The Absolute Novels:
Absolute Beginners & Absolute Lovers
The Absolutely Complete Love Story
By SJ Hooks
To my ex-husband and best friend, Henrik, for always believing in me.
And with special thanks to Shelley Leveton, Alicia Etheridge, Rebekah Adams, and Lindsay McCool, for supporting it.
Master Table of Contents
Absolute Beginners
Absolute Lovers
The Wilde Side
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
Absolute Beginners
An Absolute Novel
Book 1
By SJ Hooks
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Glancing at my watch, I breathed a small sigh of relief. My class was about to start and she was blissfully absent. Usually, I didn’t approve when my students missed a lecture, but it seemed that a lot had changed since the beginning of the spring semester when she sauntered into my classroom, annoying me at every turn. I looked at my watch again. Time to start.
Then the door swung open, and my good mood dissipated.
Of course she wouldn’t miss a class. She never has.
She danced into the room as she always did, wearing ridiculously large headphones, bopping her head to the beat. Did she even notice the stares she received? Did she care? Probably not, given her choice of outfit—if one could even call it that. The combat boots on her feet were unpolished and worn, her black pantyhose was riddled with holes, her skirt was far too short, and if that wasn’t bad enough, she had cut up the neckline of her long-sleeved shirt, making it fall off her naked shoulder. My eyes lingered there, noting the lack of bra strap.
The jocks in the back noticed, too, their eyes following her as her movements made it obvious that she definitely wasn’t wearing anything underneath the tight-fitting shirt. Lifting my gaze to her face, I met her eyes for a second. She flashed me a grin, winking. Suddenly, I felt as though my bowtie was too tight around my neck and I had to fight the urge to tug at it.
As she breezed past my desk, I pretended to glance at my watch. It was too much to take in when she was that close—those red lips and all that smudgy black stuff she wore on her eyes. It was like looking at a deranged version of a mime.
I didn’t understand why she chose to present herself like that, when she was otherwise reasonably pretty. She had a nice figure, large blue eyes, and long, shiny reddish-brown hair. But she never wore it down. Today, it looked like she had twirled large sections of it with an electric mixer and then pinned them up.
Her appearance wasn’t the only thing that bothered me. The girl seemed to have no appreciation for the fact that I was her professor, or for the decorum with which she was expected to act around me. She often addressed me as “Stephen,” even though I corrected her each time it happened. I wasn’t “Stephen” when I was teaching a class and I expected my students to address me as either “Professor Worthington” or “Sir.” Needless to say, my expectations were not met where this bothersome young woman was concerned. Today was hardly the first time she had winked at me, and I had no idea how to react when it happened. She was entirely unpredictable and it made me nervous. She never hesitated to interrupt me during class if she was of a different opinion.
And when is she not of a different opinion?
I had never met a more infuriatingly opinionated and stubborn girl in all my life. I was looking forward to the end of the semester, after which I’d never have to see her again. She was smart—I couldn’t deny it —and I was certain that she’d pass my class with flying colors.
She took a seat at the front of the class, like always, and I watched as she placed her bag on the floor. The movement made the already loose neckline of her shirt slide further down her shoulder, revealing more of her pale skin. That bothered me even more than the constant interruptions and inappropriate behavior. Why couldn’t she just dress nicely? She would be such a pretty young lady if she wore a decent-length skirt and perhaps a silk blouse. But, apparently, she was adamant in her desire to look like a trashy urchin, thus effectively spoiling my good mood. I liked order and predictability, neither of which I was able to enjoy with her in my classroom.
She was even appropriately named “Wilde.”
Ms. Wilde had become a constant source of annoyance in my otherwise pleasant Tuesday/Friday teaching schedule, and I couldn’t wait to be rid of her.
I cleared my throat to let my students know that I was beginning the class, and for once they settled down quickly. I knew the reason for this unusual occurrence without having to ask: today we were discussing the novel Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov. The risqué plot of a grown man who falls in love and has a sexual relationship with a twelve-year-old girl rendered the novel a perennial class favorite. It was still banned in many places, and nothing made my literature students feel more like adults than reading “forbidden” books. As the class started, I was surprised to see that for once, Ms. Wilde was not participating. She was writing her notes quietly with a small smile on her face.
As the discussion continued, a student in the back suggested that the main character, Humbert, was mentally ill and not in control of his own actions, and he should be allowed a little clemency.
“But you can’t actually defend him,” a girl whose name I couldn’t remember argued. “He’s a complete pervert and he corrupts the girl!”
“Actually, I think it’s the other way around,” Ms. Wilde said, without looking up from her notes.
“What?” the girl asked. “Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack,” Ms. Wilde answered. “I’m fairly certain that Lolita is the one who corrupts Humbert. She seduces him and he loves it. What guy wouldn’t?”
“But she’s just a kid!” the other girl insisted.
“She is, but she’s well aware of what she’s doing when she seduces him. She’s had sex before, and afterward he is basically eating out of the palm of her hand. I’m not saying that what he did wasn’t wrong, but you have to remember that he sees her as a young woman, and he himself only possesses the emotional maturity of a twelve-year-old.”
The girl had no retort and looked down.
“That’s a good point,” I admitted.
Although Ms. Wilde’s speaking out of turn bothered me, she always made excellent contributions to the class discussions. Usually, I would have enjoyed having such an active student in my class to liven up the debates. There was just something about her, something that I couldn’t put my finger on. She rubbed me the wrong way, for some reason.
“So, why do you think that the author chose to write about such a controversial topic?” I asked the class.
A few people started to raise their hands but gave up the second Ms. Wilde started speaking without being called on. Again. I gritted my teeth. The girl was undoubtedly intelligent, but why couldn’t she just play by the rules like everyone else?
God, she is so infuriating.
“Ms. Wilde!”
She stopped talking and looked at me. Sadly, she didn’t look intimidated at all and merely gave me a curious glance.
“Yes, Stephen?” she asked sweetly.
“Professor Worthington,” I corrected.
Thank God the semester is over soon.
She just smiled at me.
“You will wait your turn to speak or you can leave my classroom,” I said, silently daring her to continue her rant.
She motioned for me to continue and leaned back in her seat with an amused expression on her face. I asked the other students for their opinions and received a few uninspired responses about taboos. One of the other girls even started to argue that the author was the real pervert. I sighed and reluctantly called on the bothersome Ms. Wilde, who grinned and leaned forward.
“I think that Nabokov is using the main characters as symbols.”
I had a pretty good idea of where she was going with this, and she was absolutely spot on, as always. It would have been so much easier if I could have just dismissed her as both silly-looking and silly, but she wasn’t. She was smart, and I had no choice but to keep calling on her.
“How so?” I asked, giving her a nod.
“Humbert is older and sophisticated, but emotionally stunted. He likes serious literature and classical music. He represents Europe. Lolita is young, fun-loving, and naïve. She likes Coca-Cola, rock music, and glossy magazines. She’s obviously supposed to be the author’s interpretation of the US, which isn’t particularly flattering.” She hesitated and smiled to herself. “But I could be wrong. Maybe Nabokov’s motives were much simpler. Maybe it just came to him in a dream one night.” She looked up at me with her lopsided grin and added, “After all, don’t all older men dream of sleeping with a younger woman?”
She winked again. I may have been inexperienced when it came to the opposite sex, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that Ms. Wilde was teasing me. The tip of her tongue peeked out between her lips.
“Class dismissed,” I said, clenching my jaw.
I sat down at my desk and started to gather my books.
“See you Friday, Stephen,” I heard Ms. Wilde say as she passed by on her way out with the rest of the students.
I looked up and watched as she sauntered away in her ridiculous outfit. My gaze briefly caught something peeking out of the top of her shirt just below her neck: a tattoo. My gaze dropped to her backside and her slender legs, which were covered up by the hideous pantyhose. She glanced over her shoulder and gave me a smile before she was out the door.
Of course she would have a tattoo. She obviously doesn’t care about her appearance or having anyone take her seriously. I really wish she would wear some nicer clothes. She would be quite pretty if she gave it a little effort.
I threw my things into my bag and hurried out to my car. Class had left me frustrated and wound up, so I decided to hit the gym before going home. When I got to my car, I saw that I had a missed call from Matt. I dialed his number and he picked up after several rings.
“Stevie!” he practically sang. “What’s up?”
“I don’t know. You called me.”
“Oh, right. Why don’t you ever pick up?”
“I had a class. My phone was in my car.”
“You do realize you can bring it with you, right? It’s not like it’s a car phone, although I can understand why you’d think so.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You need a new phone. The one you have now is the size of a brick. Can it even text?”
“You know it can,” I said. “Why’d you call?”
“I want you to come out with me tonight.”
“It's Tuesday.”
“So?”
“So, don't you have work tomorrow?”
“Yeah, what’s your point?”
I sighed. “Never mind. No, I can’t come out.”
“Why not, man? You don’t have classes in the morning.”
“I have papers to grade and an article to finish. Besides, I was looking forward to a quiet evening at home.”
“All your evenings are quiet ones at home,” Matt said, and I could practically hear him rolling his eyes.
“Well, that’s the way I like it.”
“I swear to God, I have no idea how the two of us are even related. You are the oldest thirty-three-year-old in the world.”
I chose not to point out the fact that Matt and I were only related through marriage.
“I'm serious,” he continued. “You’re single and have easy access to young hotties, but when’s the last time you got laid?”
Who can even remember at this point?
“I don’t have ‘easy access,’ as you call it. Dating a student is forbidden and you know it.”
“I’m not talking about dating,” Matt countered. “I’m just talking about getting someone’s hand on your dick other than your own. Doesn’t that sound nice?”
“I have to go,” I said. “I’m headed for the gym.”
“Great idea, I'll see you there in ten minutes,” Matt replied, ending the call before I could protest.
Fantastic. Just what I need after the day I've had.
When I reached the gym, Matt was already outside talking on his phone, laughing about something.
We were nothing alike. He was insanely outgoing and popular. He owned a sports bar with a buddy of his and apparently it was very successful. I didn’t care about sports in the slightest, and I had only been there for the grand opening a few years ago when my mother pretty much forced me to go. I spent the entire night feeling awkward and overdressed in my suit, and was thrilled to slip out early when a fight broke out.
Matt was a great guy, but I never really understood why he wanted me around when we were kids, and I guess I still didn’t. He had tons of friends and an active dating life, but for some reason he always seemed to have time for me.
“Hey, bro,” Matt called as I approached him.
Stepbro, to be completely accurate.
Several people called out to us in greeting as we headed for the changing room, and while Matt had a clever comment for each one, I had to force myself not to look down at the floor and to nod stiffly instead. I never received any attention when I came here on my own and I preferred it that way.
“What’s with you?” Matt asked as I slammed my gym bag down on the floor. “That vein in your forehead looks like it’s about ready to pop.”
“I don’t know. I think I might be coming down with something.”
“Yeah, it’s called blue balls,” he said with a snicker. “Is it that annoying girl who’s been playing you again?”
“What?” I asked, only half-listening as I started getting changed.
“You know, the one who dresses like crap and always talks back. The one you can’t seem to shut up about whenever I see you.”
I looked up. “Ms. Wilde?”
“Mmm…Ms. Wilde, I like that. What's her first name?”
“I don't know,” I said, feeling irritated. “Why the hell are we talking about one of my students?”
“Ooh, now you’re dropping H-bombs, too!” Matt laughed. I had no idea what he meant. Hydrogen bombs were hardly a laughing matter. “Because,” he said matter-of-factly, “the vein is unusually large today and that only ever happens when you’ve had her in your class.”
I ran the pads of my fingers across my forehead.
“Well, what did she do today?” he asked.
“Nothing! Will you just leave it alone?”
“Wow, it must have been bad. Or good, depending on how you look at it.”
I gave him what I hoped was a withering glare to get him to shut up. I didn’t want to think about that ridiculous girl when I didn’t have to.
“Oh, I know,” he said, grinning at me. “Did she do the whole crossing and uncrossing of her legs? Give you a peek at the good stuff?”
“No!” I half-yelled. “What is wrong with you, Matt? She’s at least ten years younger than me.”
“So?” he asked. “It’s not like that’s uncommon. Most men dream of being with a younger woman.”
Ms. Wilde said that as well.
“Really?” I heard myself asking.
“Absolutely. You can’t tell me that you wouldn’t love to fuck the hell out of that naughty student of yours and show her who's boss!”
I stopped dead in front of the lockers. The thought had never entered my mind before, but now that it was there, it sounded oddly…intriguing? And utterly ridiculous. Shaking my head, I stuffed my bag and clothes into the locker, slamming it shut.
“No,” I finally said. “Even if it wasn’t against the rules, she isn’t my type at all.”
“What does she look like?” Matt asked as we headed for the treadmills.
I shrugged. “She’s kind of small with dark hair and blue eyes. She’s probably around twenty-one. She’s the worst dresser I’ve ever seen and her makeup and hair are just…well, it looks like she’s celebrating Halloween year-round.”
Matt nodded and I could see that he was creating a visual in his head.
“Oh, and she has a tattoo below the nape of her neck,” I added.
"Hmm, tattoos are hot,” he said dreamily. "How are her tits?”
I clenched my jaw. Unfortunately, I knew exactly how her “tits” were, as Matt so charmingly put it.
“That good, huh?” He grinned.
“I don't know,” I said, feeling tired of the conversation. “I wouldn’t know which criteria to judge them against.”
“They can’t be too small, but not too big either. A handful is perfect, and I do have pretty big hands,” he said with a laugh, holding them up in front of him and crudely mimicking fondling a pair of breasts.
I rolled my eyes, stepped onto the nearest treadmill, and started running. I didn’t want to think about Ms. Wilde's breasts, and I hoped that Matt would drop the subject.
“Oh,” he said, after he’d finished his imaginary groping. “They have to be nice and perky. But that’s pretty much a given with a twenty-one-year-old, you lucky dog.”
They were perky, I couldn’t deny that. I ran faster.
“So, are you going to make a move on her?” Matt continued, despite my running at top speed and the fact that I hadn’t answered his asinine breast inquiries. He’d stepped onto the treadmill next to mine, but was barely strolling.
“Of course not,” I panted.
“Why not? The way you describe what she does in your class, it sounds like she’s into you.”
She is not into me. She’s…I don't know what she is.
I kept running until it felt as if my heart was about to burst out of my chest and sweat was pouring off me. I stopped the treadmill and downed my water while Matt continued to watch me from the machine next to mine with a stupid grin on his face.
“What?” I snapped.
“Easy, bro, don’t give yourself an aneurysm,” he said and stopped his slow pace. "I’m just saying that if this girl can get you that worked up, there might be something there.”
“There’s nothing there,” I panted. “She’s stupid and annoying and frankly, I can’t wait for the semester to be over so I don’t have to look at her twice a week. And, yes, her breasts are very perky and probably just the right size, but that doesn’t change the fact that she looks like an extra from a Tim Burton movie and seems hell-bent on annoying the crap out of me!”
I stormed off and heard him laughing as he followed me to the weight room. I lay down on the bench press, hoping that Matt would keep his mouth shut while he spotted me. Of course, I was out of luck in that department.
“Sooo, when your class is over, it wouldn’t be illegal for you to date her, would it?”
I groaned with the exertion. “Since I have no interest in dating her, it’s a moot point. Besides, I’m much too old for her, and like I’ve already said, she’s not my type.”
“You like brunettes,” he countered.
“Yes, but I don’t like ghoul makeup, torn pantyhose, and especially not tattoos. Why are we still talking about this?”
“Because you’ve mentioned her every time I’ve seen you in the past two months,” he said.
I haven’t talked about her that much, have I?
“You don’t even realize that you’ve done that, do you?”
“It couldn’t have been that much,” I said reluctantly as we switched places and Matt added more weight for his set.
“Are you kidding me? I know what she's worn and how she’s done her hair for every single one of your classes. Not to mention all her winking and smiling at you.”
“You're exaggerating.” I dismissed him. “What was she wearing on Friday?”
“Uh, a black-and-white checkered skirt and a T-shirt with a logo. Sounds like The Ramones, from the way you described it,” he said without hesitation.
That's absolutely right. God, this is so messed up.
I didn’t say anything. What could I say?
“I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Just shut up or I’m going to drop this on you,” I muttered, handing him the bar.
He did his set while I stood there feeling perplexed. I hadn’t realized that I’d been complaining so much about Ms. Wilde. After we finished our sets, I didn’t feel like doing any more and we hit the showers.
“All kidding aside, Stephen, why haven’t you dated anyone in forever?” he asked me as we were dressing.
“I don’t know,” I lied. “I haven’t met anyone who held my interest.”
“Except for the girl you haven’t been able to shut up about for the past two months,” he interjected.
“Plus, I’m not very good at talking to women,” I added, ignoring his comment.
“Ain’t that the truth.”
I glanced at my stepbrother and he gave me a smile.
“I’m just kidding, Stevie. You’re not as bad as you think.”
Except I was. While I didn’t like to admit it, I couldn’t deny the facts. My dating life was practically nonexistent, and it always had been. At university, I was always studying, and since I didn’t participate in parties and such, I never spent much time with women. I had watched my peers socialize, and while I had wanted to join in, my shyness kept me back. I had nurtured the hope that the right woman would somehow just come along some day. Someone nice, whom I could easily talk to without feeling intimidated. Someone who would accept me, flaws and all.
Now I was thirty-three, and so far, it hadn't happened. Maybe it never would. The few friends I had made in college and grad school were all in long-term relationships, most of them married with kids. I was the only one still on my own, and I was starting to worry I would always be alone.
“You want me to set you up?” Matt asked. “I know a lot of women who would love to go on a date with you.”
“Really?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“OK, so maybe not a lot. But I’m pretty sure I could wrestle one up for you. Someone nice and boring, just like you,” he said, as if that were a compliment.
“Do you really think I’m boring?”
“Yes,” he answered immediately.
“Wow, thanks for not sugar-coating it, Matt.”
“I'm sorry, Stevie, but just look at your life, man. You spend every night at home with your nose in a book, you haven’t gone on a date since JT brought sexy back, and you dress like a grandpa.”
Who’s JT? What’s sexy back? A grandpa?
I looked at my clothes and compared them to Matt’s. I was wearing khaki pants with a belt, a blue button-down shirt, a brown corduroy blazer, black leather shoes with laces, and, of course, my bowtie and glasses. My stepbrother was wearing some odd-looking sneakers, dark denim jeans, a plain white T-shirt and a leather jacket. Even I could acknowledge that there were differences, but I didn’t think that my clothes were that bad.
“Do I really dress like a grandpa?” I asked.
“A little,” Matt said. “Like your pants. What’s up with them?”
“Um, what’s wrong with them?”
“There’s nothing exactly wrong with them,” he said. “You just wear them a little too high and the belt is just…geriatric-looking. Why don’t you ever wear jeans?”
“I don’t know if I’d be comfortable wearing something so snug,” I admitted.
Matt shook his head in open disapproval. “What’s the point of working out three times a week if no one can see it?” he asked, flexing his bicep.
“Staying healthy. Regular exercise is the best way of maintaining a healthy cardiovascular system. You know my family history.”
Matt put his hand on my shoulder, giving me a little shake.
“Sorry, man, I know. But you’ve been to the doctor recently, right? Everything’s fine.”
Rubbing my hand across my chest, I nodded.
“You’re healthy as a horse,” he continued. “You can worry when you’re older. Right now, your main focus should be getting some p—”
“Please don't say it!” I interrupted, holding up my hand.
“—proper lady to go out with you,” he guffawed.
Oh, please. I know what he was going to say.
“Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”
“Think about the jeans, though?”
“I’m sure you’ll remind me if I forget,” I muttered.
He patted my shoulder sympathetically.
“The next time Mom offers to take you clothes shopping, just say no.”
"Fine.”
“Look, why don't you come with me to the bar and have a beer. We can grab some dinner on the way,” he suggested.
I hesitated.
“It’s Opening Day for the Giants, and it’s sure to bring some women to the bar. That’s our baseball team, by the way.”
“I know,” I said, rolling my eyes, although I probably wouldn’t have known if I hadn’t been born and raised here in San Francisco.
I considered turning him down. It wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy spending time with Matt, because I did. It was his bar, or any bar for that matter, that had me hesitating. I wasn’t good in social situations. Still, I knew it would mean a lot to him if I came along.
“All right,” I agreed. “But just for one beer, OK?”
Matt’s face lit up.
“Really? Awesome! Do you want to stop by your place for a change of clothes?”
“No.”
“OK, just…err, lose the jacket, at least, and untuck your shirt.”
I sighed and did what he told me.
“The bowtie?”
“No. Anything else?" I asked sarcastically.
“Yeah, don’t do that weird hair part on the side. It makes you look like you have a combover,” he said, ruffling my unruly hair.
* * *
I was already regretting my decision when we pulled up at Matt’s bar later that night and I saw how many cars were parked outside. The place was packed and I could feel myself getting nervous. We stepped inside and Matt was greeted enthusiastically from all corners. Apparently everyone in the bar knew who he was. I didn’t care for attention, unless it was in a setting I could control, like my classroom.
“Come on, bro. I have my own table,” Matt said, ushering me over to what seemed like the best seats in the house. They had a great view overlooking the whole bar, in direct view of the large TV on the wall.
“I'll get you a beer,” he said. “Any preference?”
I shook my head. I couldn’t tell one beer from the other to save my life. Looking around the place, I was surprised to see that there were a lot of women here, as he had promised. I knew that Matt dated a lot of different girls but none exclusively, and it seemed he liked it that way. I saw him embrace several women on his way back to where I was sitting, and I had to admit that I felt a little jealous of him. My stepbrother was well-liked by everyone and had a way with the opposite sex that I had never possessed.
“Here you go,” he said, handing me a bottle. “See anything you like?”
He motioned around the crowded bar. I shrugged and started picking at the label, wondering how long I’d have to stay to fulfill my obligation to Matt.
“What about her?” he asked, nodding in the direction of a woman with very large breasts and a very short skirt.
Uh, no.
“Just kidding,” he said with a grin. “I know her, and she’s definitely not boring—if you know what I mean.”
“I hope you used protection,” I muttered. “You can’t be too careful.”
Matt gave me a pointed look.
“Yes, Stephen, sometimes you can be too careful.”
I didn’t ask him what he meant. A rock song came on and I heard loud cheering in the back of the place. Both Matt and I turned in our seats to see what was going on, and I almost fell off my chair at what I saw. Ms. Wilde was dancing on a table with two other girls, and they were surrounded by a huge group of men, who were all looking up at them and catcalling.
Tonight, she was wearing a dress I hadn’t seen before: a red strapless contraption that I had no idea how it was being held up and knee-high leather boots. Her hair was in a high ponytail, and she wore red lipstick and the same black smudgy stuff around her eyes as she had in class.
“Holy shit, that redhead is hot!” Matt exclaimed next to me, letting out a low whistle. He was referring to Ms. Wilde’s friend, a tall, curvy girl with long, red hair. The third girl was short with dark skin and jet-black hair. The three had captured the attention of every man in the place with their dance routine on the table. I had the sudden urge to leave the bar before she noticed me. I didn’t want to see her—although I had to admit that she looked a lot better tonight than she usually did in class.
My jaw slackened when the three women started doing shots off each other, which made the crowd of men go wild.
“Err, are they allowed to do that?” I asked Matt.
“Are you kidding me?” he asked with his eyes fixed on the redhead. “Those men are going to come back here every night for a month, hoping for a repeat performance. I should put those girls on my payroll. I haven’t seen them in here before. I wonder who they are.”
“That’s Ms. Wilde,” I said, and instantly regretted it.
“The one in the red dress?” he asked incredulously. “Are you serious?”
I nodded.
“She’s the annoying one who isn’t your type? You are so full of shit, bro! You need to tap that, and then introduce me to her friend.”
I didn’t feel the need to “tap” anything and got up to leave.
“Where are you going? The game hasn’t even started yet,” he complained, pulling me back into my seat. “One beer, Stephen, you promised.”
“Fine,” I agreed, ducking my head. “I’ll finish the one I have and then I’m going home. I have things to attend to.”
“You can jack off later.” He laughed. “Your dear Ms. Wilde is providing you with a great image,” he added, motioning in her direction.
I looked over to where Ms. Wilde was busy licking salt off the redhead’s neck before she downed a shot and sucked on the lemon wedge that the other girl held between her lips. I felt a stirring in my nether regions and looked away, feeling disgusted with myself.
She’s ten years younger than you and, more important, your student. Plus, she annoys you like crazy, remember?
I turned my attention to the screen and, thankfully, the noise from the back died down when the game came on. After finishing my beer I told Matt that I was leaving, but made plans with him to have lunch the following day. I looked around for Ms. Wilde but it seemed that she and her friends must have left when the game started. As I walked outside, I drew a deep breath, thankful that the night was over.
“Son of a bitch!”
What the—
I looked in the direction of the voice, and who else could it be but Ms. Wilde, rifling through her purse, cursing loudly. She pulled out a cigarette, lit up, and inhaled deeply.
“Fucking hell,” she groaned, closing her eyes as she exhaled the smoke into the night air.
She has a foul mouth and she's a smoker. Wonderful. The “things I don't like about Ms. Wilde” list keeps getting longer and longer. Before the semester is through, it’ll look like Kerouac’s On the Road scroll.
For a second I thought I might be able to slip past her undetected, but she opened her eyes again and broke into a smile when she saw me.
“Stephen,” she said, flashing me her lopsided grin. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s Professor Worthington,” I said automatically.
“We’re not in school now,” she countered, taking a drag.
I couldn’t stop myself from staring at her insanely red lips as they wrapped around the cigarette. I decided not to say anything else about my name.
"It's my brother's bar. I mean, my stepbrother.”
“Well, what is he?” she asked, clearly amused. “Your brother or your stepbrother?”
“I don’t know.” Our parents had been married for almost twenty years and I could hardly remember a time before Matt. When was it appropriate to leave out the “step” part?
“Huh.”
This conversation was going nowhere.
"I never pegged you for the sports type," she said, looking me up and down while taking another drag.
"I'm not, and I'm leaving. Good night, Ms. Wilde," I said curtly, and started walking toward my car.
"Wait. I don't have enough money for a cab and my friends already left in the other direction. Can I have a ride?"
I didn't want her in my car. It wouldn’t be appropriate at all.
"Hey, never mind," she said before I could answer. "I'll just see you in class on Friday."
When I turned around, she was already walking away.
Is she going to walk home? Alone? Wearing that dress?
"Ms. Wilde," I called after her. She turned and looked curiously at me. "Come on," I said, motioning her over to my car. She smiled brightly and walked back toward me. I couldn't help but notice the way her hips moved and the smallness of her waist. Her ponytail swayed from side to side with each step she took, and I decided that I preferred this hairstyle to the others she had worn to class. She got in the car and I immediately noticed that she was still smoking.
"Would you mind not doing that in my car?" I asked, pointing to her cigarette.
She threw it out the door and put on her seatbelt. Rifling through her bag, she fished out a pack of mints, popping one into her mouth.
"Where do you live?" I asked as we pulled out of the parking lot.
She gave me the address in a neighborhood where I knew there was a lot of off-campus housing.
"So, Stephen," she said, turning to me. "Do you do this sort of thing a lot?"
"What sort of thing?" I asked, keeping my eyes on the road.
"Rescuing damsels in distress," she joked. "No, hanging out in bars on a school night."
"Technically, it's not a school night for me, and no, I don't do it a lot. It wasn't really my scene back there."
"What is your scene, then?"
I shrugged. Most nights I spent at home with a cup of tea and a book. Sometimes I would go see a movie if anything good was playing, or go to my parents' for dinner. That was pretty much the extent of my social life, except for the few times that Matt dragged me out with him. Naturally, I didn't tell any of that to Ms. Wilde and kept driving. I was anxious to get her home as soon as possible and be rid of her. I didn’t want her to know my private life. In class, I knew what to do, what to say. I always had a good answer to the questions I was asked. I was the Professor: respected and even feared at times. Here, in my car, outside the classroom, I felt like the class nerd, roped into giving a ride to the prettiest girl in school even though she’d never give him the time of day.
I glanced in her direction. She really was pretty tonight. The pale skin on her bare arms looked so soft and smooth, and the dress clung to her, showing off her figure.
"Why didn't you bring a jacket?" I asked with a frown, returning my attention to the road.
"I forgot," she said. "That was a fun class today, huh?"
“Fun” isn't exactly how I'd put it. Frustrating? Yes. Irritating? Definitely. Fun? No.
I gave her a grunt of acknowledgment but didn't say anything else.
"Well, I sure had fun," she said, and let out a small laugh. "I can't believe that some people would actually have something against the author."
"It's not the first time that’s happened," I said. "Ellis received a number of death threats after writing American Psycho."
"Yeah, I know. I was thinking I might do my thesis on New York writers," she said conversationally.
I just nodded and sighed with relief when we turned onto her street.
"Well, good night," I said, staring straight ahead.
Get out of the car, get out of the car, get out of the car.
"Listen, Stephen, it's still pretty early. Would you like to come up for some coffee or a drink?"
My heart stuttered in my chest. Why would she want to have coffee with me?
No. No, no, no. Definitely not.
“Yes,” I gulped.
What the hell am I doing?