Wes stepped inside the office and the room closed around him like a vault.
Organized and intimidating, every award on the shelf aligned to the millimeter, and Professor Beatrice Hollis sat behind a glass desk without looking up for ten full seconds while he stood there like a kid outside the principal’s office, except this principal could end careers with one phone call.
“Take a seat, Mr. Corrigan,” she said finally.
He sat and kept his hands on his knees while he waited, and she made him wait, flipping through something on her desk while the clock on her wall ticked loud in all that silence.
“You missed a midterm,” she said, finally looking up,
“for a class that has a ninety percent failure rate. So tell me, are you arrogant, or just exceptionally busy with things more important than your future?”
“Neither, Professor. I just had a long night,” said Wes.
“A long night,” she repeated, voice dripping skepticism as she leaned forward.
“Most students give me excuses about sick grandmothers and dying pets. You’re giving me a long night. Which is honest, though honesty doesn’t pay the bills in the financial sector.” She reached into her desk and pulled out a manila folder and set it down flat.
“I’ve looked at your records, because your potential in theater caught my eye. You know how to play a part, and you know how to hold a room’s attention, and those are rarer skills than you think.”
Wes felt his pulse jump, because this wasn’t sounding like a lecture anymore.
“I have a private project that requires someone smart, and capable of acting professional in high-pressure environments,” said Hollis.
“If you do this for me, I’ll forget about this morning’s incident and give you an A for the midterm. But if not, well, you know where the exit is.”
The Hollow Graduate slipped for a split second, and something real came through.
“What kind of project?”
She slid a glossy photograph across the glass desk, and the woman in the picture looked back with sharp calculating eyes and a sophisticated air, blonde hair pinned up, pearls, a face built for boardrooms.
“Her name is Meredith Fane,” said Hollis.
“I need you to go to a specific restaurant tonight and follow her, because I need photographs of her and whoever she meets. And it is vital that no one catches you. So am I clear?”
Wes picked up the photo and studied the face.
“Why her? And what’s the situation here?”
For half a second, something moved behind the Warden’s eyes, fast and cold, like a door slamming shut somewhere deep inside the building.
“That is none of your concern,” she said.
“You don’t need to understand the why. You just need to do as you’re told. So, do we have a deal?”
“Fine, I’ll go, because it’s a deal,” said Wes.
Beatrice Hollis leaned back with a small cynical smirk playing on her lips.
“Wow. I thought you’d put up more of a fight, or at least try to blackmail me for a better grade.”
And that’s when Wes stopped listening and started watching, because the conversation was a stage and he was suddenly seeing the whole set.
The expensive suit that probably cost more than his yearly rent.
Ten years of markets eaten alive, a decade of men twice her size leaving this office pale, the university’s entire reputation resting on her name, and an aura of absolute power so thick you could lean on it.
He ran her script twice in his head.
There were only two ways to break a woman like this.
Kneel and hope she got bored of him, or take the throne.
Wes decided he was taking the throne.
He stood up, and instead of walking toward the door, he walked around the desk, slow, unhurried, shoes clicking on the floor, and sat down on the edge of her glass table, right in her personal space, close enough that she had to lean back to keep eye contact.
“I wouldn’t dream of investigating you, Professor,” said Wes, “because helping you feels more like an obligation now.”
Her eyes narrowed while her professional mask flickered with genuine confusion.
“What do you think you’re doing, Wes?”
“Me? Nothing,” said Wes, and his voice dropped into a low, dangerous silk.
“I just thought, since we’re moving our relationship beyond the classroom, I didn’t need to hold back anymore.”
“What the hell do you think you’re—”
She started to stand, face flushing with anger, but he was faster.
He lunged forward and silenced her with a hard, bruising kiss, and before she could protest he hooked his hands under her, lifted her clean off the chair, and slammed her back against the office wall with his full weight pinning her there.
She thrashed against him and clawed at his shoulders to push him off, but Wes was fueled by a sudden manic surge of adrenaline.
He grabbed both her wrists in one hand, wrenched them above her head, and pinned them against the wall until she was completely trapped, her chest heaving against his.
A small involuntary moan escaped her throat at the sheer force of being subdued, and her resolve broke for a split second, just enough for her jaw to part, and Wes slid his tongue inside.
Please don’t bite me, please don’t bite me, he screamed internally, thinking he was about to be expelled, or arrested, or both.
Her teeth grazed his tongue, and he braced for the pain, but the bite never came, because the tension in her body snapped.
Something warm and soft met him instead, because she wasn’t fighting anymore, she was kissing him back, her tongue tangling with his in a desperate, hungry rhythm, ten years of boardrooms melting off her all at once.
Wes pulled back, released her wrists, and kept his gaze locked on hers with a hard, unyielding expression while he towered over her.
“I’ll help you take her down,” said Wes.
“Or get your revenge, whatever this is. I don’t know what she did to you, and I don’t care. I just want to help you. Because you’re beautiful, and I want you.”
He was reciting a line from a play he’d performed a year ago.
It was cliché.
It was shameless.
And it went through that armor like it was tissue paper.
Beatrice Hollis stood against the wall panting with her eyes glazed over, because he had done nothing more than kiss her, and that single sentence made her heart ache like somebody had reached into her chest and squeezed.
“Just… just go at five,” said Professor Hollis. The source of this chapter is g.com.
She tried to regain her footing.
He could see her reaching for the threats, the grades, the exit, the whole arsenal, and the words died in her throat, because the Warden was gone, and in her place was somebody much more vulnerable.
“Please help me,” she said quietly.
“Because I would truly appreciate it.”
Wes reached out and gently cupped her chin, tilting her face up, and looked into her eyes with a smoldering intensity.
“Of course I will, Beatrice. I’ll do anything you ask. So in exchange, let me taste your lips one more time.”
The professor began to tremble while her mouth parted and her breath hitched, and this time she was the one who took the initiative, leaning in and closing the gap herself.
Wes kissed her, feeling her tongue meet his with a newfound desperation, but just as the heat began to rise again, a sharp knock echoed through the heavy oak door.
KNOCK.
KNOCK.
“Professor? It’s me,” said a voice from the hallway.
The Vice Rector.
Wes shot backward like he’d been struck by lightning and lunged across the room, collapsing into his chair so hard it rolled into the shelf, and Beatrice scrambled to straighten her blazer and smooth her hair with her face flushed dark red.
“And let that be the last time you are late, or there won’t be any more opportunities for you!” shouted Professor Hollis.
Her voice was shaky, but she managed to find a hint of her usual iron, and Wes stood up and bowed his head in a mock apology.
“I understand, Professor. It won’t happen again,” said Wes.
He turned and walked out the door with his heart still hammering against his ribs, and the door swung shut behind him just as the Vice Rector stepped inside holding a stack of papers.
“These kids, I swear,” said Professor Hollis, looking at the Vice Rector with a weary sigh.
“I know, Professor, because they are a total headache,” said the Vice Rector.
“It’s time for the quarterly meeting, so I brought the documents you requested, since we’re really hoping for your guidance on this.”
The door clicked shut, and Wes stood in the empty corridor with Fane’s photograph burning a hole in his jacket pocket, and his phone buzzed.
He pulled out the Ledger.
[Reminder: Appointment tonight at 20:00. Arrive thirty minutes early. Be professional.]
Tonight.
A stalking job for the Warden and a paid booking for the Company, at the same time.
“Of course,” said Wes.