Extra Credit:
A Dirty & Diverse Novella
By Zaida Polanco
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
EXTRA CREDIT
First edition. July 10, 2019.
Copyright © 2019 Zaida Polanco.
Written by Zaida Polanco.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Ben
Lina
Ben
Lina
Ben
Lina
Ben
Lina
Ben
Lina
Ben
Lina
Ben
Lina
Ben
Lina
Ben
Lina
Ben
Lina
Ben
Epilogue - Lina - Eight Months Later
Ben - Two Years Later
Thank you!
Ben
Every time summer ends and the students flock back to our small little college town, I kick myself just a little bit for accepting this teaching job out in the middle of nowhere. Because small town equals just one decent bar.
One. Bar.
And even though the semester hasn’t even technically started, a ton of students are already back on campus, which means the blissfully empty bar I love during the summer is now officially back to normal, with an almost even mix of students, professors, and other administrative university professionals.
I hate it.
Professors and students partying together (and then some)? Uncouth as hell.
I turn from the bar, sipping my bourbon on the rocks while observing the rest of my group, who are all in varying stages of intoxication. Dev, the guest of honor, is currently surrounded by a gaggle of definitely not older than college-aged young men as they grind on him in the center of the dance floor. Dev eats that shit up. In his defense, as the youngest and newest member of our faculty, he’s not much older than the students, so I guess he feels more of a kinship with them.
I scan the bar and take note of the different clusters of students and professors. Woodburgh is a tiny liberal arts school in the mountains of upstate New York. It’s a rural-ish town, but the population is pretty diverse, mostly due to the proximity of NYC and Boston.
I’m trying to decide if I want to stay for another bourbon or just call it a night. My colleagues don’t usually expect me to come out for stuff like this, but we’re celebrating the publication of Dev’s first solo paper along with his official new job in our Political Science department. Dev was one of our grad students so he’s been unofficially part of the department for years, but now he’ll actually be a full faculty member. Which is why I’m out with this group that has turned out to be entirely too rowdy for a bunch of PoliSci professors and grad students.
Another glance over at my colleagues confirms that everyone is pretty content where they are, and they certainly won’t miss me. As I set my drink down, a sweet female voice rings loudly in my ear.
“Are you just going to sit there looking broody all night?”
I turn to see who she’s talking to, facing her full on, and am a little surprised to find her staring at me. Her eyes widen when I return her stare.
“Whoa,” she says, a little breathless, before shifting her attention to the bartender in front of us.
I echo the sentiment in my head, because whoa is right. The beauty standing in front of me is breathtaking. She’s a little slip of a girl, probably no taller than 5’3. Even in the dimly-lit bar, I can tell she’s got thick thighs, a small waist, and a perfect rack. I’m such a bastard, I should not be looking at her like this at all.
She looks young and optimistic enough that she must be a student, which means she’s most assuredly off limits to me. But fuck, she’s gorgeous. Her hair springs out from her head in tight, honey brown coils, framing her face like a halo. It’s fitting because her face is positively cherubic—all cheeks and dimples and—fuck what am I even doing here? Wasn’t I about to leave?
She notices me noticing her. Or rather, she notices me being absolutely dumbstruck by her. So by the time I blink and clear my head, she’s smirking at me.
Did I say she was an angel? Scratch that. Because that knowing smirk is all devil, and I’d sell her my soul in a heartbeat.
I may be a smart man, with my degrees and teaching background and world experience, but this mystery girl has the power to render me idiotic, speechless, unable to form coherent thoughts.
My vision has narrowed to just her, watching as she smiles at her friends. As she takes a shot with the bartender. As she winks at the bartender before turning back to me. As she places a shot in my hand and raises another one so I can shoot it with her. As she grabs my hands and pulls me toward the packed dance floor.
As I follow her.
Lina
“I really don’t dance,” the broody hottie says once I’ve settled us into a relatively uncrowded corner of the makeshift dance floor. The DJ tonight is amazing, or maybe I’m just drunk, or maybe it’s both. But I’m just so happy to be back in town after a shitty summer away, nothing could put me in a bad mood. Not the fact that the friends I came with tonight all seem to have made convenient, hook-up related exits. Not even Grumpy McGrumpster over here.
Is it possible that I misjudged him at the bar? I could have sworn I saw him checking me out. But now that I see him looking a little miserable next to me, I wonder if maybe I was mistaken. It’s a real possibility that this was a case of wishful thinking. Because I was definitely checking HIM out. He’s hot as fuck. Not in a ‘Hollywood heartthrob’ way, but more like in a ‘slightly nerdy writer who probably also does Crossfit’ way.
AKA my kryptonite, apparently.
I saw him hanging with a rowdy group of guys earlier—including one of my TAs from my sophomore year World Politics class—so I assume Sir Broods-A-Lot is a grad student or something. Not that it even matters. If he’s not interested, I can’t waste my time. This is my senior year, and I’m all about living it up until the real world comes calling.
Currently, ‘living it up’ looks like me dancing by myself to “Crush on You” by Lil’ Kim while He Who Does Not Dance (aka He Whose Name I Still Don’t Know) stands awkwardly next to me. I’m almost surprised to see him still there once the song ends. I guess I just assumed he’d be gone by now, back at the bar with his friends. The fact that he stayed standing there while I dance by myself is somehow both endearing and ridiculous.
The DJ switches to some popular trap song, which my old soul doesn’t care for, so I grab his hand and lead him toward the bar’s small back patio. A handful of folks are out there, smoking or canoodling, but the August night is humid and sticky as fuck, so most people are back in the relative cool of the air-conditioned bar.
I lead us away from the couple currently smoking and arguing in hushed tones. I lean up against the brick wall of the bar and start fanning myself. Dancing + alcohol + upstate New York in the summertime? I’m a sweaty mess. After fishing around my pockets and purse for a hair tie, I’m finally able to pull my sweaty curls up into a messy bun. The relief I feel at having the hair off the back of my neck is close to orgasmic. Okay, maybe not that close but still. Close enough.
All the while, the hot broody guy and I just stare at each other. I decide Broody Garland is a good nickname for him, and resolve to call him that in my head for as long as possible. I see his eyes narrow a little when I put my hair up, but I could have imagined it.
He just looks at me, and I look back. It’s the world’s least exciting g
ame of chicken, but you try telling that to my heart, which is currently close to bursting out of my damn chest.
He’s just so—ugh! Gorgeous, definitely. But in a way that makes me feel a little crazy. He’s got dark wavy hair and soulful dark brown eyes. He’s wearing a soft-looking chambray button-up shirt, a pair of gray chinos, and some brown lace-up Oxfords, which are just unpolished enough to give his outfit a casual vibe, even though I know those shoes were at least $100. Who dresses like this to come to a dive bar? In the summertime, no less. Most of the guys here are wearing shorts and flip-flops. He looks like a narc or something. To be honest, the whole look is really working for me but I won’t let him know that just yet.
“What did you mean back there, you don’t dance?” I ask, with a definite note of suspicion in my voice.
He shrugs and jams his hands in his pockets.
“Is it that you can’t or you don’t like to?”
I appreciate the level of consideration he puts into his answer, like he wants to tell me the truth no matter what.
Finally, he speaks up. “Let’s say it’s a little bit of column A and a little bit of column B?”
I roll my eyes. “That’s a copout answer but fine. Some people genuinely don’t like to dance. I usually think those people are probably dead inside. Or a lot dead inside. Kind of like people who don’t like dogs.”
I stop there, waiting for him to interject.
He sighs. “I love dogs. So... maybe only a little bit dead inside?”
“Remains to be seen,” I say, trying to suppress my laugh. “Let’s say you don’t like to dance because you think everyone’s looking at you, or maybe one time a clown made you dance at a birthday party and it traumatized you and so you never dance.”
“That’s such a highly specific origin story,” he says, his lip twitching.
“In those cases, we can work it out of you. Immersion therapy, hypnosis, you know, stuff like that.”
“Sure. Easy peasy.”
“Exactly,” I say, grinning up at him. He holds my gaze for what feels like an eternity, and I can’t help but swallow hard. I swear it’s loud enough that he can hear it too. He’s gracious enough not to say anything.
“And then there’s the ‘I can’t dance’ excuse. Which is, in my opinion, a whole lotta bullshit. Almost everyone CAN dance, provided they don’t have a disability that prevents them from doing so. Now, I’m not saying everyone can dance well, but I do believe there’s a rhythm in all of us.”
“I’d honestly beg to differ,” he says, drily, “but I worry you’re going to make me demonstrate either way.”
I ignore him. “Most of the time, when people say they can’t dance, what they mean is they think they’re bad at it and don’t want to be embarrassed and it’s just easier to say they don’t know how. So, tell me, is the reason you think you can’t dance because you’re white? Cause I have known a white person or two who could cut a rug.”
If he’s shocked by my theory, he doesn’t show it.
“This is easily the most ridiculous conversation I’ve ever had at a bar,” he says, a genuine smile on his handsome face.
I shrug in response, biting back my own smile. “Just saying, we have to be compatible dancing together, otherwise our wedding dance will look awful.”
He freezes for a second until I wink at him to let him know I’m joking. I’m not that crazy. Never mind the fact that when I made that joke, my traitorous brain conjured up a vision of him in a tuxedo standing at the end of an aisle while I make my way down to him. As expected, he looks hot as fuck in a tuxedo for our fake wedding that I just dreamed up.
A strange thing happens when I catch his eye, though. He’s not... he doesn’t exactly seem horrified by my casual mention of our future wedding. Where I expected to see panic on his face, I only see... curiosity, maybe? Thoughtfulness. Like he might have a traitorous brain too.
I notice that he’s breathing just as heavy as I am now, which tells me he’s not as unaffected as I previously imagined. I’m still not sure if I know what’s going on here. My patience is wearing thin, and I still don’t even know his freaking name. It might just be the stress of the past two difficult months catching up to me, but suddenly I don’t really have the energy to keep doing this. The back and forth.
“Are you attracted to me or what?” I ask, cause I’m subtle like that.
He rears back like I’ve struck him before he rearranges his beautiful mouth into a frown. “What kind of question is that?” he counters. And he has the nerve to look offended.
I shrug it off like this conversation is boring to me, as if my heart isn’t struggling to find a rhythm harder than Taylor Swift at a step show.
“An honest one.” I have to forcibly keep my mouth closed, because my first instinct right now is to blurt out just how hot I find him, and I’m sure his smug ass already knows that. No need for me to say anything and big up his ego even more.
He’s shaking his head, like I’ve said the most ridiculous thing. Now it’s my turn to frown.
“I notice you still have not answered the question... which, I suppose should be an answer on its own. Fuck. I’m apparently not picking up on social cues tonight,” I ramble.
He shakes his head and gives me a small half-smile, which crinkles the corner of his left eye. It’s adorable and I hate myself for even noticing it.
“You’re right, you’re really not picking up on my cues.”
Oh. Ouch.
In the recesses of my brain, I register that he’s moved a few inches closer to me. I wonder if I’ve made it up, so I move back a little. But then he moves closer again. Hmm, okay, interesting.
“Beautiful,” he whispers, and I don’t know if it’s an address, a general statement, a question, or all three. Still, I Iean closer to him, allowing myself to breathe in his perfect smell of hot guy cologne mixed with his own pheromones or whatever it is that’s making him absolutely irresistible to me right now.
“If you had been reading my cues better tonight, you wouldn’t be asking if I was attracted to you,” he says, and yep, I’m definitely not breathing properly. “You wouldn’t ask because you’d know, 100% without a doubt, that I’m really fucking attracted. Hell, I’m not sure I’ve ever been this attracted to someone before now. Do I need to prove it to you? Because I can, if that’s what it’ll take to convince you.”
Shit shit shit. He’s... oh my god. My brain short circuits.
The rational part of me knows that this is probably a line he uses on all the girls. But the other part of me, the extremely horny part (aka most of me, at this point) doesn’t give a damn about whether it’s a line or not. No sir.
Somehow I have the absolute cheek to respond to what I’m sure was a rhetorical challenge. “What if I do need you to prove it? How will you do that?”
His already dark eyes turn impossibly darker as lust overtakes him. And now I know he’s right. If I had been paying more attention, perhaps I would have noticed the signs of his attraction. Blame it on me still adjusting out of the weird headspace visiting my parents always puts me in.
Once more, we’re just inches apart. He runs his thumb lightly on my upturned palm, and I never knew the movement could be so erotic.
He fixes me with that absolutely incinerating stare and honestly, I kind of maybe understand cults now? I feel like I could join a cult over this man. I don’t know, but I don’t want to question it right now either.
“Still need to be convinced?” he asks, and I’m vaguely aware that I maybe stopped breathing for like a whole minute while he drove me crazy from just his touch on my palm alone. My palm! Like I’m some demure maiden in Victorian England or something. Ridiculous.
I nod yes. Which is maybe a lie. Okay, it’s definitely a lie. I don’t need to be convinced of his attraction, but I want it all the same.
He reaches for my hand again, and I watch in slow motion as he pulls it toward him. He places my hand on his chest. God, his fucking chest. I can feel every
single one of his muscles. Muscles I doubt I even know the names of but love to feel anyway.
“I knew you looked like a Crossfit guy,” I whisper. He smiles at me and shakes his head. What is happening right now, I mean seriously. I have no time to contemplate what comes next, however, because his big strong hands are suddenly around my waist, engulfing me and pulling me into his hard broody potentially Crossfit-hewn body.
It’s hard as hell. I let myself melt into him and he slowly grinds his pelvis against mine. And I... oh. Yep, okay. He’s definitely definitely hard everywhere. And, if the firm thickness pressed against me is any indication, he is as turned on as I am right now. I’m pretty sure that’s not from Crossfit.
I shamelessly grind against him, and the guttural noise he makes is the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.
I want everything, right now. All of it.
But first, I want to kiss him.
Ben
This beautiful, hilarious, sexy as hell girl moves closer to me, shooting her eyes up to mine as if asking for permission. I can only imagine what she sees there. Most likely it’s a heady combination of barely restrained lust and a slight flash of panic about what’s about to happen and how it has the very real possibility to blow up my life. Still, I know that I certainly will not be the one to stop this train from where it’s been hurtling since we met.
Have we even met? I don’t know her name.
I’m just about to ask when her lips press into mine and all my thoughts are suddenly locked away in some dark corner, because the only thing that matters is the feel of her in my arms, the soft plumpness of her lips teasing mine, and the absolute calm that washes over me even as our kiss grows more frantic, as if I am in exactly the right place at exactly the right time.
I’ve kissed a few women in my time, but I can confidently say that I’ve never kissed like this. I’ve certainly never BEEN kissed like this, with so much passion and need in every movement. Every flick of tongue, every playful nip at my bottom lip, every gentle caress of her hand in my hair.
Extra Credit: A Dirty & Diverse Novella Page 1
