At home, I spend about five minutes combing over my syllabus and lesson plans before sending them over to Dean Armstrong.

The rest of the time, I think of Addison.

If it hadn’t just happened, if I couldn’t still smell her strawberry scent on my clothes, my skin, I’d have thought it was a dream. It’d been too perfect. Those fantasies I’d had of her? Hot as they were, they didn’t compare by a long shot.

I’ve had a lot of women in my life, a lot of sex, but that simple blow job? It brought me back to those days in college, when everything was new. When even the smallest, most insignificant touch was enough to send shockwaves through my body. It was everything I could do to stop from coming the second her mouth wrapped around my cock. Every sensation just felt headier, rawer, more. Maybe it was that it had been a long day. Maybe it was that we were in my place of employment.

Or maybe it was just Addison.

I hover over the word document with the first three chapters of my novel in it, and realize I haven’t attempted to add to it since June. Pathetic.

Then I open it, read where I left off, and start to write.

Somewhere around eleven, I lean back and rub my eyes. I’d finished chapter four, and the funny thing is, reading it over now, I have no desire to erase it. Maybe it isn’t up to the level of the first three chapters, but it’s good. It’ll work. And not only that, I have a burning desire to continue with the story, to figure out how it’s going to end.

Fuck, yes.

I want to kiss the screen. This is the result of nothing less than a miracle. A miracle in the form of my gorgeous twenty-one year old muse. Good sex always got my creative juices flowing. When I’d written the first three chapters, when things were good with Layla in college, sex was new and exciting, and we’d been having plenty of it. After things went to shit, I sought it everywhere, but I hadn’t had an experience like that since.

Not until today, at least.

I fist pump the air and start to dig into the next chapter when I notice my bulging bag, filled with all the assignments I’ve slacked on grading.

Shit.

If one of the parents is on my case about grades being unfair, I can’t afford to put this off. I need to grade these assignments right away.

Fuck. Tearing my eyes away from the screen, I reach into my bag and pull out my pile of assignments, combing with disinterest through them until I find the ones I’d been looking for: The three assignments that Addison had called terrible.

One of them is a haiku about rain, since I’d had them write about something ordinary. Solid C work. The next is a stream-of-consciousness list of words she’d use to describe a sunset. Nothing too interesting: orange, glistening, beautiful, etc. etc. I write an 85 on that.

But I stop when I get to the free-writing poem. Hers is titled Rock, and though it’s simple and the language isn’t expressive, it does give me pause:

You rocked me here, you rocked me there.

You rocked me to rock away my fear.

But rock no more, and let me free.

I’m strong enough to be rocked by me.

You rocked me then, you rock me now.

You rock me as if I can never know how.

But I’ve learned a lot, can’t you see?

I’m smart enough to be rocked by me.

You rocked me young but I have grown.

I know you don’t want to be left alone.

But bonds are strong, and bonds are true

And I’ll always be a rock for you.

I study the page for a long time, imagining her chewing on the cap of her pen thoughtfully as she wrote it. It’s not gorgeous, but it’s clear that there’s more underneath that lily-white façade. The bruises on her face tell of a girl who has opened up a vein, who has bled, who knows much more of this world than she’ll have people believe. It’s clear that she wants to get out from under her mother’s thumb. In fact, if today was any indication, she’s desperate for it.

A thought suddenly hits me. She told me that she was a virgin. Unless she’s lying about that, or even more unlikely, he’s never tried to get some from her, she doesn’t have a prick boyfriend to hit her. I’m not sure why I never thought it before; maybe because I came from loving parents who got along and never raised a hand to me.

But what if her parents are the one who’ve been hurting her?

Stop it, Cain, don’t get involved, I remind myself. She explicitly told me she didn’t want me prying into her life. She wants me for the sexual education, not to play Dr. Phil, as she’d put it. And I can’t afford to get emotionally involved.

I uncap my pen, write a big 88 on the top, and open my laptop and record the grades in the module. As I do, a message from Addison pops up.

Thanks for the lesson today, Dr. Hill.

I smile. My pleasure, I type in, smirking. Isn’t it past your bedtime?

It is, but I can’t stop thinking about it. Next one, same time and place?

I smile at her eagerness. Unfortunately, it’s not a good idea. After she’d left, I’d just gotten done adjusting myself when a bunch of students began filtering in for a World Poetry class. There’d been no locks on the door, so it only occurred to me as I was leaving how much of a chance we’d been taking. What if the students had come in to see Addison sucking my cock? I’d have instantly been fired, disgraced, and all-over fucked.

We need to find another place.

There is a long pause. Then: I go to the library on Friday nights when I have a big exam to study for.

I scratch my head. Sounds like it could be distracting.

You don’t know the library like I do. And you have obviously never been to the library on a Friday night.

I smile. She’s right. What college student goes to the library on a Friday? Ok.

Basement. Cartography section. 9.

She obviously has put some thought into this. Basement? Ok.

Suddenly, an email lights up in my school email box, from an unfamiliar address. I shift over to it and blink at it as I read:

Dear Dr. Hill,

My daughter, Addison, is in your creative writing class. I would like to schedule a time to meet, during a time convenient to you. Thank you.

Evelyn McBride

I pull my hands off the keyboard as if it’s infected. Shit.

Then I open the message box up to Addison and type in: Your mother wants to meet with me.

A pause. Then: I thought she might. It’s because of the 74.

I let out a sigh of relief. As alarming as it is, there are much worse things she could be getting on me for, if only she knew. It occurs to me that she must be the person who contacted Dean Armstrong. I type in: All right. I’ll handle it.

Be careful. I tried to explain to her that I’d really done a bad job and deserved the grade, but she won’t stand for that. She’s had teachers fired for a lot less.

Her mother sounds like a real winner. No wonder she’s been so sheltered; her mother probably still packs her lunches, too. There’s a point when a parent has to cut the apron strings, and it’s clear her parents are having trouble letting go. Fishing for info, I type in: Is your father the same?

I told you. My father’s dead.

It comes back to me. Right. She’d mentioned her father was a writer before he died. That seals it in my mind. Her mother is not only controlling her, she’s been hitting her. As much as I hate the idea of confrontation with a parent, I want to meet this woman, just to gaze upon the kind of insane bitch who would hurt her own daughter.

I can tell Addison’s ire is up. I type in: Don’t worry, Addison. It’ll be fine.

Thank you, Dr. Hill.

I type in a reply to the email, offering to meet her mother during my next office hours. After I do, I stare at the mountain of papers, then back at the open document for my novel, and realize that I’ve lost the desire to write any more.

Damn. I need the inspiration only Addison can give me now.

* * *

The following Friday, I find myself staring up at the imposing mansion that is the McBride family estate for the second time in my life. The place looks like it should have turrets and a moat, as unfriendly as it is, all severe hard lines in brick and wrought iron. Even the bushes are trimmed with razor precision into square shapes completely unnatural for greenery. As I climb the steep brick staircase, I notice the potted flowers on either side of me do nothing to soften the appearance of the place. There might as well be stone gargoyles planted there. When I ring the doorbell, I half expect the door to creak open menacingly and no one appear inside.

However, the woman who answers, a short, portly lady in a tracksuit, is all smiles. “You must be Dr. Hill,” she says, showing me inside. “I’m Carol, the McBrides’ housekeeper.”

I fight the urge to whistle in appreciation when I step into a cavernous foyer that’s vaster than the entire house I grew up in, complete with a crystal chandelier the size of my car. No other furniture, though, except for a small circular table covered in the largest flower arrangement I’ve ever seen, accounting for the smell of lavender that permeates my nostrils. My footsteps echo on the floor, and as Carol tells me to follow her, her voice echoes, also.

I can’t see Addison living here. Not that she isn’t worth it; it’s just that the place is like a museum, stiff, whitewashed and formal. When Carol pushes apart two pocket doors, I find myself in another enormous room. The first thing I see is a wall of delicate Chinese vases in mirrored cabinets, and just as I spot a grandfather clock that’s easily two stories tall, it begins to loudly bong the hour.

Well, at least I’m on time.

“Dr. Hill,” an icy voice rings out behind me.

I turn to see a woman in a grey sweater dress, striding toward me. There is no doubt this woman is Addison’s mother, because I can almost make out the same pretty features, hardened with age, on her face; the square jaw, the big, expressive eyes, the arched eyebrows. Her frown, though, is something different. And she’s more petite than her daughter, so small, I have a hard time believing she could hurt Addison.

This bitch. This bitch is the one who’s been hurting Addison.

She extends her hand to me, and I take it. I expect it to be limp and icy, but it’s warm, and strong as steel. I shake once, which is not what I want to do.

I want to hurt her. I’ve never hurt a woman in my life, so I’m surprised how the instinct grabs me.

She motions to a delicate and uncomfortable looking flowered sofa. “Please sit.”

“I’m more comfortable standing, thank you,” I say to her, keeping my voice rigid.

I’d planned this. Despite my offer to meet her during office hours, she’d insisted on meeting on her turf, to give her home field advantage. I’m aware that she’s used to getting her way. I’m not going to let her strong arm me into capitulating on my grading system, just because she has a little bit of money. Especially this child abusing control freak.

She shrugs. “If you insist. Can I get you anything? Tea?”

I shake my head. “I have another class to prepare for, so if we could just address your concerns, I’d appreciate it.”

She purses her lips and doesn’t sit either. Instead, she crosses her arms. “Well, you see, I worry about my daughter’s progress. And so, in order to make sure she’s doing well, any time a grade is entered in the Marysville system, I have it emailed to me, so I can check up on her grades. And, well, I’m not sure who you think you’re dealing with, but my daughter, Addison, is not a C student.”

I nod. “Well, I understand your concern, but it appears that in my class, she is.”

Her eyes narrow. “And what qualifications do you have to deem her work as such?” Before I can answer, she says, “Look. I told Addison that creative writing was a silly waste of time. It’s such a misuse of her valuable talents, devoting a mind as special as Addison’s to frivolous and worthless pursuits. But she insisted. And she needs some English class to fill a requirement. Thus, here we are.”

She smiles almost jovially.

Then she comes up close to me. Even though the top of her head only reaches chest-level, she has a way of making herself look much taller. Staring me down, somehow. She says, “I am not going to let some third-rate instructor of a throwaway class give my daughter bad grades that can affect her chances at moving forward in a major that matters.” She studies me carefully. “Do you understand?”

I lift my chin defiantly, still keeping eye contact. “If that is the way you feel, Ms. McBride, you might consider telling your daughter to improve the quality of her work, rather than attempting to sway me into giving her a grade that she doesn’t rightly deserve. You do believe in fairness, do you not? Otherwise, what example are you setting for--”

“What I believe is that you lack the qualifications to teach at Marysville,” she says, still calmly, still maintaining that unfaltering gaze. “You have no right to grade my daughter’s papers this way. I have friends with much more impressive resumes than you have who I guarantee would dispute you. And I intend to make my dissatisfaction known.”

I think of what Dean Armstrong had said, that there are plenty of overbearing parents who do this to new professors. She’d been on my side. She’d be on my side if I decided to put this woman in her place. After all, I’ve been fair with Addison’s grades. I’d be unfair if I gave Addison all A’s.

“Please do,” I say, jutting my chin higher.

“Oh, I will. You should expect to hear from the dean shortly.”

I jab my hands into the pockets of my blazer. “If we’re done here, I’ll see myself out.”

She nods and waves me away dismissively, like one of her servants.

Something is simmering in me as I open the door and climb down the staircase. When I’m finally inside my car and halfway down the long driveway, I let loose with my anger. I shout with rage. I punch the dashboard. I vow to be even fairer to my students so that know-it-all parents like that will never have the upper hand over me.

I console myself with the notion that there’s one thing she doesn’t know: I’m going to be eating her daughter’s pussy tonight.