Garrett chuckles and I shake my head. “But you’re in luck, bro. It just so happens that I have no social life this weekend or ever, which means you have a built-in babysitter. I’m happy to take care of my godson while you go out and put the moves on Brooklyn.”
With another chuckle and a waggle of his brows, he turns to leave, waving a hand in the air and calling out, “Be there at seven, sucker!”
I can’t help but laugh at his exiting comment. Even if he did bribe me with coffee just to get me to agree, I’d have dropped everything to hang with Caleb. We have a special bond when it comes to playing Legos and making rockets that fly to the moon.
With a smile on my face, I sit down at my desk and check the time. Five more minutes until Kyler is scheduled to arrive and I need to use this time to consider how I want to play things out between us.
Now that he’s a student of mine, nothing more can happen between us this semester, regardless of my attraction to him. Not only has he made it abundantly clear in our previous interaction that he was a one-and-done kind of guy, but I also follow the rules and take my obligations as an educator at this university very seriously. I would never jeopardize my role for a hookup with a student.
With that commitment in mind, I resolve to keep my hands off, my head screwed on tight and my dick firmly in my pants when it comes to Kyler.
4
Kyler
Me: I’m hyperventilating. Help me. What do I do?
The minute I left the lecture hall I booked it outside to catch my breath. My body is stiff, tight, and amped up over what I just learned in conversation with Professor Mathiasson. Or Lucas. Or Luc. Fuck, I’m so confused about who he is to me.
Is he just an acquaintance? A hookup? A professor? A mentor?
Leaning against the exterior of the brick building, my shoulder rests against the heat that penetrates through my skin. It grounds me as I type out a text to my roommate and friend, Peyton, while I hold an electronic cig in my other.
Pey-Pey Le Pew: What are you talking about, Pretty Boy? I’m not a mind reader.
She inserts the face with the thinking expression emoji.
Inhaling deeply, I let it out in one gush of air and stare down at the blue light of the e-cig and ponder my response.
I’ve been living with Peyton since earlier in the summer when her best friend Brooklyn moved out to become the live-in nanny to Coach Parker. She’s become my closest confidante in this world, except for Dax and Roarke from the bar where I bartend.
And while I’ve found myself sharing many intimate details of my life with Peyton, she doesn’t know anything about my hook-up with Lucas this summer. She doesn’t know about the strange six-degrees of separation that has linked us so fatefully with Brooklyn, Garrett Parker, and his friend, Lucas.
The same Lucas that happens to be my one-time lover and now art history professor.
Deciding that honesty is the best policy and there’s no reason to beat around the bush, I tell her about my dilemma.
Me: I slept with my professor.
The phone rings a second after I hit send and I choke out a laugh. When I answer, I can hear background noise, as if she’s walking through the same halls of the university campus as I am.
“You what? You just slept with your professor already today? How in the world does one do that, Kyler? Geesh, I don’t even understand how fast you can work sometimes.”
I give a snort of laughter, taking a final puff and blowing it out. “I didn’t mean today, you goof. But I did sleep with him this summer. Once and only once.”
There’s a pause of silence, with only the muffled noise of hallway chatter filling the space over the line. The thing with Peyton is that when we talk sex, it’s hypothetical for her because she has yet to ditch her V card. There are many reasons behind that status, and while she’s a great sounding board on my love life and issues, there are times I think she gets a little annoyed over my blasé attitude toward sex and hookups.
She sighs. “I suppose it was inevitable considering the revolving door of boys you’ve cycled through since I’ve known you.”
“Hey now. Are you implying I’m a manwhore?”
“Not implying anything,” she tsks. “Your words, not mine.”
I crinkle my forehead and try to count the number of lays I had this past summer, ticking them off one by one. Okay, maybe I lost count after twelve. So sue me. I’m single and safe. Plus, my jobs make me a sex magnet for the horny boys that see me either behind the bar or on the stage performing.
Which, for the record, I’ve been working secretly since I moved in with Peyton last June. Even she is unaware of my second job as a male exotic dancer in a gay nightclub called Knights. Think hanging birdcage, go-go boots, and a snug black rhinestone thong that catches the eyes of many from across a dark room. That would be me, in all my almost-naked glory.
I’m not thrilled by this secondary job as a male performer, but it was either that or make ten bucks an hour delivering pizza to pay off my school loans and my debt. And the tips I receive bring in over five hundred a week, along with my bartending tips, affording me the room I rent with Peyton, a beat-up old truck, and tuition for school.
“Whatever, Miss Prudent. But the fact still remains that he’s now my professor and I just learned that he’s also going to be my independent field study mentor this semester.”
“What? I thought you were paired with Professor Gershwin?” She asks, knowing all the key players in the program since we’re taking the majority of the same design classes.
Pushing off the wall, I start my walk down the sidewalk to the entrance of the building where in a few minutes, I’ll need to face Lucas again – this time one-on-one. Mano e mano.
“He had an unexpected emergency and is on a leave of absence, so I’m stuck with Luc…I mean, Professor Mathiasson. And I can’t switch or drop it because I need it to graduate and I can’t afford to go another semester. I’m so fucked.”
I open the exterior door to the building and head in, bypassing some familiar faces of three of my classmates who are huddled in a group chatting. I nod my chin in greeting and scoot around them, making my way toward the stairwell to the second floor.
“Wait. The Lucas Mathiasson? As in, Garrett Parker’s friend that we met at Caleb’s birthday party last month? That Lucas?” Her voice is an octave higher, riddled with incredulous disbelief.
I bound up the steps, two-by-two until I reach the landing at the top which gives Peyton just enough time to digest the name of the professor I just mentioned. Her shock is palpable and comes across as a shriek of horror.
I get to the bank of doors outside the Art Department offices and scan the doors to find 205, the name scribed on the placard as Associate Professor L. Mathiasson. There’s a funny Peanut’s cartoon that says “The Doctor is In.”
I nod, responding quietly. “Yup. One in the same.”
Peyton’s last remark before we end the call is both endearing and painfully truthful.
“Kyler Scott. You’re fucked.”
Knocking on the dark wood grained door, I mutter, “Don’t I know it.”
5
Lucas
“Come in,” I respond to the knock at the door, clearing my throat and inhaling deeply. Without looking up from my book, I know who it will be this time.