Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Fallon
PJ: Can I see you this afternoon? I’m dying to put my mouth on you again. Also, I have something I want to talk to you about
Fallon: I was hoping so. The security guy you recommended is coming over. I’d like you to be there.
PJ: I’ll be there. Need to make sure my baby stays safe
I roll my eyes as I cross the BAU campus on the way to the Littman Language Arts building. After getting wrapped up with PJ and taking care of Bruiser these last couple of weeks, the fear over that greeting card has almost faded into the background of my mind.
Nothing came of my visit to the police, nor any further poking around at the card shop or the flower shop. With no further avenues to pursue and the knowledge that nothing happened after the previous cards appeared, I decided for my sanity’s sake to let it all go.
Still, PJ’s been insistent that I meet with Everett Cartier, the security expert his friend recommended, to be on the safe side. A few cameras or motion sensors or whatever couldn’t hurt. The pressing issue for the moment, though, is throwing myself into the beginning of a new school semester.
Fallon: I’m looking forward to seeing you, Keeper.
So what if he’s younger? He makes me happy. What else matters?
To be honest, I can think of a few things that matter. Still, I’m falling hard for this guy. I want so badly to believe that anything else can be overcome. Like my family. They didn’t love Marina either, but we all managed to get along.
I smile as I approach the building and slide my phone into my pocket so I can pull open the heavy door and find my way to my classroom.
My logical brain keeps telling me it’s a little silly, letting a much younger man dominate me, but I can’t deny that I’ve felt more alive and more focused since PJ entered my life. He’s been good for me.
The classroom is buzzing when I walk in, the hundred-seat auditorium slowly filling up with freshmen who may or may not be interested in literature but are being forced to learn anyway.
There are both pros and cons of teaching a required course. Job security, for one, and not having to worry too much about whether the students like me. They’ll do the work or they’ll take the class again next year. Nobody wants that.
When the hour strikes, I pull out my seating chart template and a stack of syllabi, which I pass to a student in the front row. “Send these around, would you?”
The young man, dark-skinned with wire glasses, seems startled by my speaking to him, but does as he’s told. You can always count on the kids sitting in the front row. They’re the ones who got straight A’s in high school and are bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and ready to do the extra credit.
“Okay, everybody, listen up.” I wait for the murmurs to die down and most eyes to be on me. A few students are still on their phones, but that’s to be expected. I don’t make a huge deal about it. These kids are adults now, whether they like it or not.
“Everybody, please take a moment to decide if you’re happy where you’re sitting. If you want to move, do it now. University policy requires that I track attendance, which is a massive pain in the ass in a classroom this size.”
There’s some snickering around the room.
“Rather than waste my time and yours, I will take attendance once, today, and then I will rely on a seating chart so that I can see easily who is missing. So, again, anyone who wants to move, please do so now.”
A couple of girls who had trickled in late move from the back to farther up front, but otherwise, people remain where they are.
“Good.” I proceed with taking roll, carefully mapping each student as they raise their hand to the little boxes on the paper in front of me.
After a semester of wasting time taking roll every class, this solution has worked best with my visually oriented brain.
At the end, only two students are missing, which isn’t bad. Mala Patel and Philip Jeffries.
Another upside of teaching a required course. You don’t have to worry too much about fluctuating rosters. Most of the kids stay, because they have little choice.
“All right, a few more housekeeping items before we get into the material. At least fifty percent of your tests and quizzes will come from class notes, so take good notes. If those of you in the shadowy seats at the back are thinking I’m not likely to notice if you miss a few days, you might be right.
However, your quiz grades will let me know.
If you need to miss class for a legitimate reason, send me an email and I will do what I can to work with you.
And because I get this question far too frequently, I’ll go ahead and spell it out for you.
A doctor’s appointment is an excusable reason to miss class. A hangover is not.”
More snickering.
“Any questions?”
Approximately two hundred pairs of eyes stare at me as if they’re a gaggle of deer and I’m bearing down on them with blazing headlights.
“Good. Now, let’s get into the syllabus.”
There’s a clang as the heavy auditorium doors open. Once I can see, I’m convinced my eyes must be playing tricks. This is one of the older auditoriums on campus; the lighting isn’t the best, but I could swear the person coming toward me looks an awful lot like PJ.
The same fiery hair, the same confident gait.
Though I’m used to seeing PJ in suits and tight slacks, this guy is wearing jeans and a T-shirt.
When he turns his attention from jogging down the shallow-stepped aisle to me, I see the recognition on his face.
He freezes and nearly stumbles, but keeps going.
This can’t be right. It can’t.
Choking on my heart, I look again at my attendance list. At the two names not checked off.
Phillip Jeffries. It’s at that moment I realize that in all of my time with PJ, I never asked him what PJ stood for.
I never asked his last name. How is it I’ve had him inside me, I’ve let him fuck me bare, let him grab me by the hair and shove his cock down my throat, but I never asked his last fucking name?
I clear my throat and check my position behind the lectern, because for some fucked-up reason the crotch of my slacks is feeling tight. “Phillip Jeffries?”
My hands shake, panic mixing with the arousal that kicks up whenever I’m near PJ. This man who has dominated me, shoved me face down into a couch, and given me jerk-off instructions over video chat, is my student.
In a freshman literature class.
“Um. Yeah.” He gives a halfhearted wave. “Sorry, I’m late. I got…held up at work.”
So many questions, not that I can ask a single one now. A young man in the front, the one I gave the syllabi to, turns in his seat and waves to PJ, motioning for him to sit next to him.
PJ gives me a questioning look, as if to ask whether I’d mind him sitting that close, but I can’t answer, and it doesn’t matter anyway. Anywhere he sits in this room, I’ll be acutely aware of his presence.
A dizzy wave comes over me. PJ being here changes everything.
Belle Argo University is a fairly liberal school, and their policies about teacher/student interactions are looser than some I’ve heard of.
Teachers have dated students, and in fact, I met a management professor last year who married a student while she was still in attendance at the university.
She was pre-med, though, and he had no ability to influence her grades or standing at the school.
Sleeping with a student whose grades I control is an absolute violation.
“You’re forgiven, Mr. Jeffries, but please do see me after class so I can give you a rundown of what you’ve missed.” Somehow I manage to keep my voice steady.
PJ nods, looking more sheepish than he ever has with me, and slides into a seat next to his star pupil friend.
I manage a couple of deep breaths to get myself under control before I remember I still have an entire class waiting for me to continue.
For once, I’m grateful for the idiots who are on their phones.
At least they aren’t unknowingly witnessing what is about to be the end of my relationship.
“Moving on. We’ll be starting with The Scarlet Letter—”
A noise off to the side snags my attention, and I find myself once again looking at PJ, even though I know I shouldn’t. He’s staring straight at me, blue eyes wide, with his pen poised, but he hasn’t written anything down. I can see his notebook from here.
This is an absolute nightmare. I’m simultaneously turned on and horrified, and I can’t decide which one to pay attention to first.
Neither, because you’ve got a class to teach.
I tear my gaze away from PJ—Keeper—PJ and force myself to get through the remainder of the syllabus. I take questions, which I answer as quickly as possible, and put several off with a suggestion to see me during office hours.
Then I do something I’ve never done. I dismiss the class ten minutes early.
Usually, I start with a brief overview of The Scarlet Letter, but I absolutely can’t today. Not when I can feel the heat of PJ’s stare on me and I’m having an impossible time controlling my response.
Typically, I’m a restless instructor, wandering the room as I speak, sometimes using the opportunity to nudge students who appear not to be paying attention.
Today I’ve been able to do nothing but stand tense behind the lectern, gripping the wood with a force so hard I’m surprised I didn’t hear something crack.
It’s not until the classroom is emptying that I manage to relax. Until PJ says goodbye to his friend and makes his way over to me. There are still a few students at the top of the auditorium who haven’t cleared the exit doors.
PJ notices them too, asking casually, “You wanted to talk to me?”
“Yes, Mr. Jeffries, you missed the attendance policy.” The auditorium doors close with a loud bang, signaling the departure of the last few students.
All I can do is stare.
PJ glances behind him before saying, “My schedule says the instructor for this class is F. Monroe. I thought your last name was Leslie.”
“Leslie was Marina’s last name. Fallon Leslie is the pen name I used to write my books.
It seems that out of all the things we discussed, we never covered some of the most basic things you can know about someone.
Like, for example, the fact that you are somehow a twenty-four-year-old college freshman? ”
PJs shakes his head. “I’m a senior. Literature isn’t my strong suit, so I put the class off.”
“I see.” We both fall silent. I have so many more questions, but the bottom line is that the answers don’t matter.
This beautiful man who I was beginning to think of as someone I could have a future with is about to become my past.
“You know we can’t see each other anymore,” I say quietly.
The lectern sits on a raised platform. Along with my height advantage, it puts me well above PJ. The way he’s glaring at me with his shoulders back and his chin lifted, I may as well be the smaller one.
His expression hardens. “Just like that?”
I exhale, suddenly exhausted. “PJ, this job was the only thing that kept me sane after Marina passed. I cannot lose it. And I absolutely cannot date a student whose grades I influence.”
“You wouldn’t do that. You’re not that kind of person. I may not have known your real last name, but I know you, Fallon. You care too much about doing the right thing.”
He’s right. I wouldn’t. “It doesn’t matter what kind of person I am.”
“Doesn’t it?” He smiles, advancing toward me. I can see the heat in his eyes, the intention, before he even says anything more. “Doesn’t it matter how good we are together?”
“If you’d asked me yesterday, I’d have said, of course it matters. But I can’t do this, PJ. I can’t.”
“What about—” He exhales a humorless laugh. “Never mind. I guess I’m not coming over tonight, then.”
“I’m sorry.”
I truly am. My insides are hollow and cold and all I want is PJ to fill that space again. I’d give every cent I have to step into a time machine and go back to any other moment that isn’t this one. Because even now I want to touch him more than I want my next breath.
PJ shakes his head. “This is so fucked up. Tonight’s the security guy. I wanted to be there. I wanted to be there for you, Fallon, so I could help make sure you’re safe from whatever psychopath has been lurking around.”
“I haven’t heard anything more from them. It’s probably a prank.”
“Right. Well, I guess that’s all that matters, isn’t it?”
It isn’t. Not even close.
“You know what? Doesn’t matter. Don’t say anything else.” PJ walks out, his steps loud and final in the empty auditorium.
I manage to stay still until the doors clang behind him, then I race to the nearest trash can as the contents of my breakfast threaten to come back up. I swallow once, then twice, before losing the battle.
How can I possibly see PJ in class three days a week for the next twelve weeks and not respond to him?
I don’t know how to recover from this.