Chapter Four #2
“I was.” But he doesn’t give me a chance to ask anything else because he asks, “Is there a reason Miss Monroe’s presence in your lectures is bothering you?”
“She can’t be in my class, Thad. She can’t speak or won’t, I’m not sure. Christ’s sake, she almost had a panic attack when I asked for her name while taking attendance. How is she going to do the debates? She refuses to hire an interpreter or even sign.”
“Can she turn them in on paper? I’d ask if another student could read them out loud for her, but from the whispers I’ve been hearing… I’m not sure anyone would be willing.”
“How are we certain she can’t speak?”
“You think she’s faking it?”
“I’m thinking ‘ why is she willing to come back to the university at twenty-four as a sophomore, no less, where she was attacked so brutally it altered her entire life knowing she probably wouldn’t make much progress if she refuses to communicate?’”
Whitmore's eyes shift awkwardly around the room as if my questions agitate him. “And yet she still hasn’t said anything.” He shakes his head, light glinting off his polished bald head.
What another strange thing to say.
“There is one student that seems rather fond of her.”
“Oh?” He hands go to his desk.
“Jonas Anderson. It seems as though he’s in tune with her.”
His eyebrows hike back up to his hairline and he twists his mouth to the side. “The Anderson boy.” He sighs wearily. “Keep your eye on him, as well. The boy has certain… issues .”
Fan-fucking-tastic . “You don’t pay me the salary you do to be a glorified babysitter, Thad.” I huff and run my fingers through my hair. “I mean, what kind of school is this?”
Thaddeus shakes his head and then looks out the window onto the campus.
“A lot has changed since I was a professor. But you’re right.
You aren’t a babysitter. Forget I said that.
A lot of these students have a fair number of issues.
Thanks to social media all they do is talk about them.
The Monroe’s are good friends of mine and I promised them I would watch out for the girl. If you could just find a way -”
“I don’t cut corners, Thad.”
“I’m not asking you to lessen her workload, Maverick. I’m asking you to work with her. Her presence is a surprise to all of us. Students and faculty. I never thought a Monroe would ever walk these halls again and the name means something here.”
That captures my attention but before I can ask what he means by that; there’s a knock at the door and I’m surprised to see his son gracing us.
I get up and greet him but not before I see the face they make at each other, like a secret between them.
They plaster a silicone smile on their faces.
The hardness of the chair I’m sitting on and their fake smiles has made me very aware my time here is up. “I’ll figure something out, Whitmore.”
“Thank you, Maverick. I appreciate you coming here and letting me know. Just keep me up to date on the route you choose to take.”
I nod, shake Junior’s hand again as I take my leave.
Still having thirty minutes on my lunch hour, I decide to go to the dining hall to get something from the salad bar and finish eating before my next class.
Waiting my turn in line, I notice Raven sitting next to Jonas and two other students, football players to be exact.
The Prescott Twins. They make jokes as she blankly stares out onto the quad.
She doesn’t even crack a smile; there’s food on her fork but she mindlessly pushes it around, looking completely uninterested in absolutely everything, lost in thought or in a trance.
If she were my age, or not a student, I’d be doing what I could to run my fingers along her tattoo, to ask her the philosophy of her Lotus flowers and spider lilies.
I’d trace the woven vines that go from her inner ankle, up her leg and up her thigh, pretend I don’t feel the scar tissue she most likely has under it, and beg her to tell me.
I bet her voice is seasoned, husky and low.
Then, as though she can feel me watching her, she turns her head, like a possessed doll deadpanning and meets my gaze.
My heart drops when those beautiful twin drops of warm cinnamon whiskey look at me behind thick black lashes.
Crimson highlights the tops of her cheeks, her bashfulness making my stomach flip and my balls draw up except Jonas, the acutely attuned fucker, turns to see what she’s staring at.
He narrows his eyes at me and puts his hand on her thigh.
On that very tattoo I want to touch. Either in a way to ground her or show his possession of her, I don’t know yet.
Our connection snaps and her eyes drop and I continue on to select the ingredients for my salad.
I’m back in my classroom, tearing into my salad, unable to forget the flash of… something in Miss Monroe’s eyes. A hunger there. Fierce. Even though she had food in front of her, Miss Monroe was ravenous for something else entirely.
A part of me hoped I was the one to figure out what exactly she was hungry for.
The deplorable part that is man and Neanderthal hopes it’s me.