MY HOT TEACHER: (Volume 5 of the "My Hot..." series; a stand-alone, New Adult novel) (6 page)

CHAPTER TEN

“How can I help you?” asks Lieutenant Majors, the on-duty officer at Public Safety, as she takes out a notebook and pencil, writes down my full name.

Last night, after discovering the bloody tee shirt, I left the Professor’s room before he came out of the shower, unable to look him in the eye or come up with a bogus excuse as to why I needed to get my ass home.  That was followed by a sleepless night.  I rose from bed this morning convinced I needed to collect as much information as possible.

Which will be tricky, because any slip up could cost Professor Beard his job, which would be awful...unless of course he is The Hairslasher.  I have to know for sure.

I ask, “Did The Hairslasher ever hurt anyone on a Tuesday or Thursday between the hours of 9 to 11pm?”

Lieutenant Majors rolls her eyes.  We’re in a small room, just two chairs, a round table between us, a coffeemaker on an end table in the corner.  I’ve seen the lieutenant around campus, but never had any dealings with her.  She’s short, stout, and from what I’ve heard more hardcore than her male counterparts: quick to bust, less likely to give a second chance. 

“Why do you ask?” she says.

“Just curious.”

“This is a serious matter, not fodder for some research paper.” 

I am unable to return her stare, averting my eyes toward the coffeemaker. 

She adds, “You know someone got cut last time.”

“I know.  The girls are in a panic.”

“Which is why I hope you can appreciate that though we take this thing seriously we have dealt with numerous false accusations and wild rumors.”

“Walls is a crazy place.”

For the first time Lieutenant Majors cracks a smile.  “For sure.”

“I, I, uh, just have some suspicions, that I’m sure are unfounded, but I just want to rule this person out and he’s usually with me on Tuesdays and Thursdays at that time.”

“Your boyfriend?”

“Sort of.”

“We’ve had over two dozen boyfriend suspicions since this thing started.”

“I’m sorry to be taking up your time.”  I rise from my chair.

“Sit down.  We want to follow up on every lead.  To the best of my recollection we haven’t had an incident at that time.  Usually later.  There has been no pattern with the day of the week.”

“Is he really tall or fat?”

“Most of the victims don’t get a good look because their backs are to him, or her, but I doubt it’s a her.  Some have seen him running away and the accounts range from really tall to small.”

“Anything distinctive about his voice?”

“He never says anything.”

“Footprint?”

“We have one we think is his, size ten, about half the male population at Walls.”

The Professor is at least a twelve.

“I don’t think it’s him.”

“Why don’t you tell me why you’re suspicious?”  The officer makes a notation in her notebook.

I could mention the collection of knives, the bloody tee shirt, but would probably be pressed for a name and even if Professor Beard is completely cleared there will still be a stigma and in all probability a scandal.  I can’t do that to him without being surer.

“I’m sorry to take up your time.” 

I stand.

Lieutenant Majors closes her notebook, lets out an exasperated sigh.

Just before I leave the room she says, “You don’t seem as hysterical as the typical Walls girl we get in here with this thing.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Just be careful.  Someone who violates women like this can be capable of a lot more.”

I spend the weekend busying myself with grad school applications and nervously chipping away the paint on the wall behind my bed.  I don’t tell Katia about the bloody tee shirt because I know she would advise I break it off.  That’s what I would tell her if the situation was reversed.  I’m not sure I can see him again but I surely don’t want to hurt an innocent man, if he is innocent, and certainly not someone who’s making senior year the highlight of my life.

When alone I try touching myself once or twice, something I usually do on the weekends to hold me over until Tuesday, but I can’t even do that, images of knives and bloody clothes clouding my fantasies.

I can’t bring myself to go to class on Tuesday.  He calls me at dinner time.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“I’m not stupid, Celine.  You never miss class.  You never leave my house before I get out of the shower.  Even the time before you looked out-of-sorts as you left.  I just need to know for real, is this too much for you?”

The wrong answer here means I will never be in his arms again.  I’m thrilled just hearing his voice.  “I’m handling it okay.  Maybe it’s just exams and the pressure of grad school applications.”

“Am I going to see you tonight?”

“It’s snowing.”

“I’ll pick you up.

How great that he wants to see me.

He says, “We should at least talk about this in person.”

He just wants a smooth break up.  He doesn’t want a typical
hysterical
Walls girl on his hands who could ruin his career.

I run my left hand anxiously through my hair and notice two short strands tangled wildly around my fingers. 

“Celine, are you there?”

“I’ll meet you near the cafeteria at 9pm.  It’s pretty secluded.”

I want to see him.  I ache for him.  I don’t want to go back to the way things were before I met him.

But holy shit, what if he’s The Hairslasher and I just arranged to meet him at one of the most isolated spots on campus?

I show.  If I don’t he’ll write me off.  He has to have some true feelings for me and would never hurt his lover.  At worst it’s some kind of fetish, some alter-ego, like the Professor, only this is a creepy one he can’t control.  If he is The Hairslasher maybe there’s a way I can help him.

In the car, he smiles, touches my hand.  I stiffen at first, then he adds a comforting pat.  I realize I have a chance to be alone with him when I’ve been pretty sure I never would again.

If I can only taste him, have him inside me deep just one more time, maybe I can manage.

There’s a nervous silence in the car.  I like being in it.  I like that we are with each other not in the classroom, nor his bedroom, but in his car.  He cares enough to pick me up.  The snow is heavy.  There’s no way I could’ve ridden my bike to his house. 

As his tires slosh through unplowed roads it dawns on me that perhaps the real reason I’m so suspicious is not simply because of the circumstantial evidence but that it triggered my deepest insecurities, exposed my self-doubts by showing that I don’t really know what this man is capable of, don’t really know the person who makes me feel as vulnerable as a newborn. 

How long can it go on like this? 

How long can I be with someone who perhaps doesn’t think I’m worthy enough to know him better? 

How long can I go on wondering if he has the potential to hurt people, to hurt me?

In his room, on his bed, he doesn’t make a move to kiss me, easily reading my nervous tension.  He looks me straight in the eye and says, “Just tell me.”

All at once I blabber about the knives, the bloody tee shirt, omitting what I saw on his computer history.  I tear up as I confess my full suspicions.  Maybe it’s because finals are coming up, or I’m being hormonal, but I feel so emotional right now that maybe it is easier if I never see him again.

He touches my hand.  This time it’s my lover’s touch.  I’m never afraid of this contact.

He grasps my hand and leads me to the small closet in the other bedroom.  He slides a box out from the back.  He shows me an album of old stamps, others of old coins, and stacks of baseball cards in rubber bands.  “My uncle was a collector.  I inherited this
and the knives
from him, though I never met him.”

“Uh, huh,” I say, but it comes out like “that explains one thing but what about the bloody tee shirt?”

He leads me back to the master closet, opens the door, sifts through the hamper overflowing with clothes, finds the tee shirt.  “Behind on my laundry.  Do you remember the night you sucked me in the bathroom while I shaved?”

“Oh my God!”  I’m at first horrified, then hysterical with giddiness.

“You scraped me with your teeth and I flinched and cut myself with the razor.”

“I never noticed.  I was so into swallowing your great big, beautiful—”   

“As it should be.” 

He smiles then leads me to bed.

“I’m so sorry for snooping!” I cry in between giggles of relief.

“You’re going to get exactly what you deserve.”

And I do.  Get it.  And deserve it.  After twenty-one years on this earth I deserve to be touched the way he touches me, to be fucked the way he fucks me, to enjoy making a man feel as good as he makes me feel.

There’s nothing better than make up sex.  He’s tender and caring, completely silent, and we make love locked in one long eternal kiss as my pussy and his cock welcome each other like long lost friends.

This doesn’t stop him from going right to the shower when we’re done, but I remain firm about no more snooping.  I lie here, immensely pleased that we made love again and would as often as I could before heading to Bethesda for Christmas break, my entire body aglow with delight that the Professor is still my lover and cares enough to work through my insecure nonsense.

He drops me off about a block from the cafeteria, near a twenty-four hour convenience store.  There’s no one around so I chance giving him a kiss on the lips.  He smiles.  I tug my ski hat down low over my ears, wrap my wool scarf around my face, covering everything but the eyes.  I step out of his car into the thick snow, flakes big and wet, temperature probably just above freezing, tree limbs already heavy with white.  I wave goodbye then trudge back to the dorm. 

Just past the cafeteria a branch cracks and falls sharply to the ground behind me, causing my head to turn around in a startled flinch.  I
think
a shadowy figure ducks behind a trash can.  I pick up my pace.  After another ten yards I turn around again and this time I’m sure someone’s following me.  I go faster; so does he.  I’m off and running in a deep panic, turning back once more, only to see that he’s sprinting after me!  He seems dressed in black, face covered in black, but it’s hard to tell, the snow’s so heavy.  This path to the dorm is very isolated.  I want to scream, but there’s no one around and my throat’s choked with fear.  As I run, I pull out my phone to dial 911.  To my utter horror the battery is dead.  I veer off through one side of the campus green, dart among trees, circle back toward the Caf, remembering the Public Safety kiosk there with a red button I can push to reveal the exact location of my emergency.

The figure gains on me as I round the north corner of the large brick building and I’m forced to detour toward the back.  That’s when I see Professor Beard’s
EMPTY
car parked on the street where he dropped me off.  Confusion explodes in my brain.  I impulsively duck behind a large dumpster surrounded by high concrete walls, situated just off the driveway that leads to the Caf’s basement delivery door.  I hear nothing except the wheeze in my chest from my rapid frightened breaths.  I hope desperately that he didn’t see me come back here, because I’m completely trapped, as there isn’t any place else to run except back out the way I came in.  I crouch even lower, frantic to quiet my breathing.  I keep my face down to hide the exposure of my eyes, willing myself to become invisible, praying that he’s gone. 

But then I sense a figure standing over me!

I jump up in fright, take a quick step back, instantly terrorized by a man clad in black, face fully covered with a ski mask, only his beady eyes illuminated, pearl handled knife in his hand poised to come forward toward my hair and strike.

“Please don’t!” I cry.

The knife does stop, though it remains pointed at me.  A muffled voice from behind the mask says, “Celine?”

Despite my fears, despite the muffle, I recognize the voice immediately.  I unravel the scarf from my face. 

“Benjamin?”

The knife hand falls to his side.  With the other hand he lifts up the ski mask to reveal his pimply face. 

“Wassup?”

The knife dangles in his hand the exact way he dangled his penis on our first night out.  I tell him the same thing I said that night, in the same tone of voice, “Put that away!”

Obediently, he closes the pocketknife and tucks it into his pants pocket.

“Are you off your meds again?”

“That shit upsets my stomach.”

“I’m taking you to Public Safety.”

He lowers his head, says, “I’m really sorry.”

I take his arm and lead him across campus to the Public Safety building, my pulse finally dropping below 120, just barely.  I think of saying, for the umpteenth time, that he can’t go around doing things like this, but it’s no use.  Instead I say, “Perhaps they’ll go easy because you’re off your meds.  Either way, you need help.”