The Professor
There is a charm about the forbidden that makes it unspeakably desirable.
-Mark Twain
“ A w, fuck me,” Mr. Monroe murmured under his breath, bending over to pick up the stack of essays he’d accidentally knocked to the floor.
“Would if I could,” Spencer whispered to herself, glancing at the notes on her laptop.
Out of the corner of her eye, Mr. Monroe’s hands hesitated over the papers, just for a second, before continuing to clean them up.
Shit. No way he heard that, right? Conner, the student closest to her, disguised his titter behind a cough. Double shit.
She was sitting halfway back in the lecture hall. Sure, it wasn’t packed with students. Few people wanted to become licensed embalmers. But today, they’d had to use one of the large lecture halls due to several classrooms in the psychology wing being renovated, including the regular room for Psychology of Death and Dying .
Spencer sat off to the side. Far enough from the front to show she didn’t want to be bothered by others but not far back enough to disrespect the professor…who may or may not have heard her say she would like to fuck him. Shit again. Her and her runaway mouth. What did her mother always tell her? One day, that mouth is going to get you into trouble! Well, if only she knew.
Snippy. That was the word her mother used to describe her growing up. She was always told to stop being so snippy . If people weren’t so annoying, she could be less snippy with them. But that wasn’t a worry for much longer. One more month until graduation. Then she’d be on her own and working with the dead.
Know what’s great about dead people?
They can’t talk.
They also can’t hear the inappropriate thoughts she murmured aloud to herself.
Win-win.
“We’ll pick this up next week,” Mr. Monroe announced from the front of the room. “Remember to finish the chapter on end-of-life issues and decisions, and we’ll talk about it next class. I think it’s going to make for an interesting discussion!”
Spencer packed her laptop and notebook in her bag, grabbed her coat off the back of the chair, and made for the door before she could embarrass herself any further.
“Oh, and if you haven’t handed in your essay on the funeral process yet, it’s overdue. But you can still get it to me, and I won’t penalize you,” he added, a big smile plastered across his face.
Rolling her eyes, she pushed open the lecture hall door and slipped out. Classic Mr. Monroe. Always allowing his students extra time to get their work in. Always smiling.
Always looking so good , her brain added. She needed to stop that. Brett Monroe was not her type. He was too…cheery. Too smiley. Like the human personification of a sunbeam. Bright and shiny and full of light. The day to her night.
No, thank you.
That was another reason she enjoyed working with the dead. Their attitude matched hers more closely than most living people’s did.
But he was attractive, she’d give him that. Even if it was in a way she rarely went for. Blond, wavy hair. A crooked nose that added character to his face made his glasses sit askew. Thick eyebrows and a strong jaw strengthened his appeal. Some days, she thought he resembled a dog sticking his head out the car window—exhilarated, a bit mussed, but full of enthusiasm.
She’d look ridiculous next to him. He in his earth-toned sweater vests and her in her tight leather jacket. His wavy blond hair and fair skin, her giant black curls and umber complexion. His sensible loafers and her kick-ass platform sneakers.
Oil and water. Peanuts and gum. Spencer and Brett.
Not to mention, he was her professor . That’d be inappropriate. Some things were best left to the imagination.
“How’s Professor Smiley-Pants?” Becca wiggled her eyebrows up and down from the seat beside Spencer at Jack’s—their favourite bar.
“Oh my god, Becca. Could you make him sound more lame?” Spencer fussed, shoving Becca in the shoulder. Rebecca was her ride-or-die, one-and-only best friend. They dated for a while in a past life, but both decided they were better off friends. Becca was apparently the only one brave enough to tolerate her on a regular basis.
“Yes, I can make it more lame. Professor Nice Man, Professor Tweed, Professor Sunshine, Professor?—”
Spencer shot her a withering glare, stopping her little tirade. “I get it, I get it. He’s not the typical person I would go for. I’m not going for him, anyway. He looks fuckable, that’s all.” She threw back another shot, her fourth of the night.
“Who are you trying to convince? Me or you?” Becca’s question came with a pointed stare from underneath her shaggy pink fringe. “Seems like you're drowning something out with all those shots.”
“Whoa, now. Is that judgment I hear in your tone?”
Becca plastered on her innocent-little-me? face. “Simply an observation, that's all.”
“Well, less observing, more commiserating.”
“About…your sexy psychology professor?”
“No, Becca.” Spencer blew out a breath and rolled her eyes so far back in her head she was surprised they made it back around. “About Llewellyn! Every time I think he can’t get any weirder, he makes me eat my words.”
Becca leaned over the table between them and propped her chin on her hands. “Please tell me it’s not worse than when he dropped his cell phone into the casket during that old woman’s funeral.”
Spencer paused. The phone had gone off while the widower was giving the eulogy. Pretty terrible experience, honestly.
“Okay, it’s not worse than that, but it’s definitely more disgusting.”
A tiny squeal erupted from Becca’s lips. She loved hearing about Llewellyn’s ridiculous antics. “Lay it on me!”
“Okay. You know how we’re not allowed food in the funeral home, and we have to eat in the building off the back?”
Becca nodded, clearly excited to hear the rest.
“Well…I cleaned last night and had to refill the toilet paper in the men’s room. I walked in, and Llewellyn was sitting on top of the sink with a bucket of fried chicken on his lap, tearing into a drumstick. Then he looks at me and whispers, ‘ Do you want a piece?’ ”
Becca let out a wildly loud snort and almost fell off the barstool she was perched on, shaking with laughter.
“You’re lying! Llewellyn isn’t real,” she said between gasps. “He can’t be real. No actual person would do something like that.”
“Becca, half the time I don’t think Llewellyn’s real, and I’ve been in a practicum with him for almost a year,” Spencer said, taking another swig from her second drink of the night.
“Remember when he mixed up the outfits for Mr. Nelson and Mrs. Carlisle? What was it…a bright green dress and matching hat?”
Spencer groaned. “He said he thought the deceased was just an open-minded guy. Who was he to deny his wishes for his last outfit? ”
Becca laughed. “Which is pretty forward-thinking of Llewellyn, so props to him, but I am so glad the director caught it before any of the family ended up seeing.”
Running her hand over her face, Spencer sighed. “I honestly don’t understand why he hasn’t been kicked out of practicum.”
“Isn’t everyone desperate for good embalmers?”
“If that were the case, no one would want Llewellyn.”
“True. But how many people are going to school for embalming? Aren’t there only, like, twenty people in your program?”
“Eighteen, but yeah. I guess you’re right,” Spencer downed her fourth shot. “It still doesn’t excuse his insane behaviour.”
“No, it doesn’t. But if you shift your focus from Llewellyn to Mr. Good Butt, things might get a bit better?” Becca teased, poking her in the ribs.
Brushing her finger away, Spencer sighed. “I won’t win this argument with you, will I?”
A giant grin flashed across Becca’s face, making the dimples in her cheeks stand out. “You never do.”
“I have to head out. Need to open the shop early tomorrow,” Becca whined, dragging her feet as she checked her purse for her wallet and keys.
Spencer knew better. Her friend didn’t actually hate getting up early. In fact, she loved waking up with the sunrise. She had the cutest little tea shop in Whitehill. Probably in all of British Columbia. Making delicious loose-leaf blends was her universe-given calling. She was even considering expanding into a new province but hadn’t taken the leap yet.
“I should give you a ride. You’re pretty sloshed.” Becca looked her once over, only slightly disapproving of her state. “You know how you get when you’re six-drink drunk.”
“No, I don’t. Tell me more.”
Becca rolled her eyes. “You become a goof. I won’t be here to make sure you don’t make a fool of yourself. People might see what’s behind that grumpy persona. You good with that?”
“I’m good, I’m cool. Promise I’ll keep scowling. Now, I’m gonna stay and watch awful karaoke. Nothing lifts my spirits like watching people sing terrible songs terribly. And they’re terrible.”
“And you’re getting home how?”
“Rideshare or something. I’ll get home resposbibly. Responsibilly. Responsibly . Talk to you later.” She clicked her tongue and pointed finger guns at her best friend .
Becca stood on her tiptoes to wrap her arms around Spencer’s neck, giving her a hug goodbye. “Okay, but I’m telling the bartender to look out for you, anyway.”
Spencer waved Becca away with a wink. Always watching out for her, even when she didn’t have to. Becca leaned over the long glass bar, whispered into the bartender’s ear, pointed at Spencer, and then said something else. Spencer gave a wave and thumbs up to show she was okay, and Becca waved back before leaving.
The bartender strolled over to her table. “I’m Chad. Your friend there asked me to keep an eye on you. I get off in half an hour. Need a lift home?”
“I was taught not to get in cars with strangers,” Spencer replied, intending for her words to bite, but they had a distinct flirtatious overtone.
He wiggled his eyebrows. “Even bartenders who think you’re super cute?”
Chad wasn’t bad-looking himself. Reddish hair, buff body, a few tattoos. They could have a bit of fun. Get Mr. Hot Teacher off her mind. “Alright, Chad . Come back here in half an hour, and we’ll see if I get lucky. I mean…if you get lucky.”
He winked at her and sauntered back to his place behind the bar, clearly impressed with his ability to schmooze. But, in actuality, she knew it was the alcohol in her system talking rather than his generic wooing .
So, she had overindulged a bit tonight. It’d been an odd week, and she needed to blow off steam. Llewellyn was eating chicken in bathrooms, and on Tuesday, she had incorrectly weighed a body and almost mixed the wrong proportions of fluids. That could’ve been a disaster. Oh, and she was making embarrassing, off-the-cuff remarks in class about her hot professor.
Her smokin’ hot professor who always wore sweater vests and had every colour of corduroy pants known to man.
What she wouldn’t give to see him in a white t-shirt and grey sweatpants. Why did he always wear so many layers? It was ridiculous.
She should ask him. That definitely was an important question that needed answering right this minute.
Grabbing her phone off the table, she scrolled through her contacts as a thin man started crooning out “Livin’ on a Prayer” from the modest stage.
Mr. Monroe’s number was saved in her contacts from earlier in the year. He gave it to all his students in case they needed to get ahold of him for an emergency—like if a family member died or their car stalled out on the way to class and they couldn’t make it. That’s the same thing as wondering why he always wore vests, right?
Why sweater vsts?
Who is this?
Spencer from psych.
Are you alright? It’s one in the morning.
Im grat but why shirt and sweater vest?
You know I gave out my number for emergencies, right?
Big emergency. Might die if you dnt tell me.
Why sweater vests? I like them. My mom used to make me a vest for Christmas each year.
Aw prfect answer, Mr. Good Butt.
***
You shud wear less.
Are you sure you’re okay, Spencer? Where are you?
Jack’s Pub. The kareeokey is so bad. This guy’s killn sum Bon Jovi tho.
Have you been drinking, by chance?
Mayb. Y?
Do you need a ride home?
Nah. Bartendr said he drive me.
The bartender? You know this guy?
No, but he’s cute and no sweater vsts, so y not?
Spencer. Stay there. I’m coming to get you.
Gotta ride n he says im cute too. All good.
You are not getting in some random guy’s vehicle.
Not random, he’s Chad.
There’s no way his name is Chad. And there’s no way he’s taking you home.
Oh yes he is.
Oh no he’s not. I’ll be there in 15. Don’t move.
Spencer sat on the barstool, staring at her phone. Mr. Monroe was on his way to pick her up. Right now.
Oops.
Genuinely, she wanted to know why he always wore all those sweater vests. It drove her nuts not knowing what was underneath. Was he soft and cuddly or firm and muscular? Either way, she wouldn’t mind. Both were good with her.
Not that she really cared.
Not that anything could happen between them.
God. She should’ve stopped drinking an hour ago.
Maybe Becca was right. Spencer had a thing for Brett Monroe. She had it bad. And he was on his way to Jack’s Pub right this second to pick her up. Her fill of bad karaoke would have to be satisfied in the next ten minutes.
After listening to the best worst rendition of “Like a Virgin” she’d ever heard from a short, 80-something-year-old woman, she waved at Chad. He hustled over with hope of sex in his eyes.
“Guess I won’t be needing that ride after all,” she informed him.
“You sure?” He cocked an eyebrow at her, inquiring without saying the words: so we aren’t gonna bang?
“Don’t have a choice, to be honest.” Spencer feigned annoyance and pointed to her professor stalking through the front door of the bar. Really, she was thrilled at the sight of him. She’d never seen him quite like he looked at this moment.
Clearly, he’d been asleep prior to her texts. His hair was disheveled, and a pillow crease lined his cheek. What caught her eye, however, was the lack of a signature sweater vest and all-around professor attire. In its place was a black hooded sweater and—lord have mercy—a pair of heathered grey sweatpants. His stormy gaze locked on her as he marched to where she was seated.
“Let’s go, Spencer.”
“Whoa, whoa, my man. I’m takin’ Spencer home. It’s not a problem,” Chad interjected. His lack of ability to read the room was unsurprising.
“I don’t think so, my man ,” Mr. Monroe retorted, mocking the bartender. She’d never seen him mock someone before. Did he sound a bit…pissed off? “Spencer?” His eyes were on her again.
“Sorry, Chad. I better take off. Next time.” She grinned and wiggled her fingers at him in a gesture that looked something like a wave goodbye.
“Whatever you say, babe. I’m around.” He smirked and headed back to the bar to serve another party who was wrapping up their karaoke session.
“How much did you have to drink?” Mr. Monroe gently led her toward the exit. No judgment in his tone, despite her messy behaviour and him being pissed off only seconds ago.
Spencer sighed. “Not gonna lie. A lot.”
The cool night air was a welcome sensation on her face, and Mr. Monroe’s grip on her arm made her warm and tingly.
“Enough to drunk text my profsessor… professor about sweater vests. Which you are not wearing. Don’t you have nighttime vests? Vest pajamas? Bedtime formal wear?” She snorted, far too pleased with herself.
A small smile crossed his face. “Actually, I sleep in the nude, so I threw on the quickest thing I could grab. You don’t approve? ”
Was he flirting? “Oh, I approve.” She gave him two big thumbs-up as she stumbled into the passenger seat of his car. When had he opened the door for her? Wait. When had they gotten to his car? Did she just…double thumbs-up her hot psych professor?
Oh boy. She must’ve passed normal drunk a while ago and stumbled into trashed territory. She begged her brain not to do anything too stupid or embarrassing. Come morning, there was a good possibility she wouldn’t remember any of this.
“Are you comfortable telling me your address?”
Always so sweet, Mr. Monroe. Asking for consent to have her address. She wondered what else he would ask consent for. How sexy that would be.
“Uh, Spencer?”
Mr. Monroe was looking at her like she had three heads. Realizing she must have been sitting there daydreaming, Spencer rattled off her address, and he started toward her place.
“So…Mr. Good Butt, huh?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the road. She could see his smug expression, though. “Not the name I expect to hear one of my students calling me.”
“I mean, s’true. Even in those ter’ble pairs of corduroy pants you wear, your ass still looks great,” she countered, slurring her words only a little.
That earned her a chuckle. Turning to her, he asked, “Any other outfit choices of mine you’d like to critique? Or is it only the vests and pants?”
“No, tha’s it. But I’d love to see you without them on,” she hiccupped.
Mr. Monroe gave her a questioning look from underneath his glasses.
Her eyes went wide when she realized what she’d said. “Not like that! Just not in those clothes. You would be in different clothes. Clothed.”
“Glad we cleared that up.” He cleared his throat, probably trying to hide the amusement in his voice but failing miserably.
“Although…if you’re in different clothes, I still wouldn’t be able to see your butt. And Becca calls you Mr. Good Butt, but I’ve never seen your butt. And neither has she. So you could take off those clothes, let me see your butt, and then put on different clothes. Everybody wins.”
“How do I win in this scenario?”
“I get to see your butt,” she stated matter-of-factly. Wasn’t it obvious? Was she saying butt a lot?
“And that’s a win for me, how?”
Spencer worked it out in her head. “Well…if I like your butt, then I’d show you my butt. Fair trade.”
There was a long pause. Mr. Monroe shifted in his seat but remained quiet.
Shit.
Something she said ?
“You don’ wanna see my ass? S’it too big?” She started yanking up her leather short-shorts, determined to check on her own behind.
“Oh my god, Spencer. You are not making this easy on me,” he sighed.
She stopped. Yanking on her seat belt, she turned in her seat to fully face him. “What’s not easy?”
“You’re my student. I’m your professor. I shouldn’t be thinking about seeing your ass.”
“So you do want to see my butt,” she stated.
“Are you going to remember any of this tomorrow?”
She shook her head. “Not a chance. Well, a tiny chance, but not a high one.”
He took a moment, as if debating something, then exhaled a big breath. “Yes, I want to see your ass. Look at you. You’re incredibly sexy,” he blurted out. “I’d be an idiot not to notice you like that. You’ve been taking classes from me for almost two years.”
All this time when she’d been noticing him, had he also been noticing her? Did he have stupid daydreams about her, too?
“Do you ever think about me? Not in the classroom? Because I think about you all the time. And not only about your butt. I think about your hair, your beautiful, crooked nose, your chest, what your co?—”
“Fuck’s sake,” Mr. Monroe interjected, stopping her before she could confess how many times she’d imagined his cock .
Was it big? Was it thick? How long was it? Was there a slight bend to one side or the other? Did he know how to use it? Could he satisfy her the way she wanted?
“What?” She feigned innocence and batted her eyelashes at him. “You don’ like the word cock?”
“You’re killing me, Spencer,” he groaned.
Oh. She liked how that sounded. He needed to do it again.
“Or you don’ like the idea of me talking ‘bout your cock, specifically?”
Another groan, this time accompanied by a hand reaching down to shift something in his pants—something very obvious, thanks to the sweatpants he had on. Oh yeah. She could work with that.
She twirled a curl around her finger. “You like that? Wanna know more of what I’ve been fantasizing about?”
“Yes. No,” he grumbled in frustration. She rarely heard him grumble. “Spencer, I’m your professor. It’s inappropriate.”
“You mispronounced hot .”
“No, I mean it’s forbidden. I could get into trouble.”
“Both of those things sound fun to me,” she smirked. “And by the tent in your pants, I’d wager they sound fun to you, too.”
“Spencer, you’ve had a lot to drink. I’m not sure if you know what you’re saying. I’m going to get you home safely and then pray you forget everything that’s happened since I picked you up.”
“You’re always so sweet,” she moped, slumping in the passenger seat. “Would it kill you to be a little sinful every now and again?”
“Believe me, if I could…” He scrubbed a hand through his curly blond locks.
“You’d what?” she prompted, perking up.
“So many things, Spencer,” he said, shaking his head. “So many things.”
“But you won’t tell me.”
“Nope.”
“Because you’re too good?”
He grunted, shifting himself in his pants again. “Because if I start, I won’t be able to stop. And telling you won’t be enough. I’ll want to show you, and if that happens, all bets are off.”
Wow. She sat in silence, taking it in. Her head swam. Partially from the alcohol but mostly from Mr. Monroe’s confession. She needed to remember tonight. A lot of it would be lost to the black hole of sloppy drunkenness.
“Do you have any roommates?” he asked, breaking the silence while winding his way through the last few streets that led to her tiny starter home.
“Why? You want to come in for a nightcap?”
He sighed. “I don’t want to leave you high and dry tonight if you don’t have anyone to take care of you. I would hate to leave you if you’re going to get sick or pass out or something.”
So sweet.