Getting Schooled (The Wright Brothers Book 1)

by Jones, Christina C

  Getting Schooled

  Copyright © 2016 Christina C. Jones

  Cover art by Christina Jones

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real locations, people, or events is coincidental, and unintentional.

  Getting Schooled

  When 26 year old Reese accepts a position as a grad assistant, she has no idea an unpleasant encounter with a student will lead to the discovery of what she calls “the trifecta”: fine, intellectual, and a little bit rude – three qualities she finds irresistible in a man. She has no intention of doing anything with that discovery – nothing long term, at least. But everybody knows what happens to best laid plans.

  Jason is a grown man. 28 years old, seasoned and scarred by his real-life experience in the world, he’s at Blakewood State University to finish his degree and move on. The last thing he’s interested in is the female population on campus… but sexy, infuriating Reese might be a notable exception.

  This isn’t a story of opposites attract.

  More like counterparts clash.

  Neither of them is afraid to do battle, and neither is willing to back down. Love and war, win or lose… somebody’s gonna end up getting schooled.

  one.

  “This is part of why I want to reiterate and reinforce my previous point, that this author is, frankly, full of shit. He’s using the fictional character of Vaughan to act out his absurdly patriarchal views of women as objects to be gawked at and abused for his sexual gratification, because in real life, the type of woman that Vaughan obtains would never give Cory Jefferson a second look. Well-educated, confident, worldly women don’t tend to flock to self-important, borderline abusive assholes. At least, not in my experience.

  Further, it’s a glaring indication of self-hatred that none of the “beautiful” women in this piece are described as darker than a paper bag, have good old “brown” eyes, or have hair any kinkier than a loose wave. Darker skinned women are consistently referred to as aggressive, ugly, low class, and uncultured. Vaughan has “relationships” with at least fifteen women through the course of this “book”, and none of them have braids? Locs? A fro? A fade? In 2016? Come on. Cory Jefferson is as black as you can get without being blue, but he can’t see the beauty in skin the color of anything except milk with a splash of coffee? That’s not a preference – it’s a pathology.”

  So… yeah.

  This paper earns a goddamned bae-plus if you ask me.

  I squeezed my thighs together, and let out a small, inaudible sigh as I focused on the essay filling the screen of my laptop. Propping my elbows on the desk in front of me, I folded my hands together, using them to support my chin as I lifted my eyes to the lecture hall full of varying shades of brown faces.

  Which one of you is going to impregnate me with your socially-conscious babies?

  Was it the caramel-toned cutie with the locs and the ankh tatted on his bicep?

  Or Mr. Future Insurance Agent, who always came to class in polos and khakis?

  Hmm.

  Maybe the pretty boy with the mahogany skin and designer prescription frames?

  Or, Mr. Black-in-Every-Way-Except-Race, with the exaggerated swagger that earned him a spot in the world of melanin-rich Greek life?

  Yeah…

  Probably the white boy.

  I shook my head, and turned my attention back to the screen. They were students – I wasn’t. At least not in the same sense as them. Nobody in this classroom, junior level course or not, was old enough for me to do anything except mumble about how “they didn’t make them like that” back when I was a junior – a whopping five years ago.

  There was a whole lot of fine in this lecture hall, sure. On the Blakewood State University campus, period. But looks aside, I preferred men with a little more seasoning.

  A little more experience.

  A little more not still living in the dorms or on-campus apartments.

  A little more enlightened worldview.

  Like whoever actually read more books than the ones on the required reading list, and retained enough to write this paper.

  I let out another sigh.

  It was really too bad.

  I clicked in the margins of the document, opening a comment bubble.

  “Excellent social commentary here,”

  I started there and stopped, putting a completely unnecessary pen between my teeth, biting down as I carefully considered my words before continuing.

  “Unfortunately, much of this doesn’t fall within the bounds of the assignment. Scoring this based on the rubric you were provided, this paper wouldn’t earn more than 68.75 out of a possible 100, if this were a final draft. Consider the following revisions for a higher score:”

  I spent the next few minutes making suggestions in various places on the document, including a little reminder to focus on the work, not the author, even though his opinion was spot on, if you asked me.

  At least I assumed the student was a “he”. Something in the linguistic choices and style screamed male to me, even though the name, J. Wright, did nothing to encourage that notion.

  Whoever it was, they’d be busy this weekend making those revisions. They were smart to take advantage of the offer to send in a first draft for review, with the paper itself not being due until the following week. None of them were expected to actually be good writers yet – this was a junior level course. By the time they left, their skill level would hopefully be a different story, but for now, especially since it was still early in the semester, they got a few crutches.

  I hit the “submit” button on my suggestions, waited to make sure they went through, and then closed the program as the class ended. I watched for a few seconds as the students packed up their laptops and began filing out, and then remembered I had things to do myself.

  Pulling my bag onto the desktop, I closed my computer and shoved it inside, looking up as I felt the shift in energy of someone standing beside me.

  “Reesie,” my mother said, bending at the waist to shove her cell phone in front of me. “What is this? What is a P-I-L-F?”

  I furrowed my eyebrows, reading the caption below the picture that filled most of the screen, of my mother at the BSU alumni cookout a few weeks before the semester started.

  “Maaan, @profBryantBSU is fine af. #idontseearing #ageaintnothinbutanumber #throwindownaintnothinbutathang #PILF #BSUfinest”

  My eyes went wide, and then darted up to the username who’d posted this – some kid, most likely from one of her freshman College Writing courses. The picture was pretty innocent, but my mother did look good. She was posing with two of her colleagues, smiling at the camera in an ikat-print romper that hit her mid-thigh. The halter style of the top completely covered her breasts, but her toned arms – and if she turned around, her back – were exposed. It was a tasteful outfit for the heat of summer, at an event where there had been ribs, beer, and an abundance of playing cards.

  Imara Bryant was pretty damned fine, but I could admit to being biased. Copper-toned skin, thick lashes, a cute nose and full lips, all of which I’d inherited, made for an appealing package. Most mornings, she summoned me to the campus sidewalks to go running with her, and she was constantly on my ass about eating well and drinking enough water – her weapons in the battle against aging. Some of her almost-fifty years showed in the fine lines of her face, but as an overall package, mommy was winning.

  Evidenced by this social media post.

>   I giggled a little as she peered over my shoulder, eyes narrowed in concentration behind her delicate glasses. “Mama, you know what a milf is, right?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, looking at these context clues, I’d say a pilf is a “professor I’d like to fu—”

  “I’m going to email this little boy’s mother!” she exclaimed in a loud whisper, glancing furtively at the students still exiting the class. “She had the nerve to contact me because I called him in during office hours to discuss why he can’t seem to focus in class. Well now I see!”

  “Relax, mama.” I grinned, patting her on the arm as I stood and slung my laptop bag over my shoulder. “Shouldn’t be this fly if you don’t want anybody to notice.”

  I tossed her another smile before I pulled my cell out, my fingers flying over the screen as I texted my friend Devyn on the way out the door. Just as my thumb went to the button to hit “send”, I collided with a warm body, and bounced back from the impact.

  Looking up, I took in a tall body and broad shoulders, wrapped in the standard navy blue Dickies uniform of an auto mechanic. Reflexively, my eyes dropped to check for any grease or grime that may have gotten onto me, marring the summer white of the off-shoulder peasant blouse I wore with jeans and flats. I’d been trying all day to keep it pristine, but it seemed like the entire campus was against me.

  “Don’t worry,” a deep voice rumbled, edged with irritation. “I didn’t get anything on your… shirt.”

  If there was ever an instant where it was possible for the word shirt to be an insult, this was definitely it. It rolled off his tongue like my carefully selected outfit was disgusting to him, like it didn’t even deserve to be considered as an article of clothing. I could admit that the gauzy cotton top was a little eclectic, but damn.

  My eyes climbed higher, wanting to connect the frosty demeanor with a face, but he’d already brushed past me – not exactly rough, but certainly not gentle either – and the only things I caught were pecan-colored skin and a crisply lined fade.

  “Excuse you!” I called at his retreating back, but he didn’t bother to turn around, or otherwise acknowledge that I’d said anything.

  Asshole.

  I stepped out of the doorway, out of the way of any other students who may have been on their way out. It was Friday, and the last class of the day, so the building was emptying quickly as everyone scurried toward their weekend plans. Raising my phone, I unlocked the screen and hit send on the message I’d been typing before rude-ass bumped into me. I stuck my cell in the back pocket of my jeans, and was heading toward the glass double-doors that led out of the building when Olivia turned the corner and almost walked right into me.

  “Just the girl I wanted to see!” she said, her face lighting up as she pulled me into a hug. Olivia worked in BSU’s law library as a legal research librarian, though she looked nothing of the part. When I first met her, she was a solid slacks, solid blouse kind of girl. Over the years, she’d loosened up and developed a little more diverse sense of style. Improved fashion choices had brought out new confidence, new confidence brought out more ambition, and I mean… who couldn’t use a little more ambition?

  “What’s up Liv?” I asked, stepping out of her embrace. “Hey, is my outfit ugly?”

  She looped her arm through mine, joining me in exiting the library building, where the literature department was housed. “What? No, it’s not. It’s fly. You’re always fly. Why are you even asking me that? Anyway. You’re coming to Refill tonight, right?”

  Refill was a popular hangout spot across town, too far from campus to attract the undergrad population. Sleek, modern décor, low key vibes, a liquor license, and a strictly enforced twenty-five or older policy made it ideal for the slightly bougie, professional late-twenties crowd.

  My kind of crowd.

  Still, I shook my head. “I honestly didn’t plan to. Grayson finally got some time off, so he’s supposed to be dropping by the house tonight.”

  Olivia abruptly stopped in her tracks, her pretty caramel toned face screwed into a little scowl. She had braids like mine, and swung them over her shoulder as she rolled her eyes. “Oh. You and Grayson are still a thing? Of course you’re ditching your friends to hang with your man.”

  I sucked my teeth. “Uhh, back up. Have I not kicked it with you often over the last two months while he’s been busy with this monster case? Don’t try to play me like I’m the friend who disappears because she has a man, when you know that’s not the situation.”

  There was silence between us for about two-Mississippi because her frown softened. “I guess you’re right, huh?”

  “I don’t have to guess,” I chuckled, turning to continue my journey down the sidewalk. “I don’t mean to duck out on you, but I haven’t been able to spend any significant time with Grayson in months. Girlfriend duty calls.”

  Olivia let out a little sigh, then jogged a bit to catch up before falling into stride beside me. “I know, I get it. I was just hoping to have some company to go listen to Julian Black sing tonight.”

  I cringed. “Oooh, that was tonight?”

  Shit.

  Julian Black was this generation’s Joe, Tyrese, Usher, Ginuwine, you name it. Handsome, talented, the body of an Adonis, without the social media fuckery. So basically, full blown unattainable crush material that I was missing out on seeing live in favor of kicking it with Grayson… and I wasn’t sure I felt like it was worth it.

  “Maybe you could bring Grayson with you? That way you get to see Julian, see Grayson, and not leave me hanging. Three birds, one stone.”

  I smiled. “As compelling as your argument is,” I said, stopping at a crosswalk to let a car finish passing before I continued, “it’s still a no. Grayson already says he wants to do something quiet, just me and him. I don’t think he’d be too enthused if I tried to drag him out there. Maybe next time.”

  Olivia groaned. “Okaaay, Have fun with your boo.”

  “I definitely plan to.”

  We split up and went our separate ways, and in my car, I stifled a yawn.

  Truthfully, part of my reluctance to go to Refill tonight was rooted in the fact that I was straight up tired. Between the coursework to finish my MFA, and my responsibilities as a grad assistant, I was a busy girl. I cherished the time I had to chill and kick it with my friends, but I was glad for an opportunity to be laid up in manly arms, and have my booty rubbed until I fell asleep early.

  I pulled up to the duplex I called home about twenty minutes later, and dragged myself and my bag out of the car. I plopped down on the couch to take off my shoes and then sat back, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to stay there long.

  This was one of few weekends that I didn’t have any assignments due when classes resumed on Monday. Still, it would be a good idea to get ahead, since I wasn’t planning to go out anyway, and it would be a few hours before Grayson arrived.

  My cell phone let out a melodic chime, and I reached for it, taking it out of my bag. I grinned when I saw the message from Devyn, the woman who owned the title of “best friend” in my life.

  “Grayson is still a ‘thing’ around these parts? Ew. – Devyn.”

  Shaking my head, I thought about what I wanted to type back. Her ill feelings toward Grayson were firmly rooted in a conversation we’d had after his first month of scarcity. She’d gotten this weird look on her face when she asked me if I missed him and my answer was no, but it wasn’t that big of a deal to me.

  I’d never been the girl to be stuck under a man, vacuuming up his time. If he wanted to chill, fine. If not, I wasn’t that pressed. Obviously, there were some boundaries and specific criteria to that, but in general, I wasn’t too bothered about Grayson’s absence. He was busy, I was busy. Shit happened when you were our age, finishing grad degrees, and starting careers.

  Devyn wasn’t convinced, but that was okay. Bestie or not, I didn’t need her approval to continue a relationship with Gray. We talked, texted, grabbed lunch or dinner
where we could, but between case filings, legal briefs, and traveling back and forth between here and Seattle to mollify some big shot client, his time was limited. Which was totally okay, cause I didn’t have time for him to always be sniffing behind me either.

  “Yes, Gray is still a thing, smart ass. I need SOMEBODY to stroke this kitty.”

  I preemptively chuckled, imagining her response, and then tapped on the blinking email notification at the top of my screen. Some of the messages were from classmates, exchanging notes, asking about assignments. I responded where necessary to those, and then moved to the ones from the program BSU used to allow professors to give feedback on student-submitted papers.

  Because I was my mother’s grad assistant, and had the responsibility of providing the critique for her Modern Black Literature course, any correspondence was first routed to me – not that the students knew that. I’d had to stop myself from bursting into laughter in the middle of her lecture more than once, reading some of the asinine excuses some people gave for late, or bombed assignments. And then I handed them their asses, because that’s exactly what mama – ahem. Professor Bryant – would do.

  One message in particular stood out, at least to my eyes.

  “J. Wright” had responded to my feedback from earlier, and for some reason, I felt a little giddy as I clicked to open the message.

  “I’d like to contest the assertion that my paper goes outside of the scope of the assignment. The book goes outside of the scope of the assignment, because this isn’t literature. It’s presented as literary fiction, but it’s a badly written hood novel with a heaping dose of magical realism, at best. It could be in the “black” section at the bookstore, with the title in blinged-out font and a half-naked woman (with green eyes, long hair, and light skin) holding a gun. It would be a much better fit there.”

  My eyes went wide, and a blinked a few times, reading the message again before a smile spread over my face, and I shook my head. Instead of replying from my phone, I pulled out my laptop and laid the phone down at my side. It took a few minutes to load my email up, but once I did, I quickly typed out a response.