1001 Dark Nights: Bundle Nine

by Carrie Ann Ryan

  “We’ll be diving more into short stories and examining the female writer and what she brought to society in comparison to men at the time. I’d like to hear thoughts on The Yellow Wallpaper. What do you think made the story so popular? What was the writer really trying to tell us?”

  Connor hid a bored sigh and tuned out of the discussion. He’d fix it. He’d be extra nice and charming and give her some needed male attention. Maybe she’d forgotten, and he’d just remind her, they’d laugh about it, and he’d get a damn C.

  Professor Blake paced the front of the room in her usual black boots that made no sound. He wondered if she ever wore stilettos. Probably didn’t know what they were. She preferred shoes with no sex appeal, no heel, and no sense of fun. What type of underwear did she wear to match those awful outfits? Probably cotton. Maybe even granny panties in plain white.

  “Mr. Dunkle?”

  His head shot up in pure surprise. She was staring at him with a focused expression that almost made him blush. Almost. Of course, she had no clue he’d been wondering about the look of her panties. He gave her an easy grin that usually charmed women within a few seconds. “Yes?”

  “I’m interested in your opinion of the story.”

  Shit. He hadn’t understood the end. Hell, he hadn’t understood much of it and daydreaming in class wasn’t helping him. He kept the grin and nodded. “I thought it was a brave way of portraying the character.”

  There. Sounded good. She tapped her finger against her orange-red lips and leaned against the side of the desk. “Interesting. Tell me more.”

  Shit.

  He tried not to sweat and frowned, as if thinking hard, and tried to buy time. “Well, the writer struggled with identity.”

  Connor had heard that line in many classes and felt it was a solid portrayal of the ridiculous story he’d hated. He waited for her to move on to someone else, but instead she actually walked up the aisle to his seat. Sweat pricked his forehead. He hadn’t felt this put on the spot since high school.

  “So, the writer was brave and struggled with identity. Why don’t you tell me exactly what you feel the story is about?”

  And that’s when Connor realized she knew. Up close, her dull brown eyes glinted with flecks of gold-green, pulling an observer in. Her face seemed expressionless but Connor caught the challenge in her gaze—the knowledge he had no clue what he was talking about, and she was going in for the kill.

  Who would’ve thought a drab English professor could be so ruthless?

  He regrouped and assessed the situation. Tilting his head, he stared right back, refusing to back down. “I think the story was ridiculous and contrived. It was a big whine fest of a character trapped in a room, obsessed with the wallpaper but not enough guts to get herself out of the situation. That’s what I thought about the story.”

  The class tittered. He waited for her attack, knowing he’d challenged her in class, which was her natural terrain. Still, Connor didn’t care. That story sucked and it was a relief to admit it.

  A small smile touched her lips. “A fair and honest assessment,” she concluded.

  He grinned.

  “By a reader who has no idea what he’s reading. By a reader who has no desire to try and follow the writer or do more than lazily lay back and wait for the car wrecks, or sex scene, or shootout. We’ve become a society who wants so badly to be entertained, without using a brain cell, and refuses to do the work to engage and follow greatness. Frankly, Mr. Dunkle, you disappoint me. I had expected much more of you.”

  His grin disappeared.

  She walked away on soundless shoes and pointed to the blackboard. “Maybe we can salvage it for the rest of the class. Let’s begin.”

  Connor held back a groan.

  This was going to be a bitch of a semester.

  Chapter Two

  “I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in”––Virginia Woolf

  Ella watched her students file out of class but her attention was focused on one particular individual.

  Connor Dunkle.

  She sensed a play coming on, and she was actually going to enjoy it. Teaching provided her a sick sense of satisfaction when she got to take an egotist, smug person and knock them down a few notches. It also offered a perfect conduit to change the thinking and view of the world one student at a time. Sure, sometimes she felt as if she made no difference with her classes. But once in a while, she lasered in on a student who needed to be challenged.

  “Professor Blake? Can I talk to you a moment?”

  She turned, and right on cue, there he was. Ella hid her smile and wondered how the first round would fare. She’d pegged him from the first day, but sometimes a student surprised her.

  “Yes, Mr. Dunkle?” She peered over her thick-framed glasses. She could’ve picked trendy or delicate frames, but she liked the way these intimidated her students. “What can I do for you?”

  His charming grin could’ve short-circuited the light bulbs or rendered one speechless. Had she ever seen such perfect white teeth? The man was a walking delectable treat for the female vision, but Ella had prepared. She checked in with her body and was quite pleased. Other than a recognizable hum between her thighs, she was completely in control. Of course, he didn’t know that. Ella judged there weren’t many offers Connor made that were turned down. The reason was all six foot five inches that towered over her desk with lean, cut muscles evident beneath his casual clothes. Dirty blond hair lay messily over his brow. He wore it long, and the thick strands curled around the edge of his ears. His face was sculpted quite beautifully, from the high cheekbones, full lips, and perfect dimples. He reminded her briefly of a young Robert Redford from her favorite movie, The Way We Were. Sure, Redford was old now, but Ella believed the greats like Newman and Redford and Brando paved the way for Pitt and Hemsworth. And damned if her fingers didn’t itch just once to brush those gold streaked strands from his forehead.

  His eyes delivered the final one-two punch. Crystal blue swirled with a touch of green, clear as glass and deep as the sea. Eyes like that could mesmerize prey, but Ella had tons of practice restraining messy desires. She met his gaze, ignoring the tiny tumble in her belly, and kept her gaze on the prize.

  “Yes?” she asked with a bit of impatience. He blinked, somewhat confused she hadn’t ducked her head or stuttered. Oh, this one needed a reality check. Had he ever been rejected? Or was he one of the lucky ones who slid through life unscathed by others? Huh. Another similarity to Redford’s character. She was going to have to re-rent that movie again.

  “I think there was a misunderstanding,” he began. His body language reeked of open friendliness with just a touch of sex. His navy blue T-shirt stretched tight across his chest, and his jeans were worn low on his hips, which were now cocked in a very appealing angle. He tilted his head to ensure intimacy, and damned if his dimples hadn’t popped out. Oh, he was good.

  He held out the paper. “I got an F. I apologize again for turning it in late. See, I’m about to graduate with a business management degree. I need to pass this course.” His smile held well. “When we last spoke, I assumed you understood my position and told me it was acceptable to turn it in a few days late.”

  Oh, she remembered that conversation perfectly. He’d given her excuse after excuse for why he deserved more time, and she just nodded and didn’t have to say a word. The man was probably so used to women giving him everything he wanted, he hadn’t even bothered to wait for her verbal assent. Just walked away with a smile and a wink. He’d actually winked at her like this was 1970 and calling women in authority by honey and babe was fine.

  “It was acceptable,” she said calmly. “But if you’d read your syllabus carefully, you’d see each day it comes in late one full letter grade is taken off. I gave you a break though, Mr. Dunkle. I didn’t count the weekend because I was feeling quite generous. Is that it?”

  He blinked. Confusion flickered over his
face and she had to tamp down a chuckle. He leaned in just a few inches and dropped his voice to a concerned level. “Professor Blake, I need to get a C in this class. My job right now depends on my graduation this June.”

  Her eyes glinted behind her glasses with pure intention. “Did you read The Story of an Hour by Kate Chopin? Or did you scan the Internet for analysis and summaries and stick them into your paper to make it look like you read it?”

  Oh, she knew that look well. Ella waited to see if he’d lie straight to her face. A tiny crease in his brow gave him away. She was the one surprised when he finally answered. “No.”

  “No, what, Mr. Dunkle?”

  “No, I didn’t read the story. I tried. But I got bored and stopped.”

  She nodded. “I’d suggest if you want to pass my class you begin taking it seriously and doing the assignments. On time.”

  His aura simmered with frustration. “I understand. I’ll be sure to read the next short stories thoroughly. Who’s the next author we’re studying?”

  “Virginia Woolf.”

  He looked like he’d rather stick needles in his eye than read Woolf, but she gave him credit. He kept his expression open and understanding. “Fascinating. Hey, maybe we can get some coffee after class? Discuss some of your viewpoints. Get to know one another better? I feel like we may have gotten off on the wrong foot.”

  Unbelievable. The man just kept digging the crater larger and larger. He’d be lucky to graduate. She switched to her disapproving teacher voice: hard, controlled, and full of ice. “I dislike clichés, Mr. Dunkle. In both speech and company.”

  “Huh?”

  “Gotten off on the wrong foot,” she pointed out. “It’s called a cliché. Look it up. Now, do you have any issues regarding the next assignment?”

  He cleared his throat. “I’m just surprised we’re reading another woman writer. This was never explained as a feminist course. I assumed we’d be reading Hemmingway, or Fitzgerald, or Poe. Getting more of the male perspective in society, too, you know?”

  Once again, he realized he’d misspoken too late. Her gaze flicked over him, then slid away in dismissal.

  “You know what they say about the word assume, Mr. Dunkle?”

  “No.”

  Her smile was mean. “It makes an ASS out of you and me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get ready for my next class.”

  She focused on the stack of papers in front of her and began to read. His stunned silence seethed with unspoken emotions, but finally he walked away with his failing paper clutched in his hand. She risked a peek.

  His stride owned pure grace and swagger. His tight, perfect ass made women want to weep. Or cop a feel.

  She tamped down the flare of guilt from ogling a student, but the man was her age and ready to graduate, so it wasn’t all that terrible. Besides, she’d never date the man. If he thought their little chat meant she was going to forgive lateness or inane answers in her class, Connor Dunkle would learn quickly enough.

  Sighing, she began prepping for her next class. God, she was tired. She loved teaching, but lately, burnout threatened. How long had it been since she spent a night out? Or did anything more exciting than grading papers and playing Wii U Super Smash Brothers? She adored her ten-year-old son, but maybe she needed more balance in her life. Ella didn’t want Luke growing up thinking women didn’t leave the house other than to work. But every time she thought about going out with some friends for a drink, mama guilt kicked in. They’d already been forced to move twice before she got her permanent job at Verily College, and he was still adjusting to a new neighborhood and school. How could she leave him to pursue her own fun? The divorce may have been final for a year now, but the first year was filled with pain, anger, and lawyers back and forth. Luke probably needed more time to accept his parents would never get back together. He’d probably freak at the idea of her trying to date, and Lord knows her first priority was to her son.

  Ella sighed. She had no time for dating anyway. Weekends were filled with endless errands and running around. The idea of putting on something more than a pair of sweats seemed painful.

  Right now, her legs resembled a porcupine. If she ever had sex again, she’d need to bribe the beautician to give her a bikini wax.

  She was thirty-five years old, and an official old maid. Maybe they’d make a card in her honor one day. If children even played that game anymore. Oh, Lord, now her mind was chattering about inane things again and she needed to get herself together.

  Ella bet Connor didn’t have such problems. His biggest issue was probably what woman to sleep with and what type of beer to drink with dinner. Yeah, she was being judgy, but damned if she didn’t feel like she had the right just this once.

  She sorted folders and her fingers closed around the glossy postcard she’d found in the Verily bakery. With purple and silvery scroll, the logo of Kinnections matchmaking agency made her pause. Tapping her finger against the edge, she rotated it in her hands and pondered.

  It may be a bit pricey, but imagine someone taking the time to personally screen her matches? No bars or losers or meat markets to deal with. No dreaded Internet. Maybe there’d be a nice single father out there who was perfect for her. A man who took responsibility seriously. A man who wouldn’t dump his family for a newer, flashier model like her dickhead ex-husband.

  The next group of students came straggling in, and Ella shoved the card back into the pile of papers. She’d think about it. Right now, she needed to concentrate on Edith Wharton.

  Ella got back to work.

  Chapter Three

  “I would always rather be happy than dignified.”––Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

  Connor climbed the steps to his apartment, looking forward to some good TV, his meatball parm sub, and a cold Guinness with the perfect head. The conversation with Professor Blake kept replaying over and over in his head. What had he done wrong? The damn class was ruining his perfect GPA, which he’d worked hard for. Was she really going to bust his balls on essays that meant nothing?

  He muttered a few choice curse words and stopped short. A voice hit his ears along with the sound of metal dragging on concrete.

  “What’s a matter, new boy? You too good to hang with us? Maybe I’ll teach you a lesson. Gimme that DS!”

  “No! Leave me alone!”

  Connor bit back a groan and turned. The same three boys—he called them the gangsters—were tormenting some poor kid who had been shoved to the ground and pinned by his bike. An open backpack spilled a variety of contents over the sidewalk. The main bully gave a satisfied sneer and held the red Nintendo DS high over his head.

  Little shits. They liked to play dirty and tended to pick out kids a few years younger. Connor knew the type well. His younger brother, Nate, had fallen victim to bullying in school and it had almost destroyed his ability to concentrate on his studies. Connor made sure no one messed with him, but he felt bad for the kids who had no one to protect them.

  Connor put his purchases down and walked over to the crew. “Practicing for prison?” he drawled. He stood in front of them with his arms crossed casually, an intimidating stare on his face. Like clockwork, the three of them looked at each other, their faces reflecting wariness and a coward’s fear. Yeah, the bullies were only strong together. Break them up and they were helpless. “Here. Let me help you.”

  The boy on the ground ignored his outstretched hand and dragged himself to his feet. No tears shone in his dark eyes, but his skin was mottled red, and his lower lip trembled slightly. Still, pure rebellion reflected in his face and attitude. His dark hair was cut too short, emphasizing a wicked cowlick in the front, and he was skinny and all legs. A thin trickle of blood dripped down his arm. Probably a scraped elbow. He wore a red sweatshirt with the Captain America logo, athletic pants, and some type of expensive looking sneakers. Connor respected him wanting to handle the situation himself, especially at his age. What was he, about nine? Ten?

  “We weren’t doing not
hing,” the lead gangster replied. “He fell off his bike.”

  The boy didn’t deny it. He stared at the bullies with a fierce resentment that shimmered in the air. His hands clenched into tight fists, but he didn’t move, just shifted back and forth on his feet.

  “Convenient. Give me the DS.”

  “It’s mine!” lead gangster whined.

  Connor looked at the kid but he didn’t claim the DS. Keeping a stubborn silence, he met the gangster’s gaze and refused to back down.

  Connor shook his head. “Tough. I’m claiming the DS. I’ve been dying to try out some games so it’s now mine.”

  The boys looked at him as if he’d gone nuts, and Connor used their shock to smoothly snatch the DS from the bully’s hand. “You can’t do that!” the second gangster cried. “That’s stealing.”

  “Guess I’ll be sharing a jail cell with you one day, huh? Listen up. Next time you think you’re gonna have a bit of fun at some younger kid’s expense, remember this. I can find each of you alone and make you regret it. Got it?”

  The leader stepped back. “Whatever. Come on, guys. Let’s get out of here.”

  They trudged away in their ragtag group. Connor picked up the bike from the ground and thrust out the DS. “Here you go. No thanks necessary, kid.”

  “I didn’t need your help,” the boy hissed in fury. Connor jerked back at the frustration glinting from his brown eyes. “I had it handled. You screwed up everything, dude! Now they’re gonna be looking for me cause they think I’m a wuss!”

  Connor blinked. “Are you kidding me? You would’ve gotten beat up. I’ve seen those kids around and they don’t play nice. Trust me, they won’t mess with you anymore.”