddy pats my shoulder. “That wasn’t so bad, right? Better than homework.”

  God, he’s clueless. “You’re on your own for the next paper.”

  If it’s possible for a black guy to blanch, that’s what Freddy’s doing. “Oh, come on! I saved your ass. Did you really want to sing “I Touch Myself” in front of a class of guys?”

  “Whatever,” I grumble. “I’m not talking to you.” I stare at my notebook, ignoring him.

  For the first part of class, he tosses notes on my desk. I only read the first one which has a sobbing face and the words “I sorry” beneath a river of tears. When he realizes I’m not going to reply, he throws wads of paper in my hair. One even lands in my ear, and I furiously dislodge the little bugger with a fingertip. I know Mr. Westbrook can see what Freddy’s doing, but for some reason, he’s choosing to ignore it.

  “Stop it!” I whisper. “We’re not in high school!”

  Freddy mock gasps. “The princess speaks.”

  I scowl and purse my lips, but I can’t stay mad at him. It’s not his fault I was late or that Mr. Westbrook made me sing, but maybe I can use the unfortunate incident to my advantage. “If you get Philosopher Dan lunch, I’ll help with your paper. I didn’t have time to pick up breakfast since I was obviously running late.”

  He leans close and whispers, “Meet me at the library at seven tonight, and you’ve got a deal.”

  I nod once and stare down at my notes while Mr. Westbrook discusses how to choose appropriate graphics. I’m barely listening. Class drags on forever.

  When it ends, over the din of rustling papers and books being shoved into backpacks, Mr. Westbrook says, “Miss Faye, may I speak with you?”

  I don’t bother to acknowledge him as I gather my things, but at least I don’t plan to kill him anymore. The adrenaline from my humiliation’s gone, so I’ll settle for escaping as quickly as possible. I sling my bag over my shoulder and stride toward the podium. “How can I help you, Mr. Westbrook?”

  He takes his glasses off and regards me coolly. “Dr. Albright would like to make a case study of your economic forecasti
ng paper for the book we’re co-writing. Would you be interested?”

  “What would it involve?” I ask, keeping my voice emotionless.

  “You’d need to elaborate on a few points. I estimate it’d be a few days’ work, but it would be excellent for your resume since you’ll be included in the acknowledgments section.”

  I give him my best icy stare. “No, thank you, sir.”

  His shoulders snap tight. “Why not?”

  “I’m not interested, sir.”

  “Is this because of the singing?” His face softens, making me wonder if he feels a little sorry for what he made me do.

  I check my watch. “According to Mickey Mouse’s arms, I have to be at the MLRC in ten minutes to tutor. I’ve given you my answer. Are we done?”

  He shakes his head and sighs. “Miss Faye, I’m offering you an opportunity to boost your resume, and you’re turning it down based solely because you’re angry at your teacher.”

  “I’ll refuse your request on whatever grounds I choose, sir.”

  He presses his lips together so hard, they almost get lost in his face. “Stop calling me sir!”

  “Why not call you sir, sir? You’re my teacher. You’re older. I mean you must be at least thirty, maybe thirty-five?” I know full well he’s in his mid-twenties, but I’ve only mildly exasperated him. I’m going for making him downright angry.

  “I’m twenty-six,” he says incredulously.

  I feign surprise, widening my eyes. “Really?” I’m sure I’m endangering my grade, but I feel as if I’ve been hijacked by my evil twin. I can’t stop myself. After scanning his khaki slacks and red sweater vest, I cock my head toward the fedora on the podium. “With the way you dress, I would never have known.”