The Muse Read online

  Terrance, sitting adjacent to me, whispers, “Asshole.” I shoot him a tight smile and start taking notes.

  Twenty minutes later, we’re dismissed with a curt, “That’s all.”

  I pack up and squeeze out the door between two students, sighing in relief once I’m in the hallway. Terrance catches up to me near the elevator.

  “Iris, do you know what Beckett’s deal is? He was a dick all class. Are we really doing that badly?”

  “No,” I assure him. “I’m sure it’s, uh, personal stuff or something. Keep writing, Terrance. I really like where you’re headed so far.”

  He smiles broadly. “Thanks! See you tomorrow.”

  I nod and take the elevator downstairs, then head into the hallway hosting faculty offices. Even though coffee sounds wonderful, I avoid the busy lounge, not willing to risk running into Beckett.

  Thankfully, the small office I share with two other TAs is empty. I close the door and sink listlessly onto the chair behind the desk. After several numb minutes of staring at the wall, I pull myself together and open my laptop. The picture of Beckett and his wife is still open. I quickly close the window and bring up my current assignment due Wednesday evening.

  Beckett wants an original short story with a minimum of eight thousand words.

  So far, I have a total of six.

  Everything changed on a rainy night.

  “Crap,” I hiss, deleting the words.

  The door opens. I look up, expecting a TA. The smile I’ve just begun mustering freezes and cracks.

  “Go away,” I tell Beckett.

  He cocks a brow and steps inside, closing the door soundly. Leaning a hip on the other side of the desk, he crosses his arms and stares down at me.

  I armor myself with memory of that picture, and repeat coldly, “Go. Away.”

  He sighs, glancing out the window above my head. “Whether you want to or not, you’re going to let me explain,” he says crisply. “Julia and I have been separated for more than a year. We were barely married eight months before we split. She won’t sign the papers until I grant her custody, which I will never fucking do.”

  I rock back in shock. “You have a child with her?”

  His gaze snaps down, expression slack with horror. “God, no.” He shakes his head, scrubbing fingers through his hair. “Sorry. Stuck my foot in my mouth, there. Not a child. A dog. He’s my bloody dog.”

  I release a deranged laugh. “Great, okay. Good luck with everything. Now, will you go away?”

  “Iris,” he murmurs urgently, “please, don’t turn your back on this. On us.”

  “There is no us!” I snap, then wince at the volume of my voice. “We’ve kissed twice. And had that… whatever in the car. It’s nothing.”

  “It wasn’t nothing,” he retorts.

  I’m on a roll, though, and barely pause. “This whole situation is stopping right now. It’s taking up way too much space in my head—space I need to, you know, graduate. You really want to know what makes me tick?” I spread my arms. “This. Finishing my masters is the single most important thing in my life, and I will not allow my stupid heart to derail everything I’ve worked so hard for!”

  The words vibrate, echoing between my ears. When I realize what I’ve said, the blood drains from my face.

  Beckett stills, eyes bright and unblinking. “Your heart?” he whispers. “Iris—”

  I rocket to my feet, swipe my laptop off the desk, and rush toward the door. I’m reaching for the handle when he grabs my arm, spinning me toward him. My laptop is snatched from my fingers and tossed onto the tiny couch.

  Gentle fingers move through my hair, exploring the shorter strands. His forearms blind my peripherals, creating a soft, dark space where only he and I exist. I can hear my breath, shallow and fast. My fingers clench at his waist.

  I whisper his name.

  Hands frame my face, lifting it. “God help us both,” he whispers.

  And his mouth takes possession of mine.

  10. blank verse

  The world shifts on its axis. Or maybe I’m not getting enough oxygen. But in this moment, I don’t care. Our kiss quickly escalates to sucking, biting madness. His hands claim my breasts, fingers finding my nipples, tugging hard enough to send liquid lightning to my core. I palm him roughly through his pants. He grunts, his hips jerking forward.

  I remember his typed words—we’re both nervous I’m too big for you—but feeling him thick and heavy behind his zipper, I’m not nervous at all. I’m electrified.

  “I need you,” he whispers against my mouth.

  This is insanity.

  Someone could walk in any second.

  “Yes,” I gasp.

  His belt buckle yields to my scrambling fingers. I manage to pull pants and boxers to his thighs before I’m lifted. Braced in one arm, his other hand goes to work yanking down my jeans. Somehow, I kick off my boots, all the while feasting on the smooth, delicious skin of his neck. He hoists me up with forearms beneath my thighs. I wrap my legs eagerly around him, whimpering as one finger, then two, sink into me.

  He muffles a groan in my hair, then twists, searching for something on the desk. There’s a muted tearing, and his hand angles between us. Condom, I think distantly. He adjusts me in his arms, backing me against the wall beside the door. The sound of footsteps and voices through the barrier is terrifying. And makes me even hotter. Wetter.

  “Please,” I whisper.

  He teases my entrance with the head of his cock, sliding it back and forth, back and forth, until my fingers dig deep into his shoulders. I whimper, and he finally enters me, one slow inch at a time, until he’s fully seated and pressing against my absolute limit.

  I’ve never felt so consumed, so full of another person. Taking a fold of his sweater between my teeth, I bite down hard against the urge to cry out.

  His low voice warms my ear. “I’m seriously five seconds away. This is ridiculous. You feel too perfect.”

  My hips rock, obeying a biological command. He sucks in a breath, arms flexing to assist my movement, guiding me harder and faster. Fullness and friction build to a blinding peak, dissembling every last shred of intellect.

  I am simple. I am animal.

  His teeth nip my earlobe. “So sweet. Iris, you undo me. God, you’re close. I can feel it. Take it, love.”

  I do, bucking against him, a keen in my throat as I come undone. Seconds later, he makes a strangled sound and stills, pulsing heavily inside me.

  Our mouths meet unerringly. The kiss is drowning deep, a swallowing of souls. My womb pulses with an aftershock; he twitches inside me, still half-hard.

  Slowly, the ringing in my ears subsides. In the office next to ours, voices laugh. A door opens and closes down the hall. In fits and starts, my brain comes back online.

  “Oh my God,” I breathe, leaning back to see his face.

  His eyes are a soft, verdant shade as he brushes a strand of hair from my cheek. “I was thinking a bed for our first time, but that will do.”

  Gasping back laughter, I wiggle in his arms. “Put me down. We have to get dressed.”

  With a final kiss and soft chuckle, he does. As he takes care of the condom, I swiftly pull on my underwear and jeans, then sit on the couch to tie my boots. When I look up, his slacks are on, though still unbuttoned.

  “I have no idea how we go about this,” he says, smiling slightly. “Should I pull the fire alarm, perhaps?”

  My gaze falls to the floor as I recall Kirk’s story about witnessing the aftermath of this exact situation. A woman looking the worse for wear as she slipped from Beckett’s office.

  My afterglow fades under a tide of uneasiness. He’s done this before.

  “Iris?” he asks carefully.

  I force a laugh and look up. “Don’t be silly. We’ll wait until the hallway is clear. You leave first. I need to work on Wednesday’s assignment, anyway, and I have class in an hour. I’ll, uh… open the window for a bit.”

  His gaze sharpe
ns, but at length he nods. I watch him button his pants, fasten his belt, and step into his fine Italian loafers. After adjusting his shirt and sweater, he drags fingers through his hair. My lips quirk, as the action only messes it further.

  Walking to the door, he leans an ear briefly against it, then turns to fix a penetrating stare on my face. “I’ll be honest, I’m a little unnerved by your lack of visible emotion right now. Am I the only one who just had mind-blowing sex in an unlocked office?”

  I flush, shaking my head. “No. That was great. Thanks.”

  Beckett’s brows skyrocket, his head shaking in bafflement. Unable to hold his gaze, I look down, picking imaginary lint off my thighs. He makes a harsh noise, somewhere between caustic laughter and a grunt.

  “Well, then. At least I know where we stand.”

  The cutting tone shivers against the broken place inside me. Leaning back in the couch, I stare flatly at him.

  “I’m a student, you’re a professor. Familiar ground for you, isn’t it? If we’re found out, at most you’ll get a slap on the wrist, but I’ll be shunned by the entire department. Not only that, you’re married—separated or not—and you said it yourself, you don’t date.” I pause, tilting my head. “What exactly do you want from me, Beckett? Do you want me to drop out and be your modern-day concubine?”

  He flinches in shock, then anger pinches his lips. “That’s rich. Very mature of you, to lash out when you’re emotionally compromised.”

  The brokenness inside me expands, swallowing me whole. I make a show of looking around. “I’m sorry, am I in the wrong room? The only emotions I have where you’re concerned are lust and anger. And now, regret.”

  As soon as the words leave my lips, I want to take them back. I watch miserably as his expression blanks, his cheeks paling noticeably.

  I’ve hurt him. Badly.

  I gasp, “James, I—”

  “Don’t bother,” he snaps, his accent suddenly thick. “Now that the devil has revealed herself, I find myself immune to her angelic pretenses. It’s a fucking miracle I didn’t do something stupid like invite you into my actual bed.”

  Without bothering to check for passersby, he throws open the door and leaves.

  Moments later, I hear a female voice ask, “Beckett, are you all right?”

  “Stupendous, Francine,” he says, with intentional clarity so his words reach my ears. “What are you doing for dinner tonight?”

  When I arrive home after my poetry class, I find Claire and Griffen on the couch. The television is on, but from their flushed faces I’ve clearly interrupted more than a Doctor Who marathon. Their well-meaning offer to relocate to Claire’s bedroom abruptly changes my plans. No way can I get any work done with them getting frisky on the other side of my wall.

  “I’m just going to take a shower and head to the library.” Before they can protest, I add, “Really, don’t worry about it. I have a short story and three haikus to write, anyway.”

  In my bathroom, I turn on the shower as hot as it will go and quickly disrobe. I don’t look in the mirror. I can’t handle facing the scars right now—but even more so, I don’t want to see evidence of sex with Beckett. From the ache in my thighs, where I’m sure there are red imprints from his fingers, to the warmth on my neck where his teeth sank deeply.

  Stepping beneath the scalding flow, I let the heat melt away the knots in my shoulders, the lingering stiffness in my back and legs. There’s nothing to be done about the soreness between my legs.

  Every time I move, I feel the echo of him inside me. It’s torture and pleasure; as much as I can’t stand it, I thrill in it.

  And I wish, more than anything, that I wasn’t broken. That I was bold and brave, and capable of admitting, Yes, I’m emotionally compromised. It’s crazy because I’ve known you less than three weeks, but I have feelings for you. I want to know everything about you. I want to be yours.

  If I’m honest, it happened the first moment I saw him. Before he ever looked up from his journal. Something in my heart quickened when I saw him writing, a conduit for his raging muse. His ink-stained left hand.

  When I see you, something… changes in me.

  He feels it, too. The singing promise of something big. Poetic and beautiful.

  A potential for real love.

  Not the kind of love that takes advantage of an innocent sixteen-year-old girl. That invites her to a party, drugs her, and nearly rapes her. Not the kind that compels that young girl’s brother—home from college for spring break—to track her phone when she doesn’t answer his calls.

  My brother found me before… before. Derrick beat that boy I thought I loved bloody, then threw him out of the bedroom. He dressed my limp body and carried me to his car.

  I remember him yelling at me, demanding, “What the fuck were you thinking?” and, “Iris, wake up! I need you to open your eyes!”

  I found out later that he was driving me to the hospital. Despite his fear for my wellbeing, he was going the speed limit. Sober as a judge. We would have made it if the drunk driver hadn’t caught us in the middle of an intersection.

  I don’t remember the event, but I’ve read the police report. The other driver was going fifty-eight miles per hour. Derrick’s small pickup hadn’t stood a chance. We flipped three times and smashed into a telephone pole. The gas tank ruptured. Live wires fell, sparking, on top of us.

  Good Samaritans pulled my unconscious body from the burning car. I was covered in blood from twenty-eight lacerations of varying degrees on my torso, arms, and legs. Shattered knee, broken shoulder. Second degree burns along my left side from armpit to thigh.

  The only parts of me uninjured were my face, neck, and upper chest. A miracle, according to family and friends. A statistical anomaly, according to the doctors who treated me.

  But I know the truth. It was Derrick, flinging himself as best he could atop me in those final moments. Using his last breaths to shield me from the fire and exploding glass.

  To protect me, just like always.

  11. cacophony

  I don’t end up at the library; I can’t be on campus right now. Where he is. Instead, I put on sneakers and my knee brace for added support and walk outside. Clouds boil overhead in warning, but the rain isn’t supposed to start until tonight.

  So I walk, my muscles slowly warming, my damp hair tucked under a beanie and hood. I don’t stop for several miles, and then only because my phone vibrates in my pocket.

  Pulling it out, I read the Caller ID and quickly answer. During the school term, my mother and I rarely speak outside our Sunday morning calls.

  “Mom? What’s wrong?”

  She’s quiet for a few moments; my stomach drops. “I don’t know how to say this, baby. So I’m just going to tell you. Your father died today.”

  The first, strongest emotion is apathy.

  “Okay.”

  Another pause. “Would you like to know what happened?”

  “He had a heart attack while banging a twenty-year-old?” I ask sharply, then blanch. “Jesus, mom. I’m sorry.”

  She sighs. “No, it’s all right. It was a heart attack, actually. During a seminar on campus.”

  Nebulous thoughts bounce through me, oddly linked. Stanford campus, where he’s been a professor for thirty years.

  Never slept with his students, at least.

  Beckett sleeps with students.

  Dad preferred waitresses, I recall.

  Why did I never see the connection?

  Charming philanderers.

  Is this the Freudian Electra complex?

  Yuck, yuck. Quadruple Yuck.

  “Iris?” asks my mom.

  “I’m here,” I say, then clear my throat. “Are you going to the memorial? I’m assuming there will be one.”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  My father did love my mother—deeply. Anyone who’s read his poetry knows that. But love wasn’t enough for him to keep it in his pants. Haunted by the unnamed need to find his next great ins
piration, he turned his back on her and on his children.

  He never did find another muse.

  Mom finally left him when Derrick and I were old enough to understand. We unanimously agreed with the divorce. In the final years, he was rarely home anyway, opting to live in an apartment near campus.

  “Would you like to fly down and come with me?” she asks.

  I take a breath. “Let me think about it, okay? My workload is pretty intense this quarter.”

  It’s a weak excuse, but beneath my shell of apathy stirs old resentment. Why should I show up for his funeral when he couldn’t show up for even one of my dance recitals?

  “Of course, baby. When I get the details, I’ll email them to you.”

  “Thanks, mom.” I hesitate. “I’m sorry.”

  She makes a small sound. “Me, too. I wish he’d lived a happier life.”

  “Yeah,” I say vaguely.

  “I love you, Iris.”

  “Love you, too, mom. Bye.”

  I tuck my phone back in my pocket and stare at the sky, now darkening to ominous pewter. Turning stiffly, I begin the long walk home. The brace on my knee is a lifesaver on the steady uphill grade, but I’m still in pain by the time I reach my building. It’s raining lightly now, and the ground is slick.

  My head down to make sure I take the steps of my building carefully, I almost fall over the man sitting at the top. Strong hands catch me as I wobble.

  “This is becoming a habit,” Beckett says softly.

  My heart trips down to my knees. “What are you doing here?” I demand, looking around. “This is a mostly student building. You shouldn’t be here.”

  Belatedly, I realize his expression is one of profound sympathy. And before he speaks, I know why he’s come.

  “I heard about your father.” He stands, rain misting around his uncovered head and dusting the shoulders of his coat.

  My brows lift. “So you decided to sit outside my building on the off chance I came outside?”

  “I was working up the nerve to call you.” He pauses. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Iris.”