Dirty Professor

by North, Paige

  It crushed me to think of anyone living that way. “It doesn’t have to be that way,” I said. To cover myself I added, “In the script, I mean. People like love. They like romance.”

  He smiled at me, but it was a sad kind of smile. “That’s what I love about you, Sophie Adams. You’re still untarnished enough to believe that.”

  It took me a moment to recover for the words. The I love you bit—okay, I love about you bit. But then I heard what he was really saying—that I was naïve, and he would never be anything more to me than the mind-blowing sex of last night.

  “I don’t want you to have any false expectations,” he said, putting the final nail through my heart. “With me or the ending of the script.”

  I steeled myself against the words, reminding myself again what my goal was—that damned article.

  “I’m confused,” I said to Leo, leaning on the desk. “Are you using me for my body or my mind?”

  Leo expression softened as he looked at me. “Both. Equally.”

  “What do you want to use right now?” I teased.

  He leaned across the desk and gently kissed my lips. “Both,” he said.

  We ended up back in the living—working on the script. Every time I suggested a tweak for a scene or length of dialogue, Leo pushed me one step further.

  “That’s the easy thing to say,” he’d tell me of the suggested dialogue. “Audiences expect her to say that, or in that way. Go deeper,” he’d say. “Say it stronger.” And so I’d come up with a better way for the character to state her point, or a better scene for Vivienne and Ian to meet for the first time.

  The work thrilled me more than I ever thought it would. Leo was not easy on me. He was demanding and took on a tone that intimidated me. But I wanted to do well by him, and the story he wanted to tell. Before I knew it, the sun was setting, and Leo ordered dinner to be delivered.

  We took a break to eat on the deck as the sun set. We dug into the food realizing how hungry we’d become. Once we got started on the script, we hadn’t taken a single break. The time flew by.

  “You never did tell me,” Leo said as he bit into his taco. “What’s your favorite movie?”

  “Didn’t we decide that’s a minefield?”

  “No, we decided not to talk about music,” he said.

  “You decided,” I said. “I could talk about it all day.”

  “Please don’t,” he said. “My ears can’t take it.”

  “So what, then?”

  “Movie,” he said again. “Your favorite. What is it?”

  I really didn’t want to tell him. It felt too personal or something. I once read this book that I fell madly in love with. I couldn’t stop talking about it, so my ex, Paul, said he wanted to read it, too. When he finished, he deemed it “obvious,” and I’d felt as if someone had just told me my firstborn was ugly or something. I swore I’d never make that mistake again.

  But since I gave Leo grief about his ending, I decided to lead by example and tell him.

  “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” I said, hoping to soften the blow in case he did laugh or roll his eyes at me.

  “Easy,” Leo said without an ounce of shame. “Apocalypse Now.”

  I groaned. “Should have known. Big, bloody, manly war movie. You really are in the right business.”

  “‘I love the smell of napalm in the morning,’” he quoted. “Best line in cinema history.”

  “Gah,” I said.

  “Come on, Sophie. You should know me well enough by now to know that I am deeper than that,” he said. “Apocalypse Now explores the darkness in all of us. The darkness of war, the insatiable appetite for destruction. It’s human nature on celluloid. It’s brilliant.”

  “More like human nature on steroids,” I grumbled.

  “Okay, then,” he said. “I told you mine. Now tell me yours. What’s your favorite movie?”

  I paused, not for dramatic affect but out of uncertainty. Flashbacks of Paul’s diss washed over me, but I pushed past. “Fine. It’s Dead Poets Society.”

  “Never saw it,” he said, scooping up a bite of rice.

  That was it? No reaction? I couldn't decide if I was relieved or annoyed.

  “How is that possible?” I asked. “You’re in the movie business. That is one of the classics.”

  He waved away my comment. “Do you know how many classics there are? It’s an ever-shifting list of films that are randomly deemed amazing for one reason or another. I don’t want to see them all, and I don’t need to see them all.”

  “But…Dead Poets Society! It’s…amazing!”

  “Remind me never to have you write film reviews,” he said.

  I playfully slapped his arm. “Robin Williams is…”

  “Annoying,” Leo said.

  “Not in this movie. You would like it. It’s about young men finding their place in the world, fighting against what’s expected of them.”

  “Through poetry? No thanks,” he said.

  “You’re seriously impossible,” I said. I picked up my fork and pushed my food around my plate. “I’m going to make you see it one day,” I said, that one day still lingering on my tongue, that possibility of more. “You’re gonna like it.”

  “Doubtful,” he said.

  “You’ll see,” I said, all false confidence and bravado. “And then you’ll have to say you were wrong and I was right.”

  “That’s it,” he said, tossing his fork down on his plate with a startling clank. “Out you go.”

  Before I could gauge what he meant and what was happening, Leo had me thrown over his shoulder and carried me down the steps of the deck and out across the beach. “In the water you go for thinking I’d ever say I was wrong about anything.”

  I squealed with laughter, begging him not to throw me in the water. People walking by looked at us and smiled, a playful couple at sunset.

  Leo set me down, the water up to my ankles and gently pushing past us. I wrapped my arms around his neck, and he pulled me close, his hands resting on my lower back. He leaned close and said, “I’ll get you one way or the other.”

  “You better,” I said. As he kissed me, I pulled myself up his strong, solid body until my legs were wrapped around his waist. He easily held me, despite my weight and the fighting of the waves. “Take me inside and teach me a lesson.”

  “Sophie, you will be the end of me,” he said.

  You and me both, I thought as he carried me inside.

  Chapter Thirteen

  We just couldn't stop ourselves. If I wasn’t touching Leo or within two feet of him, I felt myself deflating. He was the oxygen I needed to be alive. But once we got into a work rhythm, we were unstoppable. By the end of the weekend, we had eliminated everything from the screenplay that was unnecessary, sketched out what needed to be rewritten, and had a game plan of how to attack those rewrites. It was exhausting and totally fulfilling.

  And in that same timespan, I’d somehow managed to convince myself that the lies were truth—I really was Sophie Adams, struggling screenplay writer who’d moved to LA and tried her hand at acting on a lark.

  “Are you going to send me off with Steve,” I asked Leo, pressing myself to his chest as we prepared to leave Malibu and head back down to our apartments. “Or will you be a gentleman and drive me yourself?” I rose up on the balls of my feet and kissed his neck. He ran his hands down my arms, sending chills all the way to my toes.

  “If you keep that up we won’t be driving anywhere.” He took my face in his hands and kissed me.

  Just as I suspected, Leo had a sleek matte black sports car, all loud engine and low to the ground. He drove me back to my little place in very unglamorous Culver City, which happened to be near the Epix movie studios. The drive wasn’t much better, in terms of us keeping our hands off each other. I couldn’t stop leaning across to him to get my lips back on his neck and face, kissing him like some madwoman. I reached down and felt how hard he was for me. Being selfish and wanting more of
him, danger be damned, I pressed harder, eager to pull him right out of his jeans, right there in the car. But Leo pulled my hand away and said, “If you don’t stop, I am seriously going to wreck this car and kill us both. And then we’ll never get to do that again.”

  I wasn’t sure if it was the threat of death or of never touching him again that finally made me stop, but I did manage to stay in my own seat for rest of the drive.

  When we finally arrived at my apartment I was wet as hell and wanted to fuck him right there in his car but knew it was impossible. I also knew I couldn’t invite him inside my scrappy apartment with my roommate. So I kissed him goodbye, and gave his dick one last hard rub.

  “God, you’re cruel,” he said.

  When I went inside, Ava Marie was sitting in the living room watching TV and stretching.

  “That was you in that fancy car outside?” she said, eyeing me coolly.

  “Hey,” I said. Had she seen who I was with? She leaned over her leg, resting her cheek on her knee.

  I tried to keep my voice light, to encourage a friendlier exchange. “Look, I’m sorry about Friday night.”

  “Sure. Just don’t ask me to set you up again,” she said. “Michael was annoyed and I looked like an asshole. But anyway, you look like you had a fairly satisfying weekend.” She sat up and looked me up and down. Was it written on my face all that I had done over the weekend? Was I so transparent?

  I locked the door behind me.

  “Someone from work?” she pressed. “Or the actor guy you mentioned?”

  “Sort of,” I said.

  Ava Marie eyed me as if she was waiting for me to say what, I didn’t know, but it made me really nervous. I felt like I was being questioned by a cop.

  “He must be a pretty good actor to be able to afford a car like that,” she said. I took off my shoes, ready to race to the sanctuary of my bedroom, away from her questions and accusing eyes. “He also looked a lot like someone I know. Some celebrity. Leo Armstrong?”

  When she said his name, I froze.

  “That was Leo Armstrong, wasn’t it?” she said. “I looked out the window when you guys drove up.” I swallowed hard against the nerves thrumming through my body. “What the hell are you doing with that guy? He has the worst reputation with women.”

  “I know. I’m not with him—it’s not like that,” I stammered.

  “Then what?” Ava Marie asked. “Sophie, I know you’re still finding your way here, but you have to look out for yourself. Don’t start getting mixed up with men who are only out to use you.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You have to be smart,” she pressed.

  “I am,” I said, frustrated.

  “No you’re not,” she insisted.

  “Listen,” I said, moving into the living room and sitting on the arm of the sofa. I suddenly realized I was actually going to tell someone the truth. Maybe it was because I’d been holding back for so long, dying to confess my sins to Leo. Telling Ava Marie was a risk, but I couldn’t seem to keep it all to myself anymore, and besides, she’d already discovered some of the truth on her own. I took a deep breath, as if readying myself to jump off a cliff. “You can’t tell anyone. Okay?”

  “Okay what?” she asked.

  “I’m working on a story for the magazine,” I said. “It’s about his reputation with women.” I don’t know what I expected her to say.

  “Oh, shit,” Ava Marie muttered. “Sophie Scott, you better be careful. Do you realize who this guy is?”

  “Of course,” I said, and shots of his heavenly blue eyes looking down at me flashed across my mind. I shook my head. “I know what I’m doing.”

  “Crush magazine—and you—are going up against the head of Epix Studios,” she said, as if it was the most ridiculous concept in history. “Don’t lead this guy on, Sophie. You’ll regret it.” The warning in her voice, the look on her face that told me she’d seen more than I could ever imagine in this town, made my stomach do a backwards somersault.

  “Everything’s under control,” I said as I felt myself tremble.

  Ava Marie leaned back over her knee, going back to her stretching. “This can only end in disaster,” she said, and ominous was not a strong enough word for how she said it.

  My perfect weekend was officially over.

  That spilled over into Monday, with Kait hovering in my cubicle, once again asking about Leo. I realized it was the only time she spoke to me—in drive-by fashion asking about Leo.

  “I need more,” she said, when I told her lamely that the great Leo Armstrong didn’t watch classic movies. “Something real. Do you want to write or not? Don’t give me this baby crap you’ve been feeding me. We need more. We need real. We need dirt. It exists on this guy. Don’t tell me you can’t find it.”

  It wasn’t just all that had happened over the weekend—and a lot of good stuff had happened—in the living room, the bedroom, the shower, the kitchen, a little on the deck... And it wasn’t just the way he’d looked at me in all those moments, like he was really seeing me and connecting to me. I shuddered thinking about his eyes on me as he caressed my face making love to me. It wasn’t just that. It was all that was said. He was so honest with me, telling me about his family, sharing details about his grandmother, not to mention the secret screenplay. I felt that he had truly let me in.

  But then I remembered what he’d told me about having false expectations about what our relationship was really about, and I felt sick all over again. I really shouldn’t have fooled myself, thinking Leo Armstrong made love to me. He fucked me. Just like he did other girls. Right?

  “I got his phone number,” I told Kait. “He said he hadn’t meant to keep it from me, just that his assistant set up the phone.”

  “Right,” she scoffed. “Have you tried the number yet? Probably won’t go through. I bet he accidentally gave you the wrong number, and it’ll be another week before he tries again, and then there’ll be another excuse and then he’ll be done with you. He’ll be on to the next piece before you ever get his real number. That’s how these guys operate, Sophie.”

  I looked down at my phone resting on my desk, and wondered.

  Kait let out a deep, annoyed sigh. “What else?”

  My brain didn’t know which way to go. I didn’t know what to believe. Before I’d walked into my apartment last night I had believed that I’d just had the best weekend of my life. Now I didn’t know what to believe. Was I being played? The worst of it, I realized, was that Leo couldn't play me because he’d already laid out his rules for me, for us. I didn’t get a say in it. What about how I felt?

  “He told me,” I began. I rubbed my hand across my forehead.

  “Yeah, what?” Kait pressed, her nails clicking on the top of my cubicle wall.

  “He told me that he’d never get married or be in a serious relationship because his parents have gone through so many marriages that he thinks it’s meaningless.” It wasn’t verbatim, but Kait was making me sweat.

  “A mommy complex, huh?” she said, and I didn’t correct her. “Nice, I like it. That’s something we can probably use. Make sure you stay on him, okay? Get all you can before he gets bored of you.”

  “Maybe I’ll take him to the drive-in, for my other piece,” I said, kind of thinking—dreaming—out loud.

  “Don’t get the two confused, Sophie,” Kait warned me before walking away.

  I wanted to text Leo right then and prove Kait wrong, that it really was his phone number, and he had made an innocent mistake in not giving it to me. It wasn’t about control, not like that, anyway.

  I sat back in my chair, feeling nauseous about what I’d just told Kait about Leo’s family. It’s not like he’d told me it was a secret or anything, I told myself. Besides, I still hadn’t told anyone about the screenplay.

  I looked down at my phone, tempted to text Leo right then and prove Kait wrong, that I did have his number, that one thing about him was true. But then I worried about looking foolish to Leo,
bothering him during work, and right after we’d spent the whole weekend together. I didn’t want to look desperate.

  The week trudged on, and I did hear from Leo again—in the form of messengered versions of Untitled Armstrong. He didn’t want any of it sent through email, too afraid that he’d get hacked and his secret project would be revealed. I’d mark up the pages and send them back to him, then he’d send back notes on my notes. I’d work half the night on rewrites only to have him tell me to consider the character from this angle, to look at the scene from that perspective. It was never good enough.

  And then I’d go to Crush and there was Kait, breathing down my neck for more gossip of Leo. She was insatiable, practically foaming at the mouth for any negative word on Leo.

  “It’s been days and you haven’t even spoken to him?” she said.

  “I don’t want to push him,” I said, which was partly true.

  “Don’t you dare let him slip away.”

  Which was the last thing I wanted to do. But not for the same reasons as Kait.

  A few days later I got an email from Pam, subject line: Story

  Need drive-in story for New Girl. When will it be done?

  I quickly wrote back that I was working on it and would have it to her in a few days. I sent the email, knowing time was really ticking, and I had to get on it.

  Her reply came back swiftly: Make sure it’s a date piece. Take romantic type with you.

  She certainly didn’t waste time with her requests, I thought. Her emails read more like text messages.

  The writing of the story wasn’t a big deal. I was looking forward to it. But the fact that I needed a date was what gave me pause. In a city full of gorgeous men, finding one to go out with me seemed daunting.

  I had the upcoming weekend to get it the article done. I thought about asking one of the other girls in the office to set me up with someone for the drive-in. I couldn’t go back to Ava Marie, that was for sure. To stall, I went to the web site for the drive-in the see what was playing that weekend. When I saw the movie, my stomach dropped.

  Dead Poets Society.

  Like it was meant to be or something. How could this movie be playing after Leo and I had talked about it so recently? And right when I needed to do the New Girl story for my column? I became excited by this sign from the dating gods, and with little more thought than that, grabbed my phone and texted Leo—or at least the number he’d given me. Finally, I’d find out if it was real or not.