Tenure

5. James

5

James

I’ve been trying not to stare at her for the entire damn lecture.

After she left the tutorial last week I went on a bit of tear. Got Shannon to reach out to the campus bookstore to have the textbook removed and contact the publisher about a new edition. Nothing I can do about the ones students have already bought, but it’s bugging me. I never thought I’d be grateful for the day that my students aren’t smart enough to understand my shit.

I think I’ve given myself arthritis from the amount of times I’ve cracked my knuckles thinking about her. A fucking first year.

I couldn’t help myself and tried to pull her academic transcript, but the school didn’t have it on file. She was just listed as a continuing education student with a “special circumstances” note from the Dean of Admissions that I couldn’t see via my faculty profile.

This is the only class she’s enrolled in.

As the room empties out for joints, smokes, coffee, piss breaks, I take the opportunity to adjust my crotch. I’ve forced myself not to look at her, to keep plowing through the material at a breakneck pace, but I saw her laugh at something out of the corner of my eye and felt a fresh wave of irritation trailblaze its way up my spine.

She was clearly not paying attention, and I’d never wanted to throw something as badly as I wanted to throw her fucking phone just then.

Something to keep me awake, she said.

Little shit.

“Kiernan,” I hear myself say. She pauses, her back to me, and cocks her head. “I need to speak with you.”

“I’ll bring one back for you,” the hockey-playing mouth breather says with a shrug.

I stare at him until he leaves. Until it’s just me and her. She turns around, her expression neutral, but I can tell by her eyes that she’s pissed.

Good.

“How far ahead did you work?” I ask.

“Four more chapters,” she says without hesitating. “I didn’t find any more errors, if you were wondering.”

My jaw and my dick both clench.

“Why did you register late?”

“None of your business.”

“Why are you only enrolled part time?”

“Still none of your fucking business.”

“Why is this the only math class you’re registered for?”

“Why are you checking up on me?”

I pause, momentarily distracted by her flushed skin beneath the smattering of freckles on her nose. “Kiernan . . . most third- and fourth-year students struggle with these concepts.”

“Most students are idiots.”

I don’t disagree.

I step towards her, and her brow furrows.

“Are you a math major?” I ask.

She says nothing.

“Engineering?”

I take another step towards her, and she takes half a step back before seeming to catch herself. She looks . . . nervous.

Cute.

“Please tell me you’re not an arts major.”

Her mouth twitches. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Are you taking a year off? To figure it out?”

I take another step towards her. She doesn’t back up this time, but I can see her chest rising and falling, her breath speeding up.

I close the distance, stepping into her personal space, her skin shifting from rosy pink to beet red, her fingers twisting together in front of her and her eyes everywhere but on me. She’s tense, fidgety, just a few inches between us, her mouth slightly parted and chest downright heaving.

“Kiernan?”

“What!”

“Look at me.”

But she doesn’t. She just stands there, breathing, and smelling like freesia.

Her fidgeting hands still and then she balls them at her sides, continuing to stare at my chest. Defiant little bitch.

“ I said look at me!”

She does, her mouth twisted with irritation and the kind of rage that should have me backing up, but instead I take another step towards—

SLAP.

It echoes like a fucking gunshot, my head jerked to the side, that slap reverberating around the room, filling up the entire damn space with tension.

I raise my hand to my cheek and touch it with my fingertips. She’s staring up at me, her expression molten, and my knees almost fucking buckle.

But as she opens her mouth to—I don’t know what, scream maybe?—I close the gap between us, grab her chin, and kiss her.