Black Sheep

I fucking hate these things.

Usually.

The annual meet and greet is a department tradition, a chance for grad students to suck up to faculty, and for faculty to strut around with self-importance. Tradition includes canapés that are either too small to be filling or too gross to be edible. Sometimes both. Cheap wine will be almost flowing, but just enough for everyone to have a glass or two without getting a decent buzz. There’s no music or entertainment to fill any awkward silence. The entire event seems carefully calculated to result in a maximum amount of suffering.

I should be dreading every moment leading up to this event. But as much as I want to convince myself otherwise, I’m hoping to see Bria.

It’s been four days since I last saw her. I’ve been dreaming about her, even waking up in a sweat the first night with cum in my boxers like a fucking teenager. I kept an eye out for her that day and the next, scanning the crowds between classes and listening for her voice in the halls. I’ve even made unnecessary stops to all three coffee shops. It wasn’t until yesterday that I found some dumbass excuse to walk past Bria’s office, but her desk was empty. Only Tida and David were there and I didn’t linger, not with Tida scowling at me and David the bearded and burly lumberjack hipster sizing me up like competition.

With every day that’s passed, I’ve grown increasingly concerned. Is Bria sick? Is something wrong? Is she scouting new campuses to transfer to? Is she using espionage-level tactics to skillfully avoid me? These questions bump around in my head like irritating flies, and I have nowhere to direct them for answers. It’s not as though I can ask Fletcher, because she’ll never shut up about it if I do.

I need to see Bria, even though I shouldn’t. I should be trying to avoid her as much as she might be trying to avoid me. But that’s not at all what I want to do.

I run my fingers through my hair, watching my reflection in the mirror by the door as hope and desire twist my guts like rope. Hope that she shows up to the worst event of the academic year.

Fletcher’s Uber driver pulls up to the curb with a honk, setting Duke off on a barking tangent, and I shush him before locking the door behind me to join Fletcher in the back of the vehicle. She passes me a silver flask as I close the door.

“Well, well. I see you’re going for the ‘Kaptain Hot Prof’ look tonight,” she says as she waves a hand at my leather moto jacket and black jeans.

I shrug and take a sip of bourbon from the flask, relishing the burn that I hope will short out the current of electricity humming in my veins. “Maybe I want to start my midlife crisis early.”

Fletcher casts me a devious smile. “Could you be hoping to see my favorite student at this little soiree, I wonder?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Have you asked her to dinner yet to smooth things over?”

I drag a hand down my face and take another sip of bourbon. “Fletcher—”NôvelDrama.Org owns all content.

“She’s coming tonight. Sort it the fuck out.”

I glare at Fletch even though a flare of both relief and anticipation burns in my cheeks. Fletch cackles and takes a long pull from her flask. “I love you,” I say, “but I also hate you in the most comprehensive, all-consuming way.”

“Lies. Speaking of sorting it the fuck out, any word from you-know-who on a certain approval for a certain student to accompany you on some interviews?”

My heart lurches. Fletch has been waiting for me to confirm any approval from Agent Espinoza about Bria providing support for the interviews. It just came through this morning, but I haven’t had a chance to tell her. Not that I need to, she can see it in my torn, wary expression. Her smile lights up the space between us as she happy claps.

“Not a word, Fletcher. Not one,” I say. “Let me see if I can smooth things over with her first. Maybe. She gives me murder vibes.”

“It’s your own damn fault, you know.”

“Yeah. I know.” And I’m pretty sure it would be better if I left it that way.

We fall into other topics as we wind through the streets bathed in late afternoon sunlight. Usually, the annual meet and greet is held on campus, but this time Dr. Takahashi arranged to rent Windsor Station, a small bistro-slash-art gallery on the corner of a quaint, tree-lined street that’s home to upscale spas and antique dealers and boutique jewelers. When we arrive, quiet music and voices flow from the open door. A group of several students chatter and laugh on the front patio with plates of food and drinks in tall glasses.

“Are those Bellinis? I thought you said this party sucks,” Fletcher whispers as we pass the students.

“Yeah, it…”

Words die on my tongue as we enter the room.

Arching above a table of desserts is a massive balloon garland of muted grey, cream, and metallic gold, interspersed with tropical fronds painted in the same hues. There’s a bar along the wall to the right where one bartender mixes cocktails as the other pops the cork from a champagne bottle. Servers drift through the room with trays of hors d’oeuvres that would satisfy even my mother’s discriminating party tastes. There’s a DJ. Tall tables with candles. Fairy lights. Floral arrangements. Students and faculty chatting and laughing. Actually laughing, not fake laughing.

What the fuck? 

“This has to be breaking some kind of faculty code of conduct,” I say as we steer toward the bar.

“Shut your mouth, rules boy. I’m buying.” Fletch sidles up to the bar and orders a Bellini and a bourbon. When the drinks are finished and Fletch slides the bills across the polished stainless steel, the bartender shakes his head. Free bar.

“What is this alternate universe?” I ask as Fletch’s smile beams and she stuffs ten dollars into the bartender’s tip jar.

“I dunno, Kapalicious, but I like it.” Fuck sakes. It’s never a good sign when she breaks out the outlandish nicknames. I’m about to tell her as much when her bony elbow jams into my ribs, expertly missing the edge of my jacket for full impact. “Hey, there’s your girl. See? Told you she’d be here.”

Not my girl. I’m about to say it. I really am. But then I follow Fletcher’s line of sight through the gap in the crowd.

My argument evaporates the second I see her.

Bria Brooks. Equal parts beautiful and fierce, like a fallen angel who relishes the kind of freedom that only comes with the absence of wings.

She’s wearing a loose-fitting, sheer black top that’s just transparent enough for her dark bra to show through, but her black blazer covers most of her torso. I can make out the lines of lithe muscle in her legs beneath her faux leather leggings. She stands perfectly balanced on thin stiletto heels, one ankle crossed in front of the other, a clutch in one hand and a drink in the other. Her dark hair is piled in a loose bun, her smoky eyes firmly latched onto Tida who’s in the throes of an animated story.

Bria is nothing short of gorgeous.

David the bearded hipster lumberjack thinks so too, that fucker. He casts continuous glances at Bria, and I watch as he offers to fetch her another drink when hers is empty. She gives him a grateful smile, but even from a distance I can tell it doesn’t reach her eyes. I tamp down the sudden urge to smash my fist into his face and pull my attention away before she catches me watching.

“I take it back. You can’t go for her. The two of you together would be too much hotness. You’d either burn my retinas or cancel each other out, and I’m not sure which is worse,” Fletch says.

“I think Bro Lumberjack has it covered,” I reply in a low voice as David weaves through the crowd toward the bar behind us.

“Nah, she’s not interested.”

“Why do you think that?”

Fletcher turns toward me with a shit eating grin. “Because of the way she’s looking at you.”

I glance at Bria and our gazes collide. She assesses me with the calculating eye of a falcon, as though she’s determining how quickly she could rip my throat out. I’m sure my own expression is nearly as dark and heated, though for an entirely different reason. It physically pains me to break the connection and tear my gaze away.

“It’s only because she clearly wants to slice my skin off and wear it like a mask.”

“Christ, you’re so dramatic,” Fletcher says. I roll my eyes, but rather than argue, I focus on the sound of David’s voice behind me as he orders a lager and a grove and tonic. I have no clue what a grove and tonic is, but I commit it to memory nonetheless.

David passes us with his drinks just as Dr. Takahashi steps to the center of the room and taps his champagne glass with his fork. The DJ turns down the music and the crowd hushes into silence.

“Thank you all so much for coming to the annual Berkshire University Psychology Department meet and greet,” he says in his kind yet authoritative tone, his accent warming the vowels of each word. “This is an opportunity for us to welcome our new graduate students and to celebrate the achievements of those who are continuing and finishing their studies. For those who have attended before, I’m sure you’re aware that this is not our usual venue or style of event. However, it is a momentous occasion, as I both have the pleasure and the unfortunate occasion to announce the upcoming retirement of our longest serving faculty member, Dr. Edward Wells.”

Holy shit.

There are murmurs and claps and a couple of gasps, maybe even one from my own lips. I was beginning to think the old man would die on campus. I even threw a bet into Dr. Strom’s pool, which I’ve just officially lost. Dr. Takahashi continues with an abridged history of Dr. Wells’s long-standing tenure in the department as I scan the crowd for Dr. Strom, but instead my eyes catch Bria’s. She leans her arm on the edge of one of the high tables, stirring her drink as she watches me. I catch the brief glint of something in her expression, a fleeting tug at the corner of her lips before she raises her straw to her lips.

She already knew. 

How the fuck could she know? I didn’t know, and I’m faculty. Maybe because I’m going on sabbatical? Did Takahashi leave me out of an internal communication? I break my gaze from Bria’s and search out the other faculty members, but they all look as equally surprised as me.

I’m about to shift my gaze to Bria when Dr. Takahashi finishes his spiel about Dr. Wells and turns toward me. “Also leaving us at the end of December, albeit temporarily, is Dr. Eli Kaplan, who will be starting an eighteen-month sabbatical. Dr. Kaplan will be pursuing some external opportunities during that time, and potentially a bit of travel. Do I have it right that you have an off-road motorcycle adventure planned in South America?”

Heat infuses my cheeks as I feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on my skin, Bria’s heaviest of all. “Yeah, that’s right.”

“Just come back in one piece, yes?”

I smile. “I hear Dr. Strom has a pool going for which limbs I’ll break, so I’ll do my best to make sure he loses all his money.”

A peel of laughter flows through the room. “Very good, very good. Now I’d like to introduce Dr. Kathryn Fletcher, who joins our faculty from UCLA, where she has specialized in the areas of memory, specifically the impact of digital media on memory recall. Dr. Fletcher will take over Dr. Kaplan’s class schedule next semester in addition to expanding our graduate course offerings from next year.”

Fletch gives a wave to the crowd, which from anyone else would look awkward, but Flawless Fletch makes it look effortlessly graceful.

“Now that the announcements are over, I’m sure you’re ready to get back to the party. Please ensure that you have safe transportation home. If you have any concerns whatsoever, please speak with me or another member of the faculty. Have a wonderful evening,” Dr. Takahashi concludes with a bow of his head as a round of applause encircles the room. He heads in our direction as other faculty members surround Dr. Wells.

“Quite the party,” I say as he stops next to us. “You’ll have to convince Dr. Fletcher here that it’s out of the norm.”

Dr. Takahashi smiles and we turn to get in line for the bar before it becomes too crowded. “Yes, don’t get used to it. This all was a gift from Edward’s friend Samuel.”

“That’s lovely. I guess we’ll have to find some other friend of Samuel’s to retire next year in that case,” Fletcher says, and the two strike up a conversation about the social calendar for the next few months as I scan the crowd for Bria. I catch a brief glimpse of her with Tida and David before a master’s student approaches me and strikes up a conversation about motorcycles as Fletch pushes a fresh drink into my hand. And that’s the way the next hour and a half goes. Random conversations. Appetizers. Stolen glances at Bria Brooks. A growing buzz as Fletch brings fresh drinks, likely trying to force my already tenuous grip on my rules to loosen.

Not that I need the help.

Something dark and demonic is roiling beneath my ribs, clutching and scraping at my heart with every glimpse I get of David’s increasingly forward behavior toward Bria.

At first, it’s a hand on her arm. Later, I notice his fingers coiling around her wrist as he leans close to whisper something in her ear. My veins fill with lava when his palm on her mid-back causes her to flinch, and the idiot doesn’t notice. Her eyes dart to mine but flick away just as quickly. She downs her drink and says something to David and he takes her empty glass, wobbling a bit as he heads for the bar with a cocky smile. Bria then turns to Tida and another student who’s joined their group and says a few words before she leaves them, heading to a side door that leads to a small patio.

The swell of my need to follow her climbs my throat as though it will drown me. I try to swallow it down.

But I can’t.

I stride to the side of the bar, skipping the line as the students at the counter are distracted by their conversation, and get the attention of the bartender with forty dollars rolled between my fingers. He nods as he shakes a cocktail. I order a bourbon on ice and a grove and tonic, which he tells me is a nonalcoholic spirit. Interesting. So Bria is stone cold sober. This is probably a terrible idea, but I am not sober, and therefore I’ll worry about it tomorrow.

While David is caught in the line at the bar, I head across the room with my drinks in hand, dodging the gazes of students and faculty who might want to talk shop until I make it to the side door.

Bria leans against a railing with her back to me, lit by the dim patio lights strung overhead. Flowers cascade from hanging baskets above her, twisting in the warm breeze. She’s looking down at something in her hands. I can tell from the tension in her shoulders that she knows she’s no longer alone. Something about that makes my heart burn a little hotter.

“Escaping?” I ask as I stop at the railing, keeping a wide berth as I extend the drink toward her. “Grove and tonic, correct?”

Bria pierces me with one of those long, unnerving looks that gives none of her thoughts away as she accepts the drink with a nod of thanks. I notice she doesn’t change her position to mirror mine. She doesn’t make any gestures to welcome me, nor to push me away. Everything is locked beneath impenetrable layers. A growing part of me is desperate to take a hammer to them. “What would I be escaping from?” she asks.

I shrug and give her a dimpled smile, which she seems to find infuriating, judging by the way her eyes narrow. “Small talk. Political posturing. Social conformity. Or just a handsy lumberjack hipster.”

A faint smile passes across Bria’s lips as she twirls a white bloom between her fingers. “Says the tweed-turned-rebel professor hipster.” Bria’s gaze drifts down to my leather jacket, the flower still spinning in her grip as she takes a thoughtful sip of her drink. “Social conformity,” she echoes, dodging the subject of the touchy-feely lumberjack. “Do I not…conform?”

“I don’t know. Do you?”

“No. Not like you do.” Bria’s gaze seizes mine, dark and consuming and full of secrets. Her interest in my answer seems genuine, though I feel a thread of malice in it too. “Or do you, Dr. Kaplan? Maybe it’s all an illusion. Maybe you like to follow the rules on the surface, and break them all when no one is looking.”

The dimming light of dusk hides the blush that flares up my neck. I take a sip of my drink, the blurred warmth of my buzz making me bolder as I step closer to Bria. “What kinds of rules do you think I would break?”

Bria lets out a low chuckle that comes from the depths of her chest. “I don’t know, why don’t you tell me?”

My cock strains against my jeans. I ache to push her backwards until her spine is flush with the wall and whisper all the rules I’d love to break with her. I want to slide my hands over her body. I want to know if her pussy is wet, to know the sweet, hot taste of her arousal.

I swallow, my grip on my glass tightening. “You knew about Dr. Wells’s retirement,” I say instead. Bria turns her gaze away when she gives a single nod. “You were never going to meet with him about being your advisor, were you.”

“No. Only about being his TA for his Abnormal Psych class.”

I replay the conversation in her office, trying to recall Bria’s exact words. She didn’t lie, but I realize now that she must have used the opportunity to gauge how sincere I was with both my apology and the comments I’d made about her work. If I hadn’t really cared about either, I wouldn’t have implored her to steer clear of Wells.

“My uncle knows Dr. Wells,” Bria offers before I have the chance to inquire further. She looks pensive as she raises the flower to her nose and inhales the scent. “I knew before anyone else. But I meant what I said. Other options were open.”

I lean against the railing and tip my glass from one side to the next, the clink of the ice cube filling the silence. “I’m glad you went with Fletcher.”

Bria looks up at me then, a darkness fleeting across her face. It’s not the lightless, inhibited anger that I’ve seen in her before. No, this burns like a flare before it snuffs out. It looks more like…starvation. She swallows, nodding once before looking away. And then her expression shifts, and everything is neatly back in place as though a wave has just swept her thoughts clean. She drains her glass and straightens. “Thank you for the drink.”

Bria turns on her heel to start toward the door, but my hand darts out to stop her. My fingertips halt just shy of her wrist but I swear I can feel her warmth on my skin. She looks down at my hand and back up to my face as I clear my throat and level her with a serious gaze. “I wanted to ask you if you’d join me for dinner. In a professional capacity, of course.” Bria doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. I’m not sure she even breathes. “To discuss your work. And as an apology for the other day.”

Bria chuckles. The sound is a low, husky rumble in her chest, more like a growl than a laugh. But this is not the sound of amusement. Her eyes are lethal, capturing all light and devouring it.

“I’m afraid I must pass. I’m ever so sorry, Dr. Kaplan,” Bria says, her voice dripping with sarcasm through her saccharine smile. She drifts toward me, a shark slicing through the twilight gloom. She leans in close, her lips nearly flush to my neck. I fold my hand into a fist to stop myself from touching her. “I guess you’ll have to enter the organ trade after all. I’m sure your bestie Fletcher will start with a kidney. But if it were me, I’d go straight for the heart.”

Bria slides the stem of the flower behind my ear, and with the slightest graze of her lips to my cheek she leaves me standing alone in the growing dark.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt such desire and darkness, such regret and rage. I’ve never wanted to drag someone into the fire with me, to let the heat of it conquer and consume us both. Not like this.

…At least not until the moment Bria walks by the patio, her arm looped through David’s. She blows me a kiss when he’s not looking, and then fades away into the shadows between the lamplight.

I leave the party without another word, an inferno burning my blood to ash.