Unbroken: Virgin and Bad Boy Second Chance Romance

by Haley Pierce

  “We’re glad to have you on board, Doctor,” Dean Armstrong says to me, reaching over her enormous desk to shake my hand. “We’ve looked long and hard to find someone with such excellent qualifications as yours. We’re sure you’ll be a tremendous asset to the English department.”

  I nod curtly at her. Tremendous asset? Well, I wouldn’t go so far.

  The diminutive woman in a graying shag haircut smiles at me and checks her watch. “Well, better leave you to it. Your first class is today. You need anything from me, you just ask, all right?”

  “Thank you,” I say to her, standing. “I won’t let you down.”

  I don’t intend to. Even if teaching wasn’t my first choice of profession, it feels like my last. My only remaining option.

  After I leave the Marysville administration building, I follow the map the dean has given me to find Miller Hall. Most of the buildings on the large campus look the same—brick and stately, covered in ivy. Only one—the McBride Applied Sciences building, is sparkling white and windowed, with piles of construction dirt surrounding it. Brand new. Miller, though, might have been here for centuries. It’s narrow and crumbling. I step inside a door made of frosted glass and navigate down a flight to the ground floor offices.

  When I open the door to my “office” and look around, I can’t help it. I break out in laughter. Dean Armstrong had said it wasn’t much, and she wasn’t kidding. Miller Hall’s cleaning supplies probably have a better arrangement.

  The shabby wooden desk and two chairs are the only pieces of furniture in the room. They are the only pieces of furniture that can fit in the room, incidentally. Closing the door behind me, I find a J hook on the back of it and manage to maneuver out of my jacket with the walls closing in on me, scraping my knuckles on either wall as I do. I hang the jacket, then squeeze narrowly between the back of the desk and the cinderblock wall. It’s so close, I can’t even pull the chair out properly. I bang my knee on the drawer pulls as I do, cursing from the pain that shoots up my leg.

  Well, I think. It could be worse. I could be a stockbroker.

  When I’m seated, I set my coffee and sandwich on the desk and undo the straps on my satchel. I pull out my phone.

  Another text from Anna.

  I delete it without reading it. I know what it says, anyway. Something to the effect of, Where are the chapters you promised me?

  Anna Mowery. She’s a gorgeous, alluring woman, but no idiot. I can tell by the increasing terseness of her texts that she’s getting fed up with me. I’d promised I’d have those chapters a month ago, while she was in the throes of her third orgasm, when I’d gotten what I’d wanted and needed to get some shut-eye.

  I look around the office again. This is what happened to those chapters. This fucking job.

  They always tell you it’s tough to break into publishing. But here’s a little known fact about it: Breaking in is easy, especially when you’re giving one of New York’s finest agents the best fucks she’s had in years.

  It’s the staying in the game that’s hard.

  A year ago, I accepted a high-six-figure advance from St. Martin’s Press for my debut novel. I’d only written three chapters of the manuscript, but they were the most stunning three chapters in existence. I don’t need to be humble about it. Dozens of agents had said as much. I’d slaved away on them during my undergraduate years, before Layla screwed with my head and I’d gotten the Big Block. I’d shopped them around on a whim, not expecting much. I was surprised when Anna agreed to submit them to editors. I’d wanted to be an author since I was a kid, so it was a dream when I got the call St. Martin’s wanted to put in a pre-empt to publish it.

  I signed the contract, got half the money. The second half would only come when I turned in the rest of the book.

  And then . . . it became a nightmare.

  There I was, officially living my dream, and I couldn’t get it back. Whatever “it” was. The mojo. The nerve. The inspiration. Every word I wrote, I erased. Anna Mowery, agent extraordinaire and on-off fuck-buddy, thinks I’m putting the finishing touches on the manuscript and will submit my masterpiece in the next few days.

  I haven’t had the balls to tell her I haven’t written a single word.

  Six months ago, she might have thought that when I took her to bed, it meant the beginning of something. She may have even considered leaving her husband for me. But she’s on to me, now. I haven’t done a relationship since Layla, and after the thorough excoriation I’d received from that deal, that isn’t about to change. She has to know that all the sex we’ve been having—and there’s been a lot of it—is for one thing only: to buy myself time.

  And time, like the money, has just about run out. When the advance had dwindled down to my last month’s rent, I applied for the only job I knew I had the qualifications for: teaching creative writing to a bunch of goddamn starry-eyed English majors.

  Those who can’t do, teach.

  But I don’t even know if I can do that.

  Never wanted to, truthfully.

  I unwrap my soggy sandwich and take a bite. As I do, I reach into my pocket and pull out the ID, then put on my glasses and gaze at the small photo. I’d found it on the ground near the refrigerated case after she and her friend had left.

  Damn, even in a state-issued photo ID, the girl manages to look hot. Long, wavy blonde hair and wide eyes. Innocent eyes, pleading eyes, begging me to defile her.

  I groan, remembering I’m going to be teaching girls her age.

  I’m now the responsible grown-up. Shit.

  I scan the rest of the information on the card. Addison McBride. Twenty-one years old. Blue eyes, blonde hair. Lives off-campus. On the back, it says she’s an organ donor. Of course she is. Judging from the way she’d tripped over her words and averted my eyes when I met her, she’s a good girl. She probably has cartoon animals following her everywhere.

  I lean back, thinking I could probably write volumes about the color of the blush on her cheeks, or the way that blonde hair fell over those full, perky breasts of hers. My cock strains against my pants as I think about sucking on those sweet, pink tits. It occurs to me that I’m not cut out to be a teacher of anything if these are the thoughts that are going to assail me every time I’m in front of the class, but hell, this isn’t what I want.

  I want to write.

  But then I remember I have my first class to prepare for.

  Fuck. It’s the way my life works. I always end up inspired when I can least afford to be.

  I settle into the groove and get the lesson plan done after an hour. Then I gather my things, close the door to my office, and step out into the hallway packed with young adults. It brings me back to how I’d been, then. Back then, plans could be twisted and changed. It felt like I had all the time in the world to figure my life out.

  Layla would laugh at me, if she could see me now. If I’d stayed on the path she’d wanted me on, I’d probably be on my private jet, heading off to some remote island by now.

  I’d told myself it was worth it. After all, what good is it being rich, if you’re miserable?

  Now, I’m not rich, but I’m not exactly happy, either. Not like Layla, who has everything she set out for—the wealth, the stockbroker husband, the status. Had I not gotten derailed by her, maybe I would have what I’d set out for, too. But I let my head, and my heart get in the way.

  My fault, for letting a woman matter.

  It’s a mistake I will never make again.

  Addison

  I pop two Excedrin and wash them down with some bitter drinking-fountain water on the way into Miller Hall, the English building. Numbers always do that to me. I start out fine and end up with a massive migraine pounding right between the eyes.

  I find the classroom without too much trouble, despite never having been in this building in my entire school career. It’s a small classroom, with about a dozen desks arranged in a tight semicircle, very different from the giant lecture halls and labs I’m used to. I li
ke to be early to my classes to scope out the best place to sit, so I’m happy to discover I’m the first one there. I squeeze into a chair on the very end, nearest the professor’s desk, the “teacher’s pet” seat.

  Yes, I plan on being the teacher’s pet. Some people think that’s a bad thing, but not me. Where Zoe lives to wrap men around her finger, I live to make teachers adore me. That’s been my gift, ever since kindergarten.

  Leaning over, I pull out my laptop, the notebook I’d bought for this class, a pen, as well as the required reading. While some students wait until after the first class to buy the books, I never do. I buy them the second they’re available. In fact, I’ve already read them. Twice. Vogler’s Mythic Structure and Shakespeare’s Love Sonnets. Even though this is my fun class, my Easy A, I’m ready. I don’t take chances.

  Students start to filter in behind me, and I smile at each of them. It’s important to have allies, because you never know when you’ll need a study partner or have to pair up for a project. A lanky boy with acne sits next to me. He looks like he’s all of twelve. “Homer,” he says, throwing his entire full backpack onto his desk.

  “Uh. The writer?”

  He shakes his head. “No, that’s my name. Homer Lacara. English Major. Year one. What’s yours?”

  “Oh. Addison,” I say, intentionally leaving off the McBride part, since I don’t need anyone to make associations right now. “I’m a senior. I’ve never taken a writing class before.”

  He grins and starts to pull out stacks of English textbooks—British Poetry, Asian literature, the works. “Well, I have. In fact, I’m on my third novel.”

  I stare at him, confused. “Reading?”

  Now he looks at me like I’m insane. “No. Writing. The first one hasn’t come out yet, but Publisher’s Weekly gave it a star.”

  I feel all the blood draining from my face. “Really? I—I thought this was Creative Writing 101. What are you doing in here?”

  He says, “Same as you. I have to take this class to get my degree. If you need any help, let me know. In fact, give me your cell. That way, if we ever have to miss a class, we’re covered.”

  I swallow as he slides his iPhone over to me, scanning the room as the rest of the desks are filled. Surely someone here, like me, has never even attempted to write a work of fiction before? I punch in my number, certain I will never miss a class. I’ve never missed a class, even when I was nearly dead with the flu. I will live, breathe, and own creative writing, make Shakespeare my bitch, if that’s what it takes to show these people. I’m a McBride, for god’s sake. We don’t fail.

  God, I sound like my mother.

  “Good afternoon,” a vaguely familiar voice booms from behind me, as the door slams shut with an odd finality. “Let’s get started.”

  I whirl in my seat to see Mr. Hill striding toward the desk.

  I drop my pen on the ground. Oh, no.

  No, he can’t be my teacher. He’s . . .

  Too hot. Men like him should be in front of a camera, not a classroom.

  It suddenly hits me, where I’ve seen the name Hill before.

  On my schedule, right next to the name of this class.

  Face heating, I lean over the wood armrest to try to retrieve the pen, but it’s too far away to get anything but my fingertips on it. Before I can think anymore, he’s stooping beside me. He picks it up, and sets it on my desk. “We meet again, McBride,” he murmurs, his breath tickling my ear.

  I stiffen.

  He removes the corduroy blazer, baring a crisp white shirt and tie and the rise of what promises to be a perfectly defined chest underneath. Then he straightens and says, his voice low and authoritative and enough to worm its way into the deepest part of me, “I’m Professor Hill, and this is Creative Writing 101.”

  I want to die. I sink down into my chair.

  He continues. “A little bit about me. I graduated with my doctorate in English from Yale ten months ago. I also hold an MFA in Creative Writing from Stanford, however, this is my first foray into the classroom as a teacher. I’ve devoted my life not to the act of writing, because anyone can put words down on paper. That is not what this class is about. Authorship is about uncovering truth, about enlightening, about unifying readers under a common understanding.”

  In the circle, all the other students are nodding. The women are looking at him like Zoe had, like they want to jump him. I can’t bring my eyes to meet his; I stare at the ground, at my pen, at the white board where he writes his name, anywhere but at him.

  I grit my teeth, feeling like if the ground decided to swallow me up, it would be a good thing.

  “The 101 is not to be misunderstood. This is not a free ride. An easy way to fill your English requirement. If you’re not ready to challenge yourself, to break down walls and uncover truth with your writing, you are in the wrong place, and there’s the door.”

  No one moves, but I want to. It’s a burning desire, suddenly. I want to push away from the desk and break free of this.

  What made me think this would be a good idea? Why didn’t I listen to my mother when she told me not to take this class?

  Hill passes out a syllabus, then removes a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles from his shirt pocket and puts them on. I’d hoped they would make him geeky, but no, they only serve to make him look even more delicious. Now, he’s not just sexy, he’s sexy-smart.

  “If you need to contact me, I’m available twenty-four-seven via the classroom chat module online, so please use that when it’s not office hours.” He points to the paper. “As you can see, I’ve divided this class evenly between poetry, focusing much on Shakespeare’s sonnets, and fiction, following the mythic structure.”

  This is where I would raise my hand and interject a witty comment about the readings, just to show him I’ve already done them and start whittling my way into his heart. But I can’t. His deep voice has completely hypnotized me. I’m coming up blank.

  “But for now, I think I want to find out a little more about you,” he says, sitting on the edge of his desk.

  I swallow. This can’t be good.

  He starts to unbutton the cuffs of his shirt and roll up his sleeves, baring tanned, muscular forearms studded with cinnamon hair and a heavy, expensive-looking wristwatch. “When I call your name, please stand and recite your favorite poem.”

  My eyes bulge out. Suddenly the small room has become a lot smaller.

  Everyone else nods as if they’ve expected this. I start to raise my hand, tentatively, wondering if it’s not too late to make a dash for the door. He looks at me, a hint of amusement peeking through his otherwise stony expression. “No, McBride, this will not be graded,” he answers in a sing-song tone, as if he’s read my mind. Oh, god, can he read my mind? “It’s only for me to see where your interests lie.”

  I swallow an orange-sized lump in my throat. Somehow this doesn’t make me feel better.

  I feel even worse when he calls on the first person, a frizzy-haired girl named Ackerman, and she recites some poem about paths diverging in a wood, without hesitation, as if she’d practiced it all her life.

  “Very nice, Ms. Ackerman,” he says, scanning down the list.

  One by one, all the students recite their poems, and meanwhile, I struggle to think of something even remotely poetic. Nothing comes. My mother called poetry garbage. She told me reading fiction for fun was a waste of time. She deliberately kept it out of the house.

  A guy with a red mohawk recites something about someone named Annabelle Lee. Despite going on forever, it doesn’t give me the time I need to come up with any ideas. All I can think about are some of the mnemonic devices that we came up with for anatomy, and a few Dr. Seuss rhymes I may have been subjected to in kindergarten about cats in hats.

  Then, Homer stands up next to me and eloquently recites a poem he calls Ozymandias. Hill nods appreciatively and then his eyes shift to me. “Ms. McBride?”

  Mind still blank, I rise to my feet, keenly aware of the twelve sets
of eyes on me.

  “Well, uh . . .” I begin brilliantly.

  I take a deep breath, waiting for embarrassment to fully envelop me.

  Instead, I’m surprised that a very different emotion floods me. Indignation. Regardless of what he thinks, this is still Creative Writing 101. For beginners. Maybe no one else is one, but I am. And there should be no shame in my lack of knowledge, because he’s supposed to be teaching me. That’s how he’s supposed to earn his money, not by embarrassing his students. And if he wants me to a recite a poem that’ll get to know me better, he’s got it.

  I tilt my chin up and recite, “Toe bone connected to the foot bone, foot bone connected to the heel bone.”

  Hill’s eyes widen slightly. He leans forward, elbow on his thigh, chin propped in his hand, as if this is a new one he’s never heard before. Of course he’s never heard it in one of his classes before; it’s a song my mom used to sing to me over and over again when I was a kid and my dreams of being a doctor were just beginning.

  People around me start to smile. I continue on, and as I do, the rhythm comes back to my memory, and I start to sing it. “Heel bone connected to the ankle bone. Ankle bone connected to the shin bone . . .”

  Homer is nodding along beside me. Suddenly, Mohawk-guy starts to clap along, getting into the groove as I break into the chorus. “Dem bones, dem bones . . .”

  Today is certainly a day of firsts. I’ve never had such an obvious reaction to a man as I did when I met Mr. . . I mean, Dr. Hill. I’ve never subjected myself to such humiliation by singing in front of one of my classes. It feels like a wild dream, so when I finish, I go for broke. I hold the last note and add in little jazz hands.

  The class erupts in applause, shocking me. Mohawk-guy leans over his desk to give me a fist-bump.

  As I slide back into my seat, I realize Dr. Hill wasn’t clapping along with the rest. He’s just staring at me, rubbing his unshaven jaw with his hand. Finally, he says, “Interesting choice, McBride,” and marks something down on the leather-bound booklet in front of him.

  I know he wasn’t grading it, but I can still see the bright red F in my mind.