9. Nyssa

9

NYSSA

OLDER - ISABEL LAROSA

Samson Wicker is good at several things. Football. Lifting furniture. Changing spare tires. Blabbing on and on about his brand new Ford F-150 truck. But kissing is far from one of those things.

I'm reminded of this sad reality as his teeth gnash against mine and slobber wets my lips. I draw back to end our kiss, but he pulls me more tightly against him. His hand's heavy on my back, holding me where I am as his tongue launches its latest assault.

He groans lashing it against mine. He leans his weight into me, rearranging us on his sofa 'til I'm under him. His barreled chest heaves with his deepened breaths. His excitement becomes more than palpable.

It's a hard bulge prodding at me.

I finally succeed in ripping my mouth away from his. "Samson, we're supposed to be studying."

"Mhmmm, babe. Later," he mumbles. No less discouraged, he pivots to kissing my jaw and throat. Kisses that are just as sloppy and wet as his others.

I sigh, rolling my eyes. I'm stuck listening to the guttural sounds Samson makes and the music and screams coming from down the hall of his apartment. Unlike me, he lives a block outside of campus, right in the heart of the city, which means there's never a moment of peace and quiet.

Bars and lounges are only a short walk away. Parties run almost nightly. It's considered prime real estate if you're into Castlebury's nightlife and social scene.

All things I couldn't be less interested in.

I would've never set foot inside Samson Wicker's apartment in the first place had I not agreed to tutor him.

A few months of rocky dating later, I'm trapped on his sofa as he knocks our books aside and makes his latest attempt to get in my pants.

"Samson," I growl. My hands grip his shoulders to push him off. "I'm serious. If we're not studying, then I'm leaving."

"Don't be a mood killer. Just have some fun."

His mouth covers mine again in his sloppiest kiss yet. It literally feels like he's trying to swallow my face.

I've kissed my share of frogs in my short twenty-two years, but no frog has been as slimy and off-putting as Samson. If it didn't serve me to date him, posing a means to an end, I would've dumped him a long, long time ago.

I never would've dated him in the first place.

Samson groans, pushing his slippery tongue back into my mouth. His hand creeps between us, hardly subtle as he wedges it down the front of my jeans.

It's the final straw. I jerk against him and snap into defense mode. He might weigh twice as much as I do, but I took women's self-defense during undergrad.

"I said get off, Samson!" My knee slams into his gut, making him choke on his next breath .

Before he can do anything more than sputter and cough, I'm rolling out from under him.

"What the fuck, Nyssa?!" he wheezes out. His face, neck, and ears all redden as he shoots a glare at me. "Really? Kneeing me in the gut like I'm a fucking intruder?"

"I told you I'm here to study."

"And I'm your boyfriend! You forget about that?"

"What does that have to do with?—"

"I've got a severe fucking case of blue balls, Nyssa!" he barks over me. If his squat face was red before, it's blazing scarlet now. He throws his arms up in frustration as he gets off the couch and crosses the space to the kitchen.

I spin around to track him with my gaze. "I told you when we started dating, I move at a slow pace."

"Slow pace or like a fucking turtle? It's been four months."

"Three and a half. And if it's a problem, then we can see other people." I follow him into the kitchen area as his phone pings, and he quickly snatches it to respond to whatever slew of texts he's received. "Samson? Who are you texting all the time? Are you going to answer me or is this more silent treatment?" I prompt when he says nothing, more preoccupied texting. Shaking my head, I shoot straight for my things on the dining room table. "This is so dumb. I'm out of here."

He slams down his phone on the kitchen counter. "Do what you want. That's what you always do."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means it's always all about you, Nyssa. Whatever the fuck you want. Dating you's like dating some fucking tiger that's about to claw the shit outta me." He pops open the fridge to grab a beer, then leaves me alone in the kitchen area. He's returned to the couch, where he plops down, guzzling down half the can. "I thought I could deal with it. But you're not hard to get. You're impossible to get."

It takes me several seconds to join him back in the other room. When I do, I've finished packing my things, my leather bookbag slung over my shoulder.

"You're right," I say. "I am impossible… to someone low effort. I'm sorry I don't want to fuck on your couch that smells like farts and weed, Samson."

"I told you I'd light some candles. Get some roses and shit?—"

"Are you taking me home?" I interrupt, folding my arms. "You said you'd drive me."

"Figure it out yourself. I've got plans. Which reminds me. Where's my phone?"

He gets up, clutching his beer can, and returns to the kitchen, presumably for another text. I've drifted toward the door, shaking my head in disbelief.

It shouldn't really be a surprise Samson would be a big enough asshole to make me find my own way home. It wouldn't be the first time. But it damn sure is the last.

"Nyssa!" he calls as I'm halfway out the door. "Did you see where I put my phone?"

"Find it yourself," I snap spitefully.

They're my parting words as I slam his door shut. I'm several steps down the hall when I hear his rumbling voice calling me out of my name. Words like "selfish bitch" would sting a lot more if I hadn't heard much worse throughout my life.

I ride the elevator down to the first floor of his apartment building and stop altogether in the vestibule to order an Uber.

I've had no luck securing a ride home otherwise.

I've texted Macey but she's out of town for the weekend on a family trip. Katelyn's on a date with her latest dating app hook up. And Heather… Heather's most discreet of all.

"You and Samson broke up?" she says, lukewarm interest in her voice. "Nyssie, that's awful."

"Do you think you can swing by and pick me up?"

…you do live only a couple blocks away…

"Oh… um, not really," Heather answers. "Sorry, babes. You know I don't do short-notice obligations. But call me tomorrow. We'll go for mani-pedis."

I huff out a sigh when the Uber app informs me my driver's waiting two blocks down. I fire off a message to let him know he has the wrong address.

No street parking. Ive been fined before. You'll have to walk to me.

I'll be right outside… you won't need to park.

The street's one way… I'd have to circle around half the neighborhood to make it back. U meet me where I am…

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," I mutter under my breath.

The request is so irritating, for a second I'm even considering making up with Samson. Just to get a ride home. Then I'd break up with him all over again.

But my pride's too precious for me to stoop that low. Samson was a dick for the last time. I'll simply have to figure out other ways to ingratiate myself in the same circles. I've already found other ins that have served me well. I wouldn't be invited to mani-pedis tomorrow with the school's most popular girl if I hadn't.

Coat buttoned up and scarf snug around my throat, I brave the chilly October night. The air is crisp and cool, the lampposts like miniature spotlights every few feet down the sidewalk. Across the street, a group of college students erupt in wild cheers as they hang around outside a sports bar.

For all I know, Samson might be joining them soon. He failed his last year of undergrad for a reason.

I hover on the sidewalk unable to shake the odd feeling I'm not alone. I'm being watched even if I can't tell by who. Phone in the palm of my hand, I study the blinking green dot that's my Uber car. He better not leave. If he does, I swear I'll…

Before I can even complete the vengeful thought, I realize I really am being followed. A navy blue SUV coasts alongside me from the street, slowed down to my walking pace. I glance over as alarm rings through me, and for the second time tonight, I'm scanning my head for everything I learned in women's self-defense.

But then I make out the person behind the wheel and I can't hide the surprise that drops my mouth open.

"Professor Adler?!"

He presses the palm of his hand on the steering wheel, the horn giving a weak bleat in answer. "Miss Oliver, do you need a ride home? "

"I… I… what are you doing here?" I've taken several steps toward him until I'm on the edge of the sidewalk and he's idled in the middle of the one-way street.

"I was working late at the school, grading some papers. I was just on my way home when I saw you walking down the street."

My head tilts to the side. "But wouldn't it be easier to take Manchester home? Do you always take a side street like Monarch?"

His expression's difficult to read in the second it takes him to answer. Shadows veil half of his face, the other half all angles emphasizing his strong profile. "I cut through Monarch because I sometimes stop at the Vietnamese spot at the end of the block. They have the best pho in the city."

"Oh," I murmur, hovering uncertainly. My phone dings with an impatient message from my Uber driver.

"But," Professor Adler continues, "if you don't want, or need, a ride home, then I will be on my way. Have a good evening, Miss Oliver."

In the split second it takes me to make my decision, I'm caught between two very different choices. A hostile Uber driver that's already copped an attitude with me for making him wait and my criminal law professor who I've tried so hard to impress only to wind up with a bruised ego.

He hates me. Why would I accept a ride from him?

I nibble on my bottom lip at the question. It's promptly followed by a counterargument from my other half.

Professor Adler might hate you, but so does this Uber driver. And he's charging you three bucks per mile…

"Wait," I blurt out. "I… I do need a ride. If you don't mind. I live on the other side of the city."

"That should be fine. Get in."

His tone's matter of fact, lacking any hint of emotion at all.

He's doing me a favor. He's resigned himself into doing so not because he wants to, but because he feels obligated.

I let out a sigh as I shuffle over to the passenger side of his car and slide in. It's no surprise the interior is immaculate—the seats look and feel like new, no signs of wear or tear at all. No crumbs or dirt to be found anywhere, not even on the car mat beneath my leather booties.

Professor Adler waits in patient silence for me to click my seatbelt and settle my bookbag on my lap before he changes gear into drive.

Monarch Street slips into the background. Samson's apartment disappears from view.

We ride in silence, listening to the quiet, subtle sounds his BMW makes. It's fitting that Professor Adler wouldn't listen to music when he drives. He seems much more like the podcast or NPR type.

I fold my hands in my lap as if on my best behavior and busy myself by staring out the car window.

"I'll need your address," he says as we brake for our first streetlight.

"Oh. Right. I live near Elm and Horton. It's the apartment complex near the?—"

"I know where that is," he says. Then, as if sensing he needs to clarify, he adds, "There's a great Indian restaurant across the street."

"Saffron."

"That's the one."

"Are you… uh, are you a big foodie?"

"Excuse me?"

"You mentioned the Vietnamese restaurant earlier. Now, Saffron… "

"Right," he says, his attention on the road ahead. The light's turned green again. "I suppose I am. I tend to lean toward Asian cuisine. South and East. I appreciate the flavor palette."

"What's your favorite?"

He throws a glance over at me, his eyes darker than usual. My belly flutters in reminder that I'm not supposed to be doing what I do—acting like a social butterfly that's trying to win him over with great conversation.

Those kinds of things don't matter to Professor Adler. He'd probably prefer if I didn't talk at all.

"Sorry, you don't have to answer if you don't want?—"

"I appreciate Thai more than others. I suppose that would be my favorite," he interrupts after some thought. Then he directs another brief glance at me. "And yours?"

My brows quirk, startled that he's bothering to ask. "Oh, mine. I've been really into charcuterie boards lately. But if we're talking Asian cuisine, probably Thai as well. Or Japanese. I'm a sucker for sushi."

"Quality sushi can be difficult to find. Unfortunately, Castlebury lacks in that regard."

"Right, I've had better…"

We drift off into more uncertain silence. I return my focus to the car window, then resort to pulling out my phone to check on notifications I really don't care about. Things like looking at any likes and follows on my social media accounts. Answering a panicked text from Katelyn as she messages in the middle of her date. Deleting spam emails.

Anything to distract from the fact that I'm trapped in an SUV with a professor who I admire but who can't stand me.

Maybe I should've gone with the Uber after all …

"So," he says as we brake for yet another light, "what were you up to tonight, Miss Oliver?"

"Hmmm?"

"You asked why I was driving down Monarch. I'm asking the same. It's a side street of college apartments and some bars. What brought you there?"

"I was, uh… Samson and I were supposed to be studying. He lives in one of those apartments."

"I see."

"He was supposed to give me a ride home."

"Supposed to," he repeats in a tone that rings with some semblance of judgment. "I've noticed you keep using that phrase. I'm guessing no studying was actually accomplished?"

My cheeks warm from more than the heat blowing out of the dashboard's vents. It's from the awkward realization I'm about to discuss my boyfriend troubles with my professor. The same professor who made me feel smaller than small more often than not.

The same professor who I fantasized about recently when I masturbated.

"We didn't get much studying done," I answer. "Samson had… he had other ideas."

There's a pulse of inexplicable tension that follows. First felt in the clinch of the air, then witnessed by my own two eyes as I cut a sidelong glance and notice the subtle tick of his jaw. The way his knuckles bunch, clenched against the steering wheel.

As if I couldn't be more confused. Did I say too much? Am I bothering him with my frivolous problems?

"Never mind. Forget I said anything."

"I asked. You answered. No need for anything to be forgotten. I didn't answer because I was thinking about past experience," he explains, hanging a right at the next intersection. "It sounds like college-aged guys haven't changed much since I was one myself."

"That wouldn't at all surprise me. Samson's… Samson. He's the opposite of his sister. He wants what he wants and he goes for it. But he also throws a tantrum when he doesn't get it."

"I'm sure you'd prefer advice from someone other than your criminal law professor—and, frankly, I'm not sure how appropriate it is that I am about to give it—but if he's having a difficult time accepting your boundaries, then it sounds like he is not worth your time."

I smirk without thinking. "Professor, are you seriously telling me to dump my boyfriend right now?"

"I didn't… I mean, I was simply saying?—"

"Because you're late," I finish with a soft laugh. "Pretty sure we're done after tonight."

He releases a breath that's hard to miss. "Well, that sounds like a smart decision on your part."

"Thanks. And thanks for the ride. You didn't have to."

"I realize I didn't. However, I would say I owe you an apology. Something somewhat rare coming from me," he says and I laugh again. "I've perhaps been too harsh on you. Harsher than I would be on other students."

"Can I ask why you never call on me? Is it something I've said? Done?"

He spends another block of our drive in thought to the point I almost give up on receiving an answer. We've slowed down as we join a short line of other cars held up by a red light. It's enough of an excuse for him to glance at me in the deep shadows of the car.

"You are a very gifted student," he says plainly. "Perhaps the smartest in any of my classes. It's impossible not to be impressed with you. But if I let you answer every question, what would the others learn? I might have overcorrected."

I'm speechless as the car rolls into motion again. My heart thumps faster in my chest, an immediate longing inside me to squeal in excitement. The professor I've tried to impress the most has taken notice. He's just as impressed as I hoped he'd be.

The validation has me biting back a smile.

We finally arrive outside my apartment complex where most of the windows are either dark or blacked out by drawn curtains.

"Here we are," he says.

"You didn't have to. I owe you another coffee."

"Think nothing of it, Miss Oliver. Go on. Head up. I'll wait."

The same belly flip from earlier makes itself known. I can't help drawing an instant comparison between this moment and all the previous times Samson's dropped me off, speeding away before I've barely made it down the sidewalk.

"Thanks," I murmur, grabbing my bookbag. My other hand goes for my seatbelt, fumbling with the buckle.

Professor Adler notices, his eyes widening behind the lenses of his black-framed glasses. "It jams sometimes. Here, let me help you."

He leans closer, his proximity like an invisible cloak thrown over me. He doesn't just come closer, he encroaches. He invades .

His arms extend over my lap and his woody scent, reminiscent of pages in a lengthy book, inundates my senses. His fingers, so long and sturdy and perfect, enclose on the seat buckle, applying some muscle I don't have .

I'm left sitting still, holding my breath, processing the fact that he's so close.

Too close.

His hand brushes mine. Heat shoots through me at the barest contact. Our eyes catch on each other's face. For an uncertain second, we blink at each other in the tight, confined space of his car, and it feels like my heart's about to bust out of my chest.

Then it's over. The moment ends. He lets go as the seatbelt unclicks and he recedes back onto the driver's side.

"You better go," he says, a rough edge to his voice that's new. "Good night, Miss. Oliver."

The next minute or so passes as a blur. I'm sure I mumble goodnight before I scramble out of his car and make my way up to my apartment. It seems the next time I'm blinking, my bookbag's crashing down on my coffee table and I'm kicking off my ankle booties.

I peel off my coat and scarf still reeling from the night I've had. I can't begin putting into words how I feel about Professor Adler's car ride home. Just that I'm more lost than ever how to take him. How to interpret him, and that bothers me.

…even if I still crave his approval.

I dig my books out of my bookbag along with my phone. The last thing I pull out is the second phone I've tucked inside. The larger, wider one with a scarlet red case in the same shade as the school's color. The right size for someone with thicker fingers like Samson.

His phone pings in my hand as another batch of texts light up his screen, confirming exactly what I suspected…