26. Chapter 24
Emery
My sneakers bounce up and down, not making a sound against the plush carpet of the reception area to Dean Vandermere’s office.
I’m the only person sitting in the room, excluding his receptionist. She’s a very proper woman, her brunette hair slicked back into a twisty sort of bun at the back of her head and makeup that looks professionally applied.
I know that clothes don’t make a person, but right now, I’m more than a little thankful for my new wardrobe.
Having to sit in this room, with its super high ceilings, fancy wooden shelves, with what I can only assume are portraits of the previous deans staring down at me, I’m glad I’m not wearing my baggy jeans, which are only baggy on me because they are three sizes too big, and my holey flannel.
The walk to the admin building was thankfully quick, what with the admin building basically in the middle of campus.
There is a definite chill in the air at this time of day, and I’m not going to lie, it made getting here easier.
The two painkillers, Derek’s sunglasses, and water bottle were excellent ideas as well.
After that absolutely crushing headache on Wednesday, things seemed to have died down on the headache front. There is still a persistent awareness that something isn’t quite right, but not enough to make me feel like my head is going to explode from pressure.
Which is good, because it allows me to take in the sheer…regalness of the admin building. Walking through the massive wooden doors was like entering a portal that not only transported me back several hundred years, but also up several social classes to when women were courted by high-society men.
This whole building is pretentious as fuck, but even I can admit to feeling the history pouring out of the walls.
I can’t resist thinking about the number of people who have had their asses parked in this seat while they wait to be judged by the one person on campus who has the ability to dictate their present and future.
Knowing there is thirty K in my account right now makes it the tiniest bit less scary, but I need my degree to obtain the future I want.
It’s just a welfare check, I remind myself.
In my previous dealings with that term, it usually meant I was going to be removed from whatever home I was in at the time. But that’s not what this is about.
This is about being attacked on campus. Honestly, I thought someone would have approached me by now about the whole situation.
I’ve heard about universities covering up shit like this before, but why has no one even bothered to give me a call?
Or for campus security to come flash their rent-a-cop badges in my face and take down my details.
Not that there is any real point now, since Tray will never be a problem again.
Taking a sip of water, I check my phone for the time, only to see a message from an unknown number.
With a frown, I click on the notification, my confusion dissipating as soon as I start reading.
It’s one of those appointment confirmation things.
Apparently, I have an appointment with Dr. Everett on Monday at nine-forty-five.
I guess I won’t be going to Derek’s Monday class for a second week in a row.
Maybe even Hudson’s, since it’s directly after.
I quickly hit reply with a Yes to confirm, actually check the time, then try to keep my heart from racing when it shows that there is only a minute until my meeting wi—
“Emery Nicholas?”
Snapping my head up, I stare at the man who fills the doorway into what I assume is the dean’s office.
Older than Derek by a lot, if the more-salt-than pepper hair is any indication.
Skin that has the freshly tanned holiday look, neatly groomed beard, dark brows with even darker eyes.
He looks oddly familiar, though I can’t figure out where from.
Wherever I’ve seen him before, he wasn’t wearing his navy business suit and light blue button-up shirt.
I gather my few things and hurry past the receptionist, who breaks character and offers me a quick smile.
My stomach was only full of butterflies up until now, but that smile trips the panic switch in me.
Do I tell the truth? It’s not like I didn’t write about my childhood in my scholarship applications.
They know a little about Tray. Not everything, obviously, but enough to paint a picture that things needed to change.
Dean Vandermere’s smile is welcoming and kind, but there is something in his eyes that reminds me of my daddies. Like he is always watching. It sends a shiver down my spine.
“Please, take a seat on the couch. I see you have a drink, but can I offer you something else? Soda? Tea?” He begins to close the door behind him, but his motions stop, and he continues to speak before I can answer. “Would you like me to leave this open?”
I frown as I remain standing, brace cradled to my chest. Open? No. I just want to get this stupid meeting over so I can go back to searching for my sketchpads. “Closed is fine.”
He nods and finishes closing it.
Dean Vandermere settles into the armchair catty-corner to mine and turns a grandfatherly sort of smile on me. At least, that’s what I assume a grandfather would look like when he is doting on a granddaughter. Never had one, so can’t be sure.
“Hello, Emery. I’m Dean Vandermere. How are you feeling? Given the events of Friday night, I wanted to check in with you to see if the university can assist you in any way.”
With a struggle that I’m putting down to my earlier irritation, I manage to keep my face smooth of emotion. But fucking duh, he’s the dean. The thing is, though, seeing him sitting in that armchair, reclined, relaxed, another version of him is coming to mind.
One where there is a woman and a man kneeling by his feet.
One where he is talking to Derek while Dylan kneels before him, serving him a drink.
The memory snaps to the front of my mind and is like a punch to the solar plexus. Gasping, I shove to standing and back away from him, unfortunately putting more distance between myself and the door. “You were at the club.”
The gentle smile on his face smooths away, and he takes a deep breath before nodding, resigned to having this conversation with me. “Yes, I was.”
“So, this meeting isn’t really about my welfare?” I accuse, indignation building a nice little fire in my stomach.
Vandermere shakes his head. “Yes and no.” He leans forward, braces his elbows on his knees, and opens his palms out wide.
“This meeting is about a few things, one of which being Club Obsession, but I couldn’t very well put that in an email, could I?
There are things in each of our lives that I’m sure we would both like to keep private.
Please, take a seat. There is no threat here.
This is merely a conversation. I promise.
It will not impact your place at Newton University or your scholarships.
And given the circumstances, I think you can drop the Dean Vandermere and call me Thayne. ”
Even though he looks sincere and is saying all the right words, I can’t help but hear the threat in them, because that’s just how my brain is wired. Why even say the words? They shouldn’t even need to be a thought that floats across his mind, especially if there is no threat.
But now that he is giving them airtime in whatever this little conversation is meant to be, I need to weigh my options, because I don’t give a fuck about the words coming out of his mouth. It’ll be his actions that tell me everything I need to know.
I glance between the door and the couch, my chest thumping with the sudden surge of panic that crawls through my body, and try to think. Friday nights memories are all fogged over and I feel stupid for not remembering who he is.
I have to stay, right? Walking out on the dean, regardless of whether I saw him at a sex club or not, is bad form. He’s the fucking dean, and with a few clicks of his keyboard, he could have me booted off campus before I’ve even taken midterms.
If I stay, what then? Am I automatically agreeing to whatever he is going to say? Kind of like one of those situations where the torturer gets a captive to agree that they are a dog or something, just so they can have some food?
Fuck. That was morbid.
Okay, clearly my brain has had all it can handle for the week.
At a minimum, hearing him out will give me more information, and whether this remains a genuine conversation or becomes something a little more hostile, at least I’ll know what facts I’m working with.
“Fine,” I agree and weave through his bulky furniture until I can sit, placing my drink bottle on the squat-but-heavy-looking dark wood coffee table. I take my time getting situated, and once I am as ready as I’ll ever be, I fold my arms over my chest and scowl at Thayne. “Talk.”
His face does a weird sort of contortion, an eyebrow lifting and lips twisting like he is trying to contain a smile. I have no idea what the fuck he is smiling about, but whatever.
“Actually, I was hoping you would do the talking, however, I can understand that you require some reassurances.” Thayne leans back in his seat, arms stretched out over each rounded armrest, and drums one set of fingers, the sound loud in the otherwise quiet office.
“I’ve known Derek for close to two decades.
He started here at Newton not long after myself, and after several discussions, we determined that we both enjoyed… woodworking.”
The knowing look he sends me isn’t necessary. I get the message. Woodworking is code for kinky stuff.
I nod, to show my understanding, though I’m a bit confused about the reason for the subterfuge.