ONE: We Don't Have All Day, Ms. Shaw

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello. Welcome.

Sit back, relax. Turn your device away so your mom doesn't see. Is she looking? No? Well, unfortunate for her.

Anyway, BS-ing aside, allow me to extend my gratitude for joining me on this wonderous ride. Your interest in my depraved creativity humbles me. Please note that all characters of this story are legally consenting adults of 18 years and older.

That being said, comments mean the world to writers and are our only payment, so if you fancy leaving one, it will be loved and cherished ;)"

Happy reading and don’t fuck your professors IRL!

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Nothing says "hungover" like sporting the darkest pair of shades I can find and carrying the largest water bottle I own – 42 ounces to be exact.

I stroll into Holdo Hall with both in tow, my oversized Lulu's sunglasses still covering my eyes until I round the corner to my English lit classroom.

I can't have Professor Harlan seeing me wearing them, though even if I take them off, he would likely guess my sorry state anyway. I'm probably fighting a losing battle by having it in my head that I can wordlessly convince him that I have shown up fresh-minded and ready to learn when I look as exhausted as I do.

Usually, I would just skip class to sleep off my hangover and take the absence for the day. My grades are good enough to do it; I skirt just above average. I probably would have excelled in most of my courses (not math) if I put in more time. But I find it generally hard to focus once the clock turns midnight and I'm still trying to study. Around that time, I abandon my work and turn on N*****x if I'm still studying at all by that point. And I’ll take a party any night (even a weeknight) over a night of cramming any day.

Case in point: last night's excursion to Milo and Jax's house party.

I hope Professor Harlan notices my gifts in writing. I generally pass with B+'s and the occasional and blessed A-'s in his class, which is especially decent given that he is a notoriously hard grader. A part of me is continuously disappointed with myself; think of how much I could impress him if I really apply myself and learn better focus. I would be his shining top student.

But that isn't my reality, and this far into the semester, it is probably too late now. I'm just near the top, blending in with all the rest.

Professor Harlan enters the classroom at four o'clock on the dot; just as he always does. He looks stoic and strong; rested but aloof, apathetic, even, but laser-focused. Like someone in the back row could stick a piece of gum under their table and he would notice.

And then destroy them.

Most people are terrified of him. Enthralled, but terrified. I can't exclude myself from that majority.

He doesn't say a word of greeting when he enters the room, never does. Instead, he merely sets his materials on his desk and today, starts up the computer and opens up Powerpoint.

Christ, it is lecture day. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, wondering how I'm going to stay awake, even for one of his hour-long lectures. Most of the time I find them fascinating. More than once, I have taken the lead in classroom discussions. More than once, it has resulted in me and Professor Harlan openly debating the topic, going head to head while the rest of the class doodles in their margins or listens uncomfortably.

Not everyone has my passion.

Once, I was sure he'd noticed. I’d been sure he'd hold me back after class to tell me he noticed my interest and dedication to the material. But he never did. Probably because he doesn't owe me shit, I know that, but fuck, I want to be special. Truly special in his eyes.

But that isn't going to happen. Not today, that much is certain.

"The uncanny." Professor Harlan begins, eyeing his students.

I think his gaze settles on me, stuck in the middle of the room, but it drifts away quickly. I can't help but feel disappointment settling in my chest.

"Freud's examination of the uncanny begins in his exploration of aesthetics. How do we recognize the uncanny in art? In literature, in psychology, in life itself? If you'll open up Freud's essay, please; I'd prefer you have a hard copy, but if you have it on your laptop, that's fine." His eyes scan the classroom through his glasses that I'm sure cost at least a couple hundred bucks, a silent warning: I'll know if you're not paying attention.

The one thing good about lecture day being today of all days is that the blinds are down so we can all see the smartboard. Even the thought of strong sunlight streaming into my eyes makes my stomach turn, so I focus instead on my professor.

He is unbelievably tall: 6-foot-3 and all muscle. His suit, form fitting and rich-looking and clean, an interesting juxtaposition to his youthful black locks that cascade down to his jaw.

Sexy as hell.

"Ms. Shaw."

I snap out of my thoughts, feeling my heart drop to my stomach.

Fuck, I think. How long has he been lecturing? If he asks me to repeat anything he's been talking about for the last however-long, even just to sum it up, I'm fucked.

In a split-second of panic, I scan the slide that is on the projector, racking my brain trying to tie the words to the reading.

The reading I didn't finish.

Fuck.

"Ms. Shaw." he repeats coolly.

"Yes, sir." I answer, quickly this time.

"You have horror and disgust." He lifts one hand. "And a sanctimonious reverence." He lifts the other, as if balancing two defying odds. He’s clearly continuing off of whatever he's been saying moments before. Words that I missed. And now he is quizzing me, I can feel it, in front of the entire class.

I brace myself for the question, wracking my brain for every reading I've ever done on Freud.

"What does Freud surmise causes the dance between the two?" He asks, his eyes boring flaming holes into mine.

Am I the only one who feels the burning ache between the two of us? No, that’s insane. Absolutely fucking insane.

He’s my fucking professor.

Lost in my thoughts once more, I chew the inside of my cheek, eyes falling to my desk, away from his intoxicating and one-sided eye-fucking gaze that I can only be misinterpreting. Why, in a million years, would he have an eye on one of his students when he could probably have anyone he wanted? I get the vibe that maybe he likes older women.

"We don't have all day, Ms. Shaw."

Well, it is Freud after all. And if anyone has a one-size-fits-all answer, it is Freud.

"Sex." I blurt out, eyes snapping back up to meet his.

I could have sworn his chin twitches up ever so slightly. Other than that, he is as stoic and still as always. Until I see, without a doubt and irrevocably, that his eyes narrow at me.

"Or, the taboo." I correct myself. "Specifically, anything sexual in nature. Things that we hide from everyone else. Things that exist in our subconscious that represent our secret desires."

I hold my breath, and he holds my gaze for a moment. "Threats to our super-ego, the moralizer." He continues, accepting my answer as correct, turning around to pace around the front of the class with his hands clasped behind his back. I feel a swell of pride bubble in my chest. "Next time, Ms. Shaw I'm sure we would all appreciate a swifter answer, lest we all fall asleep waiting for you to gather your thoughts."

Christ. I just can't gain one single, solitary win. Not against Professor Harlan.

Once class is over, and everyone has already started packing up their things five minutes early, as always, Professor Harlan stands with his hands on his hips. "I should have your papers back by the end of the week. Until then, I suggest you complete your reading thoroughly."

Out of it as usual, I take to packing up my things when half the class is already out the door. I shudder at the thought of being alone with Professor Harlan and scramble to shove my belongings into my book bag. Naturally, I'm the last out of the door when–

"Not you, Ms Shaw." I stop in my tracks, feet away from my exit.

Fuck, he’s going to murder me.

He hates me. I don't know why; it's not like I'm a bad student. But I can feel it. Maybe the sexual tension I've sensed between the two of us is just pure fucking rage and irritation on his end.

I stare at the opening into the hallway, where students mill about; they do anything but notice me standing in the doorway with real, genuine fear in my eyes.

"Close the door, Ms. Shaw."

Without thinking, I drop my bag, figuring he isn't going to let me out of here without a chat that would probably cause me to go home and cry for hours. Might as well brace myself now and settle in for the ride.

I close the door.

"I suggest you lock it as well."