She threw it out the door and put on her seatbelt. Rifling through her bag, she fished out a pack of mints, popping one into her mouth.
“Where do you live?” I asked as we pulled out of the parking lot.
She gave me the address in a neighborhood where I knew there was a lot of off-campus housing.
“So, Stephen,” she said, turning to me. “Do you do this sort of thing a lot?”
“What sort of thing?” I asked, keeping my eyes on the road.
“Rescuing damsels in distress,” she joked. “No, hanging out in bars on a school night.”
“Technically, it’s not a school night for me, and no, I don’t do it a lot. It wasn’t really my scene back there.”
“What is your scene, then?”
I shrugged. Most nights I spent at home with a cup of tea and a book. Sometimes I would go see a movie if anything good was playing, or go to my parents’ for dinner. That was pretty much the extent of my social life, except for the few times that Matt dragged me out with him. Naturally, I didn’t tell any of that to Ms. Wilde and kept driving. I was anxious to get her home as soon as possible and be rid of her. I didn’t want her to know my private life. In class, I knew what to do, what to say. I always had a good answer to the questions I was asked. I was the Professor: respected and even feared at times. Here, in my car, outside the classroom, I felt like the class nerd, roped into giving a ride to the prettiest girl in school even though she’d never give him the time of day.
I glanced in her direction. She really was pretty tonight. The pale skin on her bare arms looked so soft and smooth, and the dress clung to her, showing off her figure.
“Why didn’t you bring a jacket?” I asked with a frown, returning my attention to the road.
“I forgot,” she said. “That was a fun class today, huh?”
“Fun” isn’t exactly how I’d put it. Frustrating? Yes. Irritating? Definitely. Fun? No.
I gave her a grunt of acknowledgment but didn’t say anything else.
“Well, I sure had fun,” she said, and let out a small laugh. “I can’t believe that some people would actually have something against the author.”
“It’s not the first time that’s happened,” I said. “Ellis received a number of death threats after writing American Psycho.”
“Yeah, I know. I was thinking I might do my thesis on New York writers,” she said conversationally.
I just nodded and sighed with relief when we turned onto her street.
“Well, good night,” I said, staring straight ahead.
Get out of the car, get out of the car, get out of the car.
“Listen, Stephen, it’s still pretty early. Would you like to come up for some coffee or a drink?”
My heart stuttered in my chest. Why would she want to have coffee with me?
No. No, no, no. Definitely not.
“Yes,” I gulped.
What the hell am I doing?
Chapter 3
Ms. Wilde smiled as she exited the car, and I found myself following her up the stairs to her apartment, as though my legs suddenly worked independently from the rest of me.
What am I doing? I should not be doing this.
“Come on in,” she said, opening the door.
I was met by a sweet smell that seemed to permeate the place. Not unpleasant, but definitely exotic.
What is that? Flowers?
I looked around as I entered, instantly horrified. Her place was a complete mess. It was small with just three rooms, as far as I could see: a tiny kitchen, a bathroom, and a large room that doubled as a bedroom and a living room. I stared at her bed and wondered what on earth she’d been thinking when she decorated it. The thing looked like it came out of a pornographic version of One Thousand and One Nights, complete with a deep purple bedspread and huge pillows in gold, pink, and purple hues. It even had a canopy. At the foot of the bed there was a large wooden chest with exotic-looking candle lamps in the same color scheme and a holder for incense sticks.
Ah, that explains the smell.
I turned to look at her, and she was clearly waiting for me to say something about the monstrosity.
“Your bed is very, uh, interesting,” I offered, which was the nicest thing I could say about it.
“Thank you.” She smiled. “I know it’s a little over the top, but I like to have a nice place to sleep.” She lit the candles in the lamps and looked at me again. “And to do other things that don’t involve sleep,” she added.
I blinked a few times, trying to figure out if she realized the innuendo of her statement. She looked perfectly at ease, still lighting those candles everywhere, as though this was a perfectly normal conversation.
“Would you like a drink, Stephen?” she asked, blowing out the match.