Chapter 23 – Leslie
“Come in,” Professor Evans called.
I entered her office. It was bright and light and cluttered with more books than I’d ever seen in my life outside of a library. I loved it immediately.
The professor herself sat behind her desk, staring at her phone. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was blushing behind her glasses.
“Are you okay?” I asked her.
She looked up from her phone, smiling gently. “Of course. Just got caught up with this stupid little box of technology. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that Millennials aren’t as addicted to their phones as your generation is.”
I laughed, a little weakly. I wasn’t looking forward to this conversation.
“So how can I help you, Ms. Berger?”
“It’s about the partnered project for class.”
She sat back in her chair, eyes trained on mine. “What about it?”
“I’d like to see about changing partners. Or if I can even do it myself.”
“Hmm.” She took her glasses off and carefully folded them before placing them on the desk in front of her. “It’s a little late to change partners. The outline for your presentation and paper are due tomorrow.”
“So then let me do it alone,” I practically begged.
“The point of this project is to get you all comfortable with partnered projects. Often, those come with…friction.”
I tried not to blush at the word friction, and Professor Evans was kind enough to pretend not to notice that I failed.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Mason and I…” the words caught in my throat. I tried again. “We don’t see eye to eye on a number of things.”
“Hmm.” She closed her eyes for a moment, and I waited, my feet tapping out their anxiety on the floor. I didn’t know how much she knew—I’d die if she knew about the sex—but the subtext in her words made it clear she knew that there was more to my relationship with Mason than stepsiblings and project partners.
Opening them, she smiled again. “In any sort of project, compromise is hard, especially if the partners have different…end goals. Especially if one of the partners isn’t sure what their end goal is.”
“I—I don’t know what to say.”
She nodded. “You don’t have to say anything, not to me at least. I recommend talking through the friction with your partner so you can agree on a joint goal.”
“What if it’s not our goals, but our approach that we can’t agree on?”
At that, she smiled. “A lot of the time, people—men especially—always use a hammer, because they can’t imagine anything isn’t a nail.”
“So what do I do?”
She rose, lifting her hand to emphasize our time was up. “Give him a tool that isn’t a hammer.”
Outside her office,I texted Mason.
can we talk?
The bubbles appeared, disappeared. Nothing.
we need to work on our project
our outline is due tomorrow
unless you want to fail a class your first semester of college…
Words appeared. I knew that would get him.
meet me at my place
I couldn’t go back to his suite.
no, mine
you really want me in your space?
Good point.
the library then
no library
I got my ass handed to me at practice today and need a soft surface
I was annoyed at myself for how worried his words made me. I immediately wanted to comfort him, bring him ice, give him a massage—anything to help him feel better.
But hadn’t he done the same for me?
fine
I’ll meet you at your place in twenty
Bubbles appeared. Then:
have you eaten?
that’s not anything for you to worry about
He saw right through me. Of course he did.
I’ll make sure I have something for you when you get here
His words sent tingles through me, damn him. Even though they were so bossy.
Professor Evans’ words echoed in my head. Give him a tool that isn’t a hammer.
Was there a way for me to teach Mason that he didn’t have to control me in order to have me, he just had to care about me?
And was it even worth it to try? Or would I just end up with a bruised—or worse—broken heart?
When I gotto his suite, I hesitated outside the door. I hadn’t seen him since I’d ended things—was it really a good idea to be in his space with him again?
But he’d agreed with me, hadn’t he? He’d left, and he hadn’t said a word since.
“Door’s open,” he called. His voice sounded gruff.
I pushed it open. He lay on the couch, shirtless, eyes closed. As I slowly moved toward him, I gasped. Bruises peppered his ribs and abs, barely visible now, but they’d be black and blue tomorrow.
“Can you get me the ice out of the freezer?”
I grabbed it for him, and crossed to the couch. But instead of handing it to him, I carefully pressed it on his chest, feeling a need to help, to soothe his pain.
“What happened?”
He cracked open an eye. “Had some extra aggression to get out today. Things got a little heated during practice.”
“Why’d they get heated?” I asked, moving the ice pack to another part of his chest as he sighed.
“Someone said something I didn’t like. Had to make it clear they weren’t going to say it again.”
“What did they say?”
He opened his other eye but didn’t say anything.
“Oh. You mean they said something about me.”
He shrugged, then groaned. “They won’t do it again, butterfly.”
“We talked about this. You can’t beat up anyone who says or does anything bad to me.”
He raised a hand, brushing it down my cheek. “Watch me.”
Feeling awkward at the touch, and the heat that spread through me, I moved away, leaving the ice pack to slide down his chest. “Where are your roommates?”
“Emory has a night class and Matt is at his boyfriend’s. There’s Thai food coming. I got you Pad See Ew.”
My favorite. Once again he knew all my secrets; I wished I knew all of his.
But what could I say? Other than: “Thank you.”
He waved this off. “I’ve realized that feeding you is one of my greater joys in life.”
“Mason. You can’t talk that way.”
“Sorry,” he said, but he didn’t sound sorry. “We should get started on the outline. C’mon, come sit. I won’t bite.”
Sure, like I believed that. Still, I sat, leaving space between us and feeling disappointed when he didn’t try to fill it with his body against mine. And angry at myself for feeling disappointed in the first place. We worked for a while, talking through the project, until the food came.
I got up to get it, serving it onto plates and bringing them to him on the couch. We ate silently, until:
“How are you?” he asked.
What was he even playing at?
“How do you think I am?” I asked him.
“I assume relieved, and feeling free, now that I’m out of your life. Or maybe I’m wrong, and you’re regretful. Lonely, even.”
I glared at him, started to get to my feet, ready to get the hell out of there. His hand shot out and gripped my wrist. It felt like a shackle, and what’s worse was that I liked it.
“Stay, Leslie.”
“Or what?” I asked, my heart speeding up.
“Or I’ll make you stay.”
“Yeah?” My heart beat even faster. I needed to go, but he’d done something to my brain, because his behavior triggered my desire now. Again with the Pavlovian response! “I don’t believe you.”
“Are you being a brat on purpose, butterfly? Because if so…” In one smooth move, he flipped me onto my stomach. “…if so, I’m going to have to punish you—again.”
And before I could protest or pull away, he delivered three sharp slaps to the underside of my ass. These spanks made the last session feel like child’s play. I tried to squirm away, but he planted one of his arms across my lower back, pinning me where I was.
Just like the butterfly he called me.