Cowboy Professor_A Western Romance Love Story

by Ivy Jordan

  “This is your second date, Ava. You didn’t even know you were on your first. You’re completely clueless. You need my help, maybe not for the romantic part, maybe you can hold your own. But you’re still a virgin.”

  “I refuse to have this conversation.” I pushed my food away. “Is that clear?”

  “You’re making a mistake.” Nicole ate a chip.

  “And you’re not going to make me spend all my money on some ridiculous outfit.”

  “No, I thought ahead,” Nicole reached into her bag and pulled out her wallet. She held out her credit card for me to see. “My parents said I could spend whatever I wanted, so long as I don’t go over the limit.”

  Nicole took another bite of her nachos, then got up to throw our plates away. We piled into Nicole’s car and made our way to the freeway. The campus didn’t have many options. It was surrounded by houses and small businesses, but it was mostly food and bars. There were a few boutiques, but their clothes were mostly secondhand.

  If we wanted to get decent clothes for a good price, we had to drive to Sea Haven. The mall was more than half an hour away, on the south side of town, where the ghetto met the white shopping districts and chain restaurants.

  We had to merge into the right lane if we were going to take the exit. Nicole had a clear shot. Then she hit the gas and sped right past it.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Driving,” she said.

  “I know that, but you missed our exit.”

  “We’re not going to Seahaven,” she scoffed.

  “Well, then where are we going?”

  “Ridgeway.”

  “Ridgeway? Are you talking about the mall in the foothills? Please tell me you’re not going there.”

  “You don’t understand. This isn’t a T-shirt and jeans type of thing. It might be for him, but he’s a guy, a rich guy. There’s a way to handle yourself around people like him. Even if you’re going on a casual get-together. You’re still going to need to look camera-ready.”

  “Camera-ready? He’s not being followed by the paparazzi.”

  “I’m not talking about being literally ready for the cameras. It’s just something they say. Everything has to be perfect, like plastic—perfect skin, perfect hair, not one strand out of place, and your clothes have to be high-end. If they’re not, you might as well stay home. You probably won’t even get laid.”

  “That’s not the point,” I said.

  She merged into the right lane. “I know it’s not about sex. That’s not the point either. How’s he going to respect you when you’re wearing a grease-stained shirt, and your breath smells like coffee?”

  “We’ve been up close and personal before, and he never said anything about my breath.”

  “Ava, you’re an amateur, and at some point, you’re going to have to accept that. I’m your friend, remember? I’m not going to lead you astray.”

  “I don’t think this is rocket science, Nicole.”

  “Look at me.” She turned my way, and made a sharp right onto the exit. “Ava, you don’t know what you’re doing. Now, I’m willing to help, but you need to trust me.”

  I pursed my lips. “Alright, maybe I don’t know everything, but that doesn’t mean you have carte blanche. I make my own style choices.”

  “We’ll talk about that.” In the rest of the city, the streets were crowded, with people walking back and forth on the sidewalk and swarming the shopping centers. There were grocery stores and small restaurants. It was everyday life, going on as it always did.

  The foothills were different. The beat-up old sedans and gas guzzlers had been replaced by sleek muscle cars and luxury sedans. There was no sidewalk. Nobody wanted pedestrians getting in the way of their cars, so they dug trenches on the side of the road and made sure there was nothing people could walk on to get to the shopping centers.

  That meant that there were no bus people, no old ladies pushing shopping carts, or thugged-out adolescents selling drugs at the corner. Everything was different—the strip malls had courtyards, tailored gardens, and fountains. Instead of neighborhoods, they had gated districts with names like Riverwood and Briar Crest. All of them had gates, hedges, and security guards in little huts.

  I felt strange being there. I felt dirty. I couldn’t afford an all-white skirt suit with matching heels, or a $60 haircut and a $500 dye job. My clothes were older than everyone else’s. My hair was just a little more messed up. I didn’t fit.

  Nicole could pass. I noticed when she was parking that her shirt was a basic black, and her jeans were simple, but they had the right coloring, decorative buttons, and a fade that passed down the thighs, highlighting all the right areas.

  I mostly picked my clothes by the price, not the way they looked. She’d tailored her style to make it simple and appropriate wherever she was. Now I wanted to change, and take a moment to do my makeup, but Nicole was parking the car and ready to get out.

  I pulled my mirror down. My lips were a little chapped, and my face was too pale. “I need a little help, don’t I?”

  “And there’s nothing wrong with that. You just have different priorities.”

  “God, you’re right.” I sighed. “It’s going to take a lot of money to do this. Makeup isn’t cheap, and the clothes…are you sure you want to do this, Nicole?”

  “Are you kidding? I’ve been dying to do this for years.” She started to get out. I took a second to look over my hair. I had to make sure it was straight, at least. She turned to me. “It’s fine.”

  “Alright.” I got out, and we walked through the mall courtyard to the entrance. Everything was quiet. Nobody was standing around smoking or staring at their phones.

  Nicole seemed to know exactly where she was going, so I followed her. I didn’t recognize any of the stores. They were mostly showrooms with bags and shoes on display. Nothing was out on the shelf or hanging on racks. The real products were behind the desk.

  The clerks wore suits and basic dresses, some with expensive jewelry, others with slick hair. The environment was too sterile, too perfect, and the place was too empty. I noticed a change in Nicole the second we walked inside. She moved like she had a purpose. Her back was straight, and she moved quickly until we walked up to a shop. “Nicole,” I said as she started to walk inside.

  She looked back and glared at me like I was making a scene. “Come on,” she said.

  The store lobby was all white, with outfits hanging on the walls. Stilettos were sitting on freestanding displays that looked like clear stacks of cubes. This was obviously one of the nicest stores in the mall. It was called Lorenzo. I knew I’d heard the name before. “Are these designer?” I asked.

  “You need designer clothes.” She walked up and grabbed me by the wrist. “Let’s go.”

  I didn’t have a choice. I had to go in. If I tried to fight her, she’d find some way to twist things around and convince me to go in. We were basically just saving time. Nicole took the clerk aside while I sat down on a bench near the cash register in the back.

  She reemerged from behind a shelf, and the clerk walked in back. “Just trust me, okay?”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She sat down on the bench next to me.

  The clerk came out holding three hangers with outfits wrapped in gray garment bags. “Here you are.” He passed them to Nicole.

  “What are those?” I asked when he left.

  “This way.” She dragged me through to the dressing room, then handed me the outfits. “Get dressed. I want to see each of them on you. Don’t you go walking away without letting me see, either.” She pushed me into the room.

  I hung two of the outfits up and pulled the garment bag off of another. It was a simple, blue top with mesh lacing around the collar. I held it up to get a better look. It was more intricate than I thought, with ruffles traveling down the stomach, and the sleeves were puffed. I always liked puffed sleeves.

  With it was a blue skirt. It was
short and tight, made of a thick fabric that looked soft until I touched it, and felt the scratchy surface. When I put the skirt on, it fell just a few inches below my hips. “This won’t work.” I came out wearing the outfit.

  “I think it’s fine. You look good.”

  “The skirt’s too short, and look,” I turned to the side. “This top completely covers my boobs.”

  “Yeah,” she wrinkled her nose, “I think you’re right.”

  I walked back into the dressing room to try on the next outfit: a white, button-up blouse with a black skirt. I had to convince Nicole that the skirt was too short, but she wouldn’t listen. She said that it was longer than the other one. In the end, I had to just veto the outfit, and move onto the next one.

  The top was nothing more than a white strip of fabric, with triangles cut out of the top to hold my boobs in. I hung it out the door. “What is this? What were you thinking? I can’t wear this.”

  “It’s classy,” Nicole said through the door.

  “This is not classy. It’s a thousand-dollar hooker wrap.”

  “That is not a hooker wrap. Try it on. If you don’t like it, we’ll go with another collection.”

  “Alright.” I threw my shirt off and put it on. The fabric bunched up between my breasts and draped down my thin form, like a marble robe flowing down a Greek statue.

  “Well?”

  I ignored her and moved onto the jeans. They were tight and dark with a bright fade hanging down the front. I put them on and turned to the side. I didn’t feel skinny anymore, which was a huge relief. The outfit bunched in all the right places, making me seem more substantial, but it was casual.

  There were no frills, no lace or ruffles. It was as simple as could be, but it was also elegant. I couldn’t believe that such a small strip of cloth could make such a big difference.

  “What’s going on?” Nicole asked.

  “Nothing,” I said, and wiped a strand of hair behind my ear.

  “Let’s see,” Nicole said.

  “Fine.” I walked out, and she stepped back. I could tell that she was inspecting every inch of me. She nodded, and smiled a bit, then turned serious again.

  “I think we have something. Do you want another color? White is too much. It’s too flashy.”

  The fabric caught the light in the dressing room. “It is, but I want the same style. What color should I get?”

  “Lavender.” The clerk walked in. He was holding another garment bag. “Here.” He handed it to me.

  “We might as well just get it,” I said. “Let me change real quick.” I waved Nicole off and she walked back out to the register where the clerk already had everything rung up. I joined her quickly.

  “Thanks for the tip,” I said while he was wrapping up the boxes.

  “I like to help people look good,” he said. “Besides, it’s not every day we have somebody come in with your measurements. It’s exciting.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Oh, yeah.” He handed me the boxes. “You looked amazing in that top.”

  “Thank you.” Nicole and I walked back out into the hall.

  “You need shoes,” she announced. “Can you even walk in heels?” she asked.

  “No,” I said, “and I’m not trying. Those things are death traps.”

  “They’re not that bad.”

  “No, I’m not getting heels, and that’s final.”

  “Fine.” She led me further down the hall.

  The shoe stores were small, with six-inch heels on display near the front door. They were bare for the most part, and from what Nicole told me, they didn’t have a lot of selection when it came to size. We had to try three different stores before we found something suitable. She ended up paying $500 for a pair of black flats.

  When we walked out of the store, I asked, “Don’t you think that it’s kind of ridiculous paying that much for a pair of flats?” Nicole pulled the shoebox out and opened it up for me to see. There was a tag on the front that said Charlie’s.

  “So?”

  “You know nothing. The reason these shoes are $500 is because they were designed by Charlie Lorenta, a celebrity fashion designer.”

  “How does that make them any better than normal shoes?”

  “Because they have the tag on them,” she said.

  “I don’t get it.”

  “That’s because you don’t know how people think. You’re going to be walking around displaying the fact that you can pay for these things. It’s a statement, and not about how stylish you are. It’s about your social standing. Rich people don’t mix with the rest of us, so they look for labels. If you don’t have a label, they won’t talk to you.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I said. “Why should they care?”

  “Because then they’ll know you’re not after their money, and that you’re good enough to get ahead.”

  “But what if my parents are the ones that are rich?”

  “Then they know you come from a good family.”

  “I simply refuse to believe that that’s the way things are.”

  Nicole scoffed and walked down the hall. I followed her into a nail salon where she went over acceptable nail hygiene and what colors were passable. At the hair salon, she insisted on me getting extensions. She said they were a prerequisite. I told her no, which royally pissed her off, so she waited out in the hall while the stylist worked on me.

  He massaged my scalp with oils and salves, then brushed my hair, straightened it, and added thick curls that fell down my shoulders and rested on my chest. Then it was time for makeup. Makeup included full contour and highlighting.

  I watched as the makeup specialist covered my face with foundation and powder, then added on dark splotches, along with streaks of white, then blended them all over my face. Everything looked natural, but also like plastic, when she was done.

  I couldn’t recognize myself at that point. My skin was too perfect. My hair fell in all the right ways, and I was holding myself differently, with my back straight and my neck up. Usually I just looked down at the ground, with my hair hiding my face. Now I felt confident. I didn’t want to hide. I wanted to show off.

  We retreated back to my house, where we lounged around on the couch.

  “You look amazing, Ava. I don’t know why you fought me so hard.”

  “I’m a conventional person. I would never charge up this much money, especially not for clothes.”

  “Channing isn’t a part of the conventional world, Ava. If you really want to date him, and I think you do, you have to meld into his world. I’m just doing you a favor.”

  “I think I would’ve been fine without all of this.” I said. “Besides, I wasn’t wearing labels when he asked me out. I don’t think he’s the type to separate himself from the common folk. He doesn’t even like being famous.”

  “Who wouldn’t like being famous?” she asked.

  “Come on. Would you really like having a bunch of people following you around all the time, trying to talk to you?”

  “There’s something about that attention—knowing you’re admired. I’d love it,” Nicole said, “and I’m sorry. I know that’s not PC, but I like the idea of knowing that people are looking at me.”

  “Well, he doesn’t. I think this whole labels thing is a bunch of crap for pseudo-celebrities and reality TV stars.” I laid my head back against the couch.

  “There are a lot of things that you don’t know about,” Nicole said.

  “Like what?”

  “Like the fact that you’ve never even kissed a man, much less touched one. You probably don’t know how sex works.”

  “Of course I do. It’s a pretty simple concept.”

  “No,” she laughed. “It’s not simple at all.”

  “What do you mean? How hard could it be?”

  “Jesus, Ava…”

  “Fine, I don’t know a thing about sex. Just give me basics.”

  Nicole seemed to think about it for a moment. “There’s a
lot to it. I don’t know.”

  “You’ve got to give me something.”

  “Okay,” she said, “It’s like a rhythm, a way of moving. You have to listen to what he does, and how he reacts. Follow his lead.”

  “Is that the best you can give me? No tricks?”

  “There’s no magic button. There are spots, but they aren’t enough. You have to know how to go with the flow.”

  “That’s not going to help me any.”

  “It’s the best I can give you. To be honest, he probably wants you because you’re a virgin. It might not matter how good you are at it. He’s going to enjoy himself either way.”

  “At my expense.”

  “Maybe not. A lot of guys like to take their time and make sure we enjoy ourselves too, and don’t be afraid to ask. If he’s not doing anything for you, lay your foot down. Make sure you get yours or walk away. That’s another thing. There’s a lot of guys that’ll just shove themselves in you, move around, and pull out.”

  “What should I do?”

  “Offer to let him explore your body, and make sure he knows where everything is. Half these guys don’t even know what a clit is, and make sure that he takes his time. It’s always a rush to them. You’ve got to slow the pace a little, or else you’re not going to get the full experience.”

  “So they won’t do anything for us?”

  “A lot of guys don’t. They just think we’re a hole and nothing else. They’ll push you into it, and hold your head down when you’re blowing him. Don’t let him pull any of that crap. If he tries to choke you with it, bite him, and don’t come back for more. Men like that don’t respect their women.”

  “Choke me?”

  “Oh, they love it. I think it’s a domination thing, but they all do it, and they’ll hold your head into it while they’re coming. It’s disgusting.”

  “I’ll bite.”

  “You should. Make sure he treats you right. That’s another thing: don’t let him boss you around or say mean things to you. If you let that happen, he’ll think he can act however he wants with you.”

  “If any of this stuff happens, I’ll never talk to him again.”