Dirty Professor (14 page)

The article includes the shot of Chase and me hugging in his driveway. Maybe it's not that bad. It's not that clear of a photo. And I'll be leaving Noland anyway, probably.

Then I see the excerpt of very familiar text.

"Tell me you like it..."

"Call me Sir..."

Oh my God. It’s my book. The one I was working on for class.

Someone leaked it to the paper.

"Who did this?" I cry. "Who put this in here?" What am I, nuts? Do I really not know the answer to that? Luna. "Fuck her."

"In the ass," Kensie says, her eyes blazing. "If I see her, I'm going to break her nose."

"What am I going to do?" I wail.

"Hide." Kensie's tone is serious. " Are your parents still in town?"

"Yes," I mumble into my pillow, which I'm using to literally shield my face. "They're at the Promenade."

Saying that hurts. I wonder if they're in the same suite Chase booked for us.

"Do you want to call them?”

I shake my head into the pillow. No. No way. The only thing worse than facing people at school is facing my parents.

“Okay.” Kensie hesitates. "So it's true? That... story, the one they printed?"

"Pretty much." I extract my face from the pillow. "I mean, I changed our names, obviously. But that didn't end up mattering."

"He said those things to you during sex?"

"Yeah," I say, feeling numb. How much more embarrassment can possibly be heaped onto me?

"And you... you were okay with it? That part isn't made up?"

"Yes. He was.. the article makes it seem like it was something seedy, but it wasn’t, Kens. It was sexual, yes, but there was nothing gross about it. It was erotic and amazing, and I fell in love with him.”

"Whoa," Kensie breathes. "I... wow. I never would have guessed."

Who would?

I’m waking up now, and I reach for my tablet. I know I should stay off the internet, but I can’t help it.

I type Chase’s name into Google.

CHASE BROOKS: REAL-LIFE CHRISTIAN GREY?

I blink once, twice.

"This is not happening," I whisper.

The article shows a complete reprint of the college newspaper's, and even includes the excerpt. What news website is this? Plum News. Okay. They're not that big. They're not liked by that many people. Most people just scroll right past anything from Plum News.

Except that fifteen minutes later, my phone trills, and it's a message from one of my friends from high school, this girl from Lucy that I barely ever talk to.

Just saw it on E! News. Stay strong.

E! News??!

When Kensie’s phones chirp a few minutes later, I clamp my eyes shut. I know what the messages are.

"Addison,” Kensie says. “Maybe don't go online for a little while, okay?"

Too late.

My phone buzzes, and I see that I'm now getting friend requests from complete strangers.

I've also got a PM from some dude named Wyatt. "Hey, r u the Addison from the news?"

Block.

Within minutes, another message appears, this time from some girl named Reese. "Who do you think you are? Chase Brooks is a god!! Stay away from him!! WHORE!!!"

"But you don't think Chase is a whore?" I mutter. I alter my privacy settings so that nobody can see me except for friends. Which doesn't help much, because people on my lists, on all of my accounts, are now trying to talk to me.

"Addison!! OMG!! WTF??"

"Addison, did this really happen??"

"Hey Addison! Heard you fucked some shit up!"

"Addison, someone said you were eloping with Chase Brooks!!"

I shut my phone off, crawl into bed, lie there for hours, and think of Chase. I wonder where he is. I wonder if he's okay. More tears come, and more on top of that.

***

T
wo days later
, I venture out of my room for the first time and head to the dining hall, making sure to go at that odd hour between lunch and breakfast when I know it won’t be that busy. I keep my head down, ignoring the stares thrown my way.

I grab a sandwich and a bag of chips, and scurry out, deciding to eat it in my room. Good job, I tell myself. Good job, you made it out.

But when I spy the latest issue of Us Weekly in the dorm lobby trash, I feel my insides seize up. Right there on the cover is a shot of Chase, getting out of a cab. So he's back in New York?

And on the same cover, in a smaller photo, is me. It’s some old high school photo and I look ridiculous.

Glancing around to make sure no one can see me, and feeling like a complete sadist, I fish the magazine out of the trash.

The article is even worse. Chase is "a brilliant writer and an equally brilliant sadist," according to Us Weekly. And me? "Business major Simmons only transferred to Noland this fall, and in the short weeks she's been there, she's seduced a bestselling author, her instructor, and exposed his dark side to the entire world."

When I get back to my room, Kensie is at class.

I plug in my headphones, and start to write, working on my book. It’s something I’ve been doing these past few days, when things get too much. It’s almost cathartic. I don’t feel guilty for spending time writing when I probably should be studying. Or at least, you know, going to class, hahahaha. At this point, I’m lucky I’m even getting out of bed – going to the dining hall felt like a huge victory.

I’m deep into one of the final scenes in my book when Kensie comes bursting into the room, eyes wide, her cheeks red from the chilly day.

"Did you know Chase's new book leaked?" she asks, dumping her books on her desk.

I turn from my computer.
"What?
What do you mean?"

"His book. It somehow ended up online." She bites her lip, her eyes scanning down the story she’s reading on her phone.

"Which part of his book?"

"All of it."

My heart hurts, despite myself. Chase is going to be devastated. "When?"

"Just today." She taps around on her cell. "It’s on TMZ.”

"They're usually right," I say. "Unfortunately."

"And... here's something on the Huffington Post." Kensie is quiet for a minute, reading, while I watch her, too dumbstruck to move. Suddenly she lets out a tiny gasp. "Bryce Bowker dies?"

I gulp.

This absolutely cannot get any worse. It just can't.

C
HASE

"
D
ude
." Rex's voice brings me out of my dream and into my gray Tribeca bedroom. "You might want to look outside."

Rex has been staying with me for a couple of days while his apartment gets new flooring, and I have to say, I've been grateful. As soon as I got back New York, it was back to flashes going off in my face, and the questions hurled at me have gone from "When's your next book coming out?" to "What made you get involved with Addison? Did she throw herself at you?"

But Rex's voice sounds a little concerned. Hoisting myself out of bed, I pad to the window and crack open the wooden blinds.

There's a crowd gathered on the sidewalk outside my building. Some people are holding signs-- I squint, my eyes still hazy and unfocused.

BRING BRYCE BACK, one says.

BRYCE IS THE REAL HERO, says another.

BACK FROM THE DEAD OR BUST, says another.

Uh oh.

Some lanky guy with a megaphone is pumping his fist and looks like he's getting a chant going.

"It was
'Bring Bryce back,'
" Rex supplies for me before I ask. "But a few minutes ago they did
'Chase Brooks sucks,'
so maybe that's the one they're going for now."

"Jesus," I mutter.

"It's getting real." Rex stretches and gives me a sympathetic eyebrow-raising. "You going to be able to handle it?"

"I'm fine." I snap the blinds shut and walk away from the window towards my bathroom.

"That Addison chick showed up in the Times again this morning,” Rex reports.

I turn on the shower and don't answer.
That Addison chick.
I love Rex like a brother, and I'm glad he's here for me during this farce. But sometimes I wish he'd just be silently supportive. But as he said, when I check out the New York Times after my shower, I see another picture of her.

They were running her high school yearbook photo, but now they’ve somehow gotten a pic of her from facebook. It’s the one of her I saw that very first day, the one of her on the ski trip, although her dad has been cut out of it.

She looks so beautiful that my heart catches. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her, about what she’s doing, how she is.

I know I should call her.

But I’m afraid she won’t talk to me, and that stops me.

I start my usual morning work routine, logging into my author website and official social media pages. I'm still not sure how to address the leaked book, or if I should at all. But that thought flies right out of my head when I see the newest posts on my author pages.

"FUCK YOU, Chase Brooks!"

"I WILL FUCKING COME TO YOUR HOUSE AND KILL YOU"

"I WILL SHOOT YOU IN THE HEAD IF I EVER SEE YOU"

"Chase better pray I never run into him or he will learn how Bryce Bowker felt"

I swallow. I've been shit-talked before. Any public figure has. I've been stalked, and I've been fired. But I've never received death threats before.

My phone rings, and it's my agent, Jeff.

"Chase," he greets me. "How you holding up?"

"I've been better."

"I bet." His voice is tense. I know this sucks for Jeff as much as anyone given the effort he put into getting this last deal for me. "Listen, my office has been getting shitty e-mails about this whole thing, and just now we got a call from someone threatening to, and I quote, 'Blow you the fuck up.'"

"They threatened to blow you up?"

"No, you. I'm sorry. But this is getting a little too crazy, Chase."

No shit. "I know," I say.

"You're going to have to answer for killing Bryce, that I can assure you."

"No, I don’t.” I'm aware that I sound oppositional, but I don’t give a shit. "He is-- was-- my character. I made him up. I can do what I want. Do people not get that, by the way? That he's a made-up person? He's not real. It's not like a killed an actual person."

"I know that and you know that. But your fans are some of the most loyal in fiction." Jeff pauses. "Or were."

I hang up with Jeff and call my publicist. I feel like I should send Abigail flowers or something for having to deal with all of this. "Chase," she barks into my ear. "This is a real shitstorm you've created."

"I get that. I have protestors outside my building. A big-ass group of people holding signs and saying angry shit. And now I'm getting death threats."

"I think you should do an interview."

"Now?"

"ASAP. I think you should do an interview with one journalist. No press conferences, we don't need a million people asking a million questions. Just a good, solid journalist we do well with. Anderson? You like him."

"No.”

"Or maybe something for a written publication. I was thinking your charisma would be an advantage on TV, like always. But maybe you'd do better with the
Times
or something. I can get them on the phone."

"No.” The last thing I want is more publicity. The last thing I want is more questions about Addison, more attention on her.

"We could get you a decent chunk of change for an interview."

"I'm not after a chunk of change. I'm after getting these dicks away from my building and off my web pages."

"Who manages your fan pages? Damian, isn't it?"

“Yeah. Can you call him?"

"Sure."

Rex shoves a screen in front of me while I wrap up my talk with Abigail. Those chicks who sit around a table and gossip are debating Bryce's death. "Killing such an iconic character is absurd," one of them, that new one, says.

"Why?" I demand. "Iconic people die all the time."

Rex laughs. "I'm shocked, dude. I had no idea people would get this aggro about it."

"You and me both." I knew there would be fallout. But not like this.

We stay holed up for a couple of days, my buddy Rex and me, baffled by the protestors we continue to see out my window, and the threats that keep coming in. Sometimes they don't threaten to kill me. Some of them just threaten to kick my ass. Rex comes and goes, working and dealing with his apartment remodel. He brings food, which I appreciate immensely because I don't feel like talking to the doormen who would bring my order upstairs.

The whole time, she’s on my mind.

Addison.

Her hair, her body, her laugh. The way she felt in my arms, so perfect, so right. The way she’d bite her lip when she was concentrating, the way she loved sushi, the smoothness of her skin.

I miss her so much it’s intolerable.

I can’t sleep at night, because she’s all I can think about.

I put on a brave face, a front. But she’s always there. Always.

I hope she's doing all right. Or at least better.

I hope she forgives me.

But I doubt it. I'm not sure I can forgive myself.

A
DDISON

I arrive back to my dorm room after my Interpersonal Skills and Relationships in Business class and toss my books onto my desk. Interpersonal Relationships seems like a cruel joke of a class title now. And of course some kid who sits behind me made a crack about that very thing, and he wasn't exactly trying to be quiet.

But that's better than some of the crap I've gotten since I decided to go back to class. Some jackass followed me to Drummond Hall from the library, as if I was going to turn around and... what? Suddenly want to have sex with him? Or was he just hoping to talk to me about Chase? I don't know, because I flipped him off and hurriedly swiped my keycard to get inside.

Why did I even stay at Noland, why did I even go back to class? That's what more than one person asked, and not necessarily in the nicest way. The thing is, I'm not sure if I want to pursue some other major yet, or just bail. But if I do decide to study something else, regardless of the college, it would help me if I had these credits completed. Maybe I'm not going to stick it out as a business major, but I might like something else. Like, say, English.