2. Harrison
Chapter 2
Harrison
A new year. Fresh minds. And the year I finally get tenure. Even though I fast-tracked, it feels like forever since I started working toward my goal, and now, it’s finally within reach.
Nothing is going to fuck this up for me.
As I stride through the freshly polished corridors of the university, a lingering tension knots my shoulders. At the beginning of each new year, I usually feel energized. As a kid, I dreamed of becoming a teacher. From the time I could read, at a very early age, my parents knew I would excel in school. However, they didn’t expect me to skip numerous grades or graduate from high school not even old enough to drive. Learning excited me. Teaching thrills me.
But this morning, I woke up with a slight hangover and a sense of dread. The hangover is from drinking and watching TSN with my neighbors Markus and Sam while their better halves spent yesterday shopping. The feeling of dread I’m chalking up to dealing with a new term of over-sexed, highly flirtatious female students. After last year’s fiasco, I plan to play it straight and true this year—my career is riding on it. I spent the summer working my ass off to put the final touches on my tenure dossier. Once it’s reviewed, and if accepted, I’ll have job security and the freedom to pursue research and teaching without the added pressure of frequent evaluations—something that inspires the odd jealous remark from a few of my colleagues, given our age difference.
Plus, I can’t let my parents down by failing. When others were skeptical of my intelligence and drive, I had their unwavering support. When friends teased me because I preferred books to sports or parties, my parents stood up for me. Don’t misunderstand; I can put a wicked spiral on a football and have more home runs to my credit than fouls. I swim like a fish and have plenty of ribbons from high school track and field. But given the choice, I’ll always choose to lose myself in a book. I like to learn new things, and I like to read for pure enjoyment. Except horror, I’m not a fan of horror books or movies.I cover my eyes at the scary parts.
To make matters worse, I didn’t expect to start the week with a summons to the dean’s office. But here I am, walking this familiar yet suddenly ominous path, thanks to one fucking mistake. A single night from last semester that should’ve been forgettable turned into a blog post that hit the student and administration network like wildfire.
And then the school newsletter.
And the faculty year-end meeting.
Damn it.
At least the news didn’t travel to my parents and embarrass them.
I never should have trusted her. I had my doubts when she appeared at my side in a bar near campus. I usually avoid the bars in the school’s vicinity, knowing full well they’re loaded with kids away from home for the first time, ready to let off steam and sow a few oats. And nothing makes me more uncomfortable than running into one of my students outside of class. I’m good at many things, but I’ve always been somewhat socially awkward. I like poetry and Shakespeare—not the hottest topic for casual conversation.
Then, there’s the added factor of how I grew up—the rich kid with a senator for a father. I didn’t ask for it; it comes with the last name. My family’s status has always added another layer between me and the rest of the people around me, whether they be friends, classmates, or colleagues. So, I studied instead of hanging out with friends. I went to summer school, for fuck’s sake, because I sucked up knowledge like a sponge.
But that one night last year, I’d had a tough day and needed a drink, and I didn’t want to wait until I got back to my penthouse in Manhattan. So before I headed to the train station, I went to the closest bar, where I discovered I’m a sucker for a pretty smile and sob story.
She had both.
And my parents thought I was smart.
As I open the door to the faculty office and glance inside, my gaze swings from left to right to see who might be privy to what’s about to go down. The last thing I need is another personal trip around the gossip mill. I’m slightly relieved to find the room empty of other guests.
“Professor Ashe.” Fran, the dean’s assistant, greets me with a sultry purr as I enter the waiting area. She’s about fifteen years older than me and dyes her hair a dark brunette to cover up the silver strands around the edge of her forehead and at the root. Like many other women at the university, regardless of their age, she gives me a once-over, making my skin crawl as she smacks on the peppermint gum she chews to hide the cigarette smell. It doesn’t work. The odor clings to her clothes.
I offer a tight-lipped smile, mentally bracing myself for the conversation ahead because I’m sure it will be a caustic warning of some sort. Dean Martens has never liked me. From day one, he’s been giving me the side-eye, waiting for me to fuck up somehow to prove I’m not worthy of my position. He believes brains and wisdom only come with age—somewhere closer to his.
“Harrison, in here, please.” The dean’s tight voice carries the weight of authority from his half-open door.
With my shoulders back, I stride past Fran and step inside his office, the room a stark contrast to the chaos brewing inside me with not a speckle of dust, no loose papers, and the books on his shelf in alphabetical order. He sits behind his expansive oak desk with the yellowish glow from his green banker’s lamp casting a glare over a computer screen I’ve never seen him use, his fingers tented, eyes searching mine.
I close the door, shutting out Fran’s curious glances, closing myself in with my boss and whatever speech he’s prepared for today.
“Have a seat,” he says, and I do, sinking into the leather chair across from him. It creaks under the shift of my weight.
“Dean Martens.” I keep my tone light and casual, even though my insides are coiling tighter every second. “Is there a problem?” I have no desire for idle chit-chat, not that he’s the type of man you discuss sports scores with. I keep my facial expression neutral, my hands resting on my thighs, forcing my body to relax.
He fixes me with a cold stare that could cut glass it’s so frigid. “Do you know why you’re here?”
“No, sir.”Somehow, I manage to say that and sound sincere. Maybe it’s because I sincerely hope he’s not about to bring up last year’s mistake again.
“You do remember the… issue we had last year?”
Inwardly, I sigh. “Yes, sir.”Why do we have to rehash this? It was sex. One ill-advised night. A night I wish I could retract. Not even one of my students. But still, just sex. The headline burns bright in my mind: Getting Schooled in Satisfaction by Professor Ashe . “As I said before, sir, she told me she was a teacher at the local high school.”Since she wasn’t in any of my classes, I had no way of confirming her story, and she certainly had the body and demeanor of somebody older… and the mouth… Jesus, that mouth. At least she wasn’t a freshman. That would have been the cherry on top of a shit pile.
His eyes narrow.
I gulp. Fuck, I’m thirty-four years old, and I feel like I’ve been called to the principal’s office—something that never happened when I was a kid—and yet this is twice in six months. Only it’s worse because he’s my boss, and I’m a fucking adult. It shouldn’t matter what I do on my own time with another consenting adult. She wasn’t even in any of my classes. And she lied to me.
“You didn’t only put your reputation at risk, Harrison. I understand you’re young, but another debacle like that could cost you your tenure.”
I’m not that young, but I get it. And my job means everything to me. “Understood,”I say, nodding. “It won’t happen again.”
“There’s another reason I called you in today.”He pauses as if weighing his words. “I understand you’ve been assigned a new TA.”
“Yes, sir. A freshman, I believe, but a few years older than most with some work experience.”Honestly, I only scanned through the applicants and picked out a few that looked promising. I don’t even remember looking at names. I was too busy compiling the components of my tenure dossier to review the applications closely. I selected my preferred option and handed it over to the office staff to finalize.
Teaching Assistants can be a professor’s best friend. I’ve avoided them in the past, but with my current workload, I submitted a request this year to obtain one, hoping they could take some of the more administrative tasks off my plate. A TA means new responsibilities and another plate to juggle, but I can handle it. Especially if they’re as great as their resume suggests.
But an edge to his statement tells me there’s more. What did I miss?
“Do you know the TA’s name?”
I wince. “Quite honestly, sir, I don’t remember. I’ve been very busy with…”
“Her name is Ivy Kendrick.”
Oh. I see where this is going now.
“I almost vetoed the request. But Ms. Kendrick seems to be the best qualified for what you need. And I’m hoping less, shall we say, swayed by your charm.”
“Okay.”I draw the word out, unsure what to say to that statement. But I’m fairly positive he just insulted me, or her, maybe both of us.
“I expect you to maintain a level of utmost professionalism at all times. We can’t afford another... incident.”
I start shaking my head.
“I need some assurance it won’t happen again.”
“Of course.”My reply comes out too quickly. I clear my throat, my face and tone sober as I try again. “I understand, Dean Martens.”
“Good.”He leans back, the lines on his forehead smoothing slightly now that the awkward part of the conversation,for him, is over. “She’s bright, promising. Don’t make a fool out of her—or yourself.”
Or him or the school.
Message received.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,”I assure him, though a part of me wonders how challenging this new arrangement might be given he feels the need to caution and discreetly threaten me.
“Okay then.”The dean stands, signaling the end of our meeting. “That’ll be all.”
“Thank you, sir.”I rise to my feet, eager to escape the confines of his office.
As I walk out, the words ‘bright’and ‘promising’echo in my head. Is she truly eager to learn? Or is this merely a job to her?Ivy is a pretty name, but I struggle to recall the specifics of her application.
But it doesn’t matter because I can’t risk another lapse in judgment, no matter how sweet the temptation.