Deviant Obsession

Chapter 7

Rhea

My head is still swimming like I’ve downed an entire bottle of wine as I hurry across the quad, clutching my papers tight to my chest as if they're some kind of scandalous evidence of the meeting I’ve just left. I'm so lost in replaying every word the professor said, every loaded glance, that I almost miss the figure lounging against one of the stone pillars ahead.

Almost.

"Rhea! Fancy running into you here," Dean drawls, his perfect lips curving into that infuriating smirk I've come to despise in such a short time.

My startled jump sends my carefully organized papers scattering again , a flutter of white against the clear blue sky. Before I can even react, Dean's gracefully pushing off the pillar and snatching them out of the air like a poisonous frog spearing unsuspecting bugs.

"Careful there, sweetheart," he says, extending the papers toward me. “Anybody would think I make you nervous.” His fingers brush mine as I snatch them back, making me question how the hell this could happen to me twice in one day. Perhaps I should start wearing gloves to protect myself from unexpected skin-to-skin contact with the wrong men.

"Are you actually stalking me now?" I snap, shuffling the papers back into a pile I know is painfully out of order. "Because I swear to god, Dean, if you're following me?—"

"Following you?" He has the audacity to look wounded, pressing one hand to the center of his broad chest. "Can't a guy just happen to be in the right place at the right time?"

"Not when it's the third 'right place' in as many days, he can’t." My accusation drips with disdain, but he just keeps grinning like I'm putting on some kind of show for his entertainment.

"Listen, about the other night..." He takes another step closer, and I immediately take one back just to breathe air that’s not tainted by that intoxicating cologne. "And the restaurant... I was a jerk. Let me make it up to you."

"Hard pass."

"Come on, Rhea." The way he says my name makes my skin prickle in a way that’s somehow torn between a disgusted cringe and a delighted shiver. I wish he’d never learned it, that we could have stayed strangers right up until graduation. Hearing it from his lips sounds like a sinful promise that would keep ringing in my ears even if I dunked my head in holy water.

"One dinner,” he insists, “and I know I can win back a place in your good books. I promise to be on my best behavior."

I bark out a laugh that holds absolutely no humor. "You can’t win back something you never had. And I'd rather eat glass than go on a date with you."

"You can't avoid me forever." His tone turns mocking as he lets out an exasperated sigh, that predatory gleam I remember all too well from the party returning to his eyes. "We both know you'll cave eventually."

"Yeah, we’ll see about that." I shoulder past him, making sure to clip him hard enough that he has to catch his balance. The contact sends another unwanted jolt through my bones. Why does he have to be so goddamn solid?

"Playing hard to get just makes me want to try harder," he calls after me, a growl in his voice.

I don't turn around, but I do raise my middle finger high in the air as I storm away. Nat would be proud. I’ve never been one for vulgarity—my father raised me better than that—but something about Dean makes me forget my careful manners in favor of red, primal rage. His answering laugh echoes across the quad, making me grind my teeth until they’re in danger of cracking.

My hands are shaking as I try to shove my papers back into my bag at last, anger and frustration making my movements jerky and uncoordinated. I feel as if I haven’t had a moment to breathe since stumbling into Professor Shaw’s office. I was barely gathering my wits as I hurried across the quad, let alone thinking about filing my research back into the correct folder.

And then Dean happened. The nerve of him, the absolute entitled arrogance. As if his looks and his charm give him some kind of free pass to harass me!

The worst part is, under different circumstances, I might have actually found his persistence charming. If he wasn't such an overwhelming douchebag about everything, if he didn't act like my rejection was just foreplay, if he showed even a hint of genuine remorse for his behavior...

But no . Dean clearly views me as nothing more than a challenge, a prize to be won. And after what happened at that party, after how he tortured me at the restaurant, I'd sooner kiss a rattlesnake than give him the satisfaction of wearing me down.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to see a text from Nat asking if I'm still coming to the bar. I type back a quick 'omw' before hoisting my bag back onto my shoulder, the depressingly crumpled papers safely concealed inside like damning proof of my frazzled state. At least I know exactly what I need right now: my best friend, a large glass of wine, and absolutely zero testosterone in my immediate vicinity.

The familiar warmth of O'Malley's wraps around me like a comfortable blanket as I push through the heavy wooden door. Nat's already spotted me from behind the bar, her experienced hands never faltering as she throws together the ingredients for a complicated-looking cocktail while shooting me a sympathetic look.

"You've got that 'I need alcohol immediately' face," she calls out as I slide onto my usual stool. Without missing a beat, she sets a generously filled wine glass in front of me.

"You're an angel," I sigh, taking a long, grateful sip. "A beautiful, mind-reading angel who enables my bad habits."

"Spill," she demands, wiping down the bar top in front of me to make it look like she’s working. "What's got you looking like someone killed your imaginary puppy?"

I groan, dropping my forehead to rest against the cool wood. "Dean."

"Again?" The disgust in her voice is almost comical. "What did Trust Fund Ken do this time?"

"Ambushed me outside the Psychology building." I lift my head just enough to take another sip of wine. "Tried to convince me to let him 'make it up to me' over dinner."

"Make what up to you? Being a complete, aggressive tool at the party? Or being an even bigger tool while you were just trying to do your job?" Nat snorts, pausing her work to settle her forearms on the bar. “Dudes like that don't hear 'no', they hear 'try harder.'"

"Funny, that's almost exactly what he said." The wine is already working its magic, softening the edges of my irritation. "He's got that whole brooding bad boy act down to a science."

"Too bad he's actually just an asshole." Nat glances at the clock, then grabs a bottle of water for herself. "Break time. Tell me everything."

I watch her circle around to join me, settling onto the next stool and tossing her golden ponytail over her shoulder. "There's not much to tell. He caught me off guard, I dropped my papers everywhere like some corny rom-com heroine?—"

"Did he do that thing where he gathers them all up for you?" Nat interrupts, rolling her eyes. "Because that would be disgustingly on-brand."

"Of course he did." I drain half my glass in one go. "Then he had the nerve to act all wounded when I accused him of stalking me. Like it's totally normal to keep 'accidentally' running into someone you literally just met."

"On a campus with twenty thousand students? Yeah, those aren't accidents." Nat takes a swig of water. "He's hunting you, babe."

"Thanks for that terrifying imagery."

"Just calling it like I see it. You need to shut this down hard before it escalates."

I swirl the remaining wine in my glass as I contemplate her warning, watching the deep red liquid catch the low bar lighting. "What do you think he'd do if I got a restraining order?"

"Probably frame it and hang it on his wall as a trophy." Nat's tone is light, but when I glance up at her with a semi-amused scoff, there's genuine concern in her eyes. "Seriously though, be careful. Those frat-fest pretty boys aren't used to taking no for an answer."

"Don't I know it." The wine glass is empty now, and Nat immediately signals to her coworker for a refill. "Every time I think I've made it clear I'm not interested, he just...amps up his game. Like my rejection is some kind of foreplay."

"Classic narcissist move." Nat grumbles, accepting the fresh glass from her colleague with a nod. "They think every no is just a yes waiting to happen."

"Well, he's going to be waiting a long time." I accept the new glass gratefully. "I'd rather die alone and be eaten by cats than give him the satisfaction."

"That's my girl." Nat bumps her water bottle against my wine glass in a mock toast. "Now, speaking of satisfaction..." Her eyes take on a dangerous gleam. "Tell me about your meeting with Professor Hottie today."

The wine suddenly feels much warmer in my throat, and I can feel a traitorous heat creeping up my neck that has nothing to do with alcohol. "Nothing much to tell."

"Oh please." Nat's grin turns predatory. "Your face is doing that pinchy-thing it does when you're hiding something good. Loosen those lips, girl. Stat."

I fidget with my wine glass, suddenly fascinated by my own fingerprints on the smudged surface. "I’m not hiding anything. I just went to his office hours to discuss my paper."

"Uh huh." Nat's not buying it for a second. "And that's why you're blushing like a virgin in a sex shop?"

"I am not…" But I can feel the heat in my cheeks intensifying. I curse my pale complexion for the millionth time and its infuriating betrayal of my every damning emotion. "It was purely academic."

"Sure, it was." She leans closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially as she drapes her arm over the back of my seat. "Come on. The way that man looked at you last week is definitely not in the faculty handbook."

"I’m sure it's all in my head," I protest weakly, but even I can hear the uncertainty. "He's just...intense. With everyone."

"Bitch, please." Nat takes another sip of water, sculpted eyebrows raised. "I've seen how he looks at other students. Trust me, you're getting the special edition Professor Shaw experience."

The wine must be hitting harder than I thought, because I find myself wanting to tell her everything—the loaded pauses, the lingering looks, the way his voice dropped an octave when he suggested I needed to explore my boundaries .

But I can't. Speaking it aloud would make it real, and if it's real, I'll have to deal with it. Besides, Nat would probably march straight to his office and demand he make an honest woman of me.

Or that he takes her instead…

"I’m beyond jealous. I'd let that man teach me any subject," Nat continues, fanning herself dramatically while she proves the point I didn’t have to make out loud. "Hell, he could give me a three-hour lecture on watching paint dry and I'd be front row, taking detailed notes."

"You're terrible," I laugh, grateful for the shift in focus from the details of that tense office hour.

"I'm just saying, if you're not going to tap that, someone should. It's practically a crime to let all that..." she waves her hand vaguely, "professorly goodness go to waste."

"Because student-teacher affairs have such a glowing rep," I counter, though my mind is already wandering to dangerous territory.

"But think of the story you'd have to tell your grandkids!" She pauses. "Okay, maybe not your grandkids. But me! You'd have to tell me everything."

"Pretty sure you're more invested in my hypothetical scandalous affair than I am,” I snort, shaking my head.

"Someone has to be! I swear, Rhea, you need to live a little." She drains her water bottle. "I'd give my left tit for the chance to have my wicked way with Professor Shaw."

I nearly choke on my wine. "Nat!"

"What? Like you haven't thought about it." Her grin is positively villainous now. "Those arms, that voice...bet he gives excellent oral feedback."

"Oh my goodness, stop!" I'm laughing despite myself, the wine clearly making everything seem funnier than it should be. "I'm just as likely to end up in Dean's bed as the professor's… Meaning, it’s never gonna happen."

Nat's face scrunches up like she's smelled something rotten. "Ugh, don't even joke about that. Dean's not worth the calories you'd burn taking your clothes off."

"Amen," I giggle, raising my severely depleted glass in mock salute.

Nat glances at the clock and sighs. "Break's almost over but listen. Forget Dean exists. He's not even in the same league as Professor Shaw, and neither of them are worth getting twisted up over if it’s all getting you too up in your head."

She slides off her stool, stretching and cracking her neck side to side. "Although...if something did happen with the Professor..."

"Nothing's going to happen."

"But if it did..." She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. "You'd tell me every dirty detail, right?"

"Get back to work," I laugh, shooing her away. "Before you get fired for neglecting your actual paying customers."

"This conversation isn't over," she calls over her shoulder as she returns to her post behind the bar.

I shake my head, smiling into the last dregs of my wine. Trust Nat to turn my academic crisis into fodder for her overactive imagination. Still...I can't quite shake the memory of Professor Shaw's eyes on me across his desk, that hint of something darker lurking behind his professional facade.

The night air is a welcome relief as I step out of O'Malley's stifling warmth, but it does little to clear the wine-induced haze clouding my brain. My boots thud against the pavement in an uneven rhythm. I'm not drunk, exactly, but there's a pleasant buzz humming through my veins that makes everything feel slightly dreamlike.

The streets are quiet this time of night, save for the distant thrum of bass from the string of clubs along Mason Street. Each storefront I pass throws different colored lights across the sidewalk—green from the Irish pub, blue from the sports bar, and then... purple .

The neon sign for Deviant bleeds across the concrete like spilled wine, and I find my steps slowing without conscious thought. I've walked this route home dozens of times, always averting my eyes from the infamous club's entrance, pretending not to notice the people slipping in and out dressed in leather and lace.

But tonight, something catches my attention. There, in the private lot beside the building, sits a sleek black Audi, its pristine paint job gleaming under the streetlights. I know that car. I've watched Professor Shaw climb out of it on more occasions that I’d care to admit out loud.

Maybe Dean’s not the only one behaving like he deserves a restraining order…

"You’re insane, Rhea," I whisper to myself, even as my feet carry me closer. The rational part of my brain is screaming that there must be dozens of black Audis in the city, that I'm jumping to wild conclusions, and that I need to turn around and go home right now.

But Nat's words from earlier echo in my head: live a little. And maybe it's the wine, or maybe it's the way Professor Shaw looked at me today like he could see right through me, but I find myself drawn toward the club's entrance like a moth to flame.

The heavy black door looms before me, gothic letters spelling out "DEVIANT" in wrought iron above. Music pulses from within, so low and deep I can feel it in my chest…

Or maybe that's just my heart threatening to burst from my ribcage.

A couple emerges, the woman's collar glinting in the neon lights, her partner's hand possessively braced at the small of her back. They barely spare me a glance as they pass, but I feel exposed, transparent. Surely anyone can see I don't belong here.

"This is crazy," I mumble to myself again, but my hand is already reaching for the door handle. "Completely insane."

The metal is cool against my palm, and for a moment I stand frozen, balanced on the knife edge of indecision. If I turn around now, I can go home, crawl into bed, and pretend this moment of madness never happened. I can face Professor Shaw in class tomorrow without knowing for certain whether that was his car, whether he spends his evenings in this den of secrets and darkness.

Or...

I could push open this door. I could step inside. I could know.

My pulse thunders in my ears, drowning out even the bass-heavy music. One small push, that's all it would take. One tiny movement to cross a line I never thought I'd go anywhere near.

This is a sex club. With a bad reputation…

But I think of Professor Shaw's voice today, the way it dropped low and intimate as he leaned across his desk. ‘When was the last time you did something purely because it felt good?’

Was this what he meant? Had he been testing me, probing to see if I had the courage to step into this world?

The door handle seems to burn against my palm now, daring me to find out.

One deep breath. Two. Three.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I push.

The door swings open with surprising ease, revealing a dark hallway stretching ahead like an invitation. The music swells, wrapping around me like a physical embrace, and I feel my heart stutter—and maybe even stop altogether—as I take that first, trembling step forward.