Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 27095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 135(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 135(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
I take a long time packing up my things, hoping he’ll ask me to stay for another ‘tutoring session.’ He doesn’t. Instead, he just collects his stuff and exits through the side door.
A tornado of emotions strikes me as I go out the way I came. Am I upset? Annoyed? Hurt? I don’t even know. What I do know is that my desire for him hasn’t gone anywhere. If anything, it’s risen.
I’m halfway across the quad on the way to my dorm when someone steps in front of me. A man. Clearly not a student. He’s old, maybe mid-fifties, with thinning gray hair that’s combed back to hide his bald spot. He has ugly glasses and a sport coat that I’m sure he thinks makes him look scholarly and distinguished.
His lips part with a sickening smacking sound as he smiles at me. His teeth are so white I wonder if he could bleach them again without permanently destroying them.
“Miss Monroe,” he says slowly, as if tasting my name.
“Sorry, do I know you?”
“No, not yet,” he says, almost to himself. “I am Professor Gerald Belcher. I’m part of the Anatomy Department with Professor Holt.”
Gerald…where have I heard that name?
Aha! The skeleton in August’s office is named Gerald. Could be a funny joke between friends, but for some reason, this man does not strike me as one of August’s friends…
I file this away for later as I shake his hand, just to be polite. But he holds on to mine for just longer than he should, dragging his thumb across my knuckles in a way that makes my skin crawl.
“I saw you leave the hall after August’s lecture,” he says, falling into step beside me as I start walking. This guy’s seriously creeping me out. “You’re a freshman, yes? His classes are tough. You must be quite intelligent to keep up.”
“I do my reading,” I reply. What else am I supposed to say?
“Sure you do,” he says with a smile. I catch his eyes traveling down my body, almost like he’s examining me. It’s cold and clinical, nothing like how August looks at me.
The way he looked at me…it made me feel strong. Recognized. This feels more like how a collector would look at a car he was thinking of buying.
“Professor Holt is a great teacher, but many students find him…overwhelming.”
I shrug. “Not me.”
This is getting weird now. What’s he getting at? Why is he even talking to me?
“No?” His creepy grin widens. “Good. Very good. I–I only mention this because I’ve noticed he’s taken a…particular interest in you.”
A chill pierces my chest.
“I had some gaps in my knowledge,” I reply. “He offered to tutor me. For the course.”
“He offered to tutor you,” Belcher repeats slowly, as if he were tasting the words, digging into the meaning behind them. Something about his expression—the way his brow twists—tells me he knows what we were really up to.
But how could he?
No one saw me go into August’s office. We may have made some noise, but we weren’t that loud.
Or were we?
“That’s generous of him,” Belcher goes on. “Professor Holt usually doesn’t take such an interest in freshmen—”
I stop walking. “Professor Belcher.” I’m not sure where the strength in my voice comes from, only it’s there, like steel. Maybe it’s the stubbornness that drove my mother nuts for eighteen years. “Is there something you’d like to ask me?”
He blinks back at me, surprised by my assertiveness. He almost smiles, but something else takes over his face. Something sharp, like a pin sticking out of a cushion.
“Of course not,” he says, reaching out and touching my arm, just above the elbow. His fingers press into the bare skin below my sleeve, sending an unwanted shiver through me. “If Professor Holt’s tutoring sessions are ever…not enough for you…my door is always open.”
A hand closes around my other arm.
Not grabbing or pulling. Not painful. It’s just there. Large, strong, and immovable, owned by a man who is used to being obeyed. Even without the wondrous scent that fills my nose, I would know who it is simply by the touch.
August.
I didn’t even hear him approaching. Where did he come from? The lecture hall? The parking lot? I have no idea, but here he is, standing slightly in front of me like a shield between me and Belcher.
And have I mentioned how large this man is? Because I should. Standing next to Belcher, who is average height and average build—average everything—August looks like another species of man. One genetically built in a lab to make other men feel insufficient.
His shoulders are so broad they block out the sun. His jaw is so sharp it could slice the quad in half.
Belcher pulls his hand from my arm like it’s been burned. “August!”
“Gerald,” he replies, his voice much calmer. Just the low and even tone of it makes the hairs on my arms stand up. It’s the tonal equivalent of a large predator sitting very still—the stillness that comes before something.