The Muse Read online

  The anger, too, vanishes. “I’m incredibly sorry that happened to you,” he says.

  The accident.

  I twitch a shoulder. “Great. Does this mean we can act normally now?”

  “If you’re asking whether I still want to fuck you silly, the answer is yes. Because apparently that’s my normal setting where you’re concerned.”

  My heart rate spikes, fire raging through my limbs. “You can’t say stuff like that!”

  His gaze roams my face. “Come home with me, Iris. Right now.”

  I shake my head, choking on hysterical laughter. “You’re seriously deranged. I’m not sleeping with you! I’ve known you less than a week, and you’re my professor.”

  “Beck, darling? Who are you talking to?” It’s the chirping voice from earlier, which belongs to the woman whose arms are now wrapping around his torso. She peers around his shoulder at me. “Oh, hello. You’re James’ TA, aren’t you?”

  James.

  The alcohol turns in my stomach. Annoyance and embarrassment tighten Beckett’s features; he remembers as well as I do his words from last night. That once I slept with him, I could call him James.

  You’re disgusting, I tell him with my eyes.

  “Yep. Just saying hello.” By some miracle, my voice comes out normal. Polite, even. “See you Monday, professor.”

  I make it back to the booth, but after five minutes of listening to Griffen do his damnedest to charm Claire, I mumble excuses and grab my coat.

  “It’s pretty late,” says Claire worriedly. “Do you want us to walk you home?”

  Behind me, a British piece of shit says, “I’ll drive her home.”

  “Professor Beckett, nice to see you,” says Griffen, surprise twinned with uncertainty. He looks questioningly at me.

  Synapses fire at lightning speed as I weigh my options and realize there’s only one that doesn’t make this situation even more suspect. Clenching my teeth, I turn and look up at Beckett.

  “Thanks so much, I’d really appreciate that.”

  His lips twitch, and he gives Claire and Griffen a short nod. “Enjoy your evening.” With a hand on my lower back, he guides me from the pub.

  The second we’re outside, I move away from him. “My apartment isn’t far. Thanks for the offer, though!”

  A block later, he joins me as I wait for the crosswalk. As Thursday night is a pretty big party night, we’re surrounded by people. Most of them are drunk or high and not paying attention to us, but we’re definitely not in private. Which is why when deft fingers stroke my hair back from my temple, I don’t start screaming at him.

  “Soft as it looks,” he murmurs.

  “Go back to your conquest, professor,” I whisper scathingly.

  His head bends near my ear. “Have you always been this fiery, or do I merely bring out the best in you?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Turning toward him, I poke him in the chest and glare into his laughing eyes. “You just finger fucked a woman in a White Harp booth, and now you want to take me home? Not happening!”

  He blinks. “I—what? I absolutely did not.”

  “You said, and I quote, ‘just unbutton your pants a bit and I’ll take care of you right here.’”

  He throws back his head and laughs. “If you must know, little eavesdropper, I was calling her bluff. Maggie fancied herself a walk on the wild side but when push came to shove, she caved.”

  I stare at him, mouth opening and closing. “I don’t… you’re—”

  He grins rakishly. “A prick, yes. We've already determined this. What I want to know, Iris, is whether you have the guts to take me on.”

  The crosswalk finally chirps—thank you, universe—and saves me from a response. I escape, running into the camouflage of the thick pedestrian flow. Despite the fiery protest of my knee, I don’t stop running until my building is in sight. Taking the steps two at a time, I burst into the lobby and jab the button for the elevator.

  My veins are live wires, twitching my legs and feet, and every few seconds I glance toward the front doors.

  No Beckett.

  The elevator opens and I rush inside.

  6. archetype

  Maybe Claire’s right, and the scars aren’t as bad as I think. They’re eleven years old, after all, most of them faded nearly white. But the roots of tragedies like mine sink deep into the psyche, a virus designed especially for the cracks of broken hearts.

  My scars are daily reminders, just like the ache in my knee when I overexert myself or when the weather drops below a certain temperature. Derrick is dead. Because of you, he’s dead. There’s no escaping the truth. The recurring nightmares. The moments when reality breaks apart and I think I see him in a crowd. Or I hear a laugh that sounds exactly like his.

  The writer and theologian Frederick Buechner said, ‘Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don't be afraid.’

  He’s partly right. There’s beauty here, and terrible things certainly happen. In some form or another, tragedy strikes everyone at least once in their lives. An illness, a death, violence, a natural disaster… I’ve yet to meet someone who’s been spared. I hope that most, however, will never have to live through what I have. That they’ll never have to learn the lesson that fear is sometimes all that saves you.

  When the memories are particularly bad, I call my mom and tell her. The same disease lives inside her—the disease of tragedy that forever atrophies a portion of your heart. But these days, it’s harder for us to reach that place of commiseration. She’s been in therapy for a long time. Eight years ago, she fell in love with a nice man and got married. I have two stepsisters now, one of them still in high school. My mother is busy raising her, being an adored wife, and teaching dance to toddlers. Pursuing happiness. Like she should.

  Like I should.

  Monday morning, I stare at my reflection the bathroom mirror and say, “I’m happy.” My eyes—selkie-dark, he called them—are squinted with skepticism. “Happiness is a frame of mind. A choice. Today I will be happy.”

  The affirmations work most of the time, temporary psychological bandaids on my brokenness. Today, not so much. I feel fractured and odd. Having slept on damp hair, the white-blonde strands are wavy and haphazard. I consider a bun, but the weather has taken a turn and my ears need the warmth.

  Claire, who’s put up with my sullenness all weekend, hands me a thermos of coffee when I walk into the kitchen.

  “Bless you,” I say, tucking it under my arm as I yank on gloves.

  She peers into my face. “Did you have a nightmare last night?” I nod, and she clucks in sympathy. “Anything I can do?”

  I smirk tiredly. “Dump Monty and go out with Griffen.”

  A blush blooms on her cheeks and she laughs. “You’re merciless. I thought you liked Monty.”

  I shrug. “There’s nothing wrong with him, per se. But more importantly, do you like him?”

  She purses her lips. “He’s really nice and super smart.”

  I point at her face. “That look, right there. The faintly irritated one you get around him. That’s why I sent you sexy cowboy bait.”

  She snorts, turning to gather her bag and thermos, then joins me at the door. We take the elevator down in silence, lift the hoods of our raincoats as we walk across the lobby, then step into the grey world of drizzle.

  Not until we’re waiting among other students at the crosswalk leading onto campus do I make my final move.

  “You’ve been dating Monty, what, four months now?”

  “About that, yeah.”

  “Did you forget our bedrooms share a wall?”

  She shoots me a frown. “What’s your point?”

  I smile sweetly. “Claire-bear, I know what it sounds like when you’re being taken care of. And it’s not happening.”

  She screws her eyes shut. “Damnit. It’s so not.”

  I laugh, linking my arm with hers as the crosswalk opens. Once on campus,
we part ways in the middle of the massive central plaza. Before she’s out of earshot, I cup hands around my mouth and shout, “Just think about what I said!”

  She doesn’t turn, merely extending a gloved middle finger over her head. Chuckling to myself, I head to class.

  I’m sufficiently early today. To my relief, the head desk is empty when I walk into the room. Several students look up from their phones, smiling in greeting.

  “How’d the homework go, guys?” I ask, perching on an empty desk.

  Janice groans. “Five revisions, and I have no idea whether or not it’s absolute crap. And my journaling was horrible. I kept forgetting to do it.”

  Terrence—of the infected nose ring metaphor—grunts in empathy. “The first assignments are always the worst because every professor grades differently.” He looks curiously at me. “Do you think he’ll do the grading or hand everything off to you?”

  “I’m not sure,” I hedge, “but don’t assume I’ll have a lighter touch than Professor Beckett.”

  He winces. “Oh, I know. Whenever I’ve had a TA grade my work, they’ve been brutal.”

  I laugh. “It’s a rite of passage. The chain of student suffering.”

  Molly, the mousey brunette who I know has a massive crush on Beckett, coughs lightly. “I didn’t think the assignment was that hard. And daily journaling is an integral part of maintaining and growing your craft.”

  “Good perspective, Molly,” I reply, although I don’t necessarily agree. “I’m glad you’re already getting something out of it.”

  More students enter the room. I abandon my perch for my desk in back, draping my damp coat over the chair to dry. As the clock hits 9:03, then 9:07 with no Beckett, I pull out my phone to see if I’ve missed an email from him. No email, but there’s a text from an out-of-state number.

  Late

  “Ya think?” I mutter, then put my phone away and walk to the front of class. “Professor Beckett is running late, so let’s go ahead and start. Assignments and journals to the front, please. Good idea, Greg—everyone, tuck your short story proposals into the front of the journals. Thanks.”

  Good-natured grumbling commences as papers rustle and basic composition notebooks are passed up the rows. I collect the journals and place them on the desk, then lean back and cross my arms in an unconscious mirroring of Beckett.

  “Let’s talk about your short stories. You were supposed to deliver at least one character profile as well as a rough outline. Any issues?”

  “Thinking of an idea that didn’t suck,” mumbles Greg, and several students laugh.

  “It’s not easy, is it?” I ask, nodding. “Did anyone have success with my suggestion to spend some quiet time daydreaming?”

  Molly raises her hand. “I did. It really helped, especially thinking about people in my life who are interesting or have some mystery about them.” Her face turns slowly red and she bows her head.

  At a commotion outside the door, we all turn. Through the small window, we have the misfortune of seeing Beckett kissing a woman—Maggie from the bar. An elbow hits the door, and I hear his low laughter. After some soft murmurs, they say goodbye and Beckett strolls into the room.

  “Morning!” he chirps, pulling off his coat. “Thanks, Ms. Eliot, I’ll take it from here.”

  I walk to my desk, hoping my stiff movements and frozen face go unnoticed.

  “Sorry for my tardiness, class,” he says breezily. “Something came up.”

  The men snicker, the women blush, and I stare fixedly at my clenched, bloodless hands. Emotions clog my airways—disgust, anger, and delayed embarrassment for the computer-chat incident. There’s hurt, too, and a small, poisonous green flame of jealousy.

  Damn him.

  As Beckett launches into a lecture and discussion on the three short stories students were required to read since last week, I devote myself to beginning an assignment for another class. It’s my final poetry course, thankfully taught by one of my favorite professors.

  Beckett’s voice fades to the background, becoming a tolerable irritant as I play with couplets. The remainder of the period flies. When desks scrape on the floor, I look up to find the classroom emptying.

  At the front, Beckett sits at his desk, writing something in his ever-present notebook. Wanting to escape before he can speak to me, I hurriedly gather my things and lift my coat from the chair.

  “Wait, Ms. Eliot.”

  So close.

  Giving the door a final, longing glance, I turn to face him. “Yes?”

  He glances up—a virescent flash—then back down. “I need to cancel our meeting today.”

  I’d completely forgotten about it. “Okay, no problem,” I say, not bothering to hide my relief.

  Pen dropping, he stretches backward with a groan, lacing fingers behind his head. I drop my gaze quickly from the alluring sight.

  “How was your weekend?” he asks mildly.

  My eyes snap to his smiling face. “Great,” I grind out. “How was yours?”

  “Superb.”

  “Fabulous. Anything else?”

  His smile sharpens. “Yes, actually. I need you to grade these.” He waves a hand at the stack of fourteen notebooks.

  My stomach sinking, I nod and walk forward. “I’ll have them ready for next week’s class.”

  “Nope. By Thursday’s workshop.”

  “You’re joking!”

  “Not at all.”

  I grip the edge of his desk, staring down at him with naked annoyance. “Is this punishment? For not bending over for you?”

  His gaze meanders down my body. “Interesting choice of words, Ms. Eliot, but with you I’d prefer face to face.”

  My cheeks flame and my brains trips to red.

  “That’s it,” I snap. “I quit.”

  Spinning away, I storm to the door and yank it open. Beckett’s hand over my head slams it shut. I tug ineffectually on the handle, throwing all my weight into it, but he merely lifts his other palm to the door.

  With a cry of frustration, I turn and shove him back. He barely moves, chuckling as I try for the handle again.

  “Why on Earth do I enjoy pissing you off so much?” he asks lightly. “It’s become my favorite hobby.”

  “Because you’re an asshole,” I growl. Giving up, I spin and drop my forehead to the cool door. “This is sexual harassment. I should report you.”

  There’s a weighted pause. “Perhaps you should, but you won’t. You’re not going to quit, or report me, because you like how I make you feel.”

  “You don’t know me,” I say helplessly.

  “I want to. Very much.”

  I feel him behind me, close enough that heat radiates onto my back. His breath whispers through my hair.

  “Don’t think I can’t see my effect on you, and never doubt your effect on me. In my experience, attraction like this doesn’t happen often. Once or twice in a lifetime, if we’re lucky. I’ve tried very hard to ignore it, but when I see you something… changes in me.”

  His words pour through me, driving blood low in my body. To the place that screams for what only he can give. But regardless of how badly I want what he’s offering, I’m not naive enough to fall for his poet’s tongue.

  “Is that what you said to Maggie? And however many countless others you’ve cleaved through like a wheat field?”

  “Mmm, pleasant analogy, pet, but I as a rule I don’t lie to women I’m courting. Maggie only bothers you because she’s tasted what you want.”

  He’s right—and I hate him for it.

  Turning until my spine is against the door, I look up at him. His eyes are soft, unguarded and direct. It almost buckles me, but not quite.

  “I’m not a shiny toy, Beckett. You seem to have made it to adulthood without learning the lesson that we don’t always get what we want.”

  His eyes cloud. “On the contrary, I know that lesson well.” His thumb swipes over my hot cheek and across my temple, fingers sinking into my loose hair. In h
is usual quicksilver way, he changes topics. “You write beautifully, Iris. Raw and elegant, with astounding depth. I’m absolutely floored by you.”

  I’m unraveling, made defenseless by the words, the sudden vulnerability of his expression. If he asked for me now, this instant, I’d give myself wholeheartedly and damn the consequences.

  But he doesn’t, saying instead, “Forgive me.” He looks away, hand falling and jaw clenching, then steps back and walks toward his desk. “Before reading your manuscript, I thought…” He shakes his head. “You’re right to deny me.”

  Survival instinct takes over before I ask what the hell he means.

  “Are you saying you’ll stop?”

  “Teasing you, arousing you, maddening you? I can’t promise that, but I’ll do my best.” And then, because he’s brilliant and perceptive, he answers my unspoken question. “You’re not a casual fuck, and I don’t date. If I did…” he sighs, “I’d probably quit this bloody job for a shot at making you mine. But you need a better man than me, Iris.”

  My ears ring with his pronouncement. I have no idea what to say, how to feel. Nothing makes sense. I feel like I’m dreaming, or falling, or caught in an undertow.

  Words spill unbidden from that dark place inside me. “What if you’re wrong, and I don’t want to date?”

  His head lifts, eyes narrowing. “Iris…” he warns.

  Oh my God, what am I doing?

  But the need is too great, and I’m powerless over it. “I’m scarred, Beckett. I’m not one of your perfect girls. What if all I want is an experienced man to make me feel beautiful again? Can you do that, or will you hide revulsion and run at first chance?”

  He draws a swift breath, eyes darkening as his pupils expand. I’ve never seen anything more enthralling.

  I did that to him.

  “I’m not afraid of scars, and perfect is in the eye of the beholder. I already know you are. Every inch of you.”

  We’re ten feet apart, but it feels like an electric chord snaps taut between us. Thick and pulsing, no wishful thinking will break it. Or change it.

  “This is inevitable, isn't it?” I whisper.