The Muse Page 3

  4. antithesis

  Not until I’m getting ready for bed do I remember Beckett’s request for my manuscript. It’s nearing eleven o’clock but figuring it’s better sent late than never, I draw my laptop onto the bed and open my email. In addition to the expected spam, I see a message from an unfamiliar, non-university address.

  Unfamiliar, yes, but not unrecognizable: j.s.beck. The subject line reads, Don’t be a coward, and when I open it, there’s no other content.

  “I guess the message is clear enough,” I mutter, and hurriedly attach my manuscript and send it.

  Seconds later, a chat box pops up in the corner of the screen.

  j.s.beck: About damned time.

  iris_el: You didn’t specify when I had to send it, just that you wanted it tonight.

  j.s.beck: Is your sass a defense mechanism for looking like an underaged forest nymph?

  My mouth drops open.

  iris_el: Are you drunk?

  j.s.beck: Possibly. Did you buy a coat?

  My nipples tingle in response. “Don’t do it, don’t do it,” I tell myself, even as my fingers fly over the keyboard and like an automaton, I hit Send.

  Frozen, my heart pounding, I wait. The cursor blinks at me like an oracle of judgement, then a tiny chime sounds. My eyes snap to his reply.

  j.s.beck: I wouldn’t have to think about your breasts if they were where they should be.

  I frown in confusion.

  Another chime.

  j.s.beck: Several places come to mind. In my mouth. Smashed on my chest. Or bouncing in my face.

  “Holy shit,” I whisper, as heat funnels straight to my core.

  At a soft knock on my bedroom door, I slam my laptop shut. “Come in, Claire,” I call hoarsely.

  She pops her head inside the room. “I saw your light—Why is your face red?”

  “I was, uh, rubbing it.”

  Her eyes narrow, flickering to the laptop beside me. “I thought I heard you talking. Were you Skyping your mom?”

  “Nope, just muttering to myself.”

  She doesn’t look convinced, but after a moment gives me a tired smile. “Okay, goodnight. See you in the morning.”

  “Yep, ‘night.”

  The door closes and I open the laptop warily. There’s a new message.

  j.s.beck: I’ve scared you off, haven’t I?

  Somewhere in my rational mind, I know this is wrong. So risky. But the long-dormant, reckless half of me is wide awake and in control. I haven’t felt this way in years. Wanton. Desirous. It’s a gift I won’t—can’t—give back.

  iris_el: No. I was merely admiring the assets in question.

  j.s.beck: Isn’t that a pretty picture. Tell me, Ms. Eliot, are your nipples as I imagine them? Tight, rosy little buds?

  My hips twitch, driving my pulsing center against the bed. With a shaking hand, I pull up my t-shirt to expose my breasts. Feeling possessed, I pinch one of the aching peaks and swallow a moan.

  iris_el: Yes. Very sensitive to stimulus.

  j.s.beck: I’ll use more tongue than teeth, then.

  The mental picture of his dark head over my chest, sucking and licking, shoots shocks of pleasure through my groin.

  iris_el: Don’t stop now.

  He doesn’t disappoint, sentences filling the screen at a rapid pace.

  j.s.beck: I start on that white swan’s neck, tonguing your pulse and that little hollow long enough that you lose patience. You grab for me, but I capture your wrists and drag them over your head. We’re both nervous I’m too big for you, but nothing short of the apocalypse is going to keep us from finding out.

  Your whole body is flushed and trembling. As I work my way down your soft belly, you make small, strangled sounds. They give me a feeling of savage triumph, because I know how badly you want to scream and how much you don’t want to give me that victory.

  I finally release your hands to spread your thighs for my ravenous mouth. Your fingers sink into my hair and yank, forcing my tongue deep inside you. When you begin to beg, all my well-laid plans collapse. I can’t wait any longer. Sitting back on my heels, I yank you into my arms, dragging my…

  I stare at the blinking cursor, panting and poised on the edge of climax. I can’t wait for him to start typing again—so I don’t. Three more purposeful movements of my hand and an orgasm unfolds, so consuming I arch backward to smother my cry with a pillow.

  Lazy heat swirling through my limbs, I roll onto my side to stare at the computer screen. Finally, another sentence comes, and it brings a gratified smile to my lips.

  j.s.beck: Seems I’m not as coordinated as I thought.

  iris_el: You got the job done, professor.

  j.s.beck: Gah, please don’t call me that.

  iris_el: Fine… Beckett.

  j.s.beck: Better. In twelve weeks, you can call me James.

  iris_el: Why?

  j.s.beck: Because the second this quarter is over, I’m going to fuck you until neither of us can walk.

  My breath dies, my body throbs, and my rational brain wakes up. With shaking fingers, I type my response.

  iris_el: We’ll see.

  j.s.beck: Yes, we will. Until tomorrow evening, Ms. Eliot.

  Grey text informs me that j.s.beck is offline.

  “Oh my God, what did I just do?” I whisper.

  By the time I walk into class the following evening, I’m half-convinced last night was a dream. I’m sure that somewhere on my computer the chat between j.s.beck and myself is logged, but I’m also sure I don’t have the guts to read it in the light of day.

  Somehow, I have to get through Advanced Fiction Writing with Beckett. Not as my advising professor or thesis chair, but as my teacher. The class is only one day a week, which is a blessing, but because of its infrequency it’s the ungodly length of two hours and fifty minutes.

  With ten minutes to spare before the seven o’clock start, I enter the room and veer toward the back. Most of the students are familiar—there aren’t that many of us in the MFA Creative Writing Program—and I drop into a seat beside Griffen Banks.

  “Hey, Iris, how was your summer?”

  “Peachy. Did you go back to Houston like you talked about?”

  He nods, brown eyes warming. “Yeah, it was great. Can’t wait to move back permanently. How about you? You’re from San Francisco, right?”

  “Yep, but Seattle’s home now. Plus, I did a summer internship at Fox Publishing. Fingers crossed for a job offer at the end of the year.”

  His brows lift. “Awesome, I remember you mentioning that you were going to interview.”

  We don’t notice that the room’s gone quiet until Beckett says, “If you’re done flirting, Ms. Eliot and Mr. Banks?”

  Griffen flushes in embarrassment, but at this point I’m almost immune to the cutting tone. Turning my gaze to the front, I see Beckett glaring at me.

  “Sorry, professor.”

  His eyes darken, and last night’s exchange races through my veins. Whatever my expression reveals compresses his lips in satisfaction. Then he spins toward the whiteboard.

  “Pens out,” he commands. “I want five hundred words on this topic. You have ten minutes.”

  Marker squeaks over the whiteboard, then drops with a clank. Beckett turns and sits, already opening a notebook and lifting a pen. At the low murmuring around me, I finally lift my gaze to the word on the board.

  Orgasm.

  I blink at it, waiting for a different word to appear. But I’m not that lucky. Not lucky at all, because when I glance down, Beckett is staring at me. One brow cocks in challenge.

  So I write five hundred words about climbing a never-ending staircase to nowhere. When the ten minutes are up, I’m the first person he calls on. Of course. I read it to the class, earning chuckles from the women and speculative glances from the men.

  Beckett is not amused but he hides it well, merely nodding and calling on another student. The next hours drag by in usual first-class format—introductions, lengt
hy discussion of the syllabus, and assignments of writing partners. There’s an odd number in the class, and I’m in the last seat.

  “She can join our group,” offers Griffen.

  Beckett’s lips thin. “Ms. Eliot, you can submit your assignments to me for feedback.”

  My fellow students throw me sympathetic glances. I manage a smile and a nod, while inside I’m churning, feeling like a steel net is closing around me.

  I can’t escape him.

  The final hour of class is a new lesson in endurance. Beckett speaks in depth about the first assignment—a fictional scene involving a couple who love each other but can’t be together. The context, content, and style are completely up to us.

  “Go ahead and enjoy leaving a few minutes early tonight,” he says finally. “It’s the last time it will happen.”

  As the room empties, I pack with purposeful slowness. The emotions on simmer since he first locked eyes on me boil over. I have to do something. Now. When the final student is gone, I stand and stalk to the front of the room.

  “This has to stop,” I say rigidly.

  He glances up from his notebook. “What, exactly?”

  “I can’t concentrate,” I snap. “Tone down the… whatever!”

  His lips curl. “Eloquent, Ms. Eliot.”

  I groan, sinking fingers into the hair on my crown. “Look, Beckett. Beck. Whatever your name is. Last night was totally my fault. I completely lost my mind and forgot that you’re my professor, my freaking boss. I’m not going to throw away the last two years of grad school on what you’re hiding in your jeans. Whatever you may think, I’m not that kind of girl.”

  He blinks up at me. “I know. I finished your manuscript, by the way. Can you come to my office Monday after our morning class? I have a two-hour time block.”

  I stare at him and finally sputter, “It’s like being in a blender. Every second, you make my head spin in a different direction. Is that your thing? You like targeting women, teasing them, baiting them, and watching them fall apart?”

  He’s around the desk so fast I only have time to gasp. Hot fingers grip the back of my bare neck, angling my face to his. His expression is an enticing mix of frustration and appeal.

  “No,” he whispers. “I don’t know. Since you walked into class yesterday morning, I’ve been sideways over you. It doesn’t make a lick of sense.” Almost to himself, he adds, “Something about your eyes. Selkie-dark. So odd against your hair and skin.”

  The deepest, most damaged part of me roars to the surface and hijacks my voice. “Let’s do it, then,” I snarl. “Fuck me, and I guarantee you’ll be over it. It’s pretty much my M.O.”

  Shock drops his full lower lip. “Jesus, Iris, why would you say that?” he asks, scanning my eyes like he might find the answer in them.

  I can’t handle the intimacy of our stance and jerk away from his touch. Hastening to the back of the room, I grab my bag, then beeline for the door.

  “Iris!” he snaps.

  With my hand on the knob, I look at him. “The woman you were thinking about through the computer last night doesn’t exist. Google my name, professor, and read about the accident. Maybe then we can get back to some semblance of a working relationship.”

  I wrench open the door and flee.

  5. anti-hero

  Over drinks at White Harp on Thursday night, I tell Claire everything. She listens with wide, unblinking eyes, her cocktail forgotten on the table. When I’m finished, I throw back a shot of whiskey and take a heavy swallow of my beer.

  “I’m not sure what to say,” she begins quietly. “On the one hand, good for you for throwing down the gauntlet. On the other, I kind of want to report him. You’re his TA, for Christ’s sake. Granted, he’s only six years older than us and ridiculously attractive. So it’s not skeevy or anything. But didn’t he leave BU because of the same exact thing?”

  “It’s probably a fetish,” I mutter.

  “Why is he even here? He hasn’t taught since BU, and he churns out bestsellers like clockwork. It’s not like he needs the cash.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I don’t know. I think he really likes teaching. Or maybe he wants to redeem himself.” Then I shake my head. “Who cares. He probably only got the job because the head of the graduate school is his buddy.”

  Claire takes a noisy slurp of her rum and coke. “This is nuts. Are you going to sleep with him?”

  I gape at her. “What the fuck, Claire?”

  She shrugs, grinning unrepentantly. “Exactly. Fuck. It will be good for you.”

  “Did you not hear a word I said? He’s going to read about the accident and back off.”

  The laughter leaves her eyes. “Iris, listen. I’ve seen your scars. They’re not as bad as you think. Have you ever considered that it’s not the scars that makes boys—keyword boys—hightail it the next morning? Maybe your picker is broken.”

  I stare at my empty shot glass, unable to hold her gaze. “You think being the queen of one-night stands is a self-fulling prophecy.”

  She nods perfunctorily. “Face it, you never let the nice ones get close enough. Remember Brad? He was sweet as pie and half in love with you. You kept him in the friend zone so long I thought he’d Lady-of-Shallot himself.”

  I snort in spite of myself. “Good reference.”

  Claire grins. “Thanks, but are you hearing me? Brad knew about your scars and would have worshipped them because they were attached to you.”

  I lift a hand to stop her. “I’m not sure what that has to do with your advice to sleep with Beckett. He’s on the opposite end of the spectrum from Brad.”

  She nods thoughtfully. “He is, but he’s also opposite from all those dumb boys of our undergrad years. He’s basically his own spectrum. He’s worldly, obviously a deviant, and writes borderline-noir crime fiction. I bet he’s going to be even more determined to have you. You’re like the perfect tragic heroine.”

  I grimace even as her words elicit a shiver. “No way,” I say weakly, scooting to the edge of the booth. “I’m going to the bar. You want another rum and coke?”

  “Yep, thanks.”

  At the sight of the slammed counter, I pause in dismay. Without heels, I’m five-foot-five-inches of Never Going to Get a Drink. I almost return to beg Claire to go, but in my final sweep I spot a familiar figure sitting on a barstool.

  I squeeze past four frat boys lost on their way to Greek Row and tap the man’s shoulder. As angry voices rise behind me, Griffen turns.

  “Iris! Hey.” He gives me a one-arm hug and glares over my shoulder. As he looks like a cowboy who can wrestle bulls without breaking a sweat, the muttering instantly fades.

  “Thank you,” I say, hopping onto the brass rail near the floor. I wave down the bartender and once my order is taken, turn to face Griffen.

  “Are you here alone?” I ask curiously.

  He nods. “Stood up, apparently,” he says, chuckling. “Ah, well, there’s enough familiar faces around that I don’t feel like too much of a loser.”

  “You’re not,” I assure him.

  He winks and takes a pull from his bottle. “Beckett’s really got it out for you, huh? Aren't you TA for his undergrad course, too?”

  “Yep,” I say, smiling thinly. “I think I get on his nerves.”

  “Yeah, you’re a regular pain in the ass,” he quips, “fucking up the bell curve for the last two years.”

  I laugh and shove his shoulder, which is like pushing a brick wall. “Whatever, your GPA was higher than mine last year.”

  He grins. “Damn straight. I have my eye on a PhD.”

  My drinks arrive and I add them to our tab. “If you get bored, come hang out with Claire and me.”

  His focus sharpens. “Claire? That’s your roommate, right? Tall brunette?”

  I laugh. “Sorry, buddy, she’s taken.”

  “How taken?”

  I think of Monty, whose definition of romance is reading Descartes aloud while Claire cooks him di
nner. “Fifty to sixty percent.”

  Griffen immediately stands, leaving his empty beer on the counter. “I like those odds.”

  Laughing, I hand him Claire’s and my drinks. “Back right, corner booth. I’m going to use the ladies room. See you in a minute.”

  “Make it ten,” he says, winking as he strolls toward my roommate.

  Feeling like a naughty fairy godmother—who’s going to get an earful on the walk home—I skirt around the bar crowd. I’m several steps away from the back hallway when I hear Beckett’s name. It’s spoken in a pleading tone by a female voice, and my eyes wander until I find her in a nearby booth.

  Sitting with her—practically under her—is the man himself.

  “Come on,” whines the woman, who I recognize vaguely from campus. “Let’s get out of here!”

  Some evil convergence of acoustics brings me his soft words. “If you’re that anxious, Maggie, just unbutton your pants a bit. I’ll take care of you right here.”

  “Beck!” she squeals.

  I make a sound—a coughing gag, or a gagging wheeze, or something equally indicative of revulsion—and jerk into motion again.

  Grateful for the alcohol-induced buffer between my brain and the odd thrum of pain in my chest, I wait in the short line, take care of business, and hurry back toward the promise of more alcohol.

  I’m halfway to our table when someone grabs my arm. My momentum carries me full around and against a familiar leather jacket. Gasping, I look up at Beckett. His other hand curls around my hip, holding me against him as I try to squirm away.

  “Stop moving,” he growls.

  “Let me go,” I retort, lifting my chin and meeting his burning eyes. “There are students and faculty all around us.”

  Like I just told him I’m a leper, his touch vanishes. But his eyes stay locked on my face, searing and full of… anger?

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” I hiss, glancing around to make sure we’re not being observed.