Bad Professor (An Alpha Male Bad Boy Romance) (5 page)

"You
don't have to explain it to me. What's the plan, captain?" I asked.

Dunkirk
leaned gratefully on my shoulder. "We're going in. I drop in on the
fraternities regularly, so it won't be too weird."

"Unless
Clarity sees you."

"That's
where you come in," Dean Dunkirk said. "I'll distract the frat boys,
you check on Clarity. Once you see that all's well, we leave. Easy,
right?"

"Easy,"
I agreed. "And not weird at all."

It
would only be weird if there was something between Clarity and I, like a stolen
moment in the treetops that kept playing over and over in my head. I shook off
the tempting memory and followed the Dean of Students across the lawn to the
frat party.

"D.O.S.
in the house!" The student calls from the front yard were friendly, but
also a warning to the partiers inside. They neglected to account for the volume
of the music, but it was a good try, anyway.

Dean
Dunkirk stopped on the front porch to shake some hands and say hello. I
plastered a neutral smile on my face and strode up and down the porch, peering
in the front windows of the old Victorian. There was a beer keg by the front
staircase and another one in the corner of the dining room. Laser lights swept
across the dancing crowd in the living room and a small, terrible student band
knocked out the coolest guitar riffs they could manage. The house was crowded,
but the party was under control.

I
couldn't see Clarity anywhere.

The
dean caught up to me and chuckled as two students leapt off the porch and
disappeared in a puff of suspiciously sweet smoke. "That smell takes me
back. Shhh, don't tell the kids," he said with an easy-going grin.

I
laughed. "Whatever you say, captain, sir."

"That's
right, I always forget you were in the army." He straightened his
shoulders. "You've got the look."

I
brushed a hand across my wild hair. "Not so much anymore."

The
dean shook his head. "Nah, it's there. That toughness. Good thing, too, in
case I need an enforcer."

I
followed him in the front door and laughed again. Dean Dunkirk didn't need an
enforcer. Only a few students here and there slipped away. Most shook his hand
or smiled and waved. A few even offered him a beer. He was very, very good at
his job.

"We're
keeping it under control, sir," the star running back, Carl, informed Dean
Dunkirk. "IDs have been checked and we're ready to cut off anyone that
can't handle their liquor."

The
dean clapped an approving hand on Carl's shoulder. "Know your limits. Always
good advice."

"I
prefer the motto, 'Stupidity will be punished,'" I said and stepped up to
a particularly red-eyed student.

"I've
got him, sir," Carl said and helped his stoned friend outside for some
fresh air.

"What
do we do if we actually see drugs?" I asked.

Dean
Dunkirk leaned in so the curious students couldn't hear. "That's not what
we're looking for, remember? How about we fan out, cover more ground?"

"Yes,
sir," I said. It was impossible not to like Dean Dunkirk.

I
was thankful when the dean dove into the dancing crowd in the living room. I
turned from the gut churning music and headed through the dining room. A keg
stand stopped as soon as my feet crossed the threshold.

"Professor
Bauer?" A slim brunette student blinked big eyes up at me. "You
party?"

I
raised an eyebrow at her and hoped I looked aloof. "I owe the Dean of
Students a favor, so here I am on chaperone duty."

"Ropes
course, man!" A tall, red-headed football player whacked me on the back. "Prof
here killed the ropes course. He's a beast! I thought professors wore tweed to
hide their skinny arms, but Prof Bauer's got pythons, man."

I
shrugged him off and kept moving. "Keep that in mind and don't let all of
this get out of control."

"Aye,
aye, Professor Bauer!"

I
paused by the keg just to make the students slow down. It was entertaining to
see them beeline across the dining room towards the keg, see me, and make
abrupt turns. More than one student crashed into another as they tried to
change directions. It was a good vantage point, but I still couldn't see
Clarity anywhere.

Dean
Dunkirk extricated himself from the dance floor and waved me over to the foot
of the staircase. "I don't see her anywhere. Any luck?"

"None
at all, sir," I said.

"Good
lord, those girls are ogling you. I heard you blew the students minds by
mastering the ropes course," he said.

"Your
daughter was the real star," I told him. "You should have seen her;
she was fearless."

"Clarity
did the ropes course?" Dean Dunkirk looked surprised. Then he scrubbed his
chin. "That wasn't quite what I was thinking when I told her to try new
things."

I
laughed. "You meant for her to try out creative writing or maybe a modern
dance class, didn't you?"

The
dean looked up at me with worried eyes. "We have to find her."

I
would have laughed again if I didn't share his sentiment. The party was tame,
but Clarity did seem to be hell-bent on breaking out of her shell. Why else
would she have accepted a date from the star quarterback? The memory still
stung. She'd done it right in front of me.

"I'll
take the kitchen," I said.

"I'll
go around and check the backyard. Meet you out there," Clarity's father
said.

A
few students recognized me and cleared out as I headed down the narrow hallway
to the kitchen. That’s when she appeared. My stomach dropped like a bucket into
an empty well.

"Libby,"
I said.

"What
are you doing here? We're not getting back together." Libby Blackwell
tossed her bleached-blonde hair.

"We
were never together." I stopped dead in the hallway. Libby wouldn't move
and there was no way I was going to try to squeeze around her.

"You
know, even ex-boyfriends can be nice," Libby slurred. She stalked down the
narrow hallway. "Don't you want to be nice to me, Professor Bauer?"

She
swayed on spiky high heels and then threw herself into my arms. The sickly
sweet smell of rum erupted from her giggle.

"You
need to find your friends," I told her. "It's time for you to go home
and sober up."

"You
can take me home." She rubbed her cheek against my shoulder.

I
took her shoulders with both hands and set her back against the opposite wall
of the hallway. "Libby, this isn't okay. It never was. I made a mistake,
and I'll be the first to admit it."

"Want
me to tell your friend the Dean of Students?" she asked while batting her
eyelashes.

"Tell
whomever you want. Like I said, I made a mistake and I own it." Disgust
rolled around in my stomach.

Libby
Blackwell was the epitome of a privileged Landsman College student. Her parents
had more money than the government of a small country, and she knew it. Libby
flubbed her grades, flirted her way through projects, and expected that everything
would be fine on the other end.

When
I arrived on campus, I was angry. Angry with Wesley Barton for being a crook,
angry with a system that served the wealthiest, and angry at myself for not
knowing who to trust. Libby was wild, sexy, and an easy way for me to
self-sabotage. I never regretted anything more in my life.

The
worst part is she always threatened, but never told anyone. My department head,
Florence Macken, suspected our brief affair, but no one else knew. A few times
a year, I would run into Libby and she would try to trade sex for silence. I
knew I should be the one to approach the Honor Council and be done with the
whole sordid affair, but I had tried uncovering the truth once and still felt
the burn.

"Hey,
Red," I called at the tall football player down the hallway. "Come
help us out."

"What's
up Prof?" he asked.

"Libby
here needs a safe chaperone home. That means you find her friends and get them
all home together. You got me? None of the girls go off on their own." I
caught him in a stare that made beads of sweat pop out on his
strawberry-colored hairline.

"You
got it. Operation Gentleman." The football player gathered a giggly Libby
under his arm and boomed down the hallway. "Ashley, Farah, time to get
your girl home!"

I
swore if I couldn't find Clarity, then I would confront Dean Dunkirk with my
indiscretion. He would help me face the right consequences and put my
mistake-ridden past behind me.

The
glimmer of redemption sent me striding down the hallway and into the kitchen,
just in time to see Adam try to kiss Clarity. I jumped back into the shadowy
hallway and clenched my fists.

"Adam,
stop. This was supposed to just be a casual date." I heard Clarity trying
to keep her voice light. She pushed the tall quarterback on the chest but he
didn't step back.

"Come
on, you can't say you're not attracted to me," Adam leaned in again.

"But
I can say ‘no.’ Do I have to say it again?" Clarity asked.

"Uh
huh," Adam nodded and reached out to grip her shoulders.

Before
I launched myself at the unsuspecting kid, Clarity took care of the overeager
football player herself. She hooked a foot around his ankle and gave his chest
another hard shove. The shocked quarterback stumbled back and plopped down on
his ass.

He
laughed and held his hands up in surrender. "Alright, I give. How about
you let me walk you home?"

The
right hook I had cocked and ready itched to knock him down as soon as he got to
his feet, but, again, Clarity took care of it.

"Best
stick around here and sober up," she said. Clarity spun on her heel and
marched towards me.

I
lowered my fist just in time.

"Ford?
I mean, Professor Bauer?" She skidded to a halt in the shadowed hallway.

"Your
father asked me to check in on the party. He's out in the backyard." I
hoped Dean Dunkirk would understand me ratting him out so fast.

If
the flashing look in Clarity's green eyes was any indication, then the dean
would understand perfectly. I backed up against the wall and left the hallway
open for her to pass.

She
glanced back over her shoulder where Adam was laughing and giving high-fives to
his friends. "Dating is the worst. Especially trying to date college
guys."

I
let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. "My sister, Liz, says the
exact same thing. Which is good, because I told her I would stop paying her
rent if she skips class for a boy. She's med school and better stay
focused."

Clarity
stepped closer to me. "Is that why you're teaching instead of chasing
after big stories? You're supporting your little sister?"

"How
about I walk you home?" I said.

She
smiled. "Thanks, but, like you said, my father's outside. It was nice of
you to help him out."

I
nodded and didn't trust myself to say anything else. There was no reason for me
to feel so relieved knowing that Clarity had turned down the football player
and would be heading home safe.
 

CHAPTER
FIVE

Clarity

The
shuffle of the Sunday
newspaper was always relaxing. My father and I spent Sunday mornings at the
wide kitchen table in front of the French doors. Morning light poured in and
caught the swirls of steam rising from our coffee mugs.

I
loved the quiet routine. Except my eyes wouldn't focus on any words and I
burned my lips on my coffee. My mind kept wandering back over the moonlit
campus walk with Ford. As soon as we stepped out of the frat house party, my
father had jogged up with a breathless frown.

"A
group of streakers is causing havoc outside the gym complex and I have to go
deal with it."

"There's
a great article in there somewhere," Ford nudged me.

"Professor
Bauer will see you home safe, won't you?" My father had waved as security
swung by in a truck to pick him up.

Neither
of us had said a word until the full moon climbed up and over the corner towers
of the library.

Ford
sighed. "I do actually like it here. I know you think I should be off
chasing big stories and being a hard-hitting journalist, but it's peaceful
here. Beautiful."

Our
hands had brushed at that moment and the memory alone caused a thrill to rush
up my arm. I had to be a silly, delusional girl to think that last, whispered
'beautiful' was for me, but I couldn't help it. We were impossible, never going
to happen, but at least I could hope he felt the same way I did.

My
growing attraction to Ford was a problem. It was fine when it was just a crush
on an attractive professor, but now it was pluming out like smoke and hanging
like a deep haze on the majority of my thoughts.

"Clarity?
Your toast popped up," my father repeated. He folded down one corner of
his newspaper and checked on me. "Everything alright?"

I
looked around the sunny kitchen and took a deep breath. Most of my friends made
fun of me for living at home until they saw our house. The Craftsman was big,
comfortable, and full of light. The original hardwood floors and crown moldings
gave it a sense of maturity while my father's tendency towards bright colors
kept it lively and fun.

"You
know it's alright if you want to go out with your friends on Sundays," my
father said. He poured himself another cup of coffee from the French Press on
the table.

"I
know, thanks." I gestured around the warm kitchen, " But why would I
want to leave all this?"

My
father snorted. "This isn't for everyone. Too boring. What's the word? Stodgy."

He
was talking about my mother and I felt a twinge in my chest. She had left when
I was too young to remember her in the kitchen on a Sunday morning, but the way
my father talked about her, she may never have sat there for more than five
minutes. When he talked about her, my mother was always in motion. Always going
somewhere, traveling, and very rarely returning. And then one day, she was
gone.

That
was why when my friends called to declare a Funday Sunday, I declined right
away. I couldn't bear to drop everything and leave my father alone. He needed
someone to grind the coffee to the right consistency for the French Press. He
never remembered where the honey was that he liked on his toast. If I wasn't
there to help him, sit with him, he'd be all alone.

I
would never hurt him like my mother did. If his heart felt an airless reaching
like mine, then how could I even think about leaving? I was determined to be
the opposite of my mother in every way. It's what drove me to shake off all my
silly fantasies and focus. My biggest worry was hurting my father someday, and
he was too good a man to deserve that.

So,
I refolded my section of the newspaper and studied the articles. Some
journalists used creative leads while most stuck to single-item or summary
leads.

The
newsprint blurred and I was back on campus under the full moon. Ford's gray
eyes caught the silvery light and twinkled. The air was chilly and dried leaves
crumpled underneath our feet. I felt safe, the ramrod straight set of his back
telling me I was his responsibility. Except when he looked my way and a wildly
charged current leapt between us.

"Just
imagining things," I muttered.

"What
was that, darling?" My father looked up from the Arts & Style section
again.

"Did
you want one of those pears? They're ripe; I checked earlier," I said.

He
gave me a quizzical smile, then shook his head and returned to his reading. I
forced my eyes back over the headlines and tried to find the trick I needed to
write my own grabbers.

Not
touching, but aware of every breath, shift, and accelerating heartbeat.

I
jumped up from the table and went to butter my piece of toast. On the way back
to the table, I slipped a blank grocery list page under my plate along with a
pen. There had to be some way to express the distance and absorption I felt all
at the same time when I was near Ford.

"Working
on an article?" My father asked. "I remember when you used to sit
here and write fairy tales. I was forever helping you spell words like
'enchantment' and 'dastardly.' Bet you don't use those words enough now that
you're all grown up."

"No
one uses the word 'dastardly' anymore. Unless, for some reason, you're
describing pirates," I pointed out.

My
father chuckled. "If anyone could, it'd be you. You're so much more
creative than you're letting yourself be, Clarity."

I
groaned. "I thought you were supposed to save the lectures for after
coffee."

"No
lecture, just an observation," he said.

I
folded up the scrap of paper and shoved it in my back pocket. "Well,
here's an observation: I've got a great opportunity for an internship at Wire Communications
and you promised to help me with the application, but you haven't even picked
it up yet." I pointed to the neat folder I had placed on the edge of the
kitchen island.

My
father glanced at it and gave me a pained look. "Why do you want to work
there?"

"First
off, it's just an internship. And, secondly, it's just an internship at one of
the largest media outlets in the Midwest." I dropped my hands to the table
in exasperation.

"You
don't have to worry about internships yet, Clarity. It's not even Thanksgiving break.
Actually, though, we need to talk about Thanksgiving," he said. My father
folded his paper smoothly and laid it aside.

I
held up a hand. "No. No talking about the holiday until you promise you
will help me with this application. I need to pick the perfect cover letter,
the best examples of my writing, and recommendations. And I don't want to wait
until after break because everyone else will. I want to stand out and show them
I'm dedicated. Besides, we never do anything for Thanksgiving."

"That's
what I want to talk to you about," my father reached for my hands. "We've
been remiss with our holidays the last few years."

"I
don't mind. I'm not a child anymore," I reminded him.

He
squeezed my fingers. "Even more reason for us to take the time to
celebrate. You need to let yourself be a kid again, even if it's just during
the holidays. You're much too serious, Clarity."

I
narrowed my eyes but knew I would never win this fight. We had it almost every
day. My father thought I was too serious, too focused, and that I was going to
miss out on my life. I thought he was sentimental and pinning his abandoned
desire to paint on me. We'd go ten rounds about what we each thought the other
should do, and then let it blow over until the next day.

"How
about we make a deal?" I asked.

My
father let go of my fingers and steepled his hands together. "Ah, a deal. Does
it include you finding a creative outlet and letting a little more balance into
your life?"

I
swatted at him even as I thought about the scrap of paper in my back pocket. "Nice
try, but we're skipping the lecture today and going straight to
negotiations."

He
laughed and sat back to cross his arms and give me a regal stare. It didn't
quite work with the remainder of his red hair still fuzzy from sleep and his
bathrobe tight over his belly. "Fine, I'm listening."

I
grinned. "I will help you cook a full Thanksgiving meal, decorate the
house from autumn leaf garlands down to a cornucopia centerpiece, if you help
me complete my entire application for Wire Communications."

"Turkey,
stuffing, gravy, the whole works?" he asked.

"Even
acorn squash with nutmeg," I promised.

My
father's eyes twinkled. "Throw in one original poem and it's a deal."

"No
poem, no short story, just the entire Thanksgiving experience."

"Fine.
Deal." My father stuck out his hand and we shook on it. "Now what's
this about a short story."

"Dad!"
I laughed but shifted so I could feel the folded paper in my back pocket again.

#

The
armchair was half-hidden
behind the archive stacks in the basement of the library. Above it was a
porthole window, a trace of the old building before the new addition. That was
why the tiny alcove was an anomaly in the architecture and the perfect place to
curl up and work on my secret project.

The
scrap of paper was now taped on the inside of a spiral bound notebook. Page
after page was crossed with a slashing X as I had written and rewritten the
beginning about eighteen times. I wanted it to be perfect.

Each
word felt like a tiny puzzle piece that had to be turned and fitted precisely. I
loved agonizing over them and watching beautiful sentences form.

The
best feeling, though, came from the moments when the pen took off and I filled
half a dozen pages with inspiration. My mind soared and I felt the smile on my
lips even though I was all alone.

Every
time my phone beeped to remind me of the time, I felt like I was coming down
from a great height. Gravity was heavier as I trudged up the stairs and crossed
the courtyard that joined the library with Thompson Hall. It was my new routine
to work on my secret project until it was time for Ford's class. If it had been
any other class, I would have skipped it and stayed in my little library
alcove, scribbling away forever.

No
one knew where I disappeared to, and that was part of the thrill. I hadn't told
anyone, not even Jasmine or Lexi, and I certainly was not going to please my
father with news of my creative endeavor. If he knew I was writing a short
story, he would yell it from the rooftops.

"Did
you find that link I sent you about traditional story structures?" Ford
asked as I walked into the lecture hall.

"Yes,
thank you! Kurt Vonnegut sums it up so well. I loved how he described the shape
of stories. Especially
Cinderella
,"
I said.

Ford
smiled, and for a moment I forgot about the multiple levels of students behind
me. There was only his stubbled grin, and the crinkled lines of it around his
smoky gray eyes. The man had black lashes that could ensnare me.

"Are
you going to tell me what you're working on?" he asked.

I
turned to walk up to my seat. "Who says I'm working on anything? Maybe if
you didn't give us so much homework ..."

The
students nearest me snickered and called out their agreement. I felt a tug in
my chest. It always felt awful to separate us back into our roles. He was a
professor and I was a student, except when he smiled and the outside world
receded.

I
missed most of his lecture that day, but I knew it wouldn't bother me to watch
him again on the recording my laptop made. My notes were a jumble of attempted
phrases and minute descriptions, a mess of writing that had nothing to do with
journalism.

As
long as no one noticed, I was recklessly following my own instincts. If anyone
saw me acting so free-spirited and irresponsible, I knew the unsaid comparison
to my mother would drive it all away. Writing a creative short story felt wild,
impractical, and wonderful as long as I had it all to myself.

With
that thought in mind, I scooped up all my things and crammed them into my book
bag. The other upside of my secret project was it helped me to avoid thinking
about Ford. Sure, one of the characters resembled him in flattering ways, but
writing about him was safer than flirting with the real thing.

"Hey,
Clarity!" Thomas jogged to catch up to me in the foyer of Thompson Hall. "How
about a coffee? Unless you're heading out to get some fresh air. Want some
company?"

It
was a beautiful, November day, with bright sunshine that held the last dregs of
summer's warmth. Everyone was flooding out of the building and onto the lawns
to feel the sun on their faces. All I wanted to do was scramble back down to
the library basement and be left in peace.