Chapter 7 Bastian
Bastian
The bourbon is far from adequate. Unsurprisingly, since I’m in Agony Hollow’s only wine bar.
I swirl the amber liquid, watching it catch the low light of a nearby chandelier.
The ice has melted just enough to tease the bourbon’s oak notes.
Still, the finish is disappointingly short.
In my current state, there should be club soda in this glass, not alcohol…
but waiting on Yolanda Winslow as if I’m some recalcitrant student requires something to occupy my hands.
She’s late. Deliberately so.
A petty power play from a woman who’s rapidly running out of them.
I check my watch. Another five minutes have passed since I last checked.
I could leave—should leave, frankly—but she made her position clear on the phone this morning when I again tried to weasel out of the meeting she’s been trying to set up since Tuesday.
…if you still want a job come Monday, you’ll make the time…
I feigned grief, then funeral-related duties, but for once she refused to back down. That alone was intriguing enough for me to accept.
I take another sip of my drink, relishing its burn despite the sub-par taste.
The bar is appropriately dim—all dark wood and leather booths.
It’s the kind of establishment where Agony Hollow’s so-called ‘elite’ can conduct their moderately scandalous business with a modicum of privacy.
Two tables away, a town councilman is having dinner with a woman who is most definitely not his wife.
His hand keeps finding her thigh under the table. Hers keeps finding her wine glass.
I file the observation away. Leverage is always useful.
What many people don’t realize—or perhaps choose not to acknowledge—is that apex predators can sniff each other out as easily as animals in the wild. And once we’re aware of each other, we keep a wary distance.
Dark attracts dark. Evil attracts evil.
You don’t get where I am without making friends along the way.
You don’t stay where I am without leverage.
A swell of conversation has me turning in my seat to check if Yolanda is on her way over. My pants rub against the leather seat of my booth, and I suppress a wince.
These jeans were a mistake.
I’ve been aware of this since I put them on this afternoon, but awareness doesn’t translate to giving a fuck.
Not today.
Not after the week I’ve had.
The thick denim feels wrong against my skin—too rough, too common. A glance at my reflection in the bronzed mirror beside the booth confirms what I already know.
I look tired.
My jaw is dark with stubble I couldn’t be bothered to shave. The smudges under my eyes are clearly visible, even in this forgiving light. The handful of people who recognized me when I walked in all gave me a double take.
They’ll attribute my appearance to grief, no doubt.
His mother just died, poor man.
Let them construct whatever narrative appeases their limited imaginations.
In truth, it’s been a productive week.
Not in the way I’d planned—nothing this damn semester has gone according to plan—but productive, nonetheless.
I’ve achieved a certain…equilibrium. The infernal buzzing that made it impossible to think, to sleep, to do anything except obsess over two ungrateful children who fled from me like I was the monster under their bed—
That pressure has finally eased.
Emotional release will do that.
I think of Parker’s pretty face, and the tightness in my chest dissipates.
She was so much more pliable than I’d expected. After the initial unpleasantness, when she’d realized screaming wouldn’t help, she became almost cooperative. Almost peaceful.
With her peace came mine.
That’s the nature of—
“Professor Rooke.”
I look up, rearranging what might have been a feral smile into something appropriately solemn. “Yolanda.”
Her steps falter at the diminutive address, but she doesn’t mention it. I’ve called her much, much worse things.
She slides into the booth across from me, a shrewd look in her dark eyes even as a sympathetic smile crinkles their corners. She’s wearing a tight-fitting bodycon dress in burgundy, hair down and perfume freshly applied like this is a date.
How predictable. Yolanda’s arsenal consists of her authority as dean of Agony Hollow College…and her body.
Tonight, I care for neither.
“I am so sorry for your loss,” she says. “When is the funeral? The obituary didn’t say.”
Her words are rote. Empty. She’s never been particularly skilled at pretending to care. We’re alike in that way—not caring. Difference is, I excel at pretending otherwise.
“You’re not here to talk about Evelyn.”
Her smile tightens. “No,” she agrees. “I’m not.”
I made no secret of how contemptuous I was of my mother. Yolanda doesn’t have any specifics—those I’ve always kept to myself—but she knows I’d sooner perform Evelyn’s autopsy than attend her funeral. Maybe, then, I’d finally prove my theory that she was born without a heart.
Yolanda signals the waitress, orders a bottle of their most pretentious Bordeaux, and settles back against the leather. Her posture is careful. Controlled. But her hand is in her lap, and I know for a fact she’s turning her ring around her finger.
Impatience, or nerves?
Thankfully, she doesn’t force too much small talk on me. The arrival of fall, our football team’s shot at state, the new Mercedes model launching early next year.
Our waitress returns with Yolanda’s wine, Winslow ignoring her the entire time as she opens it, simply flicking a hand at her to wave off the tasting.
“Shame about the police investigation,” Yolanda says as she picks up her wineglass by the stem and swirls the liquid with a practiced motion.
I clear my throat. It’s not particularly loud in here, but surely I misheard.
“Investigation?” Why is my voice so hoarse?
She pauses, eyebrow twitching. “Too busy rending your clothes and rolling in ashes to check the news?”
I lick my lips to cover a smile. It’s easy to forget Yolanda has two masters and a PhD when she’s forever flashing her tits and batting her eyelashes.
“Absolutely,” I murmur before taking a swallow of my bourbon. “And don’t forget the wailing and gnashing of teeth.”
She tilts her head, taking a long sip of her wine as she studies me over the rim with dark-rimmed eyes.
“I’m shocked, Bastian. The father of one of your students is found dead, and you haven’t conducted an impromptu therapy session with her yet?
I thought vulnerable and suffering was just your type. ”
I dip my head, briefly shutting my eyes. “You’re referring to Miss Lee’s father.”
“Mm,” Yolanda hums. “So you did know.”
I sigh. Shrug. “A drug overdose in a pathetic college town. What is the world coming to?”
She turns away with pursed lips, annoyed at my lack of a reaction. Probably thought she’d catch me off guard with the news. Or…
“I’m going to take a wild stab in the dark here, but is it at all possible that Miss Lee wishes to drop my class?”
Yolanda’s head snaps straight, eyes narrowed. She takes a slow sip of wine as if she’s composing herself, then mutters, “I’ve warned you before not to toy with me, Bastian.”
I love it when Yolanda pretends she has claws. It’s always a pleasure to remind her that she doesn’t.
I bring my glass to my lips. “If memory serves, you begged me to toy with you.”
Her mouth falls open.
I lean in over the table, dropping my gaze to her mouth. “Hm. Yes…” I muse. “That’s about the size of the ball gag we used, wasn’t it?”
“Miss Lee laid a complaint against you. As did Mr. Jordan, your T.A.,” she snaps.
“Did they now.”
“That’s three complaints this semester alone.” She takes a measured sip. Then another.
“Three? Who, pray tell, is the third?”
“A member of staff who believes you’ve been conducting inappropriate research without IRB approval.”
I sit back with a laugh, rapping my knuckles on the table. “Inappropriate research. That’s creative.”
“There’s nothing funny about this, Professor Rooke.”
“It’s a little funny.” I study her with a tilt of my head.
The flush creeping up her neck. The way her jaw tightens when she’s trying to maintain composure.
“If you had anything actionable, you’d have acted.
Instead, you drag me to a bar on a Friday night to deliver a threat you can’t execute.
” I tilt my head. “Unless you’d hoped this meeting would go another way? ”
Her flush deepens.
“I’m trying to help you,” she says, voice dropping. “The board is asking questions. There’s only so much I can—“
“So fire me.”
She blinks. “What?”
“You’ve been threatening since last spring.” I finish my bourbon, setting the glass down with a soft click. “Do it, or stop wasting my time.”
Frustration tightens her lips and eyes, but there’s something else there too. A flare of admiration that I dare disrespect her.
Yolanda Winslow so loves to be disrespected.
I remember the sounds she made in her office six months ago, bent over that ridiculous mahogany desk of hers. The desperate mewls that came out of her stern mouth. The eagerness with which she accepted the degradation and humiliation I doled out to her.
Then the rage in her eyes when we next saw each other…days later.
She’d expected me to call. Fucking ironic, after the way I treated her.
“All I’m asking is that you behave yourself,” she says through a petulant purse of her lips. “Surely it can’t be that hard.”
“You, of all people, should know how hard it is.” I smirk at her. “In fact, you’ve commented on it several times. In your office, when I fucked you on your desk. When you sucked my dick in the backseat of your car. Once, quite memorably, in the faculty bathroom during the—“
“Keep your voice down!” she whisper-shouts.
“Yes,” I drawl, smiling. “I forgot how much you value discretion.”
She stares at me, chest rising and falling a touch too fast.
Could be arousal. Could be fury.