Текст книги "Pushing the Limits"
Автор книги: Brooke Cumberland
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Copyright © 2015 Brooke Cumberland
www.brookecumberland.com
Pushing the Limits
Cover Photography by Perrywinkle Photography
Cover Design by Perfect Pear Creative Covers
Literary Editor: Rogena Mitchell-Jones, Manuscript Service
All rights reserved. No parts of the book may be used or reproduced in any matter without written permission from the author, except for inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, establishments, organizations, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to give a sense of authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to another person except when loaned out per Amazon’s lending program. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then it was pirated illegally. Please purchase a copy of your own and respect the hard work of this author.
He’s my art professor.
I’m his student.
With an electric connection and undeniable chemistry, I know it won’t be long until one of us cracks.
When the opportunity arises to pose naked for the entire art class, I can’t help the thrill of knowing he’ll be watching me.
While they all look past me with their eyes narrowed and concentrated, drawing only the lines and angles of my body, he sees right through me down to my vulnerability.
He sees more than just the physical aspects—he sees me.
That’s when I see the struggle in his features as he tries to stay in control.
How do we keep our distance when everything seems to be pulling us together?
What feels so right can only go wrong if we keep pushing the limits.
“I’d rather lose myself in passion than lose my passion.”
–Jacques Mayol
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS BY BROOKE CUMBERLAND
COMING IN 2016
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
SNEAK PEEK AT BRITTAINY C. CHERRY’S UPCOMING RELEASE
PROLOGUE
ASPEN
I step through the doorway, immediately hit with the mixed aroma of mildew and lavender from all the flower arrangements. I narrow my eyes, trying to adjust to the dim lighting. It’s eerily quiet, the service not due to begin for another hour.
My mother was hysterical all night long, crying in her room. I heard her through the bedroom door, but I didn’t go to her. I couldn’t.
I know she blames me.
Mom hadn’t said a word to me all morning, so I asked my older brother, Aaron, to take me early. I wanted to see Ariel before everyone else starts arriving. See her one last time.
I walk down the short hallway and into the room her service is being held in. Chairs are all lined up perfectly, row by row. The room will probably fill up quickly with family and friends, all coming to give their condolences.
I swallow as I step closer, her casket already open. I notice faint music playing overhead through the speakers. It’s meant to sound soft and soothing, but I don’t know how anything can soothe away the ache burning in my chest.
I glance around and notice the walls look as if they were painted a hundred years ago. The faded beige carpet is almost nonexistent. Flowers surround her on one side and a table of vanilla scented candles on the other. Nothing in this entire room represents her except the collage board of pictures she had hanging in our room. She made it two summers ago and had been adding photos of her friends and us ever since. It captures every part of her personality.
We lived on farmland with only fields surrounding us. No neighbors or friends to play with meant we’d learned to entertain ourselves. I remember the day she got a new camera for Christmas and immediately started taking pictures—of everything. We’d giggle and snap pictures of each other, torment Aaron and take his picture when his girlfriend was over, and take about a hundred photos of our pets. I smile at the memories, but at the same time feel like crying because now there won’t be anymore. The memories we made the last fourteen years are all I have left of her.
When Pastor Jay asked us to bring in our favorite pictures of her, I knew immediately she’d want these. I step closer and examine them, even though I’ve looked at it every single day for the past two years. Somehow today, it looks different.
There’s the one of us standing in front of the middle school on our first day of seventh grade. We were assigned different homerooms and weren’t happy about being apart. Another one shows us with our dog, Fudge, the first day we brought him home from the shelter. We’ve only had him for six months now. He was a rescue, and she said she knew he was the perfect fit for our family.
After tracing the lines of each picture, I slowly walk to her casket. I pleaded with my mom to let her wear her favorite purple dress, but she refused. She said it was an ‘occasion’ dress, AKA—a happy occasion. Instead, she picked out a dark, navy blue dress that she absolutely loathed wearing. My lip curls up on one side thinking how much she’d hate wearing this dress right now. She hated wearing dresses, in general, but now, oh, she’d be so pissed. Part of me wants to laugh at the irony, as the other part wants to rip it off her and sneak the purple dress on.
I glance down at her, curling my fingers tightly around the edge of her casket. She looks flawless, almost like she’s just sleeping. Even looking at her right now, seeing that she isn’t breathing anymore, it hasn’t all sunk in.
For the first time in days, I let myself cry. I cry harder than I ever have. I’ve held the tears in, trying to remain strong for Mom, but I can’t do it anymore. I release all the pain I’ve kept inside and apologize to her over and over.
“I’m so sorry, Ari. God, I’m so, so sorry.” I blink, wiping my cheeks off. “You hated that nickname,” I say, letting out a short laugh. I exhale a deep sigh. “I’m going to miss you so much,” I whisper, reaching for her hand. “I’m going to miss you sneaking in my bed and sleeping with me every time a storm hit. I’m going to miss staying up late on weekends, gossiping about Brady Carmichael and all the guys on the basketball team. Or the girls who think purple lipstick is in.” I chuckle softly to myself. “I’m even going to miss arguing with you over who gets to use the shower first. It was like our little tradition, I guess.” My lips soften, curling up on both sides at the happy memories. “Truthfully, I’m going to miss everything about you.” I lean down and kiss the top of her forehead. “I love you.”
I hear footsteps in the hall and take that as my cue to start heading out. People will be arriving soon, and I’m not quite sure I’m strong enough to deal with everyone. Half feel sorry for me and the other half blame me.
I’m not sure which one is worse.
“Aspen…” I hear my dad’s deep voice. I turn and face him, his lips set in a firm line, his eyes as empty as I feel right now. “Your mother wants to talk to you.”
I swallow at his tense features, but nod and follow him out of the room. He barely speaks or looks at me now. I’m only a constant reminder of what happened—of who he’s lost—of how our lives are forever changed.
He leads me to a small room on the other side of the hall where she’s sitting with her nose buried in a handkerchief.
I stand in front of her and wait. I’m not sure what to say to my mom right now—or anyone for that matter. I’m not sure there’s anything I can say.
“I need to hear the story one more time,” she chokes out. “I need to hear why my baby girl is dead.”
Her head is low and she refuses to look at me. I’ve told her and the police the story several times already, but every day since the incident, she’s demanded to hear it again.
“Mom…” I begin, my eyes filling up again. “I can’t. Not again.”
“Tell me!” She raises her voice, finally tilting her head to look up at me, her face contorted in a mixture of grief and disgust.
I do as she says. I repeat the story the exact same way I did the first dozen times. No matter how much it hurts to talk about, I explain what happened.
“How could you let that happen?” she mumbles. “How could you be so careless? I just don’t understand!”
“Mom, it’s not Aspen’s fault…” Aaron interrupts, stepping next to me.
“Mama, I’m sorry,” I burst into a new wave of tears. I’ve apologized to her and Daddy over and over. But I know they’ll never forgive me.
I’ll never forgive me.
Aaron wraps an arm around my shoulders and cradles me to his chest. I hear my mom huff in disapproval. I push against his chest, wiping the tears from my cheeks as I storm off.
I’ll never forget the way her eyes widened in fear as she fell to her death. The way her body lay on the ground, motionless. The way her voice begged for my help as she screamed on the way down.
I’ll never forget.
I don’t tell Mom and Dad those things, though. The images already haunt me in my sleep. The sound of her screaming has woken me up the past two nights. Every time I attempt to fall asleep, her dead eyes appear in my mind. It’s no use, I tell myself. There’s barely a difference between existing and sleeping now.
Life without her is pointless.
People start arriving, so Mom, Dad, Aaron, and I all stand in front near her casket. I swallow my emotions down and refuse to cry. I shut down. I shut everything down. I let them hug me and say how sorry they are for our loss. I let them cradle my head as they press me against their chests. I let them squeeze my hands as they tell me how much she will be missed. I let them do whatever they need to express their feelings. But I don’t cry. I quietly thank them and look down at my feet.
When the service is over, we gather at the cemetery to bury her. A large bouquet of white lilies rests on her closed casket. I step forward and pull one out for myself before they lower her into the ground. Mom and Dad do the same, but they don’t look at me. Dad wraps his arm around Mom’s shoulders, holding her close as she cries.
I grip the obituary program tightly in my hand and stare down at her picture displayed on the cover. Mom used her most recent school photo from this past year although it hadn’t been her favorite. I don’t know why, though. She looked stunning as usual—bright smile, sparkling green eyes, and flowing golden blonde hair.
Underneath it reads, Loving Daughter and Sister. Gone too soon but never forgotten. 4-10-1995 to 4–10-2009.
She died on our birthday.
I swallow as I take it all in. April tenth was our favorite day. We’d wake up early to Mom making us our favorite breakfast—the only day of the year she’d make it. Belgian waffles with melted cream cheese frosting drizzled on top and then slathered in homemade maple syrup. She used fresh blueberries—instead of frozen—on top. She called it our special birthday breakfast, and every year we looked forward to it.
After we finished eating, we’d rip our presents open from our parents and later on exchange the ones we made for each other. For the last few years, we’d talk Mom into letting us skip school for the day. She wouldn’t even bother arguing with us, knowing she’d eventually cave anyway. So when we woke up on our birthday five days ago, we’d done everything exactly the same.
We laughed all through breakfast. Mom was going on and on about how she couldn’t believe how grown up her baby girls were getting and how old that made her feel. Aaron was three years older than we were, but apparently, he was born out of wedlock and didn’t count in her aging process.
After we had finished eating, Mom handed us each a card and watched as we ripped them open. We both squealed when we saw the hundred-dollar bill tucked inside.
As we wrapped our arms around her, she lectured us. “Don’t spend it all in one place, girls!” We then begged her to take us to the mall so we could, of course, spend it on clothes and makeup.
“You’ll have to wait until your father gets back,” she said, piling the dishes into the sink. We ran upstairs and got dressed, setting our money down on the dresser and running back outside. It was warm for April, just a slight breeze in the air.
It was perfect.
I smile at the memory of our birthday traditions. It was something we’ve always shared. Should have shared forever.
She’d always tease me about how she was older, granted it was only by three minutes, but now the day would be pointless.
A painful reminder of what had happened.
Of what I lost.
CHAPTER ONE
ASPEN
Even after six years, I can still hear her voice in my head. Her giggles. Her silly jokes. The way she’d snort after hearing something funny.
I hear it all.
It used to keep me up at night. I’d wake up in cold sweats, heaving and panting as I painfully relived our childhood memories. I don’t mind the dreams as much anymore—anything to see or hear her again—but I could do without the anxiety attacks that come with them. They come without warning and wreak havoc in my entire life.
Losing my twin sister feels like a part of me of missing—as if my soul isn’t complete without her.
Feeling the overwhelming guilt and wishing you had been the one to die that day instead will not only get you an unhealthy dose of post-traumatic stress, but also more therapy than you can imagine. After standard therapy proved useless, the counselors then decided to go an unconventional route. But not just any therapy.
Art therapy.
When you refuse to talk about your feelings to your therapist for eight months, you get placed into something that doesn’t require any talking at all. This was fine by me and actually ended up being a blessing in disguise. It helped me find my passion for art and pointed me in the direction of finding a career in art history.
I think about Ari every day, more so when I’m in my studio, but she’s always on my mind no matter what. We were identical twins, but sometimes I think about what she’d look like now. We could still be a perfect match, but maybe she would’ve dyed her hair or shaved half of her head and streaked it purple. Maybe she would’ve needed glasses and braces, or perhaps she’d taken after my mom’s rebellious side and gotten a tattoo on our eighteen birthday.
Whatever she would’ve looked like, I know she would’ve been beautiful. Not just on the outside, but the inside, as well. Her soul was the most beautiful one I’d ever met.
“Are you going to order, ma’am?” A snippy voice in front of me interrupts my thoughts as I come to the realization I’d dazed out again. Kendall elbows me in the side, clearing my attention back to where I am now.
“Yes, sorry. I’ll take an Iced Caramel Latte, please. Grande.” She presses the buttons on her screen and tells me my total. I scan my phone and pay through my app.
“Your order will be ready at the handoff in a few moments,” she says to me in a robotic tone as she hands me my receipt.
“Thanks.”
Kendall follows me down as I wait for my drink on the other end. She’s playing with her phone now, and I look out the window and gaze at the cars driving by. Berkeley is a chilly sixty-two degrees today, which is normal for this time of year. Being only a forty-five-minute train ride to San Francisco is only one of the many perks of living here. Ari would’ve loved exploring the city and walking down Chinatown. She was always so adventurous.
I start to remember part of the dream I had about her last night, but it’s hard to know for certain due to the sleeping pills I sometimes take before bed.
They knock me out until morning, but sometimes I can recall the dreams later on. When I can, I replay them in my mind, scene by scene. Mostly, they’re a movie reel of our lives—memories of things we did, places we went—but other times they turn dark. The motions aren’t usually steady, though. We’re usually in some kind of slow motion hell. I’m never able to run fast enough or reach her quick enough before I wake up or my mind goes black. Sometimes, I remember the conversations or events that take place in picture perfect clarity, but other times, I worry it’s my mind playing tricks on me.
The barista calls out my order, and I’m quick to retrieve it. I thank her again before Kendall and I head out the door, and I begin sucking it down. We’re meeting up with Zoe for breakfast just down the road. Kendall and Zoe are roommates who live down the hall from me.
I first met them last summer when I moved into the building. I had lived on campus for two years before finally getting my own place. I’ve grown closer to Kendall since we both attend the same school. It’s just a ten-minute walk from the university, but we carpool together often when our class schedules match up.
My phone rings as I open the door to my new used car—a green Kia Soul. My new baby.
It’s my mother.
I sigh and bite my cheek before accepting the call. “Hello, Mom.”
“Hello, Darling. How are you?” Her voice is tainted with fake politeness, always so smooth and sweet sounding. It’s too early for this.
“I’m just fine.” I hop in the driver’s seat and start the engine. “How about yourself? How’s Dad?”
“We’re both fine, thank you. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“No, just getting into my car with Kendall. What’s going on?”
“I just wanted to confirm your arrangements on coming home to visit during spring break.”
I frown, not wanting to have this conversation with my mother right now. Or ever. “Uh…that’s like three months away.” Spring break isn’t until April and classes are just starting tomorrow.
“I know, Darling. But since you’re always so busy…” I can hear the annoyance in her condescending tone. “I figured I’d need to get on top of this beforehand. Set it in stone.”
I exhale, rolling my eyes at her dramatics. “Sure, Mom. I’ll do my best.”
“Now, listen, Aspen…” Her tone firm and deep, as if I was a child and she was sending me to my room or something. “We agreed to let you go all the way out to art school in California with the agreement you’d come home once in awhile. Even Aaron is driving in for a few days. He’s bringing his new girlfriend, Dana. It’d be nice if we could all be together.”
I grit my teeth. Still not far enough, I think.
“I know.” I agreed to nothing, but I let her think it anyway. I’m not going to let her guilt trip me into coming back. The last place on Earth I want to be is back home with two parents who resent me. I left to escape the memories, to escape the looks of sympathy on everyone’s faces, and to escape the constant reminder of how I ruined their lives. I could’ve moved to Mars and it still wouldn’t feel far enough.
Her tone changes, but is no less condescending. “Good. We’ll plan for it.”
“Great,” I reply flatly. We say our goodbyes and hang up.
‘Everything okay?” Kendall asks, not taking her eyes off her phone, her brown hair falling over her shoulders.
“Yeah. Just my mother crushing my caffeine high.” I furrow my brows in mock annoyance, taking a long pull of my drink.
“You have a serious addiction,” Kendall states as she watches me with wide eyes.
“Your point?” I counter.
“Waffle House serves coffee, you know?”
“Yes, but not good coffee.” I smile, taking another sip.
“Ugh,” she mumbles after a moment.
“What?” I face her, seeing the wrinkles crease in her forehead. “What is it?”
She groans. “Kellan.”
“I thought things were going great?”
“They are!” she insists. “But when we went out last night, he got drunker than usual, and I thought maybe just maybe…”
She doesn’t need to finish her sentence to tell me what’s going on. Apparently, drunken Kellan isn’t much better than sober Kellan.
“Still nothing below the belt?”
“Not even close. I thought maybe with a few drinks in him, he’d loosen up a bit, help ease his nerves. But he was all ‘I just wanna make out with you. Your lips taste so good’…blahblahblah.”
“Maybe he had whiskey dick.”
She bursts out in laughter, whining, “Gah! Why won’t he just have sex with me? I’m a good lay!” Her outburst makes me snort out in laughter, the iced drink spewing right out of my nose.
“Jesus, Kendall.” I wipe my mouth and laugh. “Maybe you’re going at it all wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“Guys like the chase. If you’re an easy target, it’s not a challenge.”
The corner of her lips wrinkles in disgust.
“Play hard to get,” I explain.
She scoffs. “Why do guys always want to play stupid games? I’m your girlfriend…you’ve got me! Now, do me!” She shouts to the ceiling of my car.
“Rather, do that.” I laugh and point at her pathetic plea. “That’ll have him ripping your clothes off in a heartbeat.”
She glares at me, and I smirk.
I park in front of the Waffle House and we walk inside, finding Zoe in one of the corner booths.
“Look who finally decided to show up after all,” Zoe taunts in her thick, New Jersey accent as we both shift into our chairs. She has her long, dark mane pulled up into a high bun, a few shorter pieces falling around her face.
Zoe moved to California three years ago when she turned eighteen to pursue a singing career. After rejection after another, and eventually going broke, she moved up to Berkeley, found Kendall to live with, and started working at one of the bars downtown.
She says it’s only until she figures out what she wants to do long-term.
But I think fear is setting her back more than anything.
“Oh, please. We’re thirty seconds late.”
“I managed to get off, showered, dressed, and arrive before the both of you. I deserve some kind of medal for that.”
I snort. “You get the bill. There’s your medal.”
“Ooh…apparently someone had a bad Saturday night.”
“It was fine.” I narrow my eyes. “Kendall’s the one stuck in make-out city,” I tease, earning a glare in return.
The waitress arrives with glasses of water and asks if we want our usual. We say yes, handing her back the menus. We order the same things every time.
I sip on my iced latte, glaring at Zoe’s pleased smirk. “So was this guy a keeper?” I ask referring to the guy that she brought home last night.
She shrugs carelessly. “Maybe. But if we get married, I’m keeping my surname.”
A wide smile spreads across both Kendall’s face and mine. “Why?” we ask in unison.
She frowns. “Because he has a horrible last name.” I raise my brows, silently motioning for her to tell us. “It’s Litoris.” She hangs her head in shame as the both of us burst out laughing.
“I’m sorry,” I say in between trying to catch my breath. “But that can’t be true.”
“It is! I even Googled him.”
“Dude, that’s unfortunate,” Kendall adds. “But if he ever runs for Senate, I’ll be sure to vote for Mr. Litoris.” That cracks us up even more as Zoe shakes her head and scowls.
“Laugh all you want.” She groans. “But his tongue is definitely nothing to laugh at.”
“I bet not.” I smile, biting down on my lower lip to hold in the laughter at her embarrassment.
The waitress arrives with our food shortly after, and we start a new topic of conversation, one that doesn’t cause lack of air from laughing too hard.
“So your mom wants you to come home for spring break this year,” Kendall asks once we begin eating. “You going?”
I keep my head down and shrug. “I don’t know. I really don’t want to.”
“How pissed will she be if you don’t go?” Zoe asks.
“Probably pissed enough to never talk to me again, which just might be enough of a reason to not go in the first place.” I smirk, knowing they’ll understand what I mean. My parents and I never really mended our relationship after Ari’s death. It was just kind of there…not moving or evolving. Once I graduated high school, I couldn’t wait to move away.
“You know they have coffee here,” Zoe says, eyeing my Starbucks cup and changing the subject. She knows I hate talking about my family.
“Gah! What is it with you two? I do know.” I grab it and pull the straw into my mouth before setting it back down. “But they don’t have it the way I like it.”
“Filled with caramel and sugar?” Kendall laughs.
“I live on four hours or less of sleep every night. Caramel and sugar are the only things that keep my eyes open.”
Kendall lets out an audible sigh. “I’d feel sorry for you, but the fact that you have more strange men doing the walk of shame every weekend than I have pairs of shoes, I don’t feel sorry at all.”
“Stop exaggerating,” I retort as Zoe begins to laugh. “It’s not every weekend. And sometimes they only get to third base, thank you very much.”
“What’s your definition of third base?” Zoe asks, narrowing her eyes at me.
“No penetration,” I answer matter-of-factly.
Zoe snorts.
We continue talking and eating. If it weren’t for these two, I’d feel really lost—more than I already feel. They’re the closest thing I have to any kind of healthy relationship, even though they don’t really know all of me. They know what I show and tell them, but most of the time, they see what I want them to see. Not the inside that’s burning with unbearable pain and guilt. But they get more than I give anyone else, and sometimes I even find myself thinking of them like sisters—that is until the guilt eats at me.
MORGAN
I never expected to be back in California after the way I left five years ago. I hadn’t even come back to visit my parents, and thinking back on it makes me feel like absolute shit. However, six months ago, I said goodbye to Ohio and moved back to my home state.
Not by choice.
Fortunately, I found a house to rent close to the California School of Liberal Arts where I was able to get a teaching job. I had to leave Ohio without much notice, so once I arrived back home and secured a job, I had four months left until I started at CSLA. Between unpacking and prepping my semester syllabuses, those four months flew by. I did everything I could to ignore the ache in my chest at being back in the same town as her—Jennifer—one of the reasons I left in the first place. Everything to ignore the pain and focus on something else—anything else.
Natalia is the other reason those months flew by. She’s my high demanding and sarcastic eleven-year-old niece who’s complained about my cooking every night since she moved in with me.
She’s also taught me a lot in the time she’s lived with me.
Eleven-year-old girls do not like when you walk them into the school building. They also don’t like when you kneel down to tie their shoe. They also may possibly scream when you walk into the bathroom—forgetting you, in fact, do not live alone anymore—and they are only in a towel.
Oh, the things I’ve had to quickly learn to accommodate Natalia.
But I love her. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.
And we’re trying to figure it out—even though we’re both grieving.
My heart aches at the memory of getting the call six months ago. My mother was so hysterical that I could barely understand anything she was saying. Once they translated into actual words, the walls began to close in on me. I was in shock. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t breathe.
Six months later, and I still feel that way, except now I’ve learned to ignore it. The pain stings to the point of bitterness. Bitter that it happened. Bitter that I had to come back. Bitter that I have no idea how to raise a child.
Painting is my solace or was at least. I haven’t been able to paint a damn thing since then, which is really fucking ironic since I’m an art professor. But what choice do I have? I need a job and it’s the only thing I know. But if there’s one thing I know about the power of painting is when you need it most, it’ll eventually pull you out of whatever shit you’re dealing with—or so that’s what I’m hoping for anyway.
“Knock, knock,” I hear from my doorway. I quickly look up and notice it’s Claire—again. She’s been coming to my office every day for two weeks as I’ve been rapidly trying to prepare for my classes that are resuming soon. Since I’m coming in halfway through the year at spring semester, I’ve been looking over students’ art portfolio’s to get ideas of their strong suits so I can coordinate my syllabus to their needs.
“Hi, Claire,” I draw out slowly, the annoyance in my tone going right over her head as she invites herself in. “What’s up?”
She settles in on the chair across from my desk. Her skin-tight pencil skirt nearly rips in two as she crosses her legs and arches her back, pushing her breasts firm against her thin blouse. She flips her blonde hair, exposing the flesh of her neck. I shudder, wondering what’s made this woman so insecure that she feels the need to throw herself at me.
“Well, I thought since you’ve been working nonstop and have hardly taken a break to even eat lunch most days, we could go out for drinks tonight.” Her tongue runs along her lower lip just before pulling it in between her teeth and biting it. “Celebrate your new job and the start of a fresh semester,” she continues with an encouraging smile.
“As much as I’d love that…” She doesn’t hear the condescending tone in my voice by the wide, girly smile that spreads across her face. “I’ll have to take a raincheck. I’m taking Natalia to a movie tonight before I get busy with work again.” It’s a lie, but she doesn’t even as much as flinch on another rejection. She’s only asked me out a dozen times, and I’ve found a way to get out of each of them.
How her brain isn’t connecting the dots to, I’m not interested is beyond me. If she were any other woman at a bar or we shared the same mutual friends, I’d have no issues letting her know it was never going to happen. However, to avoid pissing my colleagues off before class even begins, I have to play nice for now.
Truthfully, if it weren’t for a certain portfolio that’s captivated my attention, I’d be doing all this prep work from home. But there’s one specific student—Aspen Evans—that’s grabbed my attention more than the rest. She has high honorable mentions, has excelled in all of her classes, and already has some letters of recommendations for graduate school. She passed into the accelerated art program with flying colors.
