The Fall of Troy

by Dr. Rebecca Sharp

  He didn’t miss the opportunity—unlike Professor Baudin who had avoided touching me like I carried the plague; Wes took the drink from me, making sure his fingers touched every possible place they could, and when that wasn’t enough, his other hand shot out and gripped my wrist, practically yanking me across the bar so he could slobber a kiss on the back of my hand.

  I pulled it back as quickly as I could, but even that couldn’t stop the wave of nausea from him touching me. I don’t know why. He hadn’t ever been super pushy or gross and yet the thought of him touching me still made me sick. Maybe I was really the unreasonable one here.

  That assumption was quickly quashed when I caught Professor Baudin’s gaze from across the room. He was half-standing off of his stool, fingers gripping the edge of the table and the deadliest snarl on his face like he was about to tear Wes apart and throw him down the length of the bar just for touching me.

  A hot thrill sizzled down my spine. Was I too young to flirt with boys, too, Professor? Was this what he came here for? To keep an eye on me? For a split second, the cold sting of betrayal pierced my thoughts that somehow—because of my mother—he knew my story and felt obligated to keep an eye on me. With a shake of my head, I quickly quashed that, reminding myself that this was the man who threatened to snap a student in half just for clicking her pen an obscenely disturbing amount of times. He wouldn’t care enough to keep an eye on anyone unless it was someone he was planning to attack.

  “Also, Troy,” Wes’s persistent voice tugged my attention back to his coolly confident face at which point I noticed that the double I’d just poured him was gone. “There are no more paper towels in the men’s room.”

  Great.

  Usually I replenished the bathrooms before we opened so I didn’t have to leave Gertie alone behind the bar, but I must have forgotten. My head turned to see that Gertie was holding her own and that most of the patrons were engrossed by the younger couple on stage reading what must be a dual point-of-view piece. They were pretty popular, judging by the size of the crowd tonight. There were a lot of new faces and unfortunately some familiar ones, too.

  I looked back to Wes. “No problem. I’ll take care of it.” Quickly untying the black apron from around my waist, I headed for the break room—the space forever tainted with the memory of last weekend.

  Without looking, I pushed inside, heading straight for the shelf with the large rolls of paper towels to fill the dispensers. A second before I grabbed the roll, I heard the door click shut—which was a few seconds after it normally should have.

  My gaze barely turned before my back was up against the shelves and Wes was pressed against me with my hands pinned to my sides. His hot, sour breath rushed over my face like a cocktail of vodka and vomit.

  “Why don’t you wanna give me a chance, Troy?” he whined into my face.

  I should have been scared, but I honestly felt more disgusted and in awe of how pathetic he was. The potential danger of the situation hadn’t sunk in yet.

  “I’m not looking for a boyfriend,” I said tightly, trying to wriggle my wrists free.

  His head pulled back and I gasped for fresh air as a wretched smile crawled over his face. “Who said anything about a boyfriend, little girl?” he sneered. “This is college, I’m just talking about a good fuck. Let me show you.”

  And then hot vodka vomit crashed down onto my lips and shoved its way into my mouth. I whimpered—which he took to mean that I was enjoying his unwanted advances. It was painful to try to turn my head out of the way, but that was better than kissing him. The situation when from sad to serious in a matter of moments. Wes jammed one of his knees between my thighs and wedged himself between them. Without a thought, I bit down hard on his lower lip, tasting alcohol and metal as it bled.

  “What the—” he reared back, freeing my hands. He touched his lip and pulled away with blood on his finger. “Fucking cu—”

  If I thought what was happening was bad, what almost happened would have been worse.

  He swore and, with an alcohol-induced rage, swung his hand back and I knew exactly where it was headed. Except at that moment, the door to the break room swung open and, faster than I could process it, Professor Baudin grabbed Wes’s wrist and swung him back up against the door, his other hand locking around the kid’s throat.

  The rage that had been on Wes’s face melted into fear like he was facing a real lion about to tear him limb from limb.

  “I will say this only once, sous-merde. Touch her… look at her…” he paused and let out the softest yet deadliest laugh I’d ever heard—like the kind of laugh they give to the quiet psychopath murderers in horror films. “If I find you have even taken a molecule of oxygen meant for her lungs, I will break you; I will break you into so many pieces that it would be a sheer impossibility to find them all to put you back together to identify you again.”

  Wes’s face went from red to purple to white to green.

  I was just about to step in because I wasn’t sure if it was from the threat or if Professor Baudin was actually cutting off his breathing, but then he released him and Wes crumbled to the floor, scrambling in retreat from the room and the crazy man with the deep sea eyes who’d just threatened to murder him.

  The door shut completely before he turned to me, anger still in his eyes searching for something to slay—and I was the only target in sight.

  He stalked toward me, the sounds of the world slowing and warping the closer he came.

  God, he’s so beautiful when he’s angry.

  I felt naked under his stare. Not in the ‘he undressed me way,’ but in the ‘my clothes were torn from me’ way and now I stood, exposed, needy, and more afraid that he wouldn’t destroy me than that he would.

  I gasped slightly when his hands touched me for the first time. He’d been right to avoid it in the first place. Like when the ocean pulls back from the shore, his touch drew a desperate, current of desire from every corner of my body with a force that was impossible to resist, and that would send that lust crashing back down over me if I stuck around long enough.

  And he wasn’t even touching me in a sexual way. No, he touched me—cupped my face—like he was inspecting me for damage. Tilting my head side to side, he looked for any sign that Wes had already hit me; I could have told him that he hadn’t, but I didn’t because I didn’t want him to let go.

  I hated him, but I craved his touch. Even this simple brush of his fingers made the ache in my core unbearable.

  He stood close. Not close enough for any other parts of us to touch, but too close for an appropriate student-teacher relationship. This close, he smelled like mint and vodka. Not the puke-kind like Wes. No, Professor Baudin smelled like the crystal clear kind of inebriation. The kind that was smooth and subtle about the way it burned through your system and dispensed of your senses.

  “What did he do?” he rasped, my eyes catching the subtle tick of his jaw. “Did he touch you?”

  My lips parted and immediately his gaze fell to them.

  Don’t move.

  Don’t breathe.

  Ever so gently, like the kiss of a butterfly, I felt his thumb brush over my lower lip, gently testing its fullness. The softest touch sent my world shifting on its axis. Anger, fear, and desire slipping from side to side like a ship on stormy seas. Only he wasn’t the anchor; he was the dark depths that threatened to drag me under.

  “Did he hurt you?” he growled again.

  His eyes were an unwavering mosaic of fierce anger and protectiveness, but up close, I could see flecks of something deeper as they scanned over my face—up, down, left, right—finally settling on my mouth again. Those tiny flecks were something far more dangerous to me than Wes ever was.

  I swallowed over the lump in my throat. “N-no.”

  Just one taste. It wasn’t so much to want. His thumb was right there. I could just dart my tongue out and taste his skin. I wondered what his anger tasted like. I wondered what would be beneath it if I licked it away.r />
  Images assaulted me—a compilation of both real and imagined. I saw him in this room, I saw those fingers that were on my face instead tugging on my swollen nipples like he’d done to the blonde. I felt those fingers between my thighs, touching me… coaxing my desire from me, drop by drop until they were soaked with my juices. I imagined those fingers inside me, buried deep, petting, stroking, and stretching me before pulling out and feeding my desire back to me.

  What the hell… it was just one taste.

  It wasn’t like being here wasn’t already a punishment.

  It wasn’t like I wasn’t already forced to see a shrink for my crazy, self-destructive tendencies.

  And it’s not like he was Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes professor anyway.

  It was almost like the moment when the edge of the scissors cut into my skin, the sharp burning slice of the metal freeing the pain inside me. In this case, it was the barest touch of my tongue to the tip of his thumb that sent searing heat through my body, freeing the lust that was locked inside.

  Somehow, eyes that were filled with water exploded in flames. The touch was so brief that if he hadn’t been staring at my mouth—if he hadn’t seen my tongue—he might not have even felt it. But he did. And that meant he couldn’t ignore it.

  Like a violent scene from a movie, where the hero is shot or stabbed and there is that long, drawn-out second where they recognize their mortal injury that, in the real world, would have killed them instantly. This was that moment. Léo looked at his finger on my mouth like it was the beginning of his end.

  And then with a hiss that grew into a growl, his hands jerked away from me like I was a leper.

  My Tilt-A-Whirl came to a screeching halt with his touch gone and I sagged back against the shelf for support, heat and embarrassment flooding my cheeks.

  What was I thinking?

  My hand flew up to my mouth and I mumbled, “I-I’m sorry.”

  He strode angrily back to the door. From what I could tell, the man was more skilled at abruptly leaving conversations than he was at being anything else.

  With one hand on the doorknob, he spun, leveling me with his intense anger one last time.

  “It is very stupid to be alone with strange men in locked rooms, ma petite,” he said with a voice that oozed with reproach. I bit my cheek, now more skilled at hiding the effect his cold, degrading words had on me. “Next time, I might not be able to stop him.”

  The door slammed behind him and jarred me back to the moment. I didn’t have time to process what had just happened—with Wes or with Léo. I needed to get back behind the bar before I found myself out of a job in addition to out of my mind.

  When I left the room, neither man was in sight—or probably still in the bar. The rest of my shift was spent mindlessly shaking cocktails all the while thinking about how my lips were still tingling and swollen, aching for his touch and wondering about his parting warning…

  Stop who, Léo? Wes or yourself?

  I was nervous.

  I didn’t know why I was nervous—I’d walked into this same classroom a few hours earlier, but this time was different. This was for the first studio hour.

  It had been just about a week since the second break room fiasco at Rhymes. Each day before class I told myself that when class was over, I was going to march right up to his desk and thank him. Because, like an idiot, that was the one thing I hadn’t done—hadn’t said. He’d saved me from a potential rape situation and, even though he then proceeded to yell at me for it, he deserved my thanks. Each day, I lost myself watching the way he spoke—the way his hands moved over the board and then in the air as he told us about the numerous famous Davids that he was an expert in.

  Donatello.

  Verrocchio.

  Michelangelo.

  And then, each day when class ended, I lost my nerve; Monday, because it was, well, Monday. Wednesday should have been the day, but just before class ended on Wednesday, Giselle appeared. (We’d learned what the blonde’s name was.) Assistant. From Paris. I heard the words, but I pictured her partially naked and bent over that table. It made me angry and squirmy and I no longer wanted to thank Léo for anything.

  So, I watched him. I watched him and multitasked like it was no one’s business—taking notes, acknowledging Kev when he hazarded a whisper or a whistle in my direction, depending on what nude male sculpture was up on the screen. We went over form and figure. We went over proportions and balance. We went over Golden ratios and creating expressions. I took notes on it all, but the only thing I learned about was him.

  The way he always began to write angrily on the board, vicious strokes of the chalk hitting the black surface. But also the way those strokes (and his voice) softened as he continued to speak, lost in what he was teaching. The way his jaw actually relaxed instead of ticking tighter toward a breaking point when he actually sketched something on the board for us. The way he spoke to us—thinly veiled anger underscoring every syllable. And the way he stared right past us, when he thought no one was watching—like he was searching for a ghost.

  There were secrets there and going to class became less about learning the nuances between Michelangelo’s David versus Donatello’s and more about discovering what was underneath the marbled anger that was carved into every word, movement, and muscle of his body.

  I was desperate to see what was beneath. Like a magnet, the bitter part of me that hated the world was pulled to him as though he were my opposing pole. What he hid was the same but opposite and I was drawn to him by forces that even nature couldn’t defy. But what he hid had been buried for a longer; the only way I was ever going to get it out would be to dig—to claw. And the lion would certainly fight back. But I needed to know, and I didn’t care if that meant he ripped me to shreds in the process.

  I’d even told Dr. Shelly that I was intrigued by him. I used big words like ‘suppressed’ and ‘destructive’ to describe his emotions and it seemed to impress her even though I was making no more progress on myself. She was pleased though when I told her about Kevin, especially when I admitted to telling him about my past. I refrained from explaining that it was my prickly professor who incited the confession.

  “So, Jake and I are getting drinks tonight as soon as we are done,” Kev declared excitedly. Turned out Mr. Hotter-Harry-Potter’s name was Jake. “And then I think we are coming to Rhymes again tomorrow night for prompt night. You better be working, I promised him a drink from the hottie bartender,” Kev tacked on his demand lightly as we walked into the studio for the second time today.

  I winced because Léo was already there, pulling chairs around the center platform, and his head jerked up hearing Kev’s words.

  I ducked my face, hoping neither of them would see the heat bursting in my cheeks. “I am.” I didn’t look at him as I spoke; I didn’t want to be caught. And Léo was always looking for ways to catch me.

  “That is if we survive tonight,” Kev murmured wryly, quieter but just loud enough that I was sure Léo heard us.

  I had to agree with him though.

  All my reasons for picking Friday turned out to be the wrong ones. No one else wanted Friday. No one wanted to deal with the French asshole before their weekend. And that was why there were only four chairs set up around the platform.

  “Sit.” His command whipped through the silence. “Newsprint pad and hard pencil.”

  Kev and I hazarded a glance at each other as we complied, picking the two farthest seats from the door.

  A few minutes later and this kid Dylan and a girl, Hannah… Hanleigh… Anna… something like that, joined us.

  “Tonight is the only moment of leniency I will show you. It may or may not be your first time working from a live subject, so tonight, I don’t want you to focus on details, I want rough sketches. Basic shapes, first. Then defined, harder lines of the body. No. Details.” Léo’s voice echoed into the space.

  I listened, but my eyes couldn’t leave the platform where there was about to be a naked person st
anding. I’d seen people… naked… before. But this wasn’t like that—the awkward look where you kind of want to look but you’ve been conditioned that it’s not acceptable to look. No, this was going to involve staring. For hours. At a completely naked person.

  “Class, this is Luke, your model for tonight.”

  All eyes whipped to the younger man who walked in from the back of the room wearing a bathrobe and a calm smile on his face. Of course, he looked just like a Greek god.

  “I’m starting to be very grateful that I stalked your ass to this class,” Kev whispered beside me. I had to bite my lip to stop a chuckle the way he was practically drooling, waiting for this guy to strip.

  “Calm down there, buddy. Remember Jake…”

  “Jake who?” My eyes widened at him and he winked at me with a teasing laugh.

  Our model, Luke, stepped up onto the platform with a smile and nod to all of us. I wanted to watch him. I should have been watching him. Instead, my eyes drifted, the current pulling them toward deeper depths. My breath hitched when I found Léo watching me, like he wanted to see my face when Luke’s robe dropped. Like he wanted proof that this little girl couldn’t handle the sight of a grown nude male.

  My body tensed with desire and defiance—the weapons in the battle between us.

  Luke took the robe off like he was taking off a jacket; I don’t know why I thought he’d drop it like this class included a striptease along with a sketching lesson. He slipped out of the robe and folded it over the chair behind him, giving us a full display of his very shapely ass.

  “Oh my…” I heard Kev whisper.

  I licked my lips as the world vacuumed away until the only thing left was the naked man in front of me and my professor whose stare was more arousing than the model. A whimper escaped me, and I tried to hide it with a cough when Luke spun around.

  Yeah, no wonder this guy wanted to model with a dick like that.

  Even relaxed, it hung long between his legs as he chose his stance. His eyes, of course, were on me because I’d been the one to break; I’d been the one to make a noise and falter—only it wasn’t because of the penis he was so proud of. No, my body felt hot and bothered because Léo was still staring at me like I was the one naked and on display.