Black Velvet (The Velvet Rooms Book 1)

by Linnea May

  Mr. Portland is wearing a dark gray suit that seems to be custom-tailored to fit his broad, tall frame, and it seems to only emphasize the masculine assertiveness of his steps.

  Even I have to admit it. This man is gorgeous.

  CHAPTER TWO

  LANA

  Jackson Portland positions himself behind the lectern at the front of the lecture hall and looks over us expectantly. He is standing with his feet apart, his hands buried in his suit pant pockets, and his shoulders are pulled back. His stance only serves to emphasize how tall he is, and the strong cut to his jaw emphasizes his handsome masculinity as he confidently scans the crowd of students staring back at him. I’m struck by his facial features, which appear soft in comparison, making him look younger than his age.

  His charcoal black hair is gelled to the side, partly covering his forehead on the left. I never read anything about his nationality, but his light brown skin and black hair suggests he may originate from Latin America, even though his surname doesn't suggest it. And, I think to myself, he might just frequent tanning beds, or enjoy lazy weekends sunning at the beach. It would suit a guy like him.

  Handsome may be too ordinary of a word to describe him. He is gorgeous in every way. Even though his appearance screams wealth and entitlement, there is a raw ruggedness about him.

  Mr. Portland didn't bring anything with him, no briefcase, no notebook or papers, not even a pen. While every other instructor seemed to bring a dizzying array of items for their opening lecture, he just stands there, empty-handed and with that unreadable and calm expression on his face.

  People were whispering excitedly when he first walked in, but now as he stares at us, the voices around me steadily die down and the murmur stops, only interrupted by the occasional cough.

  He is visibly enjoying all the attention he is getting. A smug smile spreads across his face just moments before he finally speaks.

  "Good morning, everyone," he starts, sounding more like a host of a game show than a professor. "What a nice turnout for the first day of class. I have to admit, I didn't expect this much interest in my silly ramblings. "

  A chorus of nervous giggles travels through the room, and even I manage a courtesy smile. Silly ramblings. I know it is supposed to be a joke, but he gives voice to my low expectations of him.

  He lowers his eyes for a moment and lets the giggling subside before he continues.

  "Let's hope I can live up to the high standards you all must be used to. Believe it or not, this is my first time on an Ivy League campus, and I am greatly humbled by this invitation and the interest I’m receiving from such already accomplished individuals such as yourselves."

  Murmurs fill the hall as people process this unexpected compliment. I wonder whether this is part of his lecture: how to make people feel good about themselves. Making friends and allies must be an essential component of good business.

  I wonder if I should already be taking notes. Who knows what types of things he might decide to throw on an exam.

  It suddenly strikes me that I have absolutely no idea how this man will be evaluating and grading us. Will there be quizzes every week? A big exam at the end of the semester? Does he expect us to write essays? Will he teach us more about econometrics? The latter would mean that I really needed to bring my calculator...

  "Even though I can see that some of you have already read my book," he adds, nodding toward one of the students who placed a copy of it on her desk. "Let me start by telling you a little bit about myself. Not the kind of things that you will find in there or in the newspaper. Something new, something you didn't know yet."

  He pauses and smirks. "After all, this class is supposed to teach you something new. Why else would you be sitting here, right?"

  A murmur of approval greets him.

  "Okay," he continues. "This class is called Introduction to Entrepreneurship. I don't like that title, but I had to come up with something. I was asked to teach a graduate-level class full of bright and promising students, and when they asked me to do this, they probably thought I could teach you something about success. About launching your own business, about start-ups, about making it in Silicon Valley, the dreadful place where a lot of great things started - and a lot of not-so-great things failed and died."

  He pauses then, scanning the rows of students with narrowed eyes and a somewhat sullen expression.

  "And this is where the problem starts," he says. "Failure. No one ever likes to talk about it, and it is certainly not what they had in mind when I was asked to give this guest lecture. But you know what?"

  He adds another dramatic pause, his eyes resting at a random spot somewhere towards the back of the lecture hall.

  "I can teach you more about failure than I can tell you about success," he resumes. "I failed many times in my life before I managed to succeed even once. And honestly? Those hurtful, yet inevitable, failures taught me more than achieving success ever did. It was the failures that made me who I am. They made me determined, strong-willed, and persistent. I failed, but I never gave up. They taught me more than simply what not to do. They molded me, they helped me grow, and they eventually led me to forging my way to success in more ways than any school or class ever could."

  The auditorium is dead silent. My fellow students are hanging on to Mr. Portland's every word, but I'm starting to seriously dislike him. This is supposed to be a graduate Econ class, not a self-help seminar, after all. Also, I don't like where he is going with this whole 'failure taught me more than school'-thing. Of course, he would have to say that, since school was among his many failures.

  I raise my hand.

  He doesn't see me at first, and when he does, he appears startled. I reckon he is not used to being interrupted.

  His eyes meet mine with an explicable hint of humor.

  "Yes?" he says, pointing in my direction. He takes a few steps toward me, his eyes never leave mine as he reduces the distance between us. A weird sizzle travels along my spine as he approaches. It unsettles me for a second, before I'm able to brush it away.

  Heads are turning toward me, some of them - I am sure - accompanied by rolling eyes. I know I'm anything but popular among some of my peers, but I couldn't care less about that.

  "I'm sorry," I say, raising my voice as much as possible. "I’m a bit puzzled about what point you’re trying to make by sharing this confession. Are you saying there is no point for us to be sitting here in class, listening to lectures, earning a degree in the first place, because the only way we’ll ever succeed is to fail first?"

  I know that I have a tendency to be impertinent, and this is no exception. I don't want to cause any trouble or get on his bad side, but I want him to know there is someone in this course who is not going to take everything he says at face value.

  Yet I'm thankful that he doesn't seem to notice the tremble that takes hold of my entire body after I'm done speaking. I'm sure my voice would have croaked if I had said one more word.

  Most of the other students don't react to my little disturbance, but some start whispering, and I notice the girl to my left is casting me an annoyed look.

  But it's not their reaction that unsettles me - it's his. He looks at me, studying me intently with that observant stare, his eyes narrowing only the slightest bit without ever losing their focus on me. It feels as if he is leaching right into my bones, releasing a chill that makes its way through my insides. I'm shivering, sucking in air as if I just stepped out into the Arctic.

  Why the hell is he looking at me like that? Why is he not saying anything? Is he trying to stare me down? His silence is causing a surreal tension that even the other students must have noticed.

  "In a way, I am," Mr. Portland says, finally replying to my question. "Yes. I think most of you are wasting your time here. And yes, most of what you have learned in high school, during your undergraduate program, and even in the graduate classes you're taking now, has probably destroyed more than it has helpe
d."

  The auditorium is dead silent, and even I am left speechless at his words. This I did not expect. He has got to be joking.

  "Don't get me wrong," he says, raising his hands in defense – and then finally withdrawing his eyes from mine. "I still think you're doing something right by sitting here and earning a degree from one of the best colleges in this country. But this is not about learning valuable things, about learning who you are or what you are capable of, about receiving what they call 'the best education'. No, it's not. Do you know what it is about?"

  He starts scanning the auditorium again.

  "This is a question," he clarifies. "What is school about? What is your degree about?"

  For a few moments, there is nothing but silence. People are exchanging looks of confusion, shrugging, whispering, shaking their heads. Until one student dares to raise her hand.

  "Yes," he says, pointing at the brave girl in the far back.

  "Growing?" she suggests.

  "Growing?"

  "Yes," the girl adds, clearing her throat. "About... you know, growing to reach your full potential."

  Mr. Portland hesitates for a moment, all eyes resting on him, eagerly awaiting his response.

  "That sounds lovely," he says eventually. "And it may be true. But it's not the answer I am looking for. Any other suggestions?"

  His direct way of countering the student doesn't really encourage others to try. No one else raises their hands. Mr. Portland spends what seems like a painfully long time waiting for a response that doesn't come.

  Even I feel too intimidated to say anything. Plus, I'm angry at him. He enjoys this confusion and attention-whoring a little too much.

  Why doesn't he just tell us?

  As if he heard my thoughts, he turns his head back toward me. Our eyes meet again, but before I can look away, he directs his voice at me.

  "You asked me whether there is any point in sitting in this class," he says. "So clearly, you must have an idea about why you're doing this?"

  My heart almost stops beating. The entire auditorium's attention is now focused on me. I'm sure some of them feel that I am getting exactly what I deserve, as I am clearly not capable of giving him a response and struggling with this unwanted attention.

  "Why don't you just tell us, Mr. Portland?" I snap at him. My cheeks glow with a seething combination of anger and embarrassment, while a buzz of shock fills the room as the other students inhale audibly to my comment.

  He looks at me, his eyes piercing through me with that same intensity as before. I try to withstand his gaze without showing how much I regret saying what I did. So much for not getting on his bad side.

  "You're right," he says, his eyes still locked with mine. "That would probably save us all a lot of time."

  I gulp. Damn.

  "I'll tell you what school is about," he says, turning back to the rest of the students in the auditorium.

  I sigh with relief.

  "It's about signaling," he concludes. "Signaling that you know the rules of the game. Signaling that you are willing to work hard, listen to boring stuff, complete useless and boring assignments, and follow orders."

  He pauses for a moment to let us process his words of wisdom, and then he continues.

  "You are signaling that you will be good employees, good workers, and compliant subordinates," he says. "And again: there is nothing wrong with that. After all, it is what will help you obtain a good, safe and well-paying job. If this is what you are after, you might be doing the right thing. Just don't think you're anything special."

  Frowns and confused whispers start making the rounds again.

  "But, as you all know, this class is called Introduction to Entrepreneurship," Mr. Portland proceeds, completely ignoring the students' reactions.

  "I was asked to come here to teach you what it takes to be successful by doing your own thing - at least that's how I understand my job. And I can tell you one thing right away: you don’t get where I am by following the rules, by doing what everyone else is doing, or by following in someone else's footsteps. Success comes with creativity, bravery, and a pinch of ignorance. Ignorance of what can go wrong. You will fail, and there are a lot of things that you will fail at, but you should not be focusing on failure before you even start."

  He adds another pause for emphasis and turns around, grabbing a markers to write something on the spic and span whiteboard behind him.

  "And as I said before," he adds as he continues writing. "That is what we will be talking about for now. Failure."

  I look around and reluctantly pick up my pen to start taking notes, as most other students are doing, but my hands are still shaking.

  CHAPTER THREE

  JACKSON

  That look. I have seen it before.

  It makes my insides burn.

  Every campus has at least one student like her. Diligent, strict, obedient - and with a strong desire to please.

  Ready to be broken.

  When I was asked to give this guest lecture, I told myself that I would have to be prepared. I knew there would be opposition. Unpleasant encounters, disgusting conversations, and condescending looks.

  I told Professor Clark that I wouldn't spend a lot of time on campus and that I had no interest in interacting with the faculty more than I had to. This is not my environment, not where I belong.

  I also told him that I would need my lecture to be free from standardization and that I would not be willing to grade students, as I don't consider myself qualified to do so. Of course, that was a lie. I am more than qualified to evaluate a student's work, but I know my grading system would not be compliant with the school's regulations. If they need to receive a grade in order to get credit for my class, they would have to write a paper and the school-supplied teaching assistant would be assigned to do it.

  I never thought they would agree to this, but they did. Apparently, my name was big enough for them to go out of their way just to have me talk to their students as an honorary guest lecturer of some sort. Me. It's so ridiculous.

  Still, I was prepared for a lot of frustration that would make me question my decision to take over this class.

  However, I was not prepared for her. Those dark blue eyes, her slim shoulders, tense posture, even when sitting.

  I know her kind.

  She is not the kind of girl who draws eyes, the kind who makes men turn their heads, evoking indecent comments and lewd behavior. The sexy broad who owns the attention of everyone around her just by showing up, flaunting her assets in revealing clothes and a coy attitude.

  No, that's not her.

  However, she is exactly the kind of woman I'm drawn to.

  She is a good girl, unassuming and demure. Dressed in dark colors, she lets her brown hair fall down over her slim shoulders, framing a delicate-featured, porcelain-complexioned face. It is the end of the summer, but she is one of the very few students in here without the slightest hint of a tan. It makes her look younger than she probably is, and it makes her unusually dark eyes pop even more. They are too dark for her complexion, and it takes a second look to realize that they are not black or brown, but blue.

  I don’t notice her until she raises her hand, drawing my attention to her like a bolt of lightning. I know what to expect even before she speaks. She wants to prove a point, and she wants me to know that she is neither intimidated nor enchanted by me, like most of her peers are.

  The look on her face says it all. It's different from most other girls in this class. Her face is stern and focused. This is what makes her stand out from the crowd.

  The female crowd around her displays the same infatuation that I have become all too used to. I can see them left and right, their empty eyes hanging on to my every word. How boring. Infantile admiration is written all over their faces.

  But it’s not on hers.

  She is pressing her small lips together as she waits for me to call on her. I didn't expect to be
interrupted this early in the lecture, so she has the element of surprise going for her. That surprise soon fades when she starts speaking and proves my suspicions right.

  I thrive on seeing her eyebrows furl when I pick up her arrogant interjection and continue saying things she will hate. Calling on her again a few minutes later is just the icing on the cake.

  "Why don't you just tell us, Mr. Portland?" she says with that snarky tone in her voice.

  I will remember this, and I won't forget to punish her one way or another.

  She refrains from any further interruptions during the lecture, but after I dismiss the class, I notice she is packing up her things rather slowly. She lingers while most of the other students rush out of the auditorium on their way to another class, and continues hanging back even longer while a handful of other students come down to the front to speak to me.

  This group of students is made up mostly of girls who are thanking me for the "enlightening" first lecture and one guy who asks whether there will be material to download as the semester progresses. I answer their questions and thank them for their remarks, but try to dismiss them as quickly as possible. It's not just that I don’t have the time or desire to hang out with these entitled kids, but because I’m curious why she’s hanging back now that the lecture is over.

  She’s standing off by herself, keeping her distance while there are still other students around. Only when the last one finally leaves does she approach me.

  "Yes?" I ask before she can open her mouth. "Was there something you needed?"

  "As a matter of fact, yes," she says. She’s now standing right next to me. I notice her give a little shiver when I lay my eyes on her, even though she’s trying her best to appear confident and calm.

  She’s not succeeding. Her nervousness is obvious.

  Good. Very good.

  I sigh. "How can I help you?"

  "I need to receive credit for this class in order to graduate," she says, crossing her arms in front of her small chest. "And I was wondering how you would be grading us? Will there be an exam? A paper? You never mentioned anything and didn’t post a syllabus, like our professors would."