English 2352 {DearestDarling & Dane Stalling}

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Professor Luke Campbell slid his iPad onto the desk at the front of the lecture hall and brought up his class notes.

"This is English 2352, Readings of the Novel and Short Story if you were hung over last class, absent, sleeping, or stoned," he said, sorting his stack of books on the desk to scattered giggles and a few groans. "You'll remember that you will be required to write either two ten-page papers on novels or four five-page papers on short stories. If you do the math, you'll see that there is exactly the same amount of writing for both options. I checked because I have to read all of your writing and I was hoping one would be shorter than the other."

The hall was half full, down maybe ten students from last class, but a lot of class jumping was to be expected in the first week of the semester. He wore a blazer over a grey t-shirt and jeans. He twirled his wedding ring, a habit that kept his hands busy, but also tended to discourage anything serious developing from a student crush. It happened every semester, a flattering danger of the job.

"I assigned 'The Snows of Kilimanjaro' last class, and I wanted you to read it with attention to the real vs. the imaginary/hallucinatory. What did you think?"

A girl came in late, one he didn't recognize, and sat in the front row. He slipped a syllabus with class expectations onto her desk without paying her very much attention. Hands were going up all over the classroom.

The late girl raised her hand right in front of him, but he picked a jock type halfway up the hall. "You. Enlighten us."


"I thought the demon was a lot like getting tackled on a run play," he said, "Tons of pressure on your chest and it stinks."

Several students laughed. Luke grinned and stopped himself from rolling his eyes. "What's your name?"

"Jack."

"Jack," Luke said, "Have you ever smelled a dead dog on the side of the road after three days?"

The class got restless. Luke could feel it. He had to stay in control. He had to outsmart the comedians, especially this early in the semester. Jack shook his head.

"Flies lay eggs in the dead muscle tissue and they hatch in a couple of days. As the flesh rots, several other kinds of insects lay eggs in the flesh. It provides excellent nutrition for all kinds of larvae. Gangrene, which is what the character in the story has, is essentially dead flesh still attached to a live human being..."

He noticed for the first time that the late girl still had her hand up.

"...and this is a powerful metaphor for a number of..."

Other students started to pay more attention to her than to him. He'd have to handle her too.

"...human situations. Yes- miss?"

Class had started at least five minutes ago. The hallways of the English department had cleared of students but for a few rushing stragglers, doors of the lecture halls had been closed by professors, eager to start their lessons, and Rosalie Clarke had only just entered the building. Her pace was unhurried despite her tardiness, heels that were more suited for a night on the town than a day of higher learning clicking smartly against the tile as she checked her schedule briefly on her phone, checking the room number before unceremoniously entering Professor Campbell's lecture hall. She could've sat in the back; it would've been less of a disturbance to the lecture if he had, but Rose's favored spot had always been the front row.

Immediately after sitting, she began to pull things from a backpack that was so worn, it looked as though she had beaten it. A legal pad, three different colored pens, a bottle of what looked to be water, but looks were often deceiving, a battered binder that held more sheafs of notes than it could bear, and other scholarly debris as she made herself quite at home. She shrugged out of her cardigan, the tank top beneath it thin and just revealing enough that boys in the row above her found their eyes drawn to her bare décolletage.

Professor Campbell silently handed her some of the typical paperwork one might receive on their first day of class-- one that she had missed-- and she looked it over briefly, a frown curving her plump pink lips, before tossing it dismissively onto her desk, her delicate hand rising into the air with a sense of urgency. Another student in the same row as Rosalie grimaced; he'd had her in another class and had an idea of what might be coming.

But the professor ignored her for an idiot in the back: Jack Spalling, who wouldn't even be there if it weren't for his prowess on the football field, his asinine answers clear evidence of the many concussions he had suffered on the field. She wriggled her slim fingers, trying to catch her instructor's attention before the words she wanted to say escaped her lips.

Finally, he called upon her-- or at least, he called upon a miss. "Rosalie Clarke, it's a pleasure to meet you, Luke," she said with a smile, lowering her hand back onto the desk. "I can't say that I've taken to observing roadkill as it decays, will that be offered as an extra-credit assignment?" She was still smiling, but her crystal-blue eyes glittered as they pinned him to the spot with an odd intensity. A few students tittered nervously at her joke-- the way she had said the words was strange, irreverent.

"I have an issue with this assignment. Or, rather, what I can come to expect from this class. I think a much better short story could've been chosen to explore the theme of this assignment-- the fragility of Harry's ego was so obnoxious that I was really hoping that he would just get on with it and die." She shrugged, her shoulder bare and pure as milk. "I would be happy to suggest some alternatives to what you have listed here-- it would be so refreshing to steer away from these tired old classics." She held up the syllabus and gestured to the reading list that had prompted her disappointment. "It would be no trouble at all."

"Miss Clarke, I'd have thought that watching roadkill decompose would have been a mainstay of your childhood," he said, knowing it was a mistake. How could a student walk into a class and get under his skin so fast? He couldn't stop himself, though. "And it's a pity your disdain for 'tired old classics' doesn't extend to the state of your backpack."

Completely off the rails. Not just the class, but the respect he was trying to build. He had descended to the level of a student. Worse, to a heckler. He had to recover, seem open-minded and generous.

"As to the choice of material for this course," he said, "You are required to read and discuss Hemingway, but Hemingway himself would have beat me to a pulp if he knew that I didn't consider the remote possibility of literature fine enough to push the old man out of the syllabus. See me after class with your list. Please keep in mind that this is Modern American Literature we'll be discussing, not..." he knew he shouldn't say it. Everything in his mind told him to stop talking, take a sip of coffee, get some air in his lungs. "...Not anything with the words 'fifty' or 'shades' or 'grey' in the title."

Nervous laughter pattered through the room. One of the cheerleaders booed.

Luke turned his back then, and did take a sip of his coffee. This class was going to be seriously fucked up. He checked his notes, spun through them on his iPad, skipped a few points and picked it up in less dangerous territory.

"Human beings have had an interesting relationship with perception, especially since Descartes, who doubted not only his senses, but also his mind. We see these kinds of inconsistencies between what our minds tell us and our actual situations in many forms of storytelling. Films, for example, in the '80s there was Total Recall, in the '90s, The Matrix, Inception in 2010, and the Divergent series dips into these questions as well."

Her hand was up again, fingers waving at him in a taunting little dance. Her tank top gapped a little, and Luke tried to ignore her. The girl was trouble, and not just because she was going to be a pain in class. It was going to be impossible not to look at her. She had absolutely perfect skin- all the way down to, well, he could see a lot of skin.

"After class, Miss Clarke."

It was just a year until tenure. Everything needed to stay in control for just one more year. He saw a message from his wife, Isobel, pop up silently on the iPad.

Out of toilet paper

He ignored it, tried to place Hemingway's piece into its place in the history of the theme.

2 Ply this time. Don't forget.

Luke flipped the iPad over.

The lecture went on, he heard himself giving it, but his mind was on the girl in the front row. Then he had stopped talking and the students were collecting their things. The last half hour was completely lost to him. He had intended to have Jack stay on some pretense so he wouldn't have to be in the room alone with Rosalie, but Jack was out the door at his first opportunity.

He started collecting his own books, eyes down, hoping she would forget. She didn't forget.

Rosalie hadn't expected his response to be quite so biting, but rather than anger her, she found him intriguing. Professor Campbell was much younger than many of her professors, but his approach to teaching the class seemed much more rigid, unyielding... He had a script that he wanted to follow, and not deviate from, but she had pressed some sort of button that had made him do just that. Curious. She took his comments about roadkill and her backpack in stride and merely smirked at him, cat-like, as he awkwardly tried to get back. He had done nothing to dissuade her from speaking out in her usual manner.

As he half-heartedly agreed to take a look at alternatives to the uninspired reading list, Rosalie immediately picked up a pen and her legal pad, jotting down what she thought she might suggest and hardly paying attention to the lecture. Why was it that so many professors refused to push boundaries in their classes? Why were the lessons always so basic, geared towards idiots like Jack Spalling instead of her? Her first year had been so dull that her grades had actually suffered a little for it, dropping her GPA down to 3.95, rather than her signature 4.0. This year she wouldn't allow that to happen, even if she had to spoon-fed her instructors what they should be teaching. She touched her small, pink tongue to the corner of her lips as she scribbled, her handwriting just as messy as her desk.

Then he started in on examples of the theme of his lecture, and Rosalie couldn't help but exhale disappointedly at what he had chosen. The Matrix, really? Divergent? Was he trying to relate to his young audience, or could he really come up with nothing better? Was this Film Appreciation, or a proper English class?

Her hand shot up, eager to share with him the first book on her list-- it would be perfect for this discussion-- but his eyes alighted on her and he shot her down, repeating that he would discuss it after class. After class? How would that benefit the dismal lecture he was giving now? Slowly, she lowered her hand again, her eyes narrowing as she snatched her pen up and began to write furiously, illegibly to anyone hoping to steal a peek at something more than just her cleavage.

Time ticked by at a pace that had her tapping her heel against the floor, in hopes that it would make the seconds pass faster. As soon as he ended the lesson, nearly every other student poured out of the doors with the same eagerness that they might've if someone had pulled the fire alarm-- no one wanted to be present for whatever Rosalie had planned for after class, not when the tension between her and the professor had been thick enough to carve with a knife.

Her pace was unhurried as she rose from her seat, pad of paper and pen in hand as she sauntered confidently against the room, closing the gap between them. Her tight black jeans hugged the swell of her hips as she walked, the front of them shredded so much that it was a wonder how they held together. With her heels, he had about a foot on her in height, but she was no less sure of herself for it.

"Luke..." He hadn't seemed to mind the informal way she addressed him before. "First, I want to apologize for the state of my backpack. I'm a scholarship student, but it doesn't cover everything... And the books for this class alone was enough to wipe out my budget." Her words were true, but her admission was geared more to rattle him, than as an actual apology. She looked down demurely at the floor as she let him absorb that, thick, mink lashes brushing her cheekbones.

"Now for my suggestions... I haven't read Fifty Shades of Grey; I think most that are satisfied with their sex life wouldn't bother with it, as it's hardly erotic. No, I thought of something that should appeal to both of us. From what I've gathered, you like narratives about insecure men that blame all of their problems on the women in their lives, rather than admitting their own mediocrity." There was poison laced in her honeyed words, but if she was referencing her professor as well as Harry, she didn't let on.

"So let me suggest Lolita. Yes, Nabokov is technically Russian, and yes, he did get it published in France before he managed to in the United States, but he wrote it in English, and the whole novel is practically an ode to how much he loved America. As American as it could probably get." Her hands, delicate and fair, flowed as she talked. "It would be a perfect novel to explore an unreliable narrator, the difference between his perception of Dolores and the actual girl herself, reality versus the twisted love story he thinks himself to be in... And it's much more intriguing a story than anything you've planned for us."

This girl, Luke thought. She belongs in the 4000 classes... and as far away from me as possible because those legs...

He cleared his throat. "Look, Miss Clarke, let me apologize for my very unprofessional attitude. I don't usually react to students that way. Students don't usually insult me in front of my class, or to my face, if you catch my meaning."

She had full lips, and when he spoke, she seemed to listen carefully. She didn't miss a syllable.

"Here's where you're right. Lolita would be a fantastic book to teach some of the techniques and themes from Snows. It may even be better in some ways. There are some things you're forgetting, though, about the nature of a college education. A class cannot be geared to further instruct students who already have a solid grasp of the course material. The class teaches that material to students who don't know it. I'm teaching to the center of the bell curve. You're out on the right of that curve and Jack, poor musclehead, is on the left of it.

"So here's how I see it. You either drop this course and I'll recommend you for one of Dr. Helen Cloward's senior level modern lit classes, or we can make a deal. Here's how it goes. You do all the coursework. All the coursework in the syllabus as well as a book of your choosing that I will approve. I'll clear 45 minutes per week after this class to discuss your own reading and work if you need it. You will also refer to me as 'Mr. Campbell' or 'Professor' while class is in session, and if you have comments to make on the syllabus material, make sure it is constructive, on point, and respectful."

"Look, you're a terribly bright student, Rosalie, and it's every professor's wet..." Luke's mouth went dry suddenly, "Excuse me, You're every professor's dream student- bright, engaged, willing to think for yourself. You can make a classroom sing if you engage. Even as a student, you can bring Jack's grade from a likely D to a C+ just by making a class discussion something he wants to listen to."

He didn't say that three of the board members' children were in this class and they would hit the ceiling if he assigned passages from Lolita or Tropic of Cancer or The Graduate. He had had the conversation. It had not gone well.

"What's it going to be, Rosalie?"

"What's it going to be, Rosalie?"


Rosalie pursed her lips, visibly sizing up her instructor as he pathetically defended his teaching technique. Teach to the dumbest kid, the one that was lucky to have graduated high school and wouldn't even be here if not for a sports scholarship, than someone like her, who actually gave a damn about her education. She had heard it before, too many times, but she folded her arms beneath her breasts, her hip just barely cocked out, as she sat through the familiar sermon again.

"I tried to get into Dr. Cloward's classes, but she's completely full for the semester. This was the only class that would fit my graduation plan that was available." Her voice was cool as a winter breeze, and the message was clear. This class was second-tier to her. "So let me get this straight. You'd like me to complete the work you've laid out for this class, all of the assignments that everyone else will do, and coursework that would be more suited for a college-level English class? Where will it say on my transcript that I'm doing twice the work for the same grade?"

She laughed humorlessly, a soft, musical sound, and shook her head. "I'm sorry, Luke, but that doesn't make any sense. As much as I'd like a course that properly challenges me, it's insulting to think that someone like Jack could potentially make the same grade as me."

Was it because he was so young that he seemed to have no idea what he was doing as an educator? He looked to be maybe thirty-five or so, whereas most of her other professors were at least fifty, white-haired, and had been tested by students like Rosalie many times before, so that they seemed to know just how to handle her. There was something about the way Luke Campbell talked that made her think that if she only pushed hard enough... She could get her way.

Just then, her phone buzzed in her pocket, and with a soft "excuse me" she pulled it out so that she could see who had texted her. Jessica. Band practice, she had nearly forgotten. "I'm sorry, but I don't have time to stand around and try to figure out your lesson plans for you right now. Maybe we could talk about it later, to give you time to think about what I've said? I'm sure that we could come up with something that'll work." By 'we', she evidently meant herself.

She slipped her notepad and pen into the beaten-up backpack, zipped it securely, then slung it over a bare, alabaster shoulder. "See you Wednesday." With a smirky smile, she wriggled her dainty fingers in a small wave, her hips swaying slightly as she strode away, and out the door.

Luke listened, dumbfounded to Rosalie's dismissal of everything he had just said. She hadn't listened to him at all. It was almost like she was intentionally ignoring or distorting every point he made. What she lacked in logical follow through, she made up for, partially, in rhetorical skill. No matter how wrongheaded her conclusions were, she delivered them convincingly.

And it fucking pissed him off. Where did she get off? And by the time he had a response formulated in his mind, she was swinging her butt at him, heading for the door.

His iPad buzzed and he flipped it over.

Don't forget. Also, I need a bottle of capers and baking yeast.

"Fuck," he said, and turned the tablet off.

He sat in the front seat of his Volvo and stared at the protesting grocery workers in front of the Fresh & Pack. Damn union went on strike every other year for some benefit or other, and he would have just skipped through the line, but Isobel would have raked him over the coals for it. Her daddy was a union man.

"Those people have as much a right to a fair income as you do," he mimicked her voice as he pulled out of the parking lot. There was a Kwik Mart attached to a gas station just on the other side of the river.

What was with that girl in his class, anyway? Helen would have taken her on his recommendation even without space. Rosalie was sharp, no doubt, but she grossly overestimated her clout. Who told her she was the special fucking snowflake? He could just drop her from the class. He didn't need the aggravation. The little bitch would probably appeal it. He sat in the Kwik Mart parking lot and pulled out his phone. He opened Facebook, just to check his notifications, and thumbed through a few birthdays. Then he typed "Rosalie Clarke" into the search bar. The first image on his screen was her, daring the camera to make a comment.

This was crossing a line, he was sure, but he couldn't formulate whose line, or what the harm was if he just wanted to get a clue how to manage his classroom, and that meant managing Rosalie. He spun through quickly- she liked old rock bands, Cream, Stevie Ray Vaughan, Yes, Zeppelin and a few he'd never heard of. She had endorsed several local restaurants, although not any chains, a couple of bars with colorful names, "Undergroudium" and "Trouble at Home."

This last made him grin. It was rough being her teacher. It would be hell to be her father.

The Kwik Mart had toilet paper, but not yeast or whatever the other thing was. Olives? They didn't have anything like that. They did, however, have a stunning array of condoms. He tucked a 2x9 18 roll pack of toilet paper under his arm and stumped to the car. He drove to the Green Earth Market, and they had yeast in bulk. He put a scoop of it in a brown paper bag and put the yeast sticker on the bag. They didn't have olives, though. He asked and the cashier had goggled at him.

"Do you have any idea how much salt is in olives?" she had said, as though that would help him find them in her store.

The Brown Barrel liquor store had olives. A dusty bottle in the corner of a shelf, so he picked it up along with a six pack of beer, something Belgian. He went home.

Isobel wasn't just disappointed.

"It's like you don't even listen to me when I'm talking to you," she said, the bottle of olives in one hand and the bag of yeast in the other. "I asked for capers. What am I supposed to do with olives? And this is yeast for brewing beer. I'm making bread. What am I supposed to do-grind it down with a mortar and pestle?"

The toilet paper was the last straw. The two on the 2x9 was so big, he missed the 1 next to "ply" so he was 0 for 3 and he'd been to four stores.

The protest had pretty much died down in front of the Fresh & Pack. He shrugged his shoulders and pushed through the front doors. Capers, 2-ply, baking yeast easy as pie. He sat in the car with the engine running and the whole day hit him at once. He pounded the wheel and swore at his whole world. He gunned the engine and squealed out of the parking lot. he turned left at the frontage road instead of right, and roared down the mile and a half of empty asphalt. When he slowed down, he was coasting through a neighborhood with black door bars and bail bond storefronts. He parked, picked a place called "Trouble at Home" and pushed his way into the heat and noise of a music set in full swing.

"Rose, where the fuck have you been? I've been waiting out here for half an hour," Alex demanded, his voice so loud that Rosalie had to hold the phone a few inches from her ears. She was walking quickly, her heels clicking against the floor as franticly as Kerouac at his typewriter, but it was never fast enough for that bastard. "I'm coming. Chill out." Gutsy. She could afford to be, over the phone.

A red jeep that was older than she was waited in the parking lot, whipping out in front of her so fast that she had to jump back to avoid getting hit. A woman screamed from the backseat, beating the driver on his shoulder, but he seemed unperturbed by the fact he had nearly killed Rosalie. The window was rolled down, and Alex barked at her through it. "Get in. Half a damn hour, Rosalie. We have a gig tonight. I have shit to do."

She glared icily at him, but said nothing until she had crawled into the front seat, sliding her backpack off and onto the floorboard. "I told you that my class ended at three. How was I supposed to know you would come early?"

"Exactly. Class ended at three. It's three twenty-six." Rosalie rolled her eyes, but said nothing. Arguing with Alex always proved to be fruitless.

"Oh yeah-- did you have Professor Campbell today? Isn't he fucking hot?!" Jessica squealed from the backseat, as the jeep swerved out of the school parking lot at a speed that was decidedly reckless. Rosalie smirked.

"I guess. He's weak-minded. That quality doesn't exactly get my fires going."

Jessica sighed in exasperation. "You're kidding me right? I'd love to complete an... extra credit assignment for him. You can tell he's ripped under that button-down and tweed... And his eyes... Mm, I'd let him bend me over his desk anytime..."

"God, Jessica. You sound like you're in heat back there." Alex grumbled, and Jessica laughed in that odd, high-pitched way that only she could.

"Besides, isn't he married?" Rosalie had thought she saw him wearing a wedding band; not that she had looked specifically for it...

"Whatever. In my fantasies, he takes the ring off."


The bar was loud, and they weren't even playing yet. The space was tight, a hot, black box of bodies, and it was impossible walk to the back of the bar without getting familiar with someone else's anatomy. Rosalie wasn't really feeling it; after an intense practice session in Alex's garage, she felt more like blowing him and his bad attitude off, but they were getting paid in booze. There was the draw she needed.

She and Jessica freshened up quickly in the bathroom as Alex unloaded their equipment, and checked in with the owner of the bar. Jessica's short, dark blue pixie cut had been teased into gravity-defying faux hawk, while Rosalie's hair had been curled into tight black ringlets, and gathered into low pigtails that framed her heart-shaped face. They were re-applying their lipgloss as Alex poked his head into the ladies' room.

"Hey. Barbie and... Space Girl. Get your asses out here, time to warm up."

They sound tested quickly and launched into a cover-- Alex always wanted to start with covers. He thought it better grabbed an audience's attention. A spotlight, blue and slightly eerie, shone down onto Rosalie as she picked out the slow, familiar bass line of Led Zeppelin's 'Dazed and Confused', Alex's electric guitar weaving in, then out.

"Been dazed and confused, for so long it's not true. Wanted a woman, never bargained for you... Lots of people talking, few of them know-- soul of a woman was created below..."

Her voice was brooding and quiet until Jessica joined in on the drums, crescendoing into a aching wail. She looked up at the crowd, most of them milling around, talking, but a few had stopped talking mid-sentence to watch the show on stage. She recognized a few faces... Wait. Was that Luke Campbell? She was a beat late with the next verse, but recovered quickly.

You hurt and abuse tellin' all of your lies. Run around sweet baby, Lord how you hypnotize.
Sweet little baby, I don't know where you've been. Gonna love you baby, here I come again.

The song always made Luke feel trippy, detached from his body. He flashed back to high school, sitting in his old Falcon behind an abandoned barn, blasting Zeppelin I and staring glassy eyed at the moon. The blue lights and strobes that flashed around the bar added to his disorientation, and he found himself looking down at a girl pressing herself into him. She wore solid black contacts that looked like black holes in her deathly pale face. She laughed at the expression on his face, and rolled away into the press of the crowd. His anger backed down, not gone, but numbed by the atmosphere. It was hot in here. He went to the bar and couldn't make himself heard to the bartender, so he just pointed at someone else's Heineken.

The band was good. Very good. The singer was a girl that gave the song a completely different interpretation without losing any of Zeppelin's intensity. The passages that had Robert Plant pushing hard were a relaxed, sexy growl in her voice. He'd have to get the name of the band. They might be worth checking out later if the rest of what they did was this good.

He took a swig of his beer and looked up at the stage. He choked. Rosalie was at the mic, staring at him.

The band was into the abstract break and Rosalie was echoing the moaning of the guitar, making it sound like she was making love to the music, to the sheer volume and press of humanity in the bar.

Luke's phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked it. Isobel. Again. He snagged his beer and pressed through the crowd to the bathroom and hit the answer icon.

"Where the hell are you?"

"Just," he said, and his mind went blank. He had nothing to say. He could hear Rosalie in the next room crashing through the climax of the song.

"It sounds like a hippie orgy. You better not be at a strip club or something."

"No. Oh come on. I stopped for a beer. Band is really loud."

"You have beer here. What's wrong with you?"

"I needed," he said, and again, he didn't know what to say, "...a break." It sounded lame even to himself, but he realized it was true.

"Oh. You need a break. I've been working on the Morgan case ten hours a day for a week and you need a break? You teach football players how not to fail classes so they can keep on giving each other concussions. How stressful can that be?"

Luke was losing the thread of the conversation.

"You go out for toilet paper and you end up at a rave or whatever screwed up shit you're wading through as we speak. Well pass the rolls around, asshole, and don't come home without the fucking yeast."

It took him several seconds to realize she wasn't in his ear any more. He sighed and slipped his phone back into his pocket. The song ended and Luke half expected to hear "Your Time is Gonna Come" up next, but it was something he hadn't heard before. A complex chord progression like something Yes might have done in their London years.

Three beers later, Luke had hung his blazer on the back of a chair and loosened his tie. The band had seduced the crowd and they hung on every chord, and booed when they took a break. Luke twisted in his chair to order another beer and when he turned around, Rosalie was sitting across from him, frowning.

It took Rosalie a moment to get over the shock of seeing her teacher in the bar; she wasn't exactly a regular, but she was certain she had never seen him there before. He stood out because he didn't stand out--- no body modifications, hair dye, tattoos... For fuck's sake, he was still in his jacket and tie. He didn't belong in a place like this...

She held his gaze as she led into the next verse, as though she was singing to him, and not the throng of people crowded in front of the stage that had fallen silent, now that she had caught their attention. It thrilled her to hold an audience, spellbound, and she broke eye contact with her teacher and closed her eyes. She could feel the energy of the crowd, throbbing like a pulse as they swayed and felt the music.... It was some sort of delicious magic.

Partway through the song she strode to Alex's mic, his guitar and her voice echoing moans back and forth that would make a more prude audience squirm; it was almost lewd, the way her lips parted, curled in the faintest hint of a smile. Her gaze flashed back to the audience and her teacher seemed to have disappeared as the strobe lights flickered.... Good. Let him leave the bar with her voice echoing in his ears. Had he known that she would be here, had he sought her out?

They had a short break between songs, each of them knocking back shots of whiskey before launching into an original song, this one instrumental and mellow, easing the audience down from the frenzied pace of the last. A longer break had been planned a few more songs in, but after the final note of the second faded, Rosalie signaled to Alex and Jessica that she needed it now. She had spotted Luke walking back in, pressing his way through the maze of inebriated masses and making his way to the bar.

"What the fuck." Jessica had seen him too, her voice raised to be heard over the idiots that were booing at their feet. "What's he doing here?"

"No idea." Rosalie unplugged Fender from its amp, and fitted it securely into its stand. "We had a... difference of opinion in class today. Maybe he's here to apologize."

"But how would he know that you were playing a set here? Do you think he's stalking you? Damn, you're lucky, Rose. I'd give anything for a stalker as hot as he is..."

Rosalie just smirked, rolling her eyes. "Whatever. I'm gonna find out why he's here, okay? Keep Alex busy, I'm sure I'm gonna get an earful later about being late with that verse...."

She hopped down from the stage and slipped through the crowd, dozens of conversations picking back up, now that the music had stopped. She thought she heard two guys talking about her, something about wanting to make her moan as she had when she sang, but ignored it for the bar.

She ordered a water with mint, and spent a long moment observing her professor before he noticed her presence. He had lost the jacket, and his tie had been loosened, but he still looked every bit an outsider. Had he had some kind of romp in the bathroom? He seemed to be alone, no wife with a matching ring in the chair next to him, but he still wore his.

He turned and she might've laughed at the face he pulled when he saw her, as if she were a ghost. "Hello, Professor. Fancy meeting you here." She took a sip of her water, her pink lips glossy as they hugged the rim of the glass. "Come here often? Don't answer that-- I know you don't."

She picked up her glass and slid into the empty seat beside him, pinning him down with her piercing gaze. "Why don't you tell me just what you think you're doing here? Are you... following me? Did you know I was playing here tonight?" Had he looked at her Instagram, where she had checked in here? Facebook?

Luke closed his mouth. The beer had buffered most of his surprise, but it made it hard to think.

"I'm not following you," he said, "I just... was in the neighborhood and the name of the place caught my eye."

She wasn't buying it. Shit. He had only noticed it because he saw it on her Facebook profile.

"I wasn't looking for you, I just needed a break from..." Luke stopped, took a big pull from his bottle. "It was the damn toilet paper."

She had lips that looked like they tasted like candy. All of her was like that. Good enough to eat, to squeeze, to push up backwards against a wall... not good enough to get fired for. Probably.

"It was the capers too. Do you know what the hell capers are for? Don't answer that. You liked this place on Facebook."

It was out of his mouth before he could stop himself. "I mean, I was just... getting familiar with my students."

This was no better. He sighed. "My wife is pissed. I had a rough class. Actually, you. You're a difficult student. Abrasive. Brilliant. Abrasive. My life is under a magnifying glass with the administration and a microscope at home, and then you come along and you're like an electron microscope and so yeah, I checked you out of Facebook. You kind of stand out."

He pulled his tie all the way off and ran his hands through his hair. "You play a hell of a set. I can't say I've ever been moved by Dazed quite like that. It was very, how do I say this? Uninhibited."

He looked around. Everyone in the place was ten years younger than he was, at least. It had been a long time since he'd been around a scene. Any scene.

"So, do you take requests? Because I wonder what you could do with The Police."

House music surged as the band took their break, some crappy mix of electronica and pop. Rosalie leaned forward slightly in her seat as he spoke, eager to catch every word, to learn why he had decided to see her here, this girl he hardly knew, that by all counts he should've loathed. He stammered his way through a half-assed answer-- so he did stalk her. Sort of. Had he gone through her pictures? Her statuses? She wondered what it could've revealed to him about her-- not much, if he still felt the draw to see her here.

His thoughts seemed to jump all over the place, and even as she listened intently, she found him difficult to follow. Was it that he was drunk, that his words came out in a jumbled mess? Or was that just.... His life? Her gaze had softened a little . She should've felt a least a bit violated that he had checked up on her, and only her, but... Her eyes glittered with interest. Maybe he wasn't the rigid, stuffy professor she had taken him for... Or maybe he didn't want to be. Interesting. As he ruffled his hand through his thick, sandy-brown hair, for a moment she thought she saw him as Jessica did-- the most bangable professor on campus.

"Who doesn't know what capers are for?" She wanted to laugh, but what if that sent him into some kind of mental breakdown? Treading carefully would probably be best... She touched the back of her hand to her lips to hide the smile. "I'm glad you like the show. We play here pretty often... There, you have an excuse to come back now." She took another sip of her water, her pink tongue darting out to catch a stray drop on her lip.

"Maybe some time here will be good for you... You already look to be losing some of your... Inhibitions." She glanced pointedly at his lost tie, then smiled at him, her eyes too bright. "Let me see what I can do with The Police. And here... Take this."

She slid the rest of her water in front of him, the glass marked at the top where the heat of her lips had melted the condensation away. "No more beers. I don't think your wife would appreciate you coming home sloppy drunk... With no capers."

"Rose, you finished yet?" Alex called to her from across a sea of multi-colored heads, slamming a whiskey and Coke and gesturing to her. "Come on. Break's over."

"I gotta go," Rosalie said, a bit needlessly, to her tipsy teacher. "But I'll see you around?"

She stood, squeezing his shoulder gently as she passed him by, and shoved her way back to the stage. After a quick consultation with her fellow bandmates, they started up again, Alex's guitar ripping through the air and waking the crowd up from the dull daze that the bar Musak had put them in.

It was a dark twist on a familiar melody, almost unrecognizable until Rosalie began to croon into her mic, almost pleading with the audience. She didn't know what Luke had been expecting-- 'Don't Stand So Close to Me', maybe?-- but as she had in class, she took his assignment and turned it on him.

"You consider me the young apprentice
Caught between the Scylla and Charybdis.
Hypnotized by you if I should linger
Staring at the ring around your finger.

I have only come here seeking knowledge,
Things they would not teach me of in college.
I can see the destiny you sold
turned into a shining band of gold...."

She didn't seek him out in the audience until she sang the last two lines, but then she turned her high-beams on him, as if he were the only one in this dirty, crowded bar. The twenty-somethings around him looked visibly unsettled, glancing back and forth between Rosalie and Luke, wondering what the fuck was going on.

She laughed at him about the capers and it made him relax a little. She could have thrown her water in his face or called security just for being a stalky fuck.

He had an excuse to come back now. She had said it, but her band was good- she was good. And not just because he wanted to watch her mouth make words. She squeezed his shoulder and it made him shiver. He felt her nails briefly through the fabric of his shirt.

He didn't hear it at first, the intro to the song was thoughtful and slow, but he felt a grin spread across his face as Rosalie sang the first line. A lot of the people around him didn't know it, probably thought it was an original. He wondered how she knew it, how she could just pull the complex lyrics out of the air like that.

Caught between the Scylla and Charybdis

He spun the ring on his finger with one hand, pushed it toward the tip of his finger until it threatened to fall off. He watched it, fascinated, orbiting the tip, hanging on his fingernail. He was tired of being caught between all the monumental pressures, the expectations, the soul crushing tedium of explaining art to people who could barely read. Explaining freedom to people in cages, explaining freedom to himself.

He waited for her to finish the verse, waited until her eyes caught his, and he dropped his ring into the water Rosalie had pushed across the table to him. It looped to the bottom. He took a sip, his lips finding the same place hers had touched on the glass. A faint pink flavor from her lip gloss sweetened the water, and he drank again, his eyes never leaving hers. He drank at the end of each phrase, at the end of each chorus, and as the song ended, he finished the water and the ring slid into his mouth.

He fished a pen out of his jacket pocket and wrote on a napkin.

Mephistopheles drinks black coffee at the dive on 13th.

He set the empty glass on the napkin and fished out the mint sprig, put his ring finger in his mouth and it came out wearing his ring again. He was back between the devil and the deep blue sea. He put the mint in his mouth to chew, folded his tie and left it on the table next to the note.

He left his car windows down and the wind cleared his head a little. That was it. He had had his moment of madness, gotten it out of his system. Everything should go back to normal now. Isobel would get over it.

Rosalie wouldn't come, of course, why would she go to a dingy diner to meet a professor when she could have her pick of the bar crowd? Any man in the place and a not insignificant number of the women would have jumped at the chance, if he was any judge.

He parked in front of Cal's 24 hour diner, sat by the greasy front window so he could watch the car. He almost wished someone would steal it, just to get rid of the damn capers, but then he'd have to talk to insurance people, and the thought of that made his stomach knot up. This was a place truckers liked to eat, and the clientele favored flannel shirts and mesh backed ball caps with engine brands on their fronts. He would most definitely not meet anyone he knew. They all drank at Cliff's or The Gander.

"Coffee, black," he said when the server came by. "Oh, and a dessert. Something pink."

She had just intended to mess with him a little. She had wondered what would happen if she pushed buttons that she knew she shouldn't. She had thought he might've slinked out of the bar, back to the wife who watched him under a microscope... or at the very least, shrink uncomfortably back in his chair as she murmured the lyrics just to him, her voice soft and moody, too intimate.

But he met her gaze with his own, straight-backed in his chair, fumbling with his fingers... Oh god, was he...? She saw a flash of gold drop into the glass she had left him, his wedding ring swimming in the minty water. He wouldn't stop looking at her as he drank from her glass, and something about the song, their eye contact, and his lips touching where hers had sent delicious chills down her spine. Suddenly he was a mystery that had to be explored, a dark cave with the promise of a hidden treasure.

As the song faded into nothing, she watched as he scribbled something on the napkin and left. A note? For her?

They only had two songs left in the set-- Mondays nights, they always ended a bit early-- but they seemed to drag. It was torturing Rose to have to wait to see what the professor had written, and before she had reached the table, the bartender had already cleared it and the tie he'd left behind away. As soon as she was able, she confronted the apathetic man about it, trying not to stare at his face: there was more metal than skin, he had so many piercings.

"Hey, there was a note on the table-- and I think a tie? That was for me." It was for her, right?

"Yeah, I cleaned up the trash. He should've brought it up here, not left me something to pick up... I threw it away. I have the tie, though." He took it out from a low shelf and dashed it on the bar top. It coiled, like a black snake. "Happy?"

"Not happy. Go through the trash, and dig it out." She picked the tie up carefully, easing the silky fabric through her hands.

"Dig it out?" He looked at her like she had two heads. "What the fuck?"

"Yeah, dig it out. You think you would have half this crowd in this shitty bar if we didn't play here? Dig it out. I'll wait."

He stared at her for a long moment, but finally grumbled as he bent to pick through the trash. He slammed the napkin down, slightly damp but still readable. "Fuck," she murmured, squeezing the tie in her hands as she read it. He wanted her to follow him.

"What the fuck does this mean, anyway? Who is... Mestofockles?" Rosalie grinned, shaking her head.

"Don't worry about it."

She was the tiniest bit worried about it.


"So I'm just supposed to drop you off here?"

The old red jeep idled at the corner of Pecan and 13th, Alex pushing back his long, blonde hair incredulously as he waited for Rosalie to answer. She confirmed with a nod, picking up her backpack and reaching for the car door.

"Rosalie, I'm your ride home. What are you going to do, walk back to the west side? Take a bus?" She pulled on the door handle, easing the creaking door open and hopping out.

"I'll find my own way home. I'll see you tomorrow, after class." She felt her phone buzzing at her hip. Jessica had driven her own car, and she was going absolutely nuts over the thought of Rosalie meeting their professor for middle-of-the-night coffee. Rosalie hadn't even told her about the Facebook stalking, the glass of water... The ring. The tie. What exactly was she about to walk into?

He glared at her from his seat, his face red from the booze he'd drank. "Okay. Don't be late tomorrow. No excuses."

"No excuses," she repeated.

She found what she thought was the dive he had mentioned in his note, a greasy spoon for redneck truckers. Another place he didn't really belong to... He sure had a knack for finding those. He was sitting alone in a booth by the front window, looking for her maybe? But she didn't hurry her pace. Her heels clicked on the yellowy-white linoleum as she entered, drawing the attention of several truckers, who eyed her as though she were something they could order off the menu. Her pigtails had been pulled out, dark, messy curls spilling down her back, and his tie was hanging loose around her neck.

She slid into his booth without a word, noting what he had ordered. Black coffee and a strawberry cupcake... Was it supposed to be for her? Without asking she touched her fingertip to the fluffy pink icing, scooping up a bit, and then sucking her finger clean, her lips puckering. Her lashes touched down as she savored the taste. "Mm... How did you know strawberry was my favorite? You must have done some extensive... research on me."

She asked for green tea with lemon and honey, and after the waitress walked away, she finally addressed him properly. "Mephistopheles... You know, that's really not your name. He's the demon that corrupts Faust. I don't think you have it in you to corrupt." No, he was much more likely to be the victim of corruption. She touched her fingertips to the tie at her throat, watching him as a lioness might gaze at her prey. "You left this at the bar. That was sort of careless, don't you think?" She didn't offer it back. It wasn't his anymore.

She paused for a long moment, taking a sip of the hot tea that she'd been served. "So... Care to talk about how we're going to make things work?" She fiddled with a sugar packet, tearing it open and tapping it into her cup. "I mean, in class." It was obvious by her teasing tone that she had left that bit out, on purpose. She picked another pink packet from the basket on the table. "Sugar?"

The server didn't even give him a choice. The woman looked like she had worked there since the '70s. She set the cupcake down in front of him and he stared at it, wondering why he had ordered it. Maybe just to have something to look at that wasn't brown or orange or avocado. He touched his tongue to his lips, and then he knew why.

He picked up the mug and watched the oily swirls catch the fluorescent lights in a kind of bitter black rainbow. A sip confirmed that it was burned, and had been burning for some time. It was right, though that this mild little hell hole should have its version of brimstone in the form of unlimited refills of appalling black coffee. The devil's coffee to be sure.

Rosalie had pulled out the pigtails, and it took him a moment to recognize her, she looked fractionally more grown up, not trying to look so much like jailbait any more. Probably wise in this part of town. She found him and slid in. Luke grinned and shook his head. It had been over and now it wasn't over.

She had his tie around her neck, and he found it inexplicably seductive. He thought at first that she would return it to him, but she had a look in her eye that dared him to touch it.

"Yes, Mephistopheles isn't me, but this is the place for him. I think he's probably here. She's probably here." He grinned at Rosalie. "Is it you? Maybe it's not you, not me, but us together. A compound corrupting force looking for souls of easy virtue to consume."

He put a spoon in his coffee just to watch the rainbows scatter.

"I'd hardly call a quick facebook scan extensive research, but you would have liked that, wouldn't you? You're interesting enough for it." He licked his lips again. "No, I had a little taste of strawberry earlier, a teaser, and I wanted a little more. So." He ran a finger around the edge of the cupcake and put it in his mouth. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't baked here. He was pretty sure this was a fry-only joint.

"We are both of us cupcake Mephistopheles, eating it's sweet pink soul," he said, and took her hand, dipped her finger in the frosting and licked it off, lingering a little on the pad of her finger. "What would a cupcake exchange its soul for, I wonder?"

She offered sugar, and it would have made the coffee better. "No," he said, "this is the coffee I deserve tonight. 'Severe truth is expressed with some bitterness,' as the old dropout said. I'm not a devil, maybe, but I might be half of a devil, and that's severe enough."

"I was clear about the class, and there are excellent reasons I framed it the way I did," Luke said, peeling the paper off the cupcake. It stuck to the cake and pulled big sections of the cupcake away. What was left looked somehow thin and vulnerable.

"See, I'd like to keep my job. I like what I do, and maybe you don't appreciate it, but so far, the board is happy with me. They have also told me that what would make them unhappy is anything controversial, titillating, countercultural, or fun. This includes, explicitly, anything by Henry Miller, Anais Nin, Nabokov, and certain books by Joyce, Faulkner, and a handful of others. Your education is a separate entity from your grades. Sometimes the latter reflects the former, but in exceptional cases, the education happens alongside the grades, and is not reflected in them. You don't strike me as the type of girl who wants to do your time, get your diploma, and forget everything you learned. Give me a reasonable counter offer and we'll talk. Otherwise, take Helen's class. She owes me a favor, and she'd take you if I asked her to."

He peeled a crumbly cupcake chunk off of the paper.

"Forget school for a moment. Tell me about the band. I mean, I knew the two songs, but where do the others come from?"

He wasn't weak-minded. He was weak-willed. It was almost worse, for him anyway, but he had snagged Rosalie's full attention now. There was something almost pitiful the way he spoke, and it made her wonder if the beer had loosened his tongue, or somehow she had. Either way... She had never heard a man speak like this before, and his words sent a thrill of pleasure through her. He had broken his seal of predictability.

"Do you always wax poetic when you're drunk? Because I think you're much more interesting, this way. Maybe you should incorporate it into your teaching technique." Her tone made it uncertain of whether she was joking or not.

A taste of strawberry. It took her a beat to understand what he meant, her hand furthest away touching her lips. Her lipgloss. Oh, God... Before she could formulate some kind of quip back, he had taken her free hand, touching it to the frosting again. Did he want her to taste it...? He raised it to his own lips, and very deliberately licked the pink fluff from her skin, his tongue warm and wicked against the sensitive tip of her finger. Her breath caught in her throat, speechless for a long moment afterwards.

He went on to speak as though he hadn't just licked her. She used the time to recover, her breath coming back to her as she absorbed every word, as she would her favorite book. He had her riveted in her seat, now.

"Here's a quote for you. 'Hell is a state of mind.' Have you ever heard that?" Maybe she should add Doctor Faustus to her list of suggestions that he would never take. She twirled the pink square of sugar she had offered him between her fingers, nimbly, this way and that. "You're miserable and frustrated because you won't allow yourself to be anything else. Don't place the blame at anyone else's feet. Life is too short to drink burnt, bitter coffee... Not when something so sweet and accessible is right in front of you. So here, it's in your hands now." She smacked the sugar down in front of him. "Take the sugar. You know you want it."

She let him decide, frowning as he mentioned that at his word, he could procure her a transfer. It didn't matter anyway; her schedule was completely full, and there was no class that Dr. Cloward taught that would fit into the free slot, but... She didn't mention it. "Tell me the truth. Do you want me out of your class?" Out of his class, out of his life....? Again, she left the choice with him. She wasn't sure what she would do if he said yes... She had no intentions of dropping it.

He brought up the band and she shrugged, bringing her chipped cup up to her lips before she spoke. The tea was so saturated with sugar that it was hardly tea anymore. "The band... You have the drummer, Jessica Hinkley, in a Tuesday-Thursday class? You may not remember her, but... You made quite an impression on her." Her phone was still buzzing intermittently at her hip, but she didn't touch it. "Alex Frost is the guitarist. He doesn't go to the university... But we have a... long history." She looked down at the tabletop for a quick moment, pressing her small tongue to her lips. "The originals? Come from up here." She tapped her temple, smiling. "We used to only play them, but they don't usually capture an audience's attention... Covers do, so we alternate."

She watched as he tore apart the cupcake, devouring it himself. It hadn't been for her. "It's just something I do for fun... I know that's probably a foreign concept to you. When I was fifteen, I came into a substantial amount of money. I blew just about all of it on my bass. It would've been smarter to save it. You would've saved it. But you can't take it with you when you go... So I spent it."

She took the ends of his tie into her hands, pulling on them gently as she leaned back in the booth. She was still wearing what she had in class, her tank top clinging to her as she arched her back slightly, stretching in her seat. "What else do you want to know?"

"Hell is a state of mind," Rosalie said, flipping her little pink sugar packet.

"Sartre would have disagreed. And Shakespeare said 'Hell is empty and all the devils are here.'" Luke smiled held his hands out. "Take a look around, is that so hard to believe?"

She smacked the sugar down in front of him and he laughed. The speech was precious. Nobody but an idealistic college girl could have given it so sincerely. She really believed it. And whatever had happened to make her into the difficult star she was hadn't made her cynical enough to know that it didn't always happen that way.

Even so, if she was a little off the scale on the eat, drink, and be merry side of things, wasn't he just a step up from an ascetic monk? Maybe it would be good for him, healthy, to relax a little. Go with the flow. He picked up the sugar packet and dropped the whole thing in his coffee and watched the pink paper soak with the black coffee.

"Do you suppose these little packets are waterproof?"

She didn't answer though. "Tell me the truth. Do you want me out of your class?" was what she said instead. The question was a minefield. He plowed right through it.

"I'd love to have you in my class. I told you- you're every professor's dream student. If you take it easy on the public criticism." And if she didn't make it so damn hard to look anywhere else in the classroom. Everyone else seemed grey, dull, slow.

The band sounded like most young bands. History, drama, the struggle to get noticed over all the crap out there.

"I was in a band for three weeks," Luke said, "in high school. I played keyboards badly, but I remember the hope we felt, the possibility that we might do something great." He took a sip of the coffee and the soggy pink packet bumped up against his lip. "I still feel the ghost of that feeling sometimes when I think of it, playing my second-hand DX-7 in the garage with the guys. There were moments, only a few, because we were all awful, but there were moments when everything would click. You couldn't make a mistake, the groove was there and the sound system wasn't crackling and then the song would end and we'd all stand there and stare at each other, breathing hard and wondering what had just happened."

He pulled the sugar out of his coffee, let it drip a little, then dropped it back in. He hadn't felt like that in a long time.

"You, though, are brilliant on stage. I know you have to do the covers, but honestly, they're not better than your own songs. They're musically interesting and lyrically complex. I'd love to see the liner notes from your album just to spend some time with them."

She stretched and every curve she had made an appearance. He shifted in his seat, and in his pants.

"I'm going to go home now," he said, and put a ten on the table. He reached out and grabbed his tie right at the knot at her throat and pulled her face towards his. He touched his tongue to her upper lip, tasted strawberry, and let her go.

"Come to my class. Bring your lyrics," he said, and then just before he walked away, "and for fuck's sake, be good."

"So... He licked you?!"

It was just past 2:00 in the morning. Rosalie had thought that she might be able to bum a ride from her professor back to her apartment, but she had been so stunned by his exit that the words only occurred to after she had stood there, lips wet from where his tongue had touched, as he drove away. Jessica had complained when she first picked up the phone, but as soon as Rose had promised to give her the entire scoop of her midnight coffee date, her friend had squealed something loudly into the phone, hung up on her promptly, and had arrived in half the time she should've, honking and neglecting to put the car in park. It had taken Rosalie the entire fifteen minute ride to properly collect her thoughts, but when they reached the apartment, Jessica refused to let her hold out anymore.

"Twice." Rosalie was stripping out of her clothes as she spoke, regretting the offer she'd made for the ride. Walking would've been better than enduring Jessica's badgering.

"That's... So weird. So weird and so fucking hot. He's probably into all kinds of freaky shit..." Her words were muffled by the handfuls of popcorn she stuffed into her mouth-- yes, she had actually popped corn to eat while Rosalie told her about the evening.

She had pulled off the tank top, and the jeans... Her hands lingered at the tie around her neck. She gathered the ends in her hands, gripping them just for a moment, the way he had... For that split moment, she thought that he was going to kiss her, to take the damn sugar, but he had only wanted a taste...

"You should text him a picture of you, like that. He probably wouldn't be able to stand up and lecture for a week..."

Rosalie glanced for a moment into her vanity mirror, almost as if she were contemplating it. What would her professor do if she sent him a picture of her in nothing but her bra and tiny panties, and his tie...? Drop her from his class, probably. Or maybe it would entice him to take another taste... Hm. "I don't have his phone number," she lied.

"Bullshit. I have him too, remember? We got the same syllabus. It has his phone number listed, right next to his office hours." Damn it. "Seriously. Do it. Fuck, I would do it in a heartbeat. He licked you Rosalie, he fucking licked you. He wants it, bad."

"He was drunk," Rosalie countered, but she was still paused in front of the mirror, considering the idea. It would be interesting to see what he would do, should she sent it... But this wasn't just taunting him in class, or sharing a flirty cupcake. This was sexting.

"What's the worst that could happen?"

"I could probably be expelled." She slid the silky tie slowly off of her neck, nearly all the way off, but not quite. "Okay."

"Okay?" The munching had stopped.

"Take a picture. I want to see his face when I walk in his class on Wednesday."

Jessica wasted no time in setting up what constituted a mini-photo shoot. They struggled for creative control; Jessica wanted nothing less than for her to send some kind of full-frontal, BDSM-inspired porn spread, but Rosalie won out. Illuminated by the Christmas lights that were wrapped around her headboard, she was laying on her belly atop a fluffy, floral comforter, propped up on her elbows, the ends of the tie gathered in her clasped hands in front of her, as though she were praying to some lustful god. Her back was arched slightly, a valley of shadow, and the warm light fell on the swell of her ass. At Rosalie's insistence, they settled on a picture where her hair had fallen to hide her face-- after all, wasn't that the number one rule of sexting? To not show the face?

"Wow. You were right, this is way hotter than I had planned. Subtle," Jessica praised it, as the hovered over the screen. The number had been typed in, ready to send...

"Wait, I need to write something." Rosalie pried the phone from her hands, paused for a fraction of a second, then quickly typed an accompanying message and hit send, before she could change her mind.

"What did you say?!" Jessica had started to giggle nervously, clutching a pillow to her chest.

"'I have no need for good souls: an accomplice is what I wanted.'"

"That's the least sexy text I've ever read."

"Yeah? I think he'll like it."


Jessica had nothing to report from her Tuesday class, but then, why would she? For all he knew, she was innocent in the whole affair. Rosalie made sure to enter class early this time, taking her customary place in the front row.

For her standards, she was just dressed almost modestly, showing up to class in a white button down with three-quarter sleeves, buttoned just this side of acceptable for class, and a green plaid skirt that skimmed her upper thighs. She had ditched the heels for combat boots that admittedly looked like she might've bought them in some kind of sex shop, but at least some of her long legs were somewhat covered.

She was wearing the tie, but it was looped loosely around her neck, punky rather than professional.

As usual, she emptied out the contents of her backpack onto her desk, not daring to look up at her professor. Not yet. Outwardly, she appeared calm, collected, almost disinterested in being there, but her pulse was racing. Would he call her aside, drop her from the class? Report her? Jessica's bright idea didn't seem so great, now that she had had time to anticipate the consequences....

Isobel was asleep when Luke got home. He put the toilet paper in the cupboard, capers on the counter. Did you refrigerate the damn things? He didn't want to squint at the bottle to find out. Yeast on top of the capers. Isobel would find a way to be upset about that, and he found that he didn't care. There was a curious freedom when you were seriously fucked.

He stripped out of his clothes and washed his face in the bathroom. The water felt good, and he drank some out of his hand. The tiniest hint of strawberry slipped across his tongue and was gone. He looked at himself in the mirror, the buzz from the beer a barely perceptible numbness. His pupils seemed too large, and he didn't recognize the look on his own face. He looked happy and terrified, like the face of a child just after his first successful wobbly bike ride.

He snapped off the light, turned his phone on silent and slipped into bed.

He dreamed about rolling off cliffs, the edges of roller coasters, leaning over the railings at the tops of skyscrapers, tumbling backwards off waterfalls.

----

"...a break? What the hell does that mean, anyway? Adults don't just disappear for no reason and go to strip clubs for a 'break.' That's what junkies do, gambling addicts, alcoholics, perverts, and men who are having their pathetic mid-life crisis trophy tramp affairs. A fucking break."

Isobel could apply makeup, do her hair, get dressed, and maintain a steady, scathing monologue all at once.

"It wasn't a strip club. It was a bar. I got a few drinks, listened to the band, got a cup of coffee, came home." Luke was trying ties against his shirt. Nothing matched.

"And you found time to cross a picket line and steal food out of the mouths of hard-working people." Isobel glared at him. "Just wear the tie from yesterday. that one matches."

Luke pulled the shirt off and picked another one.

"I'm going to be late. Look, if you want a break, call Josh and do Play Station in his man-cave or whatever. Don't just go out for capers and disappear for four hours."

She whirled out the front door and the silence that descended was deafening.

----

Luke slipped his keys into his pocket and picked up his phone, turned the ringer back on. He had a message from a number he didn't recognize. He hit the button.

Rosalie in his tie, and very little else. His face got hot and he sat down on the bed. Holy shit, this had been on his phone since 2:45 in the morning. He adjusted himself in his pants absently. She was going to give him a heart attack. The picture couldn't have been more seductive if she had been naked. Her hair fell across her face, and he touched the screen where her hands held his tie. The one that matched.

I have no need for good souls: an accomplice is what I wanted.

Appealing sexually, appealing intellectually. How many educators had been destroyed by just this kind of girl?

What was she thinking? She liked to tease, but this seemed risky beyond what few limits she seemed to have. He pulled the card out of his phone, transferred the image to his computer, and encrypted the file. He deleted the image and the text from his phone, but saved the number in his contacts under "The Band."

----


His Tuesday classes went slowly, and every time he thought about the image, he had to sit down behind his desk. He sat most of the day. He hated PowerPoint, but a darkened classroom would have been more comfortable, and he wished, for the first time, that he had made slides.


----

Wednesday morning Luke walked into class a little late and Rosalie was there, her treasures scattered around her. She looked stunning, the bulk of her boots made her legs look that much more shapely, and there was a lot of leg to see. The tie was around her neck, and every detail of her outfit was a tease of some sort. It made Luke grin. He set up his computer, plugged in the cable.

"Jack, can you hit the lights? I've got slides."

The first slide came up, simple, "Point of View" white on black.

"Okay, I know this is review for some of you, but narrative point of view will tell you a lot about the piece you're reading. What is the role of the character, the author, and even the reader in the experience of the art. Take Thurber's Secret Life of Walter Mitty. The short story is a very close third person omniscient narrator. We're right inside his head, seeing his fantasies as vividly as he does. In Snows, it's the same. Some authors like Nabokov use first person because there's not another way to tell certain stories.

"So, for those of you who enjoy your social media, first person is like a selfie." A slide of a girl making duck face, her arm blurring into the foreground. "The story is told almost like she's telling it herself. There are variations- epistolary first person is like being able to see the phone, like this." The picture changed to a girl taking a picture of herself in a mirror, the phone in plain view.

"These narrative decisions say something about the content, about who knows what, about what entities are present. In the first, there is just the girl and the audience—the boyfriend she's sending the picture to. In the second, the girl is looking at herself and sending it to her boyfriend, so she is not only the subject, but also a recorder and observer. Now take a look at these and tell me what you notice about them."

A sequence of images flashed on the screen, one second per slide of various candid and innocent pictures of girls in their bedrooms. The last one was Rosalie. It flashed on the screen and off again quickly, replaced by another "Point of View" slide, a white box mostly obscuring an enlargement of Rosalie's photograph. If you didn't know what it was, you wouldn't see it, but it was there on screen, Rosalie's hair the backdrop to her hand holding his tie at the edge of the screen.

"Anyone?"

A girl in the second row raised her hand.

"Yes- what's different about that last set of pictures?"

"They're not selfies," she said, her glasses reflecting the screen in the dark.

"Go on."

"The people in those pictures had someone else in the room taking the pictures for them."

Luke walked across the front of the classroom, his eyes on the picture and stopped in front of Rosalie, his eyes on the screen. "There's someone else in the room taking pictures for them. Yes. Those are generally higher quality portraits, aren't they, and they require a level of trust."

He sat behind the desk and leaned back in his chair. "Let's discuss what these things could mean. Jack, hit the lights."

Surely, she would probably be expelled. Right? Was her stupid, sexy prank worth throwing her education away? Yes. No. She tried her best to appear bored in class, barely looking up from the legal pad that was marked with the frenzied notes of a madwoman. He had licked her. She had that trump card to play, should he decide to try to take some kind of action against her. He had taken hold of the tie she wore, pulled her so close that she could taste the burnt coffee on his breath, and slid his tongue across her lip... She touched her own tongue to her lip, as though she were concentrating on her notes. Fuck. Her hand trembled slightly as she picked up a purple pen, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

A Power Point. Fucking slides. About point of view. She remembered learning the same lesson, in not so many words, sometime before she had completed the third grade. Was he even trying at this point, or was he comfortable with phoning it in, because some stupid board was happy with him. She fumed, crossing her legs under the desk, as if closing her posture might contain the outburst that threatened to escape. Where was the man that had mused about hell and black coffee, did he only come out to play after he'd had a few? Refusing to teach actual engaging literature was one thing, but this? This elementary school lesson?

She raised her hand at each question, her arm extended straight as could be, something scathing on her tongue each time, but he refused to call on her. Was this punishment? Was he afraid of her? She stopped right in front of her desk, but he wouldn't even look at her. She slapped her hand down on the desk, uncaring of the attention it drew from other students. He had found her special purgatory, and he was exploiting it. Whose Facebook page had he stolen all of the selfies from, anyway....?

It was quick, but she saw it. He had taken the picture, the one she had sent in a late-night bout of lack of judgement, blown it up, and put it on a screen for everyone to see. Fucking bastard. He had surprised her, but rather than delight her, shock trickled down her spine like cold, runny egg. He had taken her gift and tried to humiliate her with it.

Jack flipped the lights back on. Rosalie's face was flushed with the fury she was withholding, glaring up at the professor with a look that would surely kill him, if her intentions were made material.

"Let's discuss what these things could mean..." he had said. He wanted discussion? Fine, discussion he would have.

"Good afternoon, Luke-- I'm so sorry, but I have a few questions-- would you mind answering them for me? Great." She hadn't been called upon. She didn't use the honorific he didn't deserve. She didn't let him speak before she continued, yanking gently on the tie around her throat as she spoke.

"So, first of all, fantastic slide show. I've always loved them, they have a way of making even the most interesting topic basic and... easy to understand." She smirked, her gaze hardening to ice as she looked up at him. "I loved the use of pictures to illustrate your points. Less writing you need to do, less words that need to be used... Perfect for an English class. Where do you find pictures like that? They don't look like common-use stock photos." There was an uncomfortable implication in her words. He had stolen them. Some of the students looked uneasily at their professor, now wondering the same thing.

It would've been smarter to keep her head down, to avoid drawing attention to the photos. She was wearing the fucking tie, for the love of God. But if he was going to try to bring her down, she would drag him down with her.

It had been intended as a squirmy tease- harmless and a little thrilling. Clearly, Luke had made a big miscalculation.

Rosalie fired off pretty much every irrelevant question in the book. She wasn't just off the topic, she was out of the classroom, off the campus, and sprinting for the next state line.

"Startlingly off-topic, Rosalie, but if you're uncomfortable about the legality of using these images in a classroom, the law states that photographs that are used in an educational environment in a way that does not impair the use of the image by the copyright holder fall under the fair-use clause. Let's not chase rabbits when there are elephants in the room. If you have a comment relevant to the discussion of point of view, then let's hear it. Otherwise, I think you should allow other students to engage."

The class had gotten uncomfortably quiet. After a minute, Luke gave up, opened the textbook and proceeded to bore everyone, including himself, thoroughly.

----

Josh Harmon already had a chessboard out at the library and was setting up pieces when Luke came in. They were in their usual spot, a small table next to the inner balcony railing. There was good light and they didn't disturb any of the students sweating over their next exams in the cubicles. He polished his heavy-rimmed glasses as Luke climbed the stairs. He seemed tired.

"Black or white?" Josh said.

"Black."

"Uh oh," Josh muttered, and turned the board around.

Luke sat, leaning back in his chair and dropped his bag on the floor. "Have you ever had a joke go completely wrong? Like you did a prank and it blew up in your face?"

Josh didn't look up. "Yep," he said, and straightened his queen. "I jumped out from behind a closet door on Chrissy once. It startled her so much she threw up on me. And then she got angry. Good thing she didn't have a knife in reach."

"Man, I stepped in it today, and I guess I knew she might be a little miffed, but she went ballistic. Wide eyed spit flying shitstorm."

"Well, Isobel's a pretty expressive woman."

Luke covered his face. "It wasn't Isobel."

"Holy Shit. Is it even possible to make a woman that's not your wife that angry? Unless..." Josh picked up his queen and turned it over in his fingers. "Luke, if you're boning a student, I don't want to know about it."

"I'm not," Luke said miserably, "I haven't."

"Because you know I'd have to take that one up the ladder. You'd do it for me too, man. It's not worth it."

Luke sighed. "What made her throw up? I mean, Chrissy, when you scared her."

"She got attacked when she was in college. Guy got into her room, hid behind a door, jumped out when she came in. Raped her and got a reprimand from the dean, but they never prosecuted. Fucker's still out there somewhere so when I jumped out, I was the perfect image of her worst memory- I was a threat." Josh shrugged. "Thing is, I knew about it. She had told me the whole story before and I forgot about it. She seems so healthy and solid all the time it's easy to forget what she's getting over."

Josh made a conservative first move.

"Shit," Luke said under his breath. "Shit."

Josh looked at the board. "What? That's a classic opening."

"She's here."

Rosalie said nothing more in class, instead, she pulled out her phone and began texting, a silent 'fuck you' to her professor. He hadn't answered her question, not really. He could use the pictures, sure, but he hadn't said where he got them from. Besides the one that she had sent him, of her own free will.

Did he creep on other students' Facebook pages?

Why did the thought of that make her feel... Jealous?

She had texted Jessica and told her that band practice was cancelled, immediately receiving demands to tell her how class was going. 'He decided to fuck with me, and not in the way you were hoping for. He's an asshole. This is the beginning and the end of that saga.' Then she muted Jessica for a while, scrolling back up to find Alex in her contacts.

'Band practice is cancelled,' she wrote, 'but let's go back to your apartment.'

As soon as he answered, of course in the affirmative, she gathered up her things and promptly left in the middle of Luke's droning, not bothering to give him a second glance. She was done with him. Whatever had happened last night, that magic, that spark of connection that she thought she had felt... It had just been the drink.


Alex cupped her face, his mouth nearly finding hers before she could manage to push him away.

"No kissing. You know that's not part of the deal."

Alex gave her a long, hard look before finally releasing her, easing his sweaty body off of hers. They had wasted no time when they had reached his apartment, ducking his roommate who had been glued to the Xbox and altogether uninterested in what they were up to, and went back to his bedroom to fuck. It used to happen more often, almost like clockwork when Rosalie had a date go wrong, or some kind of drama with a boyfriend. But she had given up on dating, and thus on Alex... Until now. "You'll take my cock in your mouth, but you won't kiss me."

She didn't give him the benefit of a reply. She was already smoothing down her skirt, and looking around for the panties he had tossed somewhere in his room. He hoped she wouldn't find them.

"So what happened? I thought you weren't seeing anyone."

"I'm still not. I just needed... Something. You talk too much." She frowned, gathering her hair into a messy ponytail. She found her panties stashed into the crevice between Alex's bed and the wall. He was a real creep when he wanted to be.

"Most girls want guys to talk, to kiss them, not just fuck them silly. Tell me what's going on. Who is he?" He was still naked, sitting on the bed as Rosalie slipped back into her panties. She sighed, picking up her backpack from where she had tossed it on the ground.

"Most guys just want a quick fuck, so I'm not the only one breaking my gender stereotype. I need a ride to the library. Are you going to get dressed? I need a shirt; I told you not to jerk off on my breasts." She didn't wait for him to offer one, already digging through his dresser and finding one of her own, a Doors shirt that had been slashed to pieces. Creepy, creepy motherfucker, keeping her clothes with his, but at least she had something to wear.

"Fine, let me get dressed." He wasn't going to get an answer out of her, not when she was like this.


She had gone to the library to study for her Greek history class-- thankfully, they had a lot of texts that she couldn't really afford on her own. She drifted from shelf to shelf, still angry and distracted. How could he have used her picture like that? Once she had sent, it was his to 'use', sure, but not for a fucking PowerPoint. She thought back to the dive, to the moment where she had almost thought he would kiss her. And she had almost wanted him to.

Would he see her play again? Did she want him to?

She had meant to get into his head, but like the sexting, it had backfired.

"...I guess I knew she might be a little miffed, but she went totally ballistic..."

Was she hearing him now, too? Rosalie immediately dumped her pile of books onto the nearest table, and slowly wandered to where she thought the voice was coming from. Past a few students hemming and hawing as they traced the spines of books, looking for the right dewey decimal number, until she had nearly cleared them for the seating area, but not quite leaving their shelter.

She spotted him immediately, sitting on the edge of a chair with ugly, outdated upholstery, playing chess with another man she hadn't seen, but could only guess was another professor. She immediately turned her attention to the shelf in front of her, suddenly fascinated by books in front of her, Afro-Asiatic literatures.

"Luke, if you're boning a student, I don't want to know about it."

"I'm not. I haven't." But his tone was all wrong. He had just been accused of cheating on his wife, of an unethical and immoral act, and he sounded... sad, that he hadn't committed it. She couldn't help but laugh, muffling the sound with the back of her hand. Maybe she was his Mephistopheles. He certainly sounded like Faust.... He wanted to be damned.

He had spotted her. He must've heard her laugh. She left the pretense of the bookshelf, her ponytail bouncing jovially as she approached the chess game.

"Professor, I'm glad I ran into you. You left this." She slipped the tie out from her backpack, as a magician might pull out his silk scarves. Where he had left it, and why she had it, she left untouched. She dropped it in his lap, then turned her attention briefly to the other professor, offering her hand.

"Pleasure to meet you, I'm Rosalie Clarke. I'm one of Luke's students... For now, anyway. It looks like I might be transferring to another class, soon." She squeezed Luke gently on the shoulder, smiling.

Luke braced himself for a blast, but Rosalie was oddly, scarily polite and cheerful. She had changed her shirt, and Jim Morrison's face seemed to be judging him. The slashes in the shirt showed teases of the perfect skin of her hip, her collarbone.

He caught a whiff of strawberry and something else he couldn't place off the top of his head. Something wild. She wasn't a tame girl by any stretch of the imagination, and her sheer unpredictability was at once terrifying and tremendously appealing. He found himself thinking that Josh might be wrong. She might be worth it. She might be worth losing everything for. He shut that thought down though, almost as soon as he had it. That wasn't even a remote possibility. He had screwed up completely and she probably hated him now. Whatever button he had pushed had set off a nuclear reaction and all that was left was ash and radioactivity.

----

Luke remembered his first breakup. He had gone out with Laurie for six weeks and then something he hadn't understood happened. She told him about another guy giving her flowers and he had thought it was cute. He hadn't acted offended because she had assured him that she loved him. He was the one for her. But when he didn't get jealous she spent three hours after a chilly coffee shop date in the front of his car yelling at him about how insensitive and uncaring he was.

----

Josh shook Rosalie's hand, looked at Luke, then back at her. She had her hand on his shoulder like she owned him.

Luke folded the tie carefully and set it on the edge of the table. "I left it at a bar and Rosalie..." he started, and changed directions. "Rosalie finds my class somewhat... unstimulating," he said.

Josh laughed. "I'd find your class unstimulating. All those popular references and cross-genre pollution. I should get you on my couch one of these days."

"Yeah, well," Luke said, "Psych profs aren't exactly my target audience. Neither is Rosalie."

"Well, have a seat, Rosalie. Tell us how you'd make Luke's class more interesting." Josh ignored Luke's shocked face.

Luke knocked over his king by accident, then knocked over a bishop trying to set up the king. A knight fell on the floor, bounced under the balcony railing and fell on top of the check out counter.

"Hey," one of the librarians called, "Take it easy up there. That's supposed to be a civilized game."

Her professor's face was positively priceless. He looked horrified to see her there; good. Did he know that she had overheard him? How sad he had sounded that nothing was going on between them? She wanted to laugh, but she grinned instead, squeezing his shoulder once more before pulling up a chair between them, directly facing the chess game. Likely he wanted her to go, but it would be rude to deny an invitation to stay.

"How would I teach the class differently?" She crossed her bare legs, sitting back in the ugly armchair like a queen lounging on her throne. "For starters, I'd leave the high school review to remedial classes, meant for that purpose. It's a little insulting to assume that we've made it this far without knowing what basic literary devices like 'point of view' are. And then to resort to PowerPoint... Move your knight to F6."

She was addressing Luke now, patting his leg gently, in a much too familiar manner, as though those kinds of simple touches were common between them. "Go on, do it."

"You play chess?" Josh asked, and Rosalie just shrugged.

"Not really. I just want to see what happens." She smiled, her nails digging into Luke's slacks, just above his knee. Not enough to hurt. She released him, smoothing down the edge of her skirt as she readjusted in her seat. "Anyway. I guess what frustrates me the most is seeing professors phone it in, especially when I know that they're capable of so much more. I expected a college English course to be more... engaging. Challenging. Not censored and restricted to appease his higher-ups..."

"So he left his tie at the bar, huh? I can't believe Isobel went to a bar with you, let alone left your tie there." He wanted to hear more about that, why this Rosalie was supposedly so 'ballistic' when she seemed perfectly cordial now. It didn't take a Psych professor to pick up on the extremely strange dynamic there.

"She wasn't there," Rosalie answered for him, twisting a lock of hair around her finger. There was a lull in the conversation, and Rosalie seemed to feed off of the tension. "I think he just needed to let off steam, didn't you, Luke? Something about capers?" Her eyes fell back on the chessboard. "You can't really play without both knights, can you? I could go get it for you, it would be no trouble at all."

She stood, stretching slightly, so that her taut belly peeked out from the bottom of her slashed shirt. Completely intentional, of course. "I'll be right back."

Josh watched as she walked away, his eyes drawn to her glossy hair, her long legs, and as soon as she was out of eyesight, he turned back to Luke.

"Luke... I tell you this, because you're my friend. She's the singular most dangerous creature I've ever met. Whatever is going on-- you need to get out of it. Drop her. Do it today."

"I thought I had dropped her," Luke said, "I thought so last night when I left the bar, that it was over. Then she was at the coffee shop and when I left I thought it was over."

"Wait, you had coffee with her?"

Luke had left out the detail about telling her where he'd be. That he had invited her. That he had in no way thought it was over after the coffee shop.

"I had to give Isobel time to go to sleep and I needed to clear my head. The bar was noisy and I'd had a few."

"What are you, a fucking frat boy? Way to deal with relationship issues, Luke. Hit a bar, hit on a student, that student," Josh shook his head incredulously, "And then you discuss a marital issue with her? Capers? If I didn't know you, I'd think you were sabotaging your life."

Luke made a move and Josh took his pawn.

"Isobel is pissed off at me about toilet paper and garnish. Rosalie is pissed off at me about my teaching. At least that could be considered constructive."

"Shut up," Josh said, "Don't defend her. It doesn't matter that she understands you better, she's younger, more vibrant, hot as hell. Because hell is where these things end, Luke. You'll lose Isobel and then emo teacher's pet realizes she can't be expected to spend her best years with an authority figure, a representative of the establishment. It blows up and you get nothing. Except pissed off friends who warned you and then had to fucking pick up the pieces."

Luke didn't have a knight to move and he was lying to his best friend. What could make him do that? "Mephistopheles," he said.

"What?" Josh said, irritated.

"She's coming back."

Luke had watched Rosalie walk down the stairs, the skirt emphasizing the swing of her hips. Every step bounced her breasts just a little. His fingers itched to touch her skin. He could still feel her fingernails raking his thigh. Josh was right, and he found that somehow it just didn't matter. She caught his eye as she came back up the stairs. She knew he was watching her, and every move she made was both a tease and revenge. He loved it.