“It discourages some students from doing imprudent things.” Such as coming on to me at the beginning of the semester. It’s the face. Huxley swears I can do better with modeling if I ever get fed up with teaching, and my five other brothers agree.
No, thank you. I don’t want fame or fortune. Fame comes with notoriety, and fortune… Well, I have plenty.
The redhead purses her mouth, then shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
“So what’s your name? I don’t remember seeing you in class, and it’s too late to sign up for the course.”
“Sandy.” She smiles.
“Why don’t you sit down?” I’m getting tired of looking up at her.
“Not yet.” Her smile grows wider. “But I will soon, Professor Lasker.”
The overt sexual purr in her voice makes the hair on the back of my neck bristle. My brothers’ furious ranting over the weekend flashes through my mind…
Oh, shit! Dad sent me a fucking hooker!
I jump to my feet, but it’s too late. She’s already undone the belt and tossed the coat on the floor. Now it’s just her in her heels. Her body is exactly Dad’s type—skinny, with huge boobs, and not a strand of hair anywhere. Although I can’t see from this angle, her ass must be exceptional, too.
A collective gasp and a few baritone holy shits come from the students outside who are close enough to see what’s going on. My first instinct is to slam the damned door shut, but that would only fuel speculation and gossip. Besides, it’s too late; they’re already pulling out their phones. This incident will hit social media before I can get this crazy woman out of my office!
The redhead—Sandy—comes around the desk. It’s surprising how fast she can move in those heels. I jump back before she can wrap her tentacles—I mean, arms—around me.
“Out! Out before I call the police!” I say, pointing at the door. I’m going to murder Dad! I swear I will.
“The police? Why? Don’t you want to be a star?”
“No!” I’d rather commit patricide!
She keeps coming for me. I weave around her—she’s nowhere near as quick as my sparring partners—and grab the trench coat. Quickly, I wrap it around her, back of the coat against her chest, and tie the sleeves behind her in a makeshift straitjacket as she struggles and complains. Finally, she’s secured. I don’t care if my students can see parts of her bare ass as long as she’s restrained.
I look at a pizza-faced frat boy who’s recording the entire incident. His tongue is sticking out between his lips. “You! Call 911!”
His eyes glued to his phone, he doesn’t hear me.
“Mr. Porter, if you want to discuss your grade with me, you’d better call 911 now.”
His eyes shift as he finally registers that I’m talking to him. The desire to continue to film her ass and the need to plead his case with me rage a furious battle, every blow reflected on his ridiculously transparent face.
“What is going on here?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. That’s Charles Phillips’s stentorian voice.
This day can’t get any worse.