Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Ashleigh
Three Weeks Later
T oo much. Everything is just too fucking much. Soft ticks sound ominous in my ears as the stupid analogue clock ticks away above the door.
Why the hell do we even have those? Shouldn’t Loftry be further into the twenty-first century than this? Grabbing the chair from my desk, I drag it over to where it resides.
With what this dorm room costs, they shouldn’t care if the clock is here or not. Unfortunately, as I tug on it, I find that it’s somehow adhered to the wall. What exactly am I supposed to do if the batteries run out?
Irritation slithers up my spine as I slump away, defeated. I just need something to go right. A win. That’s what I need. A fucking win.
Pulling up the app where I write my articles, I skim this week’s lineup. Not much happening on campus. At least, not much that’s going on with the school. I, however, seem to be taking the brunt of the students’ frustration.
It didn’t matter that I did a nice, touching article about the candlelight vigil held for Chase Ackerman. They still seem to want blood. Hell, even Dean Anderson had nothing bad to say about this one. At least, if he did, it was never conveyed to me.
The other students, however, not mollified with my treatment of the overdose situation, seem to be latching onto my side article about skiing for spring break. How the hell am I supposed to know that most of these students here aren’t rich enough to ski?
It’s very clear that the school helps out with scholarships and such, but to my understanding, it’s not as if people can just get financial aid. I suppose that’s my rich girl privilege then. But to send me angry emails and messages over something so stupid? Asinine.
Now, instead of publishing some hard-hitting piece like I want to, I have to play to the crowd again and placate them. It’s stupid. All of this is so fucking stupid.
A soft growl rips from my throat as I toss my laptop onto the bed and pace back and forth. Pain slices through my soul, leaving me to bleed out in a way that has no evidence. Nothing feels good. Nothing feels right. And it’s not these stupid articles or this stupid paper.
Deep down, I know this. I know exactly what’s wrong. It’s him. It’s Dean. Fucking. John. Asshole. Anderson.
Three weeks. Three fucking weeks with no interaction with the mighty dean. It’s as if the meeting with that jerk psychiatrist was the catalyst for his absence.
It’s not as if he’s been gone. I’ve seen him out and about on campus. He’s given addresses, speeches, and even slipped in and out of dorm rooms for some odd reason.
Not that I was watching. Somehow, we kept ending up within several yards of each other, yet out of reach. No way was I going to draw attention to myself. Not when he so clearly doesn’t want to communicate with or even see me.
Unfortunately, I can’t know for sure there’s anything wrong without confronting him and coming across so paranoid that it might get me locked up in Doctor Andrew’s cage of horrors.
Pulling out my phone, I look through the notes from my advisor, looking for something, anything, that can explain this in a calm, rational way. As much as I wish there is something to latch onto, it’s just not there. Besides, it’s not as if I’ve been really pushing the dean’s buttons all that much.
As of right now, there’s some kickback over my Greek Rush article, as well as yet another stern text telling me to leave Chi Sigma Delta alone, but nothing else. What does he want me to do? When I’m ‘bad,’ he takes me over his desk and gives me the sternest paddling of my life.
Then, to top it all off, he canes me, forcing sensations I didn’t even know was possible fluttering through my body. Now nothing? I suppose something deep down hoped if I was actually good, he’d take me back into his office and congratulate me another way, a far more intimate way.
That’s just insanity, though. He must not feel the things for me I feel for him. It would explain all of it. That or... Pulling my laptop back up, I go into my search engine and type out a single query.
Is it illegal to have sex with the dean of your university?
Almost instantly, search results populate, each more heart wrenching than the first. Even if it’s not outright illegal in some states, it’s practically forbidden on all campuses.
Forbidden.
Fuck. As if I needed help in making this worse. Even as I mull that word over in my mind again, my insistent clit pulses at the very idea of being back at his mercy. Trapped in his clutches.
Maybe next time, I won’t wear any panties at all. I know the thong leaves very little to the imagination, but I could always just ‘forget’ them. Right? Would he still resist me then?
Shit. This is pure insanity. How many nights have I fallen to sleep after getting off to the very idea of him fucking me over the desk as my ass throbs from what he just punished me with? How many times have I raced away from class just to stroke myself to the very image of him rolling up his sleeves like the imposing disciplinarian he is?
The psychiatrist may have thought he was helping, but he did the very opposite. By giving me exactly what to search for, he armed me with knowledge I never had before. Unfortunately, it’s enough to make my thoughts dangerous but not enough to actually give me what I crave—hands on experience.
Glancing over at the worn, crumpled sheet of paper I received a few weeks ago, heat infuses my face. Enough. I need answers, and right now, only one person can give them to me.
Something must have changed, and only one variable massively shifted. The know-it-all psychiatrist. He had to have said something, done something. Why else wouldn’t the dean drag me to his office for every little provocation as he did before? How else, unless he somehow found out about my predilections?
Dragging on a light coat, I slip out into the chill to make my way toward Doctor Andrew’s. I don’t have an appointment, but maybe he’ll still see me for a moment. Even as I drive down toward his office, I question the sanity of my actions.
He’s going to think I’m crazy and try to commit me. I’m sure of it.
The trees whip past my window just as fast as the tizzy spinning in my head. By the time I make it to his office on campus, my pulse races as so many thoughts and worries fly through at breakneck speed. I need some answers. Something. Anything.
Flying into the front office, the poor girl sitting at the window jumps and puts her hand over her heart as her chest heaves with every breath.
“So sorry. I wasn’t trying to scare you. Is Doctor Andrew available for a moment? I need to ask him a question.”
“You just missed him. He should be heading to an appointment-“
Her words sound like a soft drone to my ears as I stumble back into the chill. What am I going to do? I wasn’t even planning on coming out here, but to leave with nothing?
Just as I’m about to slip back into my car, a small noise catches my attention. From the back of the office, Doctor Andrew steps out onto the asphalt and heads to his car. Every inch of his demeanor is ramrod, as if he has somewhere important to be. Great. Now I’ll just be pissing him off on top of everything else.
“Doctor Andrew?”
His head whips around as his gaze seeks me out. At least he doesn’t seem hostile. “Can this wait? I have somewhere important to be and must prepare.”
“It’s really quick. I promise.” Desperation claws at my insides as I keep walking toward him.
His heavy sigh punctuates the silence as he looks up at the sky then down at his watch. “You have five minutes.”
“I’ll only take two or so. Did you tell the dean about what we talked about?”
“You doubt my word? I am bound by client-patient confidentiality. I would never tell him anything you said.”
“Yes,” I press as my brain thinks of every loophole I can possibly find in his words. “I understand that you didn’t repeat anything or quote me, but did you convey the nature of our meeting to him in any way?”
For a moment, an odd expression flashes across his face. Could it be admiration? Such an odd reaction.
“He asked me if all was okay. I assured him you were well and that I cannot say anything more.”
“Did you leave him a note? Text? Email? Some form of communication that’s not verbal?” An unhinged, nearly feral sensation washes over me that’s far more potent than desperation.
Something in my gut tells me he’s just as slippery as I am when it comes to words. He could very well be speaking the truth and never once actually opened his mouth to say anything to him.
“Is there a reason as to why you are interrogating me like this? Has something happened?”
“No!” I eventually cry out. “That’s just it. Nothing has happened. It’s been nearly radio silence since you and I spoke.”
“I see. I take it from the hysteria dripping off of you that this silence is unnerving.”
“Hey now!” I bite out. “I’m not hysterical!” Unfortunately, even to my own ears, I can hear it. Not that it’s without reason, though.
“Were this a bit over a century ago, you would have been strapped down to a table and had orgasms forced out of you. All in hopes of quelling the reactions you’re exhibiting now.”
For a moment, I can’t speak. Did he really just say that? More to the point, did he just threaten me with a vibrator and orgasms?
“This is highly inappropriate.”
“No. You lusting after the dean of Loftry University is inappropriate. You hounding me outside of a scheduled appointment time to cross-examine me over something I’ve given my word about is inappropriate. This is merely a history and science lecture all rolled into one. You’re quite welcome.”
It takes everything in me to roll my eyes at his comment. But again, as with everything else coming out of this man’s mouth, he has a fucking point.
For a moment, we both stand there looking at each other like we’re idiots until he breaks the silence once more. “You researched what I gave you, yes?”
Heat climbs up my neck and blazes in my cheeks. “Well, yeah.”
Why couldn’t we both have forgotten all about this? Now, I’m stuck in this weird nightmare that just keeps looping. Instead of being naked at school in front of an audience, I’m having to talk about my deepest fantasies with a practical stranger.
“And how did that make you feel?”
For a moment, I can’t answer him. All I can feel is heat continuing to rise into my cheeks, burning my face as it turns me from a frigid ice cube to a molten mess.
“I see. Have a good rest of your evening.”
“But I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to. Oh, and Miss Hartwell. If you ever want to quote me for your articles again, I suggest you tell me it’s on the record. I’d hate to have to tell the dean what a nuisance this paper is.”
My brain buzzes as I think back on the most recent things I’ve written. “I didn’t say anything inflammatory. It was an article about Greek Life, Rush, and hazing.”
“But your quote makes it seem as if I’m against all that in general. I have no such stance. I’m rather neutral on the subject. Also, I’m sure John has told you this before, but maybe hearing it from another professional might help. Stay away from Chi Sigma Delta. They are not to be bothered or trifled with. Now then, you’ve used your allotted time. I really must go.”
The small hairs on the back of my neck rise as I watch him pull out of the parking lot. That damned sorority again. What is going on there that they don’t want the students to know?