Did I just get an invitation to have sex with Ms. Wilde tomorrow night?
Did she think that I had asked about her plans because I wanted to see her? That hadn’t been my intention. None of this made sense. Ms. Wilde had just made a passionate argument in class about not wanting to be perceived as an “easy lay,” as she’d called it, and yet she’d just asked me to stop by her apartment late at night. Was that a…what did Matt always call it? A booty call? I ran my hands through my hair and shook my head. What would it be like if I went over there? Would she really want to kiss me, touch me, and have sex with me again? I felt a very distinct twitching in my pants when I thought about repeating the wonderful experience she had given me in her bed, and I knew I wanted to go. Yet, I could also acknowledge that wanting this was wrong on so many levels: she was ten years my junior, not my type, and, worst of all, my student, which made it forbidden.
As I walked across the faculty parking lot, I felt the conflict tearing at me. I wanted her again. Being with her had been effortless and so pleasurable. However…
I sighed, throwing my briefcase into the passenger seat before climbing into my car. For once, I didn’t know what to do. How had I allowed my life to become so complicated?
Chapter 7
I drove home from campus, strangely dazed. I barely remembered letting myself into my apartment, but soon I found myself logging onto the Facebook, yet again, to look at Ms. Wilde’s page. She had updated her status a few minutes ago.
Concert in LA!!!
LA? As in Los Angeles? That’s insane!
I couldn’t believe it. Ms. Wilde had said that they had “quite” a bit of driving to do, but that was a huge understatement. Los Angeles was six hours away by car, even without traffic. The thought of Ms. Wilde driving so far with only two other girls as company bothered me immensely. Didn’t she care about her own safety? They would have to pull over at rest stops on the way, and I was sure those places were crawling with lowlifes.
Why can’t she just go to a concert here in San Francisco?
In my mind, no rational person would drive six hours straight just to see a two-hour show. Well, I assumed that it would last approximately two hours, but I didn’t actually know, never having attended a rock concert before. She’d even said that they were going to sleep in a car. Did she do that sort of thing a lot? Why not get a hotel room instead? If I were going out of town, I would never consider spending the night in my car. Of course, she’d also mentioned that they would be coming back tomorrow hung over, so it was a good thing that none of them would be driving after the show since they would apparently be drinking.
I thought about her offer to stop by her place tomorrow night. I was fairly certain that she wouldn’t divulge anything to her friends or the university if I did go over there again, but what would be the point, really? I didn’t like her. The way that she’d confronted me on my lack of adventure in life had ticked me off and I wished that I had something to say in retort.
You have horrible taste in clothes? No, then she would probably just make fun of mine like Matt.
I hate your hair? No, too juvenile.
You’re horribly stubborn? No, she would most likely be proud of that.
You’re bad in bed? A definite no. I would never be able to lie that convincingly.
I sighed and turned my computer off before putting on some classical music and lying down on the couch, intent on taking a nap. I had to be at my parents’ house in a few hours and I hadn’t slept very well the night before. Although I had refrained from eating before bed, the dreams from the previous night had resurfaced with unmitigated strength. I’d woken up painfully aroused, my head swimming with images of Ms. Wilde and me in various compromising positions.
Tired and cranky, I spent the next two hours on the couch, drifting in and out of sleep to the sound of violins.
* * *
When I arrived at my parents’, my mood was still foul. Seeing my stepbrother’s car parked in their driveway did little to help, since I knew there was a good chance that he hadn’t moved on from his incessant teasing about Ms. Wilde. I hoped he would at least keep it to himself in the presence of our parents. I had no desire to rip his head off in the middle of dinner. Also, that might give the impression that his taunting had a measure of truth to it. Decapitation was definitely not an option.
“Hi, honey,” my mother said, smiling, when she answered the door. “How many times do I have to tell you to just come in and not ring the doorbell like some stranger?”
“Sorry, Mom,” I mumbled, giving her a hug.
I took off my coat and she ushered me into the living room where Matt and my stepfather, Richard, were already sitting. Richard and my mother had met at a support group for widows and widowers when I was thirteen. After a few months of dating, Richard and Matt moved into our home, and soon after Matt and I had become stepbrothers.