I clicked through the photos, seriously disturbed. She was his student. How dare he look at her that way? She didn’t want his attention, that was clear from her hunched posture and the way she faced away from him. And Cantor, with his smiles and expressions. Smarmy fucking pervert.
She went home alone, I repeated to calm myself. She went home alone. In all this time, she hadn’t hooked up with anyone, any other man, even casually in the BDSM clubs. She’d focused on school—and occasionally me—like a very good girl. Fucking Cantor. What the fuck was wrong with him? He was her teacher. Not only that, he was married with two kids.
I stood and started to pace. This wasn’t her doing. It wasn’t her fault. He’d gone up to the balcony and drawn her into conversation. The photos told the story…they just didn’t reveal what words they’d exchanged. I wanted to trust that Chere wouldn’t fall for his bullshit, but she’d fallen for bullshit before, like when that asshole picked her up after the Gansevoort debacle.
That man really hurt her. That’s why I was so leery of leaving her without protection now. She was so easily hurt and so easily taken advantage of. She was honest with that jerk from the Gansevoort, and what did he do? Left her sitting at a table, alone, shunned, ashamed. When I heard that part of the story and saw the bitter look on her face, I wanted to put my fist through a wall. I mean, what the fuck?
Cantor wasn’t going to get a shot at hurting Chere. If he was the reason she was looking for closure, then she wasn’t fucking getting closure. I called downstairs for a limo to the airport, and started packing my shit. I was supposed to leave the day after tomorrow so I could spend a little more time in the city, but those plans were changing. Martin Cantor? Fuck no. I was leaving for New York tonight.
*** *** ***
I figured I had two choices in this situation: confront Cantor, or confront Chere. The latter wasn’t happening. I didn’t trust myself to have anything to do with her, especially now that she was so close to graduating and moving on with her life.
So I looked up Cantor’s office hours and paid him a visit. It felt strange to be back at Norton, in the administrative area where I’d come to arrange Chere’s scholarship. When I knocked on Cantor’s half-open door to get his attention, I realized there was a student in there. I saw long legs, delicate hands, the tight jeans co-eds wore. My heart turned over for one stricken, oh-shit moment, but it wasn’t Chere. The universe wouldn’t be so capricious, after all the effort and care I’d taken to avoid her the last two and a half years.
Cantor and the blonde co-ed turned to look at me. He regarded me with confusion, then recognition and surprise.
“Price? Price Eriksen?” He stood and came to the door. “It’s good to see you. What brings you to Norton?”
“A private matter,” I said, looking at the girl.
He turned back to her. She was already shouldering her backpack. “We were just finishing up. Academic counseling.”
Academic counseling, my ass, I thought, as she moved past me with a blushing smile. Cantor took her arm as he said goodbye.
“Keep at the renderings, Simone. I’ll see you next week.” He turned his attention to me and shook my hand. “Come in. This is a surprise.”
“How are you, Martin?” I couldn’t quite keep the fuck-you from my voice. We’d never been friends. In fact, we’d been bitter rivals during our student days.
“I’m just…wow. Surprised.” He spread his arms and shut his laptop. “Blast from the past.”
I took the seat he offered and looked around. “Are you expecting anyone else? Any more appointments?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Most of my students are finishing end-of-semester projects. It’s a little late now for them to be seeking my advice.”
I looked around his neat, organized work space. He had a decent office for a has-been hack. Cantor studied me expectantly, leaning back in his chair.
“So, what brings you back to your old alma mater? What can I help you with? Are you here about internships?”
“What?”
“Internships. Want an intern?”
I shook my head. Norton begged me annually to take an intern, and I always said no. “I’m here for another reason,” I said, allowing displeasure to creep into my voice. “I’ve come to discuss one of your students.”
“I’m not allowed to discuss students. It’s a matter of privacy, educational statutes, all of that.”
“Her name is Chere Rouzier.”
His lips tightened. “Oh. Yes. She’s a third year design student, but I’m afraid I can’t tell you any more than that.”
“Can’t you? Are you big on following the rules?”
He was starting to get the idea that this wasn’t a friendly visit. He stood to shut the door, then sat at his desk and returned my hard gaze.