It was no surprise that Professor Easton had fans. After all, I was one. A big one. It was a running joke among the students that the shorter the skirt, the more likely for Dr. Easton to ignore you. He was known for being kind of a hard ass, expecting a lot from his students, not only in their classwork but in how they conducted themselves as well.
I pulled out the copy of On Writing by Stephen King that had been listed in the course syllabus as required text just before the door opened and the noise in the room silenced.
I didn’t lift my head, but I wanted to. I wanted to see if he recognized me. I was wearing jeans and a crisp white button-up blouse—both a departure from my outfit Friday night. But over the blouse I wore the leather jacket and capping my feet were fuck-me red heels. My hair was piled up in a bun. I looked like the Adele from class last week, nondescript apart from the leather, shoes and eyeglasses that cost more than my first car.
He placed something on the desk, and I raised my eyes just slightly to make out his movements. He flipped open the flap of his messenger bag, pulling items from it and placing them with such control on the desk. His hands moved quickly, but not nervously, as if he had rehearsed these movements a hundred times. When he turned around, I lifted my head and watched him scrawl something across the board.
There was a low murmur across the room as he wrote, the entire class paying attention to what he was writing.
I found myself admiring not just the way his slacks fell off his hips, but the power he had over all of our attention. He wasn’t a man to ask for attention; his very presence demanded it.
I closed my eyes briefly, as the flash of him thrusting above me, eyes piercing mine in the dark, infiltrated my concentration.
The sound of something vibrating across a desk interrupted my thoughts and my eyes popped open, glancing to the left.
All eyes were on the female student two rows back, five seats down, as she hurriedly snapped up her phone and nearly dropped it in her frantic attempts to silence it.
His voice was firm, strained. Goosebumps lit up my flesh when he spoke. “Do you need me to go over Student Responsibilities, Miss…?”
The girl’s face fell, her brunette curls accentuating her pallor. “Ashley. Ashley McInerney. And n-no,” she stammered.
“Apparently you do. Let me enlighten you.”
I touched the glasses hanging on the front of my shirt, feeling like they brought me closer to the man I’d fucked on Friday night, the opposite of the man in front of me.
“All students are expected to turn off their cell phones or set them on silent—not vibrate—during class. No laptop, cell phone, iPad, tablet, etc. use is permitted for the duration of class. This is a writing class. While your final assignments will be typed, you will not be doing any typing in my class.” Professor Easton walked around the room, slowly, completely sure of himself. “In my class you will be learning, as is your responsibility as my student. You are expected to conduct yourselves in an adult manner and if you are disruptive, you will be withdrawn.” He pinned Ashley with his gaze and she visibly shrunk deeper into her seat.
“Now, let’s begin.” He walked over to the whiteboard, slammed his palm under the words he’d written.
Why are you here?
He turned his head, eyes scanning the crowd. His eyes passed over me quickly without a trace of recognition. It was if he was just glazing over us, not really focused on any of us in particular.
He pushed away from the board and walked to one end of the room, his hands tucked into his fitted slacks.
“Why are you here?”
The student he asked looked around him, as if expecting the professor’s singular gaze to be focused on someone else.
“Uh…” The student shrugged. “I needed an elective.”
It was if all the air was sucked out of the room with his admission. Everyone sat still, waiting for the professor’s reaction.
He rocked back on his heels, tilted his head so he looked at the ceiling a moment. And then he brought his head down and pointed a finger at the student. “At least you’re honest.” He walked further down the line, pointed to another student. “What’s your why?”
Her answer came quicker, but her tone was less confident. “Because I want to be a writer.”
“No.” His answer was swift. “You don’t want to be a writer. You either are or you’re not. You don’t take my class and—” he held his hands, fingers balled into fists, in the air, “—POOF!” he opened his fists, “become a writer.” He shook his head and the girl visibly shrunk into her seat. “Why are you here?” he asked, moving down the line, steps closer to me.