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Vance
I’m not proud of myself. It’s why I’m sitting here on a Friday night nursing my sorrows with another scotch. Again. I’ve spent too many nights here at the bar, in my favourite spot, lamenting the disappearance of the woman who snagged my attention in the summer then vanished without a trace.
Now I’m drinking for an entirely different reason. I’m drinking because I found her and I know who she is. ‘Sweet Child O’ Mine’ by Guns N’ Roses plays through the speakers and the irony is not lost on me right now. She’s my damn student.
And while that should be an immediate red flag, and normally it would be, all I’m doing is spending all my free time trying to find ways to be with her despite it being taboo.
I hadn’t realised it was her at first. Hell, all week she’s been sitting in front of me, near the front, dead centre and always in the same seat, and I was oblivious. The only time I did notice her was when Bhodi caused a scene and tried to blame it on the poor girl.
Which is exactly how I came to discover who she is. Pissed at her for walking away when I wasn’t done, I looked her up on the register. I spent several hours looking up the student IDs of every female in the class before I eventually found her. The last name on the register: Malia-Tarni Van der Zee.
Mouthful of a name if you ask me.
Only her photo didn’t show the rainbow haired alt chick who likes to listen to rock music in my class. It was her. The elusive blonde angel from the bar.
Obviously, since starting SCU she’s had a makeover, and I’m not sure I like it.
That probably should have been the end of it, discovering her identity, but I didn’t stop there. I accessed her full file. She’s British – though I suspected as much from her accent – with near perfect transcripts. I instantly wanted to know what would bring a Brit to SCU. Such a long way to travel for such an obscure college.
Especially for a human.
The university is a bit of a hunting ground for supernaturals, so it’s understandable that they come from all over. But a human coming from so far afield? Odd.
So I checked her address to see where she’s staying on campus. In a single dorm with a private en suite. Not unusual, especially to students with money, but there was a note on her file which gave me pause.
Her parents requested that she room alone and paid a heavy premium for the privilege, stating that others shouldn’t have to be subjected to her abnormalities. I have no idea what that means but I’ve installed cameras in and outside her room for safety’s sake. Can’t be too careful with Shikari on the prowl and the future of our people on the line.
I was worried for a moment that she might be Shikari, but everything in her file – even references to her abusive childhood – screams painfully human. Which means she’s an anomaly. A dangerous one I should keep at arm’s length and watch closely.
As if conjured by my thoughts alone, a familiar voice interrupts my obsessive thoughts and I look up to see her ordering a round of shots.
I pull a face. She sounds drunk, tipsy at the very least. And I don’t know, because clearly I don’t know this girl at all, but I expected better of her and I feel disappointed.
But as I look over at her doing shots with her friend and laughing, I can’t help but still feel drawn to her. She’s beautiful. There’s an effervescent energy to her that reels me in. It’s almost impossible to take my eyes off her but with a concentrated effort, I do.
My scotch is empty.
I signal to the barman for another, hoping that by the time I have my replacement, Miss Van der Zee will have moved on. This isn’t a usual spot for students – especially first years. They prefer the beachfront clubs and bars playing loud music and offering cheap booze and anonymity.
Someone bumps into me just as I’m about to take a sip of my new drink, spilling it over my hand and onto the bar below.
“Ooops, sorry!”
It’s her again.
I swear I’m being tormented by the gods tonight. I wanted her gone and they’ve brought her closer to me.
I should probably tell her it’s nothing and brush off the accidental bump, but I find myself turning to her with a fierce scowl on my face as I shake the drink from my hand.
“You’re my student,” I accuse. Great opening line, but I’m all kinds of tense at her proximity. She’s wearing a silver sequinned dress that somehow isn’t flashy or gaudy, and with her hair which is styled in long effortless beachy waves, she looks like a damn mermaid.
A sexy one.
Which I absolutely should not be thinking.
“And you’re my misogynist professor who wouldn’t give me the time of day to explain myself,” she snaps.
Immediately her eyes go wide and her hand flies to cover her mouth, as if she can’t believe she just said that. It makes me want to chuckle but I don’t.
