by Zoe Blake
“Listen. They are here to learn about the Navy. That is all they care about. And all the Navy cares about is that they learn about the Navy…and perhaps some math. English is fairly low on everyone’s priority list. I need you to make sure they know the basics. Shakespeare, Dickens, Hemingway. Just enough culture befitting an officer. Got it?” said Professor Jones as he shoved papers into a worn leather satchel. Phoebe followed him down the hall as he shuffled along to his first class.
“What have they learned so far this year?” she asked as she tried to keep up in her platform heels.
“Nothing. The last teacher we hired quit less than a week in, unable to…well there was some unpleasantness and since then the class has been a quiet study hall. Good luck, Professor Pringle. Your classroom is right down this hall, third door on the left.”
Knowing he had just given her the perfect in, Phoebe asked, “What sort of unpleasantness? I hope it had nothing to do with cheating or plagiarism?”
Professor Jones stopped mid-shuffle and turned to her. Without looking up, and nervously adjusting the buckle on his satchel, he said, “No, no, no. Nothing like that. They have an honor code here and they take it very seriously. It was…well…a few weeks ago…two lovely young women were…well they were found murdered in the forest that borders the school.”
Phoebe laid a consoling hand on his upper arm. “That is terrible. I’m so sorry. Did you know the women?”
“One of them was a teacher in my department. The other was a girlfriend of one of the men on campus. The boy was cleared of course. He was training on a boat out in the bay at the time of the murder.”
At that, Professor Jones seemed to come back to himself, giving Phoebe a startled look as if in his reminiscences he had forgotten she was standing there.
“I’ve said too much. It was probably some vagrant passing through. Don’t believe what they say about it being someone on campus. That’s just speculation from the locals.”
“You mean they didn’t catch the murderer?” Phoebe, of course, knew they had not, but she always felt it was best to plead ignorance when ferreting out information.
“Don’t let any of it frighten you away, Miss Pringle. I’m sure the school is safe despite the strange circumstances…well…yes…I’m sure we are all safe.” And then he was gone.
Turned out Henry and Jimmy were right, there was a story here and this school was so frazzled and distracted no one seemed to care if she could spell Shakespeare let alone teach it.
Phoebe couldn’t wait to get back to her room to start her research. There was more to these murders than just the sensational aspects. She was sure of it.
Laying out her lesson plan notes, she leaned against the desk and waited for the first bell. Her first class of the day was with third class students. She wasn’t sure if that meant they were sophomores or juniors but she would read up on that later. She hadn’t really had time to learn the ins and outs of military academy life.
At precisely 7:55 am, students began to quietly file in. Phoebe had expected a little more of the noise and chaos typical of college students. These men were calm and orderly as they took their seats and patiently waited for her to begin. Instinctively realizing that exact timing was probably important on this campus, she nervously watched the clock hands till it was precisely 8:00 am before beginning.
Standing upright, she addressed the class. “Good morning, students!”
Several hands immediately shot up.
What the hell, thought Phoebe. What could I have possibly gotten wrong so quickly?
She nodded her head toward the student closest to her.
“With all due respect, ma’am. We are midshipmen, not students.”
At her confused look, another voice chimed in, “We are considered ensigns in the Navy, ma’am. A low ranking officer,” he clarified. “So we are technically midshipmen in the Navy, not just college students.”
“Shut up! That is so freakin’ cool!” she exclaimed.
The whole class laughed and the tension eased.
She introduced herself and then asked the class to one by one stand and introduce themselves. After the greetings were finished, she announced they would be studying Shakespeare. There were small, but perceptible, groans.
“What? Are you remembering the Shakespeare plays you were forced to read in high school? Romeo and Juliet. Hamlet. You don’t think Shakespeare applies to your military career? That a few men strutting around in tights have nothing in common with you?” asked Phoebe, her hands on her hips.
“With all due respect, ma’am, yes,” someone from the back of the classroom responded.
Perhaps it was the Dead Poets Society vibe, but she felt compelled to inspire these men. Pulling out the wooden straight-back chair from behind her desk, she hitched her skirt up and stepped onto the seat. Raising her arm up high, she shouted, “‘Cowards die but many deaths, the valiant taste of death but once!’”
“Hooyah!” erupted the whole class, reciting the naval battle cry in unison.
“‘Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war!’” she growled with aplomb.
“Hooyah!” they all cried out with enthusiasm as they beat their fists on their desks.
“Yes! Yes!” she clapped. “Those are from Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar! Now let me see…. Oh! I have a good one.” Lowering her voice to sound more masculine, she cried out, “‘From now until the end of the world, we and it shall be remembered. We few, we Band of Brothers. For he…’”
Phoebe broke off with a start as Michael strolled into the room, looking like the embodiment of authority and command in his dress blue uniform.
“I, ah… I…”
“Finish the quote, Professor Pringle, you’re on a roll!” called out one of the midshipmen.
“Yes, please, Professor Pringle, finish what you were doing,” said Michael, his dark gaze direct and scrutinizing.
At the sound of his voice, the whole classroom stood at attention.
“At ease, men.”
The students, that is the midshipmen, all sat.
All the while, Phoebe was desperately trying to see how she could get down from her chair with any dignity. In her excitement to rally the men she hadn’t really thought her plan through. Her red skirt wasn’t so much tight as it was form fitting. While only having to hitch it up to mid-calf to step onto the chair, Phoebe was afraid she would have to hike it up a great deal higher to get off the chair. And there was no way she was going to be able to do it and keep her heels on. Carefully, she slipped out of one shoe, grimacing when it thunked as it fell to the floor. She quickly slipped out of the other. She lost several inches of tactical height in the maneuver, but she had no choice.
Michael strolled down the aisle between the desks. “Professor Pringle, please don’t let me interrupt your lesson.” He moved to lean against the wall directly to her right.
Recovering some of her dignity, Phoebe swallowed hard and tried to remember the line. “‘We few, we Band of Brothers. For he who sheds his blood with me shall be my brother.’”
Casting a nervous glance toward Michael, she asked, “Who can tell me what play that is from? Anyone?”
After a long pause, Michael chimed in.
“I think I can answer for my men. King Henry the Fifth,” said Michael with a knowing smile.
The bell rang before Phoebe could reply. Saved by the bell, she thought. Trying to act like she meant to be standing on a chair shouting like a banshee, she called out, “Read the first act of Henry the Fifth for class on Wednesday.”
The men all filed out with respectful nods toward Michael and murmured ‘Good afternoon, Commander’ as they went.
Soon the classroom was empty.
Save for Michael.
Leaning against the wall.
And her.
Standing on her chair.
Phoebe kept her eyes forward, hoping, as if by sheer will, she could make him leave. She could hear the rustle of his uniform coat as he straighten
ed up from the wall. Then the sound of his booted heels on the hardwood floor.
One step. Another.
Memories of her sleepless night came back to her. The heavy footfall outside her door. Had it been him?
He was standing to her side. Even up on the chair, her five-feet-four inches without her heels was nothing compared to his obviously over six-feet frame.
“Phoebe.”
“Yes,” she whispered, looking down at her nervously twitching fingers. She wished she knew how this man could make her feel like an errant school girl. Strike that…she knew why.
“Yes, what?” he ground out.
At that she turned her head to look at him. They were almost eye-level with the help of the chair. With a start, she realized he was angry. The polite nonchalance he had shown to the class had just been a facade. It was there in the set of his jaw. The rigid line of his brow. The cold look in his blue eyes.
“I asked you a question and I expect an answer.” Each word was clipped as if his sharp teeth were biting them off at the ends.
Flustered, Phoebe demurred. “Yes, sir?” Holding her breath to see if that was the right answer. In her very short acquaintance with this man, it was clear he was not a man to be crossed or angered.
Or lied to, she thought with a flush.
Good God! She briefly wondered if New York being only a couple hundred miles away from Buzzards Bay was far enough to run when he learned of her true purpose here.
“Do you mind telling me what you thought you were doing climbing up on this chair? In high heels no less?”
There it was again. It was something in his tone. The harsh schoolmaster. Each question only missing the ‘young lady’ tacked onto the end.
Unbidden, almost against her will, she looked at the desk in front of them. Phoebe imagined herself bent over it.
Dressed in a schoolgirl’s uniform, the worn wood cool beneath her fingertips. He easily flips up her short, plaid skirt, exposing the creamy skin of her ass and her hot pink thong. Pacing around the desk, Michael methodically slaps a long, wooden ruler against his palm as he repeats a litany of the rules she has broken. She bounces up on her toes as her anxiety increases, knowing the punishment will be severe. She can feel him behind her. A warm hand cups the curve of her right buttock. He warns her the punishment will be painful, moments before the ruler strikes high on her cheeks. She cries out in pain but he doesn’t stop. One strike for every broken rule. The thin strip of wood warms her skin. Stinging hot pinpricks run over her ass to the tops of her thighs. Her stomach clenches in between each punishing blow. Finally, he places the ruler on the desk. It’s time for your real punishment, he says as he frees his thick cock.
“Phoebe, once again, I have asked you a question you have failed to promptly answer.”
Phoebe blinked as she brought Michael back into focus, the schoolgirl fantasy still whispering through her mind. Her cheeks flushed as she realized her nipples were tight with arousal.
“I… ah… well… it was a Dead Poet’s thing,” she stammered, as she pivoted to see if she could somehow step down and put some distance between herself and him.
“Stop fidgeting, you are going to fall.”
He wrapped his arm around her hips just below her ass and lifted her off the chair. Phoebe had no choice but to put her hands on his shoulders as she murmured protests and complaints.
Slowly. Impossibly slowly.
He slid her down the length of his front till her stockinged feet touched the ground. Without her heels, the top of her head barely reached his shoulder. She could smell the musky spice of his cologne. Feel the strength of the muscles across his chest. He radiated heat and energy. Even the brass buttons on his uniform felt warm beneath her fingers.
Her cheeks flamed, hoping the heavy wool of his coat would prevent him from feeling the evidence of her own arousal as her breasts brushed his front.
She was robbed of speech. Keeping her eyes trained forward, she waited for him to remove his hand from her lower back. Instead, he pressed her forward slightly. It was a light but masterful touch. Just enough to have her stomach brush the hard ridge of his cock. He placed a finger under her chin and forced her to meet his gaze.
“‘Among the many lovely things, that make the magic of her face. Among the beauties, black and rose, that make her body’s charm and grace.’” He spoke soft and low.
Baudelaire. He was reciting Baudelaire’s The Temptation to her.
Here he was, this big, scary Marine, reciting a love poem. Phoebe felt lightheaded.
His presence. His anger. Her fantasy. Her lies.
It was all spinning about in her head like fluttering butterflies on fast forward.
“Listen carefully, baby. You ever… ever… get up on a chair like that again. Perching dangerously on the seat in high heels. Displaying this delicious body of yours to my men…”
Phoebe started to object but the press of his hand against her lower back silenced her.
“Displaying your body to my men,” he repeated. “I really will bend you over this desk and tan that magnificent ass of yours with my belt till you cry for mercy.”
Here he was, this big, scary Marine who recites poetry…and reads minds!
Phoebe just knew her cheeks were flushed a bright scarlet.
Boldly, she admonished, “I don’t think you are allowed to say such things to me.”
“I did anyway,” he responded as a single fingertip ran down the curve of her heated cheek. “Change your mind about leaving yet?”
Phoebe stubbornly raised her chin as her eyes narrowed on him assessingly. “Nope.”
There was a clamoring in the hall as the next class of midshipmen began to enter.
Michael stepped back. Phoebe felt oddly bereft without the support of his hand on her back.
She watched almost in slow motion as he leaned forward, his head tilted down toward her face.
In one crazy, wanton moment she thought he was going to kiss her, right here in the middle of the classroom, in front of the students… er… midshipmen.
Instead his lips grazed her ear as he whispered, “I suggest you put your shoes back on.”
And with that, he was gone.
Phoebe stood there for a moment. Trying to come to terms with what was reality and what was fantasy. He disappeared so quickly she could almost believe she had imagined the whole thing. As she numbly turned to put on her shoes, she recalled the poem he’d recited. The Temptation.
With a start, she recalled the opening lines. The Demon, in my chamber high. This morning came to visit me. And, thinking he would find some fault, He whispered, “I would know of thee.”
Had it been Michael at her door last night? Was it Michael who had put the satanic symbol on her door as a warning to leave?
Phoebe shivered despite the warmth of the classroom.
Chapter 5
“It’s beautiful.”
Keeping her balance on the rounded wet rocks, Phoebe looked out over the bay. She was with Amber, an assistant professor from the math department, who had suggested the early morning walk. Amber was short and plump in all the right places with curly, mousy brown hair and a sweet smile. She’d taken an instant liking to Phoebe, glad to have another female under the age of fifty on the campus. She had made it her mission to see that Phoebe was acclimated and happy in her new position. Phoebe felt a pang of guilt for deceiving such a kind and open person but reminded herself that her motives were good. It seemed the whole campus was divided into two camps about the murders. Those who practically denied they had occurred and those who wanted to gossip about all the gruesome details. No one seemed fired up to actually catch the killer.
Everyone bought into the assumption some deranged homeless man just happened to wander into the area, kill two women over the course of three weeks and wander out. The fact that such a man would stick out like sore thumb in such a small, tightly-knit community and yet was never observed, didn’t seem to bother anyone. As far as she coul
d tell, Phoebe was the only one actually trying to seek justice for the slain women.
“I thought you might like the view,” observed Amber.
Focusing back on the present, Phoebe nodded as she took a sip of her mocha latte. Her warmed breath created misty swirls of white each time she breathed. The view was stunning in its raw beauty. Large rocks gave way to smooth white sand beaches which were buffeted by surprisingly strong waves. It was difficult to tell where the slate gray water ended and the gray sky began. Only the faintest glow of soft pink on the horizon hinted at a sunrise. A few boats were braving the harsh winds as they maneuvered around the peninsula where the spider-like lighthouse perched.
They had stopped at an adorable cafe to grab coffee drinks and some pastries before following the path between the military academy grounds and the woods to the shoreline of the bay.
Phoebe loved the sights and smells. The late fall morning had an icy crispness to the air. Feeding off the energy of the woods and the churning waters of the bay, everything felt alive and invigorating to her. So different from the stale, rank smells of the city with its crush of harried people.
“Oh my God! You have to try this raspberry preserve croissant,” raved Amber.
Phoebe gingerly took the buttery pastry from Amber. Holding it by its wax paper wrapping, she bit into the warm and crusty bread. A burst of tart sweetness hit her tongue as she also moaned her appreciation. A small dollop of raspberry preserves had escaped the pastry from the side and dripped onto the corner of her mouth. The tip of her tongue poked out to sweep the delicate treat from her lips just as she saw him.
Emerging from the forest’s edge like some mythical beast, he was all hard muscle and harsh angles. Dressed only in dark blue sweat shorts, his naked chest was on full display. Despite the chill, a fine sheen of sweat made his skin glisten in the early morning light. It was entrancing to watch the fluid motion of his body as he ran. Although distance separated them, Phoebe was drawn into the intense scrutiny of his gaze. Alarmed, she watched as he slowed his pace and headed toward them.
Amber gasped. “Holy fuck. He’s coming this way! Jesus Christ, he’s built.”
