7. Nyssa

7

NYSSA

TEACHER'S PET - MELANIE MARTINEZ

Widowed Holly Driscoll Found Dead Hours After Husband's Funeral Service

I'm staring at the news alert as it comes up on my phone screen when Katelyn Wicker and Macey Eurwen call out to me. We agreed to meet outside the student union to grab coffees before crim law. I look up to find both girls hurrying toward me with a scandalized look of disbelief on their faces.

Katelyn, the shorter, thicker one of the two, resembles her twin brother, Samson, to the point sometimes I feel like she's him with a brunette wig plopped onto her head. Breathless and flushed, she says, "Nyssie, did you hear the news? It's everywhere."

"About Heather's stepmom? Yeah, I did."

"They're speculating it could be Valentine again. He poisoned her just like he did Mr. Driscoll," Macey says, tutting her tongue. She's taller and willowier than both of us, an occasional model that shows up in print ads. "Ugh, how humiliating! The supposed Queen of Castlebury lying in a pool of her own vomit."

I stand by as the other two trade gossip between themselves. They wouldn't be the only ones. As we wait outside the student union, I catch snippets of the same conversation happening between other students.

A group of girls who look young enough to be undergrad freshmen walk out of the student union talking feverishly about the article in the Tribune and whether or not Holly Driscoll died of alcohol poisoning or if the Valentine Killer really did do her in. Two more guys pass by talking about the time they got as black-out drunk as Holly was that afternoon, and ended up streaking around campus.

Macey was right. Holly Driscoll's death will be the scandal of Castlebury for some time to come. Just like her husband's death has been.

Katie's in the middle of telling us about how it was rumored that Holly and Heather were in the beginning stages of a nasty battle over Kane Driscoll's fortune. Neither woman could stand each other and saw the other as competition for the late Driscoll's riches.

She and Macey are so engrossed in the speculation, they hardly notice Heather approaching.

"Weird timing, she happens to die too. But everyone at the funeral has said she was belligerently drunk," Katie says with rounded eyes. "I guess this means Heather will get the entire fortune—Heather! Um, hi. I didn't see you…"

Heather takes a look at the three of us and the guilt we undoubtedly have on our faces. Hers is paler than usual, her spray tan nonexistent. "Let me guess why you're suddenly silent. You were talking about me, like the rest of the world is."

"Oh, no… we weren't Heather!"

"Definitely not!"

"Shut up," Heather snaps at Katie and Macey. "I heard you. I've heard it everywhere for the last forty-eight hours. All thanks to that hag of a stepmother of mine."

The three of us remain silent. The other two are uncertain while I'm secretly entertained.

"We're, um, sorry for your loss," Katie says.

"It's no loss of mine. She did this on purpose, like she always does. She's screwed up the entire will and testament proceedings. But I shouldn't be surprised. She was a selfish old hag for a reason." Heather turns her head toward the mousy brunette. "You should be more relieved than anyone, Katie. No one's talking about you blowing Lucas Cummings at my end of summer pool party after he was nice to you for five minutes."

Macey's jaw drops open. Mine almost does too.

Katie's chin quivers as she holds in emotion. "You don't have to be cruel, Heather."

"Who's been cruel? I'm being honest. Just like you spreading news about my stepmom. Besides, it's not exactly a secret you'll sleep with anyone who's nice to you, Katie. We call that common knowledge."

Katie rushes off while me and Macey hang back in shock. Heather holds her head up high, her usual confidence returning as she struts past us into the student union.

Half an hour later, the four of us are seated in Professor Adler's class with tension thick in the air. Katie's refused to utter a peep to anyone while Heather texts away on her phone with unapologetic defiance. Macey's flirting with one of the guys in our class.

And then there's me—my attention set on the front of the room where Professor Adler's waiting for the clock to strike ten.

As entertaining as our catty frenemy group is, I'm much more interested in today's crim law lesson.

The class begins and Professor Adler commands the room.

Dark, brooding, endlessly sarcastic, he holds my attention every second I'm near him. He grills the class during his lecture with such intensity, it feels like my heart's about to bust out of my chest.

The other students exchange ominous looks when he starts scribbling on the antique blackboard at the front of the lecture hall. His writing's abysmal. Chicken scratch is more legible. But that's the point—keeping us on our toes. On edge.

Making sure we're paying attention every second we're in his class.

I thrust my arm in the air when he asks questions. I meet his gaze bravely when he peers around almost disdainfully at the rows of seats. Deep down I'm hoping, praying he'll call on me.

I've been waiting days for it to happen.

For the words, "Yes, Miss Oliver?" to leave his lips as he finally turns his attention to me.

But it never happens. Come the end of class, he hasn't looked in my direction once. All around me the other students collect their things and trickle out of the room. I've stayed put, my book still splayed open.

I'm not sure what I'm doing.

Only that it feels like something I have to do. I have to stay behind and talk to him. Gain his attention and make sure I'm not going crazy.

I thought… after the funeral, after the art festival, after my token of good will with the coffee and note, I had hoped…

The last person wanders out, the door thudding shut behind him. Drawing courage into my lungs with a deep breath, I rise out of my chair and start toward his desk at the front of the room. Each step feels dangerous, like I'm walking a plank to shark-infested waters. I'm on my way to my death.

And I very well could be—what if I've completely misread the situation? What if I thought we'd made amends when really he's still pissed I spilled coffee on him? Do I really want to incur the wrath of my criminal law professor?

I come up on his desk, yet still he doesn't notice me. He doesn't look up, so focused on collecting his things for his leather satchel that I'm a non-factor. I give a small cough.

He jerks his head up like it's a total surprise to find someone's in front of him. His brow furrows, the rest of his features no less clenched from his natural scowl. A scowl that should be off-putting, yet pairs perfectly with his wavy dark hair and stubbled jaw. His glasses only add to his intensity, making him both studious and forbidding as his deep brown eyes meet my own.

My belly flips, my mind wiping blank. "Um… I was just… I mean I had a… a question."

A flicker of something I can't place passes in his gaze. "Yes, Miss Oliver?"

There. It. Is.

Three simple words I've been craving all week long. Spoken in his smooth, professional-yet-throaty baritone .

I lose the air in my lungs. When I try to inhale some more, it feels like I've been rendered permanently breathless. It's the giddy sense of excitement that fizzes inside me. The awareness that I and I alone have his full attention in this moment.

"I… I guess it's more of a statement than a question," I stammer seconds later. He folds his hands on his desk and peers up at me with a new level of interest. As if he's searching my expression for context clues.

But I'm more distracted by his hands. Clean, well taken care of hands. Large hands with prominent veins that protrude on the back as he clasps both together. Strong and sturdy. Perfect for holding the heavy books I'm sure he keeps his nose in.

…perfect for holding, grabbing other things…

What has gotten into me? Why do I suddenly feel like a silly schoolgirl with a crush?

I lick my lips and force my dry voice box to work. "You stated that economic causation does not negate malum in se criminality."

"Yes… and?"

"I… I disagree," I say, feeling both lightheaded and exhilarated under his microscope. "Research has shown that crime is closely linked to economic factors like work and education. If the opportunity gain outweighs the adverse conditions the individual is in, then some would argue it's warranted."

"That's a mighty wordy way to say you think it's fine to steal sometimes," he quips.

Ouch.

I press on anyway. "The same research says deterrence is the best solution to these economic factors?—"

"I don't remember that particular aspect being part of today's discussion, Miss Oliver," he interrupts, canting his head slightly to the side. "The discussion was regarding malum in se. Acts morally wrong, therefore they are universally frowned upon by society and considered inherently criminal. Theft is widely recognized as one of these. Regardless of the reasoning."

"But think of a starving mother and her child?—"

"That was not part of the discussion." He snaps shut his satchel and then pops to his feet so fast, so aggressively, I take my own step back. He's no longer hiding behind a veil of curiosity and study. That's vanished for open irritation. The same he'd had the morning I spilled coffee on him. "Next time you get the urge to add your two cents, you might want to make sure it was asked for in the first place. Perhaps stop trying so damn hard to be the smartest student in the room. It won't do you any favors."

He strides past me in a blur that's as dismissive as it is humiliating. My skin prickles in the aftermath, the warmth like a horrible sunburn. I can do nothing but suffer in the wave of humiliation that passes. The sinking knowledge I've made a total fool of myself.

Here I was, trying to impress him, and he couldn't care less. He was annoyed by it.

My hands come up to my face as I shudder out a breath and chastise myself for being so dumb.

Did I think I'd be his favorite student? Did I think he'd give praise for my opinion?

I drag my feet every step out of the classroom, dreading the fact that I have another class after lunch, which means I can't run home to wallow in private. I'm stepping out of the door when I almost collide with someone else approaching.

"Oh," says Dean Rothenberg, tugging on the lapel of his business jacket. He peers down his skinny, crooked nose at me. "You're coming out of Professor Adler's class. I trust he's inside?"

"He's not, Dean. You just missed him."

"I see. You look familiar. First year law student? Your family's alma mater, I take it?" He peers at me up and down as if trying to think of the few prestigious Black families at Castlebury that he knows of.

Little does he realize, I'm fully aware of who he is, and how his father, the former dean of the school, played a role in ruining Mom's life…

My pulse picks up again, giving a slow shake of my head. "Not exactly. I'm hoping to be the first in my family to graduate law school at Castlebury."

"Ah, excellent. Well… carry on. If you see Professor Adler before I do, please let him know I was looking for him."

Dean Rothenberg spares me no other attention as he's off down the hall in the direction he's come from. I wait 'til I'm sure he's out of earshot, then mumble under my breath.

"I would if Professor Adler didn't hate me."

My third week of law school is marginally less disastrous than the first two weeks. I'm on time for every class, well-read and well-prepared. I strike a balance between participating in the class discussions and not being a complete know-it-all like I usually would be.

The workload is doable so long as you stay on top of the reading and anticipate what could be coming next.

Where Professor Griner from torts is fascinating with his anecdotes about his days as a personal injury lawyer, Professor Burrows is like a cyborg. It wouldn't at all be surprising to learn he has the entirety of the United States Constitution memorized letter for letter.

But by the end of week three, there's only one professor that I still find myself drawn to.

Despite the fact that Professor Adler ignores my existence, I couldn't be more attuned to his. He's cold and withering in his demeanor. Dismissive in every way, yet when he glares around the room, I can't help raising my hand anyway. I can't help hoping today is the day he calls on me.

I can impress him like I have in the past.

Sometimes, I even sense he's tempted to glance in my direction. He's restraining himself, holding back from interacting with me in any way. His jaw clenches as he avoids me at all costs.

It begins to feel like some unspoken game between us—my eager attempts to catch his attention during class and his stoic, restrained efforts to refuse me.

I see him elsewhere on campus. In the corridors and inside the student union when I'm grabbing coffee.

There's no stone in the Gothic centuries-old architecture that doesn't make me think of him.

At lunch, I enter the library to spot him browsing legal books. His face is set in deep concentration, his dark hair so rumpled, a strand hangs loose against his brow. His hand extends toward the bookshelf and I watch as he carefully selects a book, taking it into his wide palm and long fingers.

I'm there to peruse the newspaper archives from 2004—research on my late father and what exactly happened at Castlebury U two decades ago—but, suddenly, I'm hot and flushed. I'm distracted by Professor Adler as he strides by me with the same cold confidence he always possesses.

A little over an hour later, the door to my apartment's flinging open as I rush inside and toss my bookbag aside. I usually spend Thursday afternoons studying and catching up on coursework, but I couldn't stand another second on campus. I shimmy out of my jeans and rush toward my bedroom.

Peaches joins my side with loud meows that go ignored for now.

"Sorry, Peaches. Give me a moment, okay?"

I need release.

Flopping onto my bed, I grab my vibrator from the drawer of my nightstand table. The room fills with its loud buzzing as the toy vibrates against my clit and my eyes roll shut.

Fantasy takes over.

I'm imagining Professor Adler's hands everywhere. I'm picturing how firm they'd feel gripping my hips and sliding over my thighs.

A moan leaves me as pleasure tingles in my pussy and I writhe on my bed. He's kissing me, his lips warm on my naked skin. He confesses how he's found me irresistible and couldn't stop thinking about me.

I can practically hear his voice in my ear, smooth and taut like fine leather.

He settles between my thighs and pulls out his engorged, veiny dick and…

My orgasm crashes over me. I seize up with my head tipped back and the vibrator buzzing away.

For several seconds, I'm high. I'm far from coherent as pleasure quakes through me and I almost see him watching.

I almost see him in this room with me.

My eyes snap shut again and I ride out the rest of my orgasm 'til I'm laying still in satisfaction. Clicking off the vibrator, I let out a sigh. Peaches leaps onto the bed to join me at my side like she didn't just witness her mother getting off to a silly fantasy.

I stroke her spine and laugh to myself. "I had to get that out of my system, Peaches. He's been in my head all day."

…except as a small laugh leaves me and I get up off the bed, a part of me lingers in the fantasy. A part of me wonders what if?

Some day.