by Aria Ford
Francesca’s eyes bulged out their sockets in disbelief. I’m confident that the real Adam Houston could eat that man.
When Francesca had read Adam Houston’s work three years ago, the picture on the back of the hardcover book was of a man with twice the number of chins that this svelte gentleman had, and the portlier man’s hair had dangled just slightly over his unibrow in thick, slimy, black tendrils.
This man’s salt and pepper hair complimented his olive skin. He stood with perfect posture, confidence and opulence were the pheromones that snaked their way off of him and to the hormones of all neighboring women.
Francesca shuddered, trying to figure out how to approach him. She took a deep breath and barreled down the steps. She pushed past a few people and flashed smiles as apology. She was gripping her manuscript so tightly her fingers were starting to throb. She was so close.
The inner circle of professors was not going to simply budge and let her soak up valuable Adam Houston time. Sally Hepp brought the sharp end of her nude colored stiletto down onto Francesca’s ballet flat covered foot.
Francesca whined in pain and Sally muscled her out of the circle and battered Adam with questions. Fran swore under her breath as she limped back to her classroom. She unlocked the door and collapsed into her seat. She popped her foot out of the baby blue ballet flat and poked at the bloody bruise that was forming.
I would sue the slutty heels off of her if I could afford a lawyer. She sighed heavily, and kicked her knapsack underneath her desk with her uninjured foot.
She supposed that she should spend her extra time coming up with a slightly more interesting lesson plan, but she couldn’t get Adam Houston out of her head. Had that really been him? He had looked so vastly different from the picture she had seen years ago. Not only was he a brilliant wordsmith, but he was handsome as hell too. She really needed to find a way to get to him.
Chapter 4
Francesca nodded along at the story that the junior in front of her was telling. The story just seemed to get longer and longer, and every time that there seemed to be an opening for it to end, she droned on.
I should be the professor that I wanted at 19, someone who was excited to hear about a student’s novel. But she’s so boring.
Rachel Smere tucked her pin-straight golden hair behind her ear and kept chattering about the importance of a soft male lead. “I just think that Ross is going to be a great character for Valeria to focus on, you know? What if the man she’s been wanting this whole time is just a sensitive art teacher instead of this dominating, and imposing billionaire type?”
Francesca battled with herself on whether or not to release the sigh that she was holding in. “Yeah, we do need to move away from conventional male roles.” She looked over Rachel’s shoulders and noticed that the crowds were thinning in the hallway.
Shit! I’m never going to be able to find a seat at this rate! Shut up, shut up, shut up! she wanted to scream.
“I think that it’s great that Valeria is from Bulgaria, not one of the places that everyone romanticizes. I think I’ll make her a simple girl, someone that’s used to rolling hills and long days tending to the sheep.”
“Hey, Rachel, let’s consider this an extra credit assignment between the both of us. Whenever you finish your first draft, just hand it over to me for bonus points. You can have the points as long as you don’t spoil the story for me or give me any hints about the characters. I want to have a fresh analysis.”
Rachel gleamed. “Seriously, Professor Reynolds?”
She tapped her on the shoulder and headed for the stairs. She’d been smart enough to wear comfortable sneakers today. “Seriously!” she tossed over her shoulder.
Francesca jogged down the hall and pushed open the heavy door to Adam’s lecture hall. There weren’t too many students in his afternoon classes and there were several seats available in the back row. She slid into the row, and got comfortable in a seat as Adam called the class to attention.
He smiled at them and announced, “Welcome to my lectures. I opted to not follow a set curriculum because I’m very excited to have been offered an opportunity to assist young literary enthusiasts. I want to teach from experience so there will be no textbooks in this class.”
Francesca cringed at an audible swoon from a few girls in the front row.
“I want to help you guys dive into what literature really is. I know that you’ve been told your whole lives to admire the greats. Respect Jane Austen, Hemingway, and Poe- and you should. However, a long-winded piece with flowery description isn’t necessarily lit. Sometimes, it’s just bullshit.”
Francesca snuggled into her seat, and wore a smug smile. None of these two-year-olds could have made that deduction. He knows real lit because he writes it, and he’ll know that my work is real lit.
“Lord of the Flies is boring in parts. I’m not going to pretend it isn’t; the author takes at least a half page to describe what an eerie lake looks like. Real literature, fantastic writing and reading, is succinct.” He walked over to his white board and with a fat, purple marker, etched: SUCCINCT.
Francesca couldn’t think of a better way to spend an hour.
***
Two full hours later, the girls in the front row filed out after offering Adam a few suggestive grins and winks. As the space closer to the floor began to empty out, Francesca snatched her knapsack and all but ran down the steps.
Adam jumped, frazzled, and eyed her as he slipped his binder and notes into a solid black messenger bag. “Can I do something for you?” he offered.
Francesca grinned, and shoved her hand out at him. “Yes. My name is Francesca Reynolds, I’m teaching Lit right down the hall. Though I have to admit, I don’t have nearly the numbers in my lectures that you do. I don’t mean to sound like every other person at the university, but I love your work.”
He smiled and the corner of his eyes crinkled. “Really? I appreciate that, it’s nice when your peers have read your work and appreciate it”
“I think your characterization is flawless and I wish I could bring your style to my own work without plagiarizing.”
“Were you in class just now? For my lecture?”
Francesca nodded. “Yes, I snuck in the back. I loved what you had to say. I was actually wondering that if you had the time- if you would mind reading some of my work? Maybe just a little?”
He chuckled and asked, “I suppose you have a short story that the literary journals just won’t publish?”
Her fingers strained as she pulled out her dictionary-thick manuscript with just one hand and shoved it toward him. “Not exactly. I think a publishing house is more of the help I need. I’d really like for someone in the business to look over it before I bring it to a publisher, I don’t want to seem like every amateur-”
“Like every amateur that approaches a published author the first opportunity that she gets? Or like every amateur that’s not afraid to show a little skin and flirt a little bit to get what she needs?”
Francesca stammered, “N-no, I-I-”
He smiled seductively. “Maybe if you agree to dinner Miss Reynolds, I’ll see what I can do about taking a look at your manuscript.”
Francesca chewed her lip in thought. “What did you have in mind?”
He chuckled. “Well, I’m still new to the city. Why don’t you tell me a good place to go and have a little fun,” he winked at her.
Francesca thought for a minute. “I know the perfect place, actually,” she said. She reached out and grabbed Adam’s hand, turning it over and scrawling her phone number on his palm. “Why don’t you call me tonight and I’ll let you know where you can pick me up?”
Adam looked her over and a smile spread across his face. “I think I’ll do just that Miss Reynolds.”
Francesca turned on her heel and headed back up the steps and out the door, turning to call over her shoulder. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”
Chapter 5
“Can you bel
ieve this is actually happening?” Francesca said, as she poured the pre-made margarita mix into the blender. Sal paced in front of the kitchen counter, sticking a jittery hand out for a finished lime margarita.
“I can’t. I cannot believe that he just basically asked to bang you in exchange for reading your manuscript.”
Francesca popped ice cubes into the blender. “Well, he wasn’t that crass. Maybe he thought I was interested too? Maybe he thought that that was why I approached him?”
“Or maybe he’s taking advantage of the situation. A young, attractive professor is giving him an upper hand in this because she wants something from him.”
The blender whirred and they both grimaced at the high screech of the small appliance that should have been replaced two years ago.
She held up a finger as Sal started to go on, “Now, if anyone is taking advantage of anything here, it’s me.”
Sal shrugged and sipped on his margarita. He walked over to the couch. “Fine. Okay, you get laid. You might get a published book out of this.”
“Or even some solid advice! I am taking advantage of a newly divorced man’s attraction to me, an attraction that he was very blunt. So, maybe I will sleep with him, but I’m still the one coming out on top.”
“Do you know how sex works? I know that it’s been a while.”
Francesca flicked some of the chunky ice from her glass at Sal, who dodged it and continued to sip on his. “Alright, fine, let’s say he gets you published somehow and all he wants is for you to suck the book deal right out of his cock for the rest of your life.”
“It would be the most fruitful juices I’ve tasted in years, then.”
****
Adam flipped the pages of Francesca’s humongous manuscript. Is this a series flopped into one book? he thought, as his eyes ran over the text for the eighteenth chapter. I’ve never been a slow reader, but this one is going to take me a couple of weeks.
Francesca’s long neck and petite pear shape fluttered through his mind. Not that this book isn’t interesting, but there are other things I’d like to offer my attention to.
She had left the ball in his court. He could call, and she might see it as a promise that he could help her get her work published. As to what she was really expecting was up in the air, his agent, Courtnie, wasn’t going to just waste precious time on some newbie he fancied. In actuality, she’d be battering him about where the hell his next draft is and why he hadn’t sent it to his editor, Travis. The truth was, he hadn’t been able to write since his divorce. His phone flashed but it was only a nonsense notification from the bank about his balance. His daughter was still making him wait on a phone call. Tonya, his ex-wife, couldn’t be trusted to call him and let him know how their child was or to call him herself with an update.
He walked into his bedroom at the end of the hall, where the walls were lined with boxes that he still had no plan on unpacking. He walked over to his desk and scooped up the wide red folder Wright University had given him when he accepted a position there.
It contained a list of special dates of when class would not be in session, university maintenance numbers, a staff code of conduct booklet, and a staff directory.
He flipped through the orange-colored pamphlet until he landed on the “R” section under the heading for professors.
He walked back through the living room and dialed the number he found. He sighed as the phone rang four long rings, before a lazy voice answered.
“Hello?”
“Francesca? Professor Reynolds?”
“Is this Adam Houston?”
He reclined on his couch and played with the cuff on the cardigan he was wearing. “Yes, I was taking you up on that offer.”
Her laugh was breathy. “I believe that you were the one to offer me a date, and whatever else you were hinting at.”
“Should I take that as you are uninterested?”
“Not at all. I said that you offered, that doesn’t mean that I won’t accept.”
He grinned and stood up. “I’m going to text you an address and I’ll see you there in a half hour.”
“How do you know that I don’t have plans?”
He hung up, and swiped his keys off of the end table by the door.
***
Francesca walked down the sidewalk, her eyes searching for the sign that her GPS had led her to. A few people walked by with hot drinks, and she pulled her sweater tighter around her. She wore a salmon-colored cardigan and a black skirt. Her eyes lit up as she stumbled upon her destination.
It was a fairly large cafe, with a stage in the center of it. It was packed to the brim. Through the window, she could see Adam sitting at a two-person table. He was dressed just as nicely as he would be in class.
She walked in and nodded at the barista at the counter. She slid into the seat across from him, a smirk on her face when he jumped. “Hey there. You finally made it.”
She scoffed. “Well, it wouldn’t have taken me so long if you hadn’t picked New York’s least known cafe to meet.”
“I wouldn’t say it’s the least known but it is the only self-proclaimed literary cafe in New York that I know of.”
A barista walked by and Francesca flagged her down. “Can I have a chai latte please?” The girl nodded and walked off and Francesca asked, “So what do they do here? Does everyone get together and critique each other’s work? I guess that could be helpful, but what if someone steals your ideas?”
A milk wand aerated some milk from behind them and Francesca resisted the urge to cringe at the sound, it was an unpleasant disruption to the low rumble of voices in the crowded cafe.
“Don’t think like that. Are you familiar with Dillon Miller?”
Francesca snorted as she cupped her hands around a large yellow tea cup and deeply inhaled the chai steam that floated from it. “Am I familiar with him? I lived on him throughout high school. He was my inspiration after a while, once my grades got low enough and I didn’t care about college anymore, I told myself I’d be like him. So I entered every writing contest I found.”
“Did you win any of them?”
She shrugged. “Some. I never won anything important, nothing major that people read my published stories in.”
“Well, I don’t know if you know this but because of his fame, Dillon does readings for small crowds.”
“Are you trying to say that Dillon Miller might be here?”
Adam smirked. “I’m saying that he already is. He didn’t mind stopping by once I told him that I moved to New York and promised to read his next manuscript and offer my thoughts.”
Francesca put a hand on her leg to stop it from bouncing up and down. The sound of microphone feedback echoed throughout the cafe and she whipped her head around to the stage. A barista waved at everyone and said into the microphone, “Excuse me, excuse me, guys. We have a last-minute addition tonight, but it’s something that all of you guys will love. Dillon Miller has decided to grace us with his presence to read a couple of chapters of his new material.”
There was excited chatter in the crowd and a portly gentleman in a striped sweater walked onstage. Everyone clapped, and he waved his hands at the applause as he accepted the microphone from the barista.
“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you, guys. That’s really sweet. I feel like an asshole though,” Francesca could hear the youth in his voice. “because I totally didn’t come for you guys. Don’t get me wrong! I’m glad you’re here but I was asked to come down and share some of my stuff so that Adam Houston would hear. I really love your work, Adam.”
Francesca’s body buzzed with excitement and Adam took a long sip of her chai. She snatched the cup back and he said, “You’re missing the chapters. This is good stuff for you to take in.”
Dillon’s story was about a man in Ireland that was convinced that his family had turned their livestock against him.
This thing is bleeding with useless description. I get that the hills are green, what other color would the
y be? she thought after a while.
Her eyes rolled over to Adam, who was listening to each syllable. Every so often, he would make sounds of approval or he would chuckle.
How the hell long are two chapters?
*****
Oh, thank God! I can have my brain back, Francesca thought as they left the cafe and walked down the sidewalk. Adam looked over to her. “What did you think?”
“I think that he’s still a very talented writer. But his descriptions were a little long-winded.”
“Ah, yes, and yours are much more to the point.”
She gave him a sideways look. “You’ve started reading my novel, then? And straight to the point is better, don’t you think? Did you really enjoy listening to ten minutes of what color grass is?”
He slipped his hand into hers and led her along the street.
“I think that Dillon’s voice is unique, you just need to clear out most of your afternoon to enjoy his work. Yours on the other hand, while you don’t waste time telling us what color Regina’s skirt is for two pages, your chapters are pretty long.”
“That’s a good thing; if anything it shows that I’m not lazy. Right?”
“You think that it shows how hard you’re willing to work? How hard are you willing to work?” he asked.
She stopped on the sidewalk and turned to look at him. “Are you offering to help me publish my book if I fuck you? she asked pointedly.
A slow, wicked smile split Adam’s lips. “Not at all. I make no promises. But you can still fuck me if you’d like.”
A passerby might have thought this was a conversation of sweet promises if they didn’t bend an ear to the whispers.
Francesca leaned closer to him and whispered in his ear. “How far is your place?”
***
Adam thrust her against the door of his apartment, having barely made it inside before grabbing her. He grabbed one of her legs and pulled it up around his waist and Francesca wrapped her arms around his neck for optimal leverage.
His right hand traveled up the route of bare skin underneath her skirt and pulled her panties down as her fingers fumbled to undo his belt. She only got a glimpse of his gray briefs before they were lowered and hung around his knees.
