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I sigh and hit pause on my music, cutting off the powerful beat of Ruelle’s ‘Until We Go Down’. A fitting battle song for going head to head with the professor who lives to be an arsehole and make me miserable.
Bhodi shoots me a sympathetic look. “Want me to wait with you?”
I shake my head. “No. It’s fine. Thanks though.” I don’t need my hand holding. I sweep my pencil case and notebook off the desk and into my bag, which I shoulder, and then I lift my chin. Ready to take on whatever today’s bullshit is.
I wait until the room is empty and then make my way to the front. I’ve taken to sitting nearer the back, closer to the door, with Bhodi. I never thought I’d prefer it, but I do. It makes it easier to listen to my music undetected, and although I don’tneedmy headphones like I used to, I like having them. Maybe it’s a comfort thing, but it does help me concentrate better.
When I reach the front of the lecture hall I hover off to the side while the professor tidies his notes on the lectern away into his briefcase. It’s such an antiquated notion; using a briefcase. I didn’t think anyone did that anymore. Aside from mafia-type criminals carrying large sums of cash. Though the real big bucks need to go in an unmarked duffle according to every gangster movie Cove has made me sit through.
He doesn’t acknowledge me, and it pisses me off. He wanted to speak to me? So speak. What’s the hold up?
Then it dawns on me that this could be some sort of childish power play. Is he waiting for me to make myself known? To become impatient and needy for his attention? Does he expect a timid little mouse girl to saySir, you asked to see me?
It’s a game I won’t play with him. Not because I’m better than him, but because I’m childish too. Stubborn.
Fuck him.
Every second I have to wait, I get more riled up, my muscles tensing, my brow creasing. But still I remain silent, waiting him out.
He eventually breaks the silence thrusting a stack of papers at me. “Here.”
“What is this?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me and my vow to stay silent. At least I made him break first.Ha. Take that, Sir!
See? Childish as fuck. He brings out the worst in me.
The prof raises a brow at me. “Are your eyes not working, Miss Ven der Zee?’
“No, they’re fine. Why?”
“Well, not once today did you look up from your desk to pay attention to me.” My scalp tingles and my entire body warms. He was watching me, closely, if he knows that I didn’t look up once he arrived.
“I was paying attention. I heard every word you said. I was making notes the entire time.”
“Of course you were.” He twists his face into a disdainful sneer, which makes me snap.
“For all thirty-three minutes of the farce you call a lecture, yes, I was. I can show you my notebook if you don’t believe me.”
“What did you say?” His four dangerous words are a low growl, accompanied by the same number of steps in my direction. He crowds my space but I don’t step back.
I know his words are a threat. A dare to answer his stupid rhetorical question. He expects me to apologise, to back down, maybe even turn tail and run.
I pull my shoulders back and raise my chin even higher, standing my ground.
“You were twenty-seven minutes late. You cut the lecture short,” I point out.
The ghost of a smile pulls at the corner of his mouth and I find myself completely transfixed by it. He would be stunning if he actually fully smiled. But maybe the constant scowling is part of his appeal. I’ve heard the other students talking about how good looking they think he is. I’m not blind. Despite what my professor thinks, there’s nothing wrong with my eyesight. I just refuse to fall for someone so arrogant and uptight and rude and just…downright horrible.
“My students have places to be. It would be unprofessional to allow my time to run over.”
“More unprofessional than turning up late and half cut?” I snap without thinking. This close to him, I can smell the alcohol on his breath. Who comes to the first class of the day stinking of booze? It’s not even a stale smell of yesterday’s liquor; it’s fresh. Warm. A little seductive. I’d like to know what he’s been drinking and what it tastes like.
My tongue unwittingly licks my lips. His eyes track the movement and my heart rate increases. Why?
“Excuse me?” Somehow his question is even lower and more threatening than before.
My tongue takes on a life of its own. “Is there something wrong with your ears, Sir?”
“Get out!” he roars, right in my face.
