My Professor(43)

“Then what should we do to pass the time? You won’t talk to me and you won’t just let me sit here in peace.”

Oh…the possibilities.

Instead of letting my depravity run wild, I ask her where she lives.

She rolls her eyes. “You’ll turn right in a few miles. I live pretty far. Like I said…you can let me out at any time.”

I frown. “Why do you live so far?”

She shrugs, unbothered. “Because I moved here last minute. Money is tight. There’s a housing shortage in the city. Is that enough reasons?”

“Why is money tight?”

“None of your damn business.”

“Should we be paying you more?”

“Sure. Go ahead. Give me a raise. I won’t stop you. But unless you can wipe out my student loans and credit card debt then I’ll be living paycheck to paycheck for the foreseeable future.”

“Why do you have credit card debt?”

She looks out the window, trying to shut me out. “Again…none of your business.”

“Do you spend carelessly?”

She throws up her hands in annoyance. “Yes. You caught me. I love buying expensive things I can’t afford. I’m capricious and silly and bad at managing money. My closet is filled to the brim with all sorts of fancy things.”

“Are you done?”

“Are you done?”

I cut the heat, knowing full well neither one of us needs it any longer.

“So you took out loans because you couldn’t afford college and you maxed out credit cards because you couldn’t work while you were in school, not if you wanted to maintain good grades and have time for internships…”

She doesn’t confirm or deny my suspicions, but I know I’m correct.

“Should we turn the tables, Professor Barclay?” Her gaze seems to see straight through me. “What do you spend your money on? Expensive alcohol? Designer suits? Women?”

I don’t even give her a reply, which I know irritates her.

She shifts in her seat, tugging her dress down so the hem is closer to her knees.

My thoughts turn nefarious.

Worked up from her petulance, I want to reach over and slide my hand up between her legs, force her thighs apart just enough for my hand to reach its end goal. I follow the imagined path my fingers would take, and when I realize she’s watching me, I shift my gaze back to the road.

“Turn right at the next street.”

Her phone rings. She checks it then silences it like she’s going to let it go to voicemail, likely as a courtesy to me.

“Take it,” I insist, flipping on my blinker.

She answers, presses the phone to her ear, and edges toward the window.

“Hey…uh, I can’t talk.”

In the quiet car, I can hear a woman speak on the other end of the line. “Are you still at work?”

“No, I’m getting a ride home.”

“From who? That Zach guy?”

“No.”

“Who then?”

She doesn’t reply.

“EMELIA.”

She hangs up.

“Who’s Zach?”

She sighs. “Do your bad manners know no bounds? I remember way back when, in your class, you scolded me for eavesdropping on you.”

I’m not even listening to her rant. I have a one-track mind. “That kid with the blonde hair?”

“Yes.” She points out the window. “Take a left at that street.”

“Why would he give you a ride home?”

“Because he’s my friend. It’s that building there, on the right.”

“The derelict one?”

I pull up to the curb, and before I even manage to shift fully into park, Emelia is already gathering her things and flinging the door open. She hurries out of my car in an effort to escape me, but I turn on my hazard lights and get out.

“I’ll walk you up,” I say, rounding the vehicle and taking the umbrella out of her hand.

“Not necessary.”

Ignoring her, I take her things—telling myself I’m only trying to lighten her load—and then I wave for her to get on with it. There’s no point in arguing. I won’t be deterred and she knows it.

Her apartment is housed in a building that looks like it hasn’t seen care or attention in well over a decade. The railing for the stoop is warped and not secure enough to bear any weight, something the city would take issue with if the property were to be inspected. Inside, there’s a noticeable stench. The linoleum floor in the entryway is peeling back, and there are trash bags just piled up in the back corner (probably the source of the smell). Emelia heads straight for the stairs and leads me up to the third floor, past loud televisions and shouting neighbors.

“How did you find this place?” I ask as she takes out her key and unlocks the door.

“On Craigslist. I’m subleasing it from a girl.”

The door sticks, and she has to lift up on the hinges at the same time she puts her weight into pushing it open. Then her small studio apartment is unveiled before me.

A square room with a queen bed, a corner kitchen, and a card table with two folding chairs. The furniture is the bare minimum, but she’s done her best to decorate the space and make it feel warm. Her bed is neatly made with an oversized comforter and a cream throw blanket at the foot of it. She’s covered her table in a yellow checked tablecloth, and on the wall above it, a bulletin board carries an array of photos and memorabilia.