Until We Fall
Page 17
"What's your rate?"
I sit back. How the hell did that question catch me off guard? I don’t know. I work part-time at the country club next to campus, but the tips are hit or miss. The thing about the other half? Some of them are stingier than others. Most of the time, I make okay tips. It’s enough to keep the lights on most of the time. When it wasn’t, I tried not to be bitter about how they didn’t need the money like I did.
But I just smiled and took their orders.
I’m stuck. Noah is not my first tutoring job but my other jobs were paid by the university. I have no idea how much to charge for freelance work.
"Fifty dollars an hour, three times a week," he offers abruptly.
I cover my shock with my hand. "Huh?"
"Fifty dollars an hour. I saw a sign in the common area charging that much for Spanish. Figure stats should be at least that much, right?
My voice is stuck somewhere in the bottom of my chest. Fifty bucks an hour is a lot of groceries and medication. It feels wrong taking that kind of money, even from Mr. Does the Tutoring Come with Blowjobs.
"Will that be a problem?"
I shake my head. "No. That's fine." There's a stack of bills that need to be paid. The electricity is a week overdue. Like I said, the country club wasn’t the most reliable income. I‘m counting on tips tonight to make a payment tomorrow to keep them from shutting it off. Again. Between that and the money from tutoring - I could keep the lights on. I can feel my face burning hot. I turn away, digging into my backpack to keep him from seeing my humiliation, not wanting him to see my relief.
"Same time, same place? Monday, Wednesday and Friday?" My computer flickers to life.
"Works for me. How much pain should I be prepared for?" He sounds worried. He should. Professor Blake is one of the top in her field, and that's no small feat considering she came up at a time when women were still blazing trails in the business world.
“Depends on if you do the work or not,” I say. I can’t quite bring myself to offer him comfort. I’m still irritated by the blowjob comment. "So let's get started." I lean over the worksheet. "What questions do you have from class today?"
I look up to find him watching me. There’s something in his eyes that tugs at me. I don’t want to be tugged at.
He looks away. He’s strangling that poor pen in his hands. Clearly, I've struck a nerve with my question.
I wish I didn't remember how that felt. The lost sensation of not having a clue what I was doing. I didn't even know what questions to ask.
I don’t want to feel anything charitable toward him, but there’s something about the way he shifts. Something that makes him vulnerable.
I run my tongue over my teeth. This isn’t going well. "Okay look. We'll start with the basics, okay?"
I open my laptop to the lecture notes.
He finally notices my computer. "I haven't seen one of the black MacBooks in years," he says.
He's not being a prick, but I bristle anyway. "It might be old but she’s never failed me."
"It can run stats software? Isn't that pretty intense processor wise?"
I don't feel like telling him that to run said stats program, I have to shut down every other program and clear the cache. I don't want to admit that there's just no money to buy a new computer. I can't even finance one because I don't have the credit for it.
Business school is about looking the part as much as it is knowing the game so none of those words are going to leave my lips.
"It gets the job done," I say. "Now, the first lecture."
"I get everything about what stats is supposed to do. I got lost somewhere around regression."
"Don't worry about regression right now. We're going to focus on understanding what we're looking at first up. Basic concepts."
I look over at him. He's scowling at the paper. I can see tiny flecks of blue and gold in his green eyes. He drags one hand through his short dark hair and leans his forward. He's practically radiating tension, and I can feel it infecting me.
Damn it, I don't give a shit about his anxiety. I don't care.
"So the normal distribution is?"
I take a deep breath. This stuff I know. I draw the standard bell shaped curve on his paper. "The normal distribution says that any results are normally..."
* * *
Noah
She knows her stuff. She relaxes when she starts talking about confidence intervals and normal distributions. Hell, I can't even spell normal distribution.
But she has a way of making things make sense.
And her confidence isn't scary so much as it is really fucking attractive.
I'm watching her lips move and I swear to God I’m trying to pay attention, but my brain decides to take a detour into not stats-ville. She's got a great mouth. It's a little too wide, and she has a tendency to chew on the inside of her lip when she's focusing.
I look down because I don't want her to catch me not paying attention. I need to understand this stuff, not stare at her like a lovesick private.
I'm focusing on confidence intervals when something dings on her computer. She frowns and opens her email. It's angled away so I can't look over her shoulder, but something is clearly wrong. A flush creeps up her neck. She grinds her teeth when she's irritated. I tend to notice that in other people. I do the same thing when the anxiety starts taking hold. At least when it starts. It graduates quickly beyond teeth grinding into paralyzing.
I glance at my watch. It's almost time for her to go. I have no idea how I'm going to get my homework done, but I'll figure it out later. I'm meeting some of the guys from the veterans group on campus at some place called Baywater Inn. Because of course LT put me in touch with these guys, too.
But watching her, something is clearly wrong. I want to ask, but given how our history isn’t exactly on the confide-your-darkest-secrets level, I don’t.
She snaps her laptop closed and sighs. "I've got to run and make a phone call. Are you set for your assignment for lab?"
"I'll figure it out."
Her lips press into a flat line. "You can always look it up online."
"Sure thing."
She’s distracted now. Not paying attention. I watch her move. There’s an edge to her seriousness now. A tension in the long lines of her neck. A strand of hair fell free from the knot and brushes her temple. I want to tuck it back into place but I’m pretty sure if I tried it, I'd be rewarded with a knee in the balls. And I like them where they are, thanks. I'd come too close to losing them to risk them now.
I pull out my wallet and hand her two twenties and a ten. She hesitates then offers the ten back. "We didn't do the full hour."I refuse the money. "Keep it. Obviously you've got something to take care of. Don't worry about it."
She sucks in a deep breath like she's going to argue but then clamps her mouth shut. "Thank you."
She didn't choke on it, but it’s a close thing. I am suddenly deeply curious about what has gotten her all wound up in such a short amount of time.
Maybe I'll get a chance to ask her some day.
But I definitely have the impression that Beth Lamont isn’t into warm cuddles and hugs. She strikes me as independent and tough.
And I admire the hell out of that attitude, even as she scares the shit out of me with how smart she is.
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About the Author
Jessica Scott is an Iraq war veteran, an active duty army officer and the USA Today bestselling author of novels set in the heart of America’s Army. She is the mother of two daughters, too many animals, and wife to a retired NCO.
She's also written for the New York Times At War Blog, PBS Point of View Regarding War, and IAVA. She deployed to Iraq in 2009 as part of Operation Iraqi Freedom (OIF)/New Dawn and has had the honor of serving as a company commander at Fort Hood, Texas twice.
She holds a Ph.D. from Duke in sociology and she's been featured as one of Esquire Magazine's Americans of the Year for 2012.
Photo: Courtesy of Buzz Covington Photography
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Copyright © 2018 by Jessica Scott
All rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any print or electronic form without permission.
Printed in the United States of America
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First Printing 2018
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Author photo courtesy of Buzz Covington Photography
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