Mr. Write Now Read online

  It only took him ten minutes to reach his house. It was a small Ranch style house, painted a light tan with a long wooden porch that wrapped around the entire front. Shallow wooden steps led up to the front door. It wasn’t much, but it had been what he and Melanie could afford at the time. Back then he’d been a grad student working on his doctorate, and willing to take adjunct positions teaching composition.

  He scaled his steps and banged into his house, unceremoniously depositing his coat into the armchair nearest the door. He quickly followed it down into the chair, scrubbing at his face with a hand. He always went overboard. Why couldn’t they have a civil conversation for once?

  He still had several hours before he needed to be at The Lounge, where the meet and greet would be taking place. He’d been hoping the meeting with Melanie would take longer. He missed her. The house felt empty without his family inside of it.

  He scooped up a dark green scrapbook from the floor. He’d been flipping through it the night before, looking at pictures of his wife and child, adding additional torment to the sleep-deprived night.

  The scrapbook started with their engagement photos. God, they’d been young then. He hadn’t even lost all his baby fat in some of the photos. His hairline had moved back a few inches from where it had been when he was in his twenties.

  He flipped past the pictures of the wedding. He didn’t really want to dwell on those memories with the argument still ringing in his ears.

  He finally paused at a picture of Melanie looking tired but radiantly happy in her hospital gown, holding Elle. Small, wrinkled, and loud though she may have been, he couldn’t picture a more beautiful baby.

  The pictures of Elle consumed the rest of the album. Elle’s tiny footprints, Elle’s first pictures, Elle’s first spaghetti mishap. Elle taking baths, playing in a sandbox, Elle on swings, being pushed from behind by her mother. The pictures halted just before Elle’s third birthday. He still hadn’t been able to coax Melanie into giving him pictures of the party to put in the book.

  He shook his head, staring at the heart-shaped face of his daughter, her big blue eyes and wide, toothy smile. His chest ached and he wanted to drive across town and snatch her up, tell her he loved her.

  But he knew how that would go. They’d tried to minimize court cost, and they hadn’t filed a custody agreement. Melanie had promised him he’d see his daughter on weekends, and possibly more. He hadn’t had a glimpse of her since.

  He set the book aside, wiping hastily at his eyes. If he focused on the aching emptiness in his chest, he’d never be able to drag himself from the house. He’d become just like his mother, blotting out the world with the scorching kiss of whiskey.

  It was a slow suicide, and he needed to live. He needed to live for Elle, if not for himself.

  He pushed to his feet, shuffling down the hall to his bedroom. He strode over to the closet, not bothering to look into the vanity mirror. He knew he’d resemble a hobo, dark hair mussed, bloodshot eyes from crying, his shirt stained with the coffee he’d slopped onto himself earlier.

  He stripped off said shirt and tossed it into the hamper with a snort of disgust. He abandoned the jeans next. He stood in only his boxers, glaring into his closet, wondering what he ought to wear. He knew what he’d grab on impulse, for this less formal gathering. He’d grab his gray slacks, and an argyle sweater.

  But many of those were gifts from Melanie. She’d said they made him look scholarly, and that had it had turned her on. Why, he wasn’t sure, but he’d been more than happy to wear them for her.

  Now he hesitated. He didn’t want to under dress with a polo, but usual class attired seemed wrong too. He considered the closet with that in mind, picturing with that in mind, picturing which articles Rosa might direct him to select if she were laying tousle-haired and nude in the bed behind him.

  He glanced back at the four poster hopefully, knowing already that there was a sore lack of female company in it. Still, his cock twitched hopefully at the thought. He nearly chastised it. It wasn’t right for it to get so excited over a student. Ever. No matter how attractive that student might be.

  It made no sense to him in any case. He’d only been with two women before Melanie, and both had been blonde. Rosa was…well frankly not his usual type. She was slender, nearly too thin. Her skin was tanned golden-brown, not at all like the creamy expanse of flesh he’d grown used to with Melanie. Melanie’s hair seemed to glow under light. Rosa’s hair was dark and seemed to trap light and heat. He idly wondered if her loose curls would be warm if he ran his hand through them.

  He felt a familiar pressure in his abdomen, travelling to his groin. He groaned and reached into his closet, selecting a pair of khakis, a light blue shirt and a dark brown overcoat.

  He palmed his erection and very carefully attempted to zip his pants over the thing. Honestly, this was ridiculous. He needed to get going. It was a twenty minute drive to the bar in good traffic.

  “We can indulge that fantasy later.” He muttered, pulling his jacket closed over his groin.

  He grabbed his keys and wallet from the pocket of his other coat and strode out to his truck. The cold air helped the situation some, calming his libido and importantly having a literal chilling effect on his erection.

  This preoccupation with a student wasn’t smart. Sure, he’d had the idle fantasy, but acting on it…that would be going too far. Being with a student wasn’t just unethical, it could lose him his job, his livelihood, even the house he was struggling to pay off.

  She wasn’t worth all that, no matter how attractive she might be.

  At least, that’s what he told himself. He wasn’t sure he believed it.

  Chapter Three

  The Lounge was crowded with people. He smirked to himself. Offer free or discounted food and college students flocked, no matter what the event was for.

  He remembered the days filled with ramen, Kraft Macaroni and Cheese and spam sandwiches. Perhaps the best meal he’d had as an undergraduate was the celebration of the Chinese New Year. He’d loaded up on samples of traditional cuisine, and stuffed his pockets full to bursting with packets of wasabi peas. He’d been able to snack on them for an entire month.

  Students crowded around the small square tables, talking and laughing. Many of his colleagues were already on their second or third drink of the night. He was stone cold sober, as he’d volunteered to be the designated driver.

  He scanned the bar surreptitiously, looking for Rosa. He told himself that it was simple concern. She was nineteen after all, and not legal to drink, at least in the US.

  He finally spotted her, sitting in a booth close to the exit, speaking to Tyson Vardy. He sized up the pair, wondering why Rosa, an admittedly bright pupil was associating with one of his least promising students. He knew Vardy was one failed class away from academic suspension. He had the fleeting urge to fail the young man. Then he shook his head and sipped his Coke. No matter what the two were up to, it wasn’t right to fail a student for petty reasons. Besides, the boy was doing a good job of failing all by himself. It was only Coach Parr’s intervention that had saved him thus far.

  He kept glancing at the table, noting that Rosa kept the conversation brief. He had to stop his tongue from lolling out of his mouth when she sauntered away from Vardy.

  The pinstripe vest she wore hugged her slender frame nicely, and blended nearly seamlessly with her thigh-length skirt. He caught a tantalizing glimpse of caramel thigh as she stood. She wore knee high stockings and shiny black pumps that made her legs seem impossibly longer.

  He had a strong urge to join her at the pool table as she grabbed a cue and smiled at one of the other players. He wanted to stand close behind her, one arm around her waist, her tight little ass pressed against him...

  “Professor Johnson?” A familiar, reedy voice interrupted his thoughts.

  He jumped, tearing his eyes away from Rosa. When he refocused, he saw it was Marlene Irby, one of his honors students. She was short, slightly
plump and had her frizzy blonde hair pulled up into a pony tail. She’d worn a snug t-shirt bearing a batman logo. In an effort to somehow adhere to the dress code, she had worn a fluffy skirt with it, instead of her usual paint-stained jeans.

  Her mouth turned down into a disappointed frown when she took in his harried and slightly angry expression.

  “Is now not a good time, sir?”

  He forced himself to exhale, and the anger at being interrupted diminished.

  “No, no. It’s quite alright, Marlene. You startled me is all.”

  “Watching the game?” She inquired, glancing at the large televisions mounted above the bar and on several of the walls.

  “Yeah.” He said, latching onto the excuse gratefully. “Go Razorbacks.”

  Marlene smiled ruefully. “My boyfriend Cal roots for the Gators, can you believe it? I mean his mom and dad grew up in Melrose, Florida, so I guess it makes sense. But even so-”

  “Did you have a question?” He interjected, hoping to head the family biography off. He knew from experience in his Shakespeare class that Marlene had a tendency to ramble.

  She blushed. She didn’t have the ability to blush prettily, the way some women had. It made her skin look uneven and blotchy, even under the colored lights of the bar.

  “Right. Sorry Professor J. I’m wondering if you think we’ll get to the comedies this semester. I know we’re set to cover the less well-known tragedies in the first part of the semester but-”

  “We’re going to start Twelfth Night just after midterms.” He said with a smile.

  She beamed. “That’s so cool, Professor!”

  “What is?” Calvin was the opposite of Marlene. While she was curvy and edging ever closer to being overweight, Calvin was thin in the extreme, gangling and looked like the slightest breeze might bowl him over. Tonight he was in a Cesar Romero inspired t-shirt tux, in keeping with the Batman theme that Marlene had set.

  Normally he might have found it funny or endearing. Tonight, it was just an irritant. He glanced back at the pool table as Marlene reiterated what he’d said. It was a bad idea. Rosa was leaning forward, lining up her shot, aiming to put a striped red ball into a corner pocket.

  Her legs were lean and supple, and he was treated to an idle fantasy of them being wrapped firmly around his waist. Her shirt rode up as she leaned forward, and he tried not to peer beneath it. Her white blouse wasn’t buttoned completely, and the striped tie lay coiled like the serpent of old beneath her bosom.

  She was Eve, here to ruin him. He knew it. When he finally reached her face, he was startled to realize that she was staring right back at him. She bit down on her full lower lip, evidently to stop a smile. Damn it. She knew. And he just knew she wouldn’t have the good sense to leave it alone.

  And that he didn’t either.

  She missed the shot, accidently or on purpose he couldn’t tell. She stood to her full height, shrugging it off, and handing her pool cue off to a friend. His eyes trailed her as she walked through the crowd and toward the exit.

  He stood, rooted to the spot, unsure of himself. He ought to stay here and do his job. It would be right. It would be safe. Stay here, discuss Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night with Marlene and Cal. But what if Rosa was leaving? Right now?

  “Would you excuse me?” He said, turning back to the pair with a pleasant smile.

  Marlene blinked in surprise, and glanced up at Cal. “Sure, Professor. Not a problem. See you later, maybe?”

  “Maybe.” He muttered, following the path Rosa has taken out the door.

  Night had well and truly fallen by the time he stepped outside. The door led outside to an alley, complete with a smattering of trash that never seemed to make its way inside the dumpster near the exit.

  Rosa was leaning against the light brown brick, head titled back toward the sky, taking a long drag off a cigarette. She exhaled, sending a cloud of smoke trailing up to the sky.

  “That’s a very bad habit, you know.” He said, gesturing towards her lit cigarette.

  “I’m not really smoking it for my health.” She said dryly. “Besides you’re my professor, not my father. What do you care?”

  “It’d be a shame for you to get lung cancer.”

  She smiled faintly, but it didn’t touch her eyes. “Oh, if that’s all.” She took another drag and held it.

  “When did you start?” He asked, settling in beside her.

  “When I was fourteen.” She replied after exhaling the foul cloud of vapors. “Mom gave me my first one, said it would stop me from getting chunky, like my cousins. She moved on to putting ipecac in my morning smoothies when I could only fit into a size four, instead of the double zero she could wear in high school.”

  He stared at her, wondering if his mouth was open. He scrambled to find words, to assure her that his shock was on her behalf, not that he couldn’t believe that she’d not fit into a double zero.

  “That’s…that’s so sick, Rosa. Do you want to file a report? I’m sure the counseling office on campus could-”

  “Look Professor, its ancient history, okay? I pig out on pizza on the weekends now. No harm done. Let’s change the subject.”

  He wanted to argue, insist on some sort of consult to make sure she was alright. Instead he closed his eyes and held his hand out mutely for her cigarette.

  He heard a soft chuckle and then the noxious death stick was between his fingers. He raised it to his lips and took a drag.

  “I thought you said smoking was unhealthy.”

  “You can’t drop something like that on me and expect me to not want one.” He muttered, blowing the smoke out slowly.

  “Sorry.” She said, and when he opened his eyes she was grinning. Her teeth were white and perfectly straight. He had a fleeting thought that someone had paid a lot of money for that smile.

  “What did you want to talk about then?” He asked, handing back the cigarette.

  “Books.” She said quickly, smiling again.

  “Any books in particular?” He said, raising a brow at her. “I mean there are only billions of them out there, you know.”

  “Well I’ve been reading a lot of erotica.” She mused, dropping the smoking cylinder to the alley floor and grinding it beneath the heel of one shiny black pump. “It’s hardly literature, but its hot.”

  “I believe that’s the point.” He said dryly. “Safe and non-threatening material is usually best to jerk off to. One is rarely titillated by 1984 or The Grapes of Wrath.”

  “So do you take any of it seriously?” She asked, glancing sideways at him. “Your writing I mean? It could be construed as erotica.”

  “I never said I didn’t. I have fun writing it. It has a place and a purpose. But I’m no Shakespeare that’s for certain.”

  “What do you think is the most romantic story of all time?”

  She turned fully to face him, eyes sparking with excitement as if the answer was truly important to her.

  “Well, why don’t you guess?” He said, smirking a little at her wary expression when he said it. “I’ll add ten points to your final score in my class if you can get it right.”

  “That’s not fair.” She protested. “You’ve probably read everything by now.”

  “Just guess.” He leaned back against the wall, tasting the nicotine on his tongue. He knew logically that a kiss from Rosa now would taste like smoke, but he couldn’t help but entertain a fanciful notion that she might taste like the candy apple her lips reminded him of.

  “Romeo and Juliet?”

  “No.”

  “Come on, that’s a classic, why not?” She asked, sounding a bit indignant.

  “It’s a tragedy, not a romance. They were teenagers whose libidos worked faster than their brains. The real lesson is that it took the senseless death of two young people for two families to bury their hatred.”

  Rosa frowned. “That’s rather cynical. You don’t think it’s romantic at all?”

  “Not especially. Guess again.”

/>   “I’d rather not.”

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  Her arm brushed against his. “I’m cold.” She said, and gave his jacket an appraising look. He shrugged it off and handed it to her mutely.

  “Thank you.” She said, and wrapped it tightly around herself. It was huge on her and he felt an odd sense of satisfaction seeing it on her.

  The night air was cool, but mercifully still now. So it surprised him when he felt something very gently caressing the skin of his arm. He glanced down and found Rosa’s nails trailing along his forearm, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in their wake.

  “Rosa, what are you doing?”

  “Shh.” She urged, trailing her fingers up further, grasping his biceps when she reached them. His heart picked up. He knew what this was. Hell, he’d written a scene exactly like this in book two of the Connor Valentine series.

  “Rosa this isn’t right.” He breathed as she very daintily kissed the edge of his mouth.

  “Why?” She whispered, kissing down his throat. “I like you, Professor.” Her hand skimmed down his body, stopping at the front of his khakis, which suddenly felt too tight. She pulled back to give him a quick fierce smile.

  “And I know you like me.” She finished, laughing quietly to herself.

  “You’re a student.” He gasped as she gently kneaded him through the fabric.

  “And?”

  “We could be caught.” He glanced desperately at the exit of the bar. Anyone could come through. Another smoker, the bartender with a bag of trash, or a student who needed air.

  Rosa took a step back from him, unwinding the tie from around her neck. She reached up, wrapping it firmly about his eyes, blotting out his view of the door. He felt her hand slide into his, and she pulled him further down the alley, pushing him into a wall when she found a spot she liked. He felt her tugging at his belt, and began to fumble with the button of his khakis. The sound of a zipper being pulled down was loud in the empty night air.

  She peeled the pants and boxers down his hips. He gasped when she drew him from the cloth confines out into the cool air. His semi-erect cock welcomed the soft pressure of her hand as she enclosed him.