12. Beast of Burden
CHAPTER TWELVE
beast of burden
ROMAN
EMERALD BAY UNIVERSITY
FIRST DAY OF THE SEMESTER
The sprawling, castle-like architecture of Emerald Bay University reminds me of those Gothic novels that line Logan’s bookshelves. The whole thing is surrounded by lush forests and cobblestone paths, but the cloudy skies add a certain somber weight to what would otherwise be a fantastical environment.
I check my watch. I still have half an hour before class starts.
That’s enough time to fight with the projector.
My first class today is The History of Criminal Punishment in a place that both students and staff have dubbed “The Dungeon.” It’s an old, repurposed church building all the way on the other side of campus, tucked into a little patch of forest. It’s a pain in the ass to get to, but the university won’t tear it down despite the fact that everyone hates teaching in it. I fought tooth and nail to get the classroom changed, but the department wouldn’t budge. Offering Frankie a hundred bucks didn’t even work, he said his hands were tied.
I make a left and head down a long path toward the church, wondering if she’s already waiting for me. My guts twist in anxious anticipation, but when I reach the clearing, the only sight I’m greeted with is one of magnificent cedar trees that surround the building.
And no Imogen.
All that’s left of this building’s former glory is a stained glass window, creating a kaleidoscope of colors that splash against the walls, floors, and desks as you walk in. This place might be cold and musty, but when the sun hits it just right, it’s beautiful.
I head for the pulpit and take my laptop out of my bag, plugging it in and messing with the settings until the slides finally pop up on the screen.
When it comes to teaching in the dungeon, a lot of new students show up late. It used to piss me off, but over the years I’ve grown to accept it. A lot of the things that used to really irritate me started to fade away after Christa died. I was so focused on my own grief that I found myself becoming the ‘chill’ professor I’d always wanted to be. My RateMyProfessor numbers even went up; kind of a macabre silver lining. I’m sure Christa would have found that part really funny at least.
As I’m checking my email the church doors creak, swinging open, and Imogen rushes inside. My heart starts to race and I look up at the ceiling. God’s got a cruel sense of humor. The purple in her hair looks a little darker than last I remember, and she’s dressed in an oversized pink hoodie with a pair of black leggings, a bright blue backpack hanging from her shoulder. Coffee sloshes out of the disposable cup and runs down her knuckles, singeing her hand as she rushes toward me.
“Shit,” she mutters, dropping her bag and setting her drink down on the desk to lick her hand clean. “Fucking whipped cream.”
“It’s a bitch, isn’t it?”
She smiles at me, and I find it frustratingly impossible not to smile back.
“I’d say I’m not usually spilling my coffee on the first day of the semester, but that would be a lie,” she chuckles, bending over to scoop up her bag.
It’s really hard not to look at her ass, so I pretend to busy myself with random wires.
But like she said, it’s the first day. Over the semester, my infatuation will fade.
It has to.
“You might be covered in whipped cream, but at least you’re early.”
The second the words leave my lips, I wish I could fall through the goddamn floor.
Blessedly, Imogen seems content pretending that she didn’t hear anything. She heaves her backpack over her shoulder, picks up her coffee, and heads straight toward me.
“Logan told me the dungeon was a little hard to find, he didn’t tell me it was a church. It’s… nice.”
I take a small step back as she approaches, realizing quickly that I don’t have anywhere to go.
“Y— yeah. Yeah, it is.”
She stops in front of me, keeping a respectable distance.
“I was actually hoping to catch you before class started.”
“You were?” I ask, my body freezing in place.
“Yeah, uh… I don’t want things to be weird between us, or for you to think that I can’t be professional?—”
She stops herself mid-sentence, letting out a big breath as we exchange pained smiles. I wish it didn’t have to be this way; I’d give anything to go back to that night. I didn’t expect sparks to fly the way that they did: the way she kissed, the way she felt in my arms, the way she held me with a tenderness I haven’t felt in years.
“Anyway, I’m not gonna tell Logan about what happened, and I’m perfectly happy to leave all that stuff behind us. I had a great time, but I don’t want you to lose your job and no other school would take me?—”
As she’s talking, I notice a small smear of whipped cream on the corner of her mouth. It’s hard to focus on anything else, and if I was a much bolder man who didn’t give a shit about my job, I’d?—
“What are you looking at?” She asks.
“You’ve got whipped cream…”
“What? Where?”
I point at the spot it would be on my own mouth, and her hand flies up to her face in a panic, trying to wipe it away. She’s not even close. I crane my neck to the side, shifting my head and pointing to the same spot on my face, just a little more aggressively.
“Right here.”
She walks a little closer, trying to match exactly where I’m pointing.
“Here?”
She swipes at her face again, just a few inches away from the target.
“No– here, I’ll?—”
“Oh, it’s?—”
I take a step toward her, reaching out and wiping the speck of whipped cream away with my thumb. She seems to shrink as she stands in front of me.
“Got it,” I murmur.
Her face was hot to the touch.
“Thanks.”
Before I can say a word and assure her that everything’s fine between us, the door opens and three students walk in. Imogen scoops up her bag, flashing me a big, confident smile, and any remnants of the awkwardness between us gets pushed aside. I have a job to do, and so does she.
“I got the rubric for the first assignment, by the way— do you mind if I sit up front?”
“That’s perfect. It’ll be easy to introduce you to the class.”
More students file in, laughing and chatting as Imogen takes a seat right in front of me. She pulls out a laptop that’s covered in stickers from different horror movies.
My God, she is a Flynn.
I busy myself, prepping my lecture notes and waiting for the chatter to die down. Imogen is alternating between working on her computer and getting distracted by each and every notification that pops up on her phone. I don’t know how she deals with that shit. It drives me nuts when it happens to me.
“Welcome, everyone, to Sociology 2100, The History of Criminal Punishment . Some of you know who I am, but for those who don’t, my name is Dr. Roman Burke and I’ve been teaching here for about fifteen years now. My work primarily revolves around grief, social stigma, and suicide, but I did my MA in criminology, which means I’m technically qualified to teach this course.”
I pick up the remote, glad for the few laughs that my lame joke got, and advance the slides.
“In this course, we’re going to be talking a lot about crime and punishment, and what it means from a sociological perspective as opposed to a legal one. We’ll also be discussing crime as a social construct, and how different violations of social norms can either be justified or condemned when we look at punishment. This is a theory-heavy course, so the readings are mandatory, and I recommend using the supplementary material in the syllabus.”
I start to slide into the same spiel I give every time I explain the course and the expectations, and I can already tell most of the students aren’t even listening. They rarely do during introductory classes. They shop online, they work on readings for other courses, or they’re texting. There’s nothing you can really do to stop it when the subject’s as dull as course expectations.
“Your TA this semester is going to be Imogen Flynn. Imogen, would you like to introduce yourself?”
“Totally!” She clears her throat and stands, sliding out of her desk and turning to face the class. “Hi. I’m Imogen, and I’m a first year PhD student. Um, my research is in subcultures. Specifically BDSM and identity management.”
That explains a lot, and it might be why she chose Frankie as a supervisor.
“Uh, sorry, I’m a terrible public speaker,” she says with a laugh, standing rigid and keeping her arms tucked at her sides. “But if you need help with anything this semester, I put my email up on Blackboard. You can get a hold of me pretty much any time, or schedule a meeting during office hours if you just want a quiet place to talk.”
She turns to me with a look in her eyes that says, please save me from this , and I grant her wish with a quick nod of my head.
“That was great, thank you, Imogen.”
Relieved, she flops back down in her seat, one of her legs bouncing up and down with some unresolved nervous tension.
“Okay, now we’ll go over the syllabus and the learning expectations, and after class I’ll post your first assignment on Blackboard.”
I’m on autopilot for the most part, having memorized this after years of repetition. When I get to the end, many students have questions about the assignment: how long it is, what they have to do… you know, the usual. As the last of the students get their answers and file out the door, I shut my laptop and Imogen makes her way toward me.
She plays with the string on her hoodie, pulling it all the way to one side so that the fabric bunches up before pulling it all the way back. The little plastic string cap looks like it’s been chewed to shit.
“Sorry, Dr. Burke?—”
I used to do the same thing with my sweaters when I quit smoking.
“Roman,” I say with a smile. “It’s okay to call me Roman.”
I’d actually prefer it. After all, this woman rode me like an animal less than a week ago. She can call me by my first name.
“Right.” She blushes, twirling the string between her fingers now. “Uh, so I just looked at the rubric and the style guidelines are missing.”
“Wait, missing? What do you mean missing?” I ask, suddenly feeling a bit frantic.
I’m precise with my work, and I was so sure I’d gone over everything with a fine tooth comb, but then again, a certain lavender-haired temptress has been invading my thoughts all damn week.
“I’ll show you.”
Imogen opens her laptop and pulls up the rubric, and she’s right. I’ve completely forgotten to put that section in. I’ve been so busy thinking about her and this situation that I didn’t even think to take a second look at it before I sent it out.
“Damnit. Sorry. My head’s been?—”
“Trust me,” she laughs, cutting me off before I have a chance to self-flagellate even more than usual. “I forget shit all the time. I submitted my thesis without a bibliography and didn’t realize it for two days.”
I snort, grabbing my own computer and pulling up the correct file.
“Here, I can send you the full version, but do you mind going over it real quick with me to make sure I didn’t miss anything else?”
“Sure.”
She leans in a little too close, gnawing at her lip as she reads. The smell of vanilla and bergamot is so strong that I’m transported back to that little hotel room.
“What I’m looking for, format wise, is standard double-spaced 12 point font. Sometimes students will mess around with the commas or periods— you know, making them bigger, but not big enough that you’ll notice right away.”
“That’s a good trick,” she says with a smirk, tapping her index finger on the table. “My personal favorite is adjusting the margins.”
“A classic! I’ve used that one too,” I confess with a laugh. “Anyway, I’m really only looking for the paper to follow the style guidelines, APA format. It’s not a test, but I want to spend my time figuring out where their analytical skills are, so I need you to focus on making sure their formatting is consistent and concise.”
She nods, quickly straightening up before flashing me a tight-lipped smile.
“Makes sense. Thanks, Roman.”
We’re both just trying to get through this, but I can tell there’s something on her mind. Before she turns to walk away, I reach out and grasp her wrist. I can’t let this get weirder than it already is.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “You seem really nervous.”
A pained laugh of disbelief tumbles from her lips and she stares at me like I’ve got two heads.
“Of course I’m fucking nervous.” She shakes her head in disbelief. “I wasn’t expecting to accidentally sleep with my boss.”
“The last thing I want to do is make this situation difficult for you.”
When I look down, I realize that I’m gliding my thumb along her wrist and quickly remove it.
“You’re not,” she whispers. “Although, Logan did ask me to give you this, and I was totally going to throw it in the bushes and tell him I lost it, so maybe things are a little awkward.”
Imogen digs in her bag, pulling out a large black envelope with my name written in gold calligraphy and a wax seal on the back. I chuckle, already knowing what this is.
A faculty only dinner.
“Will you be there?” I ask.
He does it every damn semester, but this is the first time in a while I’ve had a real reason to go.
“Well, duh, I live there,” she laughs.
“Alright, but do you want me there?”
“It’s up to you,” she replies, packing up her laptop and slinging her bag back over her shoulder. “But Logan was insistent that you attend. So… maybe I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
I watch her leave and pinch the bridge of my nose, trying not to smile.
Logan’s not going to take no for an answer.
Looks like this one’s not my call to make.