I’m in trouble.

I know I haven’t been acting the same, and because my mom is my warden, she noticed it when I begged to drive myself to school yesterday. Then, late last night, I’d come into my room and found her snooping through my laptop. She’d never done that before. I realized I’d forgotten to delete the texts with Dr. Hill and lunged for the computer, knocking it to the ground. It broke into a hundred pieces. When I told her I’d pay to get it fixed, she’d said, “You know you will.”

But at least she didn’t see the texts.

Now, though, I can tell she’s suspicious. She can always see right through my lies.

Which is why I can’t go home right now. A seventy-four?

“Mom,” I say into the phone as I put my purse into the passenger seat of my red Jeep Wrangler. “For the last time, I’ll be okay. I’m just going to Hanovers. That’s two miles away.”

“Is this girl safe?” She asks me. She’s working late, as usual, so I can hear her tapping the keys of her laptop in the background. “She’s not a drinker, is she?”

“Yes, Zoe’s fine. We’re just going to dinner to celebrate her birthday,” I lie. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

I hear her sigh, long and loud. “Ten. I want you home by ten.”

It may just be my imagination, but is her voice laced with suspicion? I check my phone. It’s 8:30. “Fine.”

When I hang up, I drive an uneventful two miles to Hanover’s, one of the more upscale hangouts outside the college campus. The parking lot is packed as I arrive, especially for a Wednesday night. I find a parking spot way in the back of the enormous, dark, graveled lot and go inside.

Zoe is already waiting at the bar for me, flirting with three college guys. She has a margarita waiting for me. “On the phone, you sounded like you could use this,” she says, giving me a quick hug. Then she goes right back to her flirting marathon.

I slump over the bar and groan. It’s bad enough that my college GPA hangs in the balance, but being presented with a drink I can’t even enjoy is beyond torture. “I can’t,” I moan when she asks me why I’m not drinking. “My mom will sniff my breath for alcohol the second I get home.”

She shrugs and slides it over to her own drink. “Oh. Well, more for me.”

I’d lied to my mother when I said Zoe wasn’t a drinker. She can live it up with the best of them. I have no idea how we’re even friends. Every time she asks me to go to a frat party with her, I always have to decline.

Then she whispers, “At least let me share my men. Which one do you want? I’m kind of partial to blondie, but you can have Red or Manbun. They’re all exceedingly hot.”

I don’t even bother to look over at them. I know they can’t be any hotter than Dr. Hill, the source of all my woe. How can he be so beautiful, and so infuriating to me, at the same time? I’m here to help you find your passion. Already found. The whole time he was telling me what a sucky writer I was, all I could think of were his big, rough hands on my body. “Not interested.”

“Well, then, more for me,” she repeats.

Two minutes later, she somehow manages to lose her male admirers, and sidles up to the bar next to me. She takes a long slurp through a straw as I order a Coke and extra-large chicken nachos. “So, where’s the fire? Why are you so miserable?”

I pout. Where to begin. “Oh. Okay. Remember the hot English professor we met in the student center last week?”

She nods. “Yep. Yummy.”

“He’s my creative writing teacher.”

Her jaw drops. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. His name is Dr. Hill and it turns out that he’s a poetry master and a total hardass,” I mutter. “He gave me a C on my first poem. A C! Can you believe that?”

She blinks. “Wait. You got less than an A on something?”

“I know, right?” I shake my head dejectedly. “So I went to his office today and tried to explain to him that I never get grades like that and he refused to budge. And then I . . .”

I swallow and blush, thinking about our meeting. We’d been so close, touching, even. If I’d stood on my tip toes, I could’ve kissed him. I wanted to. He smelled so good. When had anyone made me want something so much? But he’s my teacher. And he’s . . . not going to feel the same way, obviously. There are rules against us getting together, anyway.

“You should just fuck him and get it over with,” she says, swirling her straw in her margarita.

My eyes bulge. “What?”

She shrugs. “He’s smoking hot, and probably amazing in bed. All those creative writer-types are so in touch with their feelings. You’ll get an A, and probably the best sexual experience of your life. Win-win.”

I stare at her in disgust. “He’s my professor,” I remind her. “And I’ve . . .”

Never had a sexual experience before. I don’t bother to say it. She probably can guess from the way I’m looking at her.

“I just have to find a way to put more passion into my writing,” I explain.

“Hello? Sleeping with him!” she suggests.

I wave that ridiculous suggestion away before it can grow roots and I start thinking it’s a good idea. “He said my poem nearly put people in a coma. It was humiliating.”

“He said that?” She taps her chin, thinking. “That’s kind of a douche-y thing to say. I bet he wants you. He’s grappling with his feelings of desire for you. Especially in that getup.”

I look down at my daisy-dukes and flannel shirt. “What?”

“You look like a farm fantasy girl.” She says, sweeping her eyes over me. “Half the men in this place are ogling you at this very minute. Hell, I’d do you, if it weren’t for that warden mother of yours. Why doesn’t she just make you join a convent?”

I narrow my eyes at her, then do a perfunctory search around the crowded restaurant. I don’t see anyone staring at me. Mostly, they’re ogling her, with her skintight dress that barely covers her ass cheeks. “What are you talking about? Dr. Hill is not—“

“And you must’ve dressed that way for a reason, knowing it was his class.” She’s studying me like Sherlock, trying to crack a big case. “Admit it. You’re hot for teacher. You want him.”

“I do not—“

“You do! Saintly Addison has the hots for Dr. Hill!” she announces loudly over the din.

I look around nervously, but of course, no one is paying any attention, except for the same guys who’ve been drooling over her this whole time. As I’m about to tell her she’s drunk, I spot a familiar face weaving through the tightly packed bodies, towards us.

Oh, hell no.

It’s like a nightmare come true.

Dr. Hill.

Zoe is still chattering on about the X-rated things I’d do to him—things that make me blush, when I nudge her so hard, she nearly falls off the barstool. “Hey, what’s the—“

“Hello, ladies,” he says, giving us both a nod.

Zoe freezes. She paints a plastic smile on her face. “Oh, hello.” Her voice is stiff.

Dr. Hill is carrying a draft beer and a pink martini. His shirt is loose, revealing the smallest hint of cinnamon chest hair, and he’s not wearing a tie. He simply passes by us, without even a glance my way. Oh, god, had he heard what Zoe said?

Really, who in this bar hadn’t?

Could this day get any worse?

I swing around as my nachos arrive. Suddenly, my appetite is gone. Across the bar, I watch Dr. Hill stop at a high hat table and pass the cocktail over to an older woman in a striking red dress. She’s statuesque and mature, her dark hair pulled up in a professional up-do. She’s every bit the type of gorgeous, sophisticated, professional woman that I could see on Dr. Hill’s arm. They make a stunning couple.

She’s everything that I am not.

As he slides onto the chair and takes a drink of his beer, he doesn’t even bother to look my way.

“Oh, sure, he’s hot for me,” I mumble to Zoe when she’s picked her jaw up off the floor. She’s helping herself to a huge pile of the nachos and letting the cheese drip all over her chin. “How can he be, when he has that?”

“Whatever, he doesn’t have anything,” she reminds me, laughing. “Remember? He doesn’t wear a ring.”

I’d be laughing, too, at the ridiculousness of it, if I weren’t still so devastated over my creative writing grade. Once I tell my mother, I might as well kiss the little bit of freedom she does grant me goodbye. And I will have to tell her. She finds out everything. After all, she’d been going through my computer, looking for . . .

Oh, shit. My mother. I check my phone. It’s 9:45.

“I’ve got to go,” I say, jumping off the stool. I grab my sweater and button it over my flannel shirt, then throw my purse over my shoulder. “I’ve got to be—“

She gives me a wave, already searching the bar for the blonde guy she’d dismissed. “The mother hen is calling back her chick. I get it. See you tomorrow?”

I nod. As I’m leaving, I do a quick check of the table I’d seen Dr. Hill at. He and his date are gone, their half-finished cocktails still sitting on the table, as if they’d left in a hurry. Sighing, I step outside into the cool night air and walk around the building, toward the far end of the vast gravel parking lot, where it abuts a thick dark forest. Here, far away from the lights of Hanover’s, it’s quiet and desolate. I’m sure my mother’s safety radar would go up if she saw me walking alone here, because anyone could jump out from the trees.

I freeze when I hear a low moan.

Convincing myself it was just the wind, I take another step. Then I hear it again.

My ears perk up in fear. Someone is moaning. Are they hurt?

If I’m going to be a doctor, I need to start running toward these types of situations, instead of thinking of escaping them. I walk closer to the source of the noise, checking between the cars for the afflicted person, expecting to see someone doubled over in pain.

Seeing no one, I quicken my step and the sound comes again. This time, it’s not just a moan. A woman breathes, “Oh, fuck. Yes, keep going, Cain.”

I stop as I realize there are two figures in front of me, between two cars. One is spread out upon the hood of a sedan. The meager moonlight reflects the scene. A woman, writhing on the surface of the car, her breasts bouncing freely, her dress bunched around her hips.

It’s not a moan of pain. It’s . . . ecstasy.

Cain. She says his name again and again. There is a man, face hidden in shadows, standing between her long, pale legs, holding them still and straight as he plunges into her, making her body jolt with every hard, rhythmic movement. Her dark hair spills over her shoulders as she moans again, arching her back up to meet his every thrust. He reaches over and tweaks one of her nipples.

“Quiet,” he orders.

Obliging him, she brings a fist to her mouth and sinks her teeth in. But I can still hear her moaning.

I’ve never experienced . . . no, I’ve never even seen this, two people, making love. Fucking. Even in movies, it’s always fade to black. And I know I should look away. But seeing this couple, lost in the throes of pleasure, makes an unexpected feeling bloom between my legs. Desire. Something is throbbing there. It’s so new to me. I think of the seeds of lust that Dr. Hill has only recently planted inside me, and instinctively, my hand trails under the waistband of my shorts.

I look around, relaxing a little when I realize I’m alone and the couple is too involved to notice me. Crouching slightly between two large SUVs, I watch as the man, still fully clothed, grabs the woman by her long hair and yanks her toward him, sinking deeper into her, completely in control. He’s masterful at what he does, so animalistic and yet so beautiful. Whatever he’s doing, it’s tearing this poor woman apart. She’s screaming now despite the fist in her mouth, begging him for more. “Cain, please . . .”

I can’t even feel shame; I’m too aroused. I realize my fingers have found their way under my panties, to the throbbing there. I need to touch it, to hold it, to quell it. I’m so wet-- why am I so wet?

Instead of holding myself there, I find it feels so much more comfortable if I rub it lightly. It doesn’t just make the ache go away, it feels good. Soon, I’m stroking the tender skin there feverishly, my hand moving inside my pants, making jolts of electricity spasm up my body.

As I do, an image of Dr. Hill floats beside me. I can’t help it. I know it’s wrong to think of my professor that way. In my fantasy, he sidles up behind me, his rough hands molding my breasts, turning me around with an ease that commands my entire body, making me his slave. He nudges me back upon the cold metal of the car. I imagine him lifting my skirt, inch my maddening inch, delving his warm rough fingers under my panties.

As I do, I throw my back against the wheel of the SUV to steady myself, still watching the scene, hardly able to believe this feeling.

“Fuck her harder,” I mutter under my breath as I rub myself fiercer yet, creating a friction that I can’t imagine feeling any better. But even as I think that, it changes and become something more.

What is happening to me? Here I am, in a public spot, with my hand in my pants, watching two strangers fuck and feeling this incredible pleasure coursing through my body. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever known.

“Come for me,” he orders, and when he does, it’s Dr. Hill I imagine, saying those words to me. “Now.”

She bucks up against him, moaning wildly. I’m, too, at the climax of something amazing, imagining Dr. Hill’s fingers touching me. It’s just when this new world is opening up to me that the man leans forward slightly to steady her thrashing body, and his face emerges from the shadows.

Dr. Hill.

Everything falls apart in a millisecond. Contrary to what I’d expected, his face isn’t lost in ecstasy. No, he looks completely in control, completely calculating, and almost . . . angry as he holds the spent and trembling woman still on the hood of the car. But worst of all . . .

His eyes are dead set on me.

He sees me. Has he seen me here, all along?

As if in answer to my question, a small, almost sadistic smile spreads over his face.

My hand stops moving in my pants a split second before I realize it’s in there. I yank it from my waistband, fall to my knees on the sharp gravel, and crawl behind the SUV, out of sight.

What did I just see? My professor, fucking a woman. And what did I just do? I’d had my hand in my pants and was getting off on it. Getting off on my professor.

Oh, god.

I sit there on the gravel, breathing hard, a dull, painful ache between my legs. It’s that ache that tells me something frightening. Seeing Dr. Hill like that should give me every reason to stay away from him. But no.

Instead, all I can think of is how lucky that woman is. How much I’d love to be in her place. Being fucked. No love, just pure, animal passion.

Keeping my head down so he won’t see me again, I scramble to my car, jump inside, and speed into the night.

* * *

When I get home, my mother is waiting at the door for me, wearing her silken bedtime robe and holding a full glass of merlot. “You’re late,” she says, and as I pass her, I can smell it on her breath.

“Yeah. My car wouldn’t start,” I lie, rubbing my hands together. “It’s kind of chilly out there. Might have been the weather.”

I’m averting her eyes, but I can tell they are glued on me. Analyzing. Tearing me apart.

“That Jeep is brand new,” she says, taking a large gulp of the wine in her glass.

She’s not accusing me. Not yet. I shrug. “Yeah, I know,” I say lightly. “Weird, huh?”

I shift my eyes to her face for a heartbeat. Her expression is a stone dam, ready to crumble into all-out rage. I suck in a breath and head toward the staircase. “Better get to bed. I have an early—“

She throws an arm across the stairwell, blocking me. The force of her movement sends the wine sloshing, and some of it splatters on my sweater. Her voice is low and controlled. “Don’t. Fuck. With. Me.”

Her eyes are glazed. Of course, she only curses when she’s drunk. I catch my breath and swallow. “What?” I start. “Mom, what are you—“

Without warning, she throws the full wine glass across the room, and it shatters against the snow-white wall. It’s not something that should shock me, since my mom has always been into throwing things in her rage, but it does. I jump to attention, standing spike-straight, as she watches the rivulets of red wine spilling down its surface like blood.

Before I can realize her attention is back on me, the blow comes, driving such white-hot pain in my jaw that I’m stunned speechless. I waver on my feet but grab the staircase railing, so I don’t fall.

Clutching my cheek, I look up at her. She’s standing there, hand raised, ready to do it again.

I cringe.

We’d been doing so good. She’d only laid a hand on me once, years ago, when I’d spilled grape juice on her new white sofa. But I guess since then, I’d always behaved. I’ve always been so good, knowing in the back of my head that this could happen.

I wait for the next lash, but it doesn’t come. Instead, she strides away from me, saying, “I’ll have Hobson check your car. Good night.”