by Linnea May
He'll continue to talk about himself throughout the semester, but I feel like whatever he is going to tell us won't be enough for me.
I pull my legs up, hugging my knees as I pull them close to my chest, as if the action could calm my racing heart down. I feel feverish, dizzy.
"Idiot," I hiss to myself.
I'm one of them. Blushing and swooning as my thoughts can't seem to let go of this man. This arrogant bastard. Why did he have to look at me like that? Is that what he does with so-called ‘challenges’ like me? He said he liked me, "students like me.” What does that even mean?
I let out a groan of frustration and roll over on my side, curling up on my bed, my thoughts continuing to linger around Mr. Portland – Mr. Awesome.
CHAPTER FIVE
JACKSON
The faculty lounge is not my favorite place to be, but Professor Clark asked me to show up here at least once a week for the informal staff meeting. He's the person who invited me to lecture in the first place, and he's also the one who made sure that I'd be allowed as much freedom as possible when it comes to the content of my class.
His request had been a surprise, and after I got over my initial confusion at being asked to lecture among all the options that existed, I actually found myself flattered.
A school that never wanted me as a student now wants me as a teacher. Oh, the irony of it.
"I'm not an educator," I told him. "I have no idea how to teach, let alone what to teach a bunch of entitled brats such as the ones going to this school."
To my surprise, he wasn't offended by my words, but laughed.
"That is exactly why I think you'd be a refreshing change in our noble halls," he said. "Our students could use a little insight into the real world, especially from a man like yourself, a man of action, a man of results."
It worked. His compliments made me realize that this would be a good platform for me to see whether it really was that simple. If the division between academics and the real world was really as sharp as I always felt it was. I want to see how these students react to my teaching, how they react to the idea of doing something different than the norm. For most of them, their path has been laid out early on. Maybe even before they started school. You don't end up as a graduate student in an Ivy League school without a long-term plan.
But what happens if someone shows up and messes with your head? Is there a possibility for me to change something? A student's life, maybe. A career, or even an entire idea about life and education.
I have little hope that will be the case, but at least they’ll be forced to listen to me for an entire semester.
If she doesn't decide to drop out of my class after our first encounter this week, little Miss Harlington will be one of them.
I can't let her get into my head too much, but it's hard to keep her out of it. She poses a challenge, a dilemma, and she speaks to a desire deep within me. It's been a while since I’ve had the pleasure to act on it.
I open the door to the faculty lounge, my eyebrows knitted deep in thought. It's still early and the meeting won't start for another twenty minutes, but there is already a handful of teaching staff in the room.
I lift my chin in greeting, and my gesture is met by the eyes of about half the teachers present. Most of them are the stereotypical college professors, drinking coffee by the gallon and lamenting their profession.
I sit down in the far back of the room, putting some distance between me and a group of three others, two younger female lecturers and a professor whose name I've forgotten.
"So the rumors are true?" I hear one of the two younger staff members ask, as I open up my tablet to answer a few work e-mails. After all, being a guest lecturer for one semester doesn't mean that I can completely ignore my business.
"As nasty as it sounds, yes," the other woman says.
"I'm having trouble believing this," the professor interjects.
He leans forward, as do the two women, making the whole group look like three little rodents sharing a carrot.
"No man in his right mind would risk his career for something like this," he whispers, but not softly enough to escape my ears.
The women shake their heads.
"Oh, men would," one of them insists. The blonde woman has a disproportionately big head on top of a skinny body, making her look like a lollipop.
"Having a cute little student swooning all over them - isn't that every professor's dream?" she asks. The other woman nods enthusiastically, while the older professor is now the one huffing with disgust.
"A man in his right mind, I said," he repeats. "I'm not talking about the idiots who lose track of what matters just because they're chasing some skirt. I always thought Professor Dawson was one of the former."
"Well, clearly he's not," the blonde argues.
She looks over her shoulder then, and our eyes meet before I can turn away and act as if I wasn't listening in on their conversation. Her eyes widen in apprehension, and she looks as if I just caught her with her hand in the cookie jar.
"Mr. Portland," she says, blushing and nodding toward me. She knows my name, but I have no idea who she is.
They all turn around to look at me, the other woman displaying a similar expression on her face as the first, while the professor harbors an absent-minded gaze.
"I'm sorry if we were disturbing you," the blonde says.
"Not a problem at all," I say, waving her off. "I wasn't aware that the teaching staff at such a renowned school is just as prone to gossip as people at any other workplace."
All three of them lower their eyes for a moment, and the professor is the first to recover from my remark.
"Gossiping is only human," he states. "And after all, we're all humans."
Humanities. I guess that's where it’s taught that even disrespectful behavior is nothing to be ashamed of. We're all human, after all.
"Besides," the blonde adds. "This concerns matters of principal."
"How so?"
"Well, um," she stutters, fixing her blouse nervously. "I'm sorry, I haven't introduced myself. Lilia Esquin, Sociology."
The others straighten in their seats and nod. Time for pleasantries, I see.
"Robert Warwick, Sociology, as well," the older guy says.
Not surprisingly, the third one in the bunch, Mindy, also outs herself as a lecturer in Sociology.
"Portland," I introduce myself. "But you already seem to know that."
The blonde lets out a girlish giggle and nods. "Well, it's not like your face and name aren’t well recognized around the world."
I nod, but don't say anything. The distance between them and me is a little too large to hold a proper conversation, but instead of letting it go after our little round of introductions, they seem to decide in unison to move over to my area. They seat themselves in the armchairs surrounding the small coffee table in front of me. They encircle me as if I had invited them over to listen to my tale, which couldn't be further from the truth.
"The thing is," Lilia Esquin continues, leaning forward to include me in their gossip session. "We were talking about a colleague in another department. I'm not going to say who, but-"
"You already mentioned his name," I point out, looking at Professor Warwick. "Professor Dawson, wasn't it?"
He snorts. "It doesn't matter."
"He's not working at the university anymore," Mindy interjects, as if I showed any sign of interest in finding out who this guy was.
"They let him go because he...," Lilia whispers, leaning in even closer, too close for comfort. "He slept with one of his students."
Her eyes are wide, and she's nodding, inviting me to join in her indignation.
"Was it consensual?" I ask, unimpressed.
The expression on her face changes, giving way to confusion. "What do you mean?"
"Was it consensual?" I repeat. "Did the student and professor both agree to have sex - or did he rape her?"
&nb
sp; The three of them exchange looks as if they were silently asking each other what I was talking about.
"I'm assuming it was a her?" I clarify, if only to mess with their heads a little more.
"Yes, yes, of course," Lilia retorts. "But what do you mean, consensual? Why would that matter?"
Now I'm the one who widens his eyes with shock.
"It doesn't matter to you?" I ask. "It doesn't matter to you whether we're talking about rape or sex between two consenting adults?"
"It was a student!" Professor Warwick throws in. "It's just wrong. Period."
I glance around the little circle of tattletales. It's unsettling how little these people can think outside their strictly black-and-white, rule-designed box.
"It even says so in our contracts," Lilia adds, trying to prove the point. "Intimate relationships with students are forbidden."
Forbidden. I like that word.
I lean back in my seat, completely unimpressed. "My contract doesn’t include anything like that."
Professor Warwick clears his throat, and the two women exchange a knowing look. Neither of them comes close to being my type, but I'm not an idiot. Lilia is sitting closest to me, her skinny knees pointing in my direction, and her eyes have that nervous flutter every time she looks at me. I know that look.
"Still, it's just not done," Professor Warwick comments. "Contract or not, relations like that are nothing but trouble."
He glares at me, wrinkling his nose and narrowing his eyes as if he's trying to warn me. That jealous bastard. His receding hairline, the wrinkles scattered around his used-up face, and the giant beer belly don't speak of the dignified, strong man he could be had he taken care of himself over the past few decades. Even if there was no such regulation in his contract, there's hardly a student who'd willingly share a bed with him. Except if they wanted to fuck for grades. I'm sure this happens a lot more than these people would like to admit. Fancy elite school or not, people still enjoy taking advantage of their respective position. It's only human, after all.
Professor Warwick knows I could have them all, if I wanted to.
Thing is, I only want one.
End of Preview.
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