Page 1 of Teach Me (Deviant Players #1)

Chapter One

The traffic light flashed an amber warning as I hurried down the frosty pavement.

I wasn’t one to run late in the mornings, but there were no free parking spaces near the university.

My faithful Ford Fiat was now abandoned on a yellow line up the hill.

I would get a ticket, but being late to Dr Braithwaite’s lecture was infinitely worse.

He was head of the ethics committee and a senior lecturer in psychology.

Two decades older than me, he had the wealth of knowledge I needed to get a distinction on my dissertation.

He only supervised one master’s student per year.

The odds had been against me, but somehow, I’d ended up with him as my supervisor.

Some days, it was hard to say whether that was a blessing or a curse. He was as strict and meticulous as I’d expected, scrutinising everything from methodology to literature review. We often butted heads, but I also enjoyed our conversations.

Maybe a little too much.

He had yet to approve my ethics application. Being late for his lecture was not an option, so I sprinted onto the road just as the traffic light changed. A driver pressed his horn, startling me. I slipped on the ice in my rush to avoid getting run over.

A hand shot out from the crowd and grabbed me before I slammed face-first into the pavement. ‘Jesus,’ my coursemate, Joshua, exclaimed. ‘Where’s the fire, Ophelia?’

‘Sorry, I just… The car park was?—’

The driver lay on his horn again. Joshua flipped him off, then turned his hazel eyes on me. ‘What about the car park?’

‘I had to park’ – I put a hand on my chest to steady my breathing – ‘up the hill.’

‘Creston Hill? You’ll get a ticket.’

‘I know.’

Joshua’s brow lifted. He was my age, tall and bulky with heavy-styled blond hair, the kind of guy I should’ve focused on rather than seeking approval from a man out of my league.

‘It’s fine,’ I sighed. It wasn’t, but what else was I supposed to do? I glanced at my wristwatch. ‘The lecture starts in five minutes, so there’s no time to move my car. But maybe I still have time to check my emails.’

He followed me towards the revolving doors. ‘I wouldn’t worry about a ticket. You’ll work it off in an hour.’

‘Huh?’

‘When you said you were looking for part-time work, I thought you meant stacking shelves like a normal student,’ he added with a low chuckle. ‘I guess strip clubs pay better.’

‘Excuse me?’

His gaze dropped to my six-inch knee-high boots, footwear utterly unsuitable for a British winter, but worked so well with my black skirt and red blouse.

The boots were the reason I’d left my flat later than usual.

I’d needed a moment to talk myself into wearing something sure to draw Dr Braithwaite’s attention, but now Joshua’s smirk made me feel like the slut he insinuated I was.

‘They’re just shoes,’ I snapped.

‘Hey, I’m not complaining. You look hot as fuck.’ A lopsided smirk spread across his face as he studied me from head to toe as if he imagined me slowly gliding down a pole.

I pulled my coat tighter around my body to hide what little skin was visible. ‘Really, Josh? It’s not even nine o’clock and you’re already trying to get a leg over?’

My outburst drew the attention of other students and faculty members. I cringed when they made the same sweep of my body.

‘You’re such an arse,’ I bit out.

‘Ophelia, wait,’ he called when I tore away, pushing through the crowd to enter the building.

The warmth from the air curtains wafted onto my face, blowing a loose strand of my hair. I huffed as I pulled it behind my ear. A stripper? I should’ve pushed him into the river. It would’ve served him right for a stupid comment like that.

I was weaving through the crowd of students, heading towards the back of the building, when Carly’s wolf whistle stopped me. She was where I usually bumped into her in the mornings – waiting in line for the ladies’ room, a necessity since she lived an hour away.

‘Are you going to a party later?’ She pouted her red-tinted lips. ‘Where’s my invite?’

‘There’s no party. I just wanted to…’ I huffed again. ‘I don’t know anymore.’

Her blue eyes raked over me again before finding mine. She gave me a knowing smile. ‘Even if he doesn’t appreciate it, I think you look lovely.’ She looked down the line, then abandoned her place. ‘Screw this. We have five minutes. Coffee?’

I pursed my lips. My fingertips were numb from the cold, and I could use the caffeine kick, but there was a free computer in the study area to our right.

‘Don’t you need a wee?’ I moved around her to peer down the other corridor. Our lecture would be in the closest auditorium, but the room was still dark.

‘Yeah,’ she sighed, ‘but I figured you might, you know, want to talk about this.’

No, I didn’t.

‘The cafeteria queue will also be too long. We’ll get coffee during the break.’ I hooked my arm around hers and pulled her towards the study area. ‘I sent the new draft of my ethics application to Doctor Braithwaite last night. He usually responds quickly.’

I ignored Carly’s sigh and slid into the chair, dumping my bag on the floor.

We’d had countless discussions about our male lecturers, especially him.

She knew I had a crush on Dr Braithwaite, just like I knew the university had a non-fraternisation policy.

That didn’t stop me from imagining he could be more than my lecturer.

‘He probably forwarded it to the committee.’ She set her bag next to mine, unzipped her winter coat, and fanned herself. ‘Jesus, why’s it always so hot in this building?’

‘Because you always wear woolly jumpers?’

She shot me a look.

‘And I doubt he forwarded it,’ I continued. ‘He always finds something to nitpick. In his last email, he wanted me to justify using interviews rather than a focus group.’

‘A focus group would be fun,’ she said with a low laugh.

‘This is my fourth revision, so he better be happy…’ My frozen fingers forced me to re-enter my credentials twice, but I finally managed to log in. And there it was – an unread email from Dr E. Braithwaite .

‘He replied,’ I whispered. ‘Just five minutes ago.’

Carly’s long blonde hair swept against my coat as she leaned over my shoulder to squint at my screen. ‘What does it say?’

‘I don’t want to open it.’ I gave her a pleading look. ‘Can you do it?’

‘Sure, after Christmas, which is when I’ll check my application.’ She straightened, flicking her hair over her shoulder. ‘Why are you stressing about this now? It’s our last day on campus.’

‘Not for me.’ I pointed behind. ‘I’m spending Christmas in the library.’

Her huff drowned in the chatter of other students walking past. I stared longingly at their polystyrene cups and pastry bags. Unless I begged my parents for money to pay for the parking ticket, I couldn’t afford such luxuries until the next student loan payment.

‘Open the damn email, Ophelia.’

‘Fine.’ I drew a sharp breath and clicked on the email. We both leaned in. I only made it to the second line before my dreams of graduating with a distinction in abnormal psychology unravelled. ‘What the fuck?’

A dozen heads swivelled in our direction, including the last person I wanted to overhear my lack of restraint. Dr Braithwaite stood by the auditorium, cradling a cup of coffee. He dipped his chin, giving me a stern stare that had me squirming in my seat.

We first met in a developmental psychology lecture when I was an undergraduate.

Four years later, I still flushed whenever his deep blue eyes lingered on mine.

It frustrated me because now I wanted to throw his coffee in his face.

How dare he outright reject my hypothesis? That wasn’t his job as my supervisor.

Carly also noticed him and cringed. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘I’m going to…’ My tongue darted out, wetting my lips.

‘I need to… umm, I should go. I should…’ I pushed my chair back too hard, rolling it into the path of another student.

He slammed into it and dropped his cup of tea.

The hot liquid splattered across his sensible winter shoes and my fuck-me boots, which I felt like an idiot for wearing, considering that Dr Braithwaite was already fucking over my academic career.

‘Watch it,’ the man snapped.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I blurted. ‘I’ll get you a new one.’

‘Forget it. I don’t have time.’

Carly gave me a sympathetic look when he stormed off. ‘I’ll get paper towels. You should speak to Doctor Braithwaite.’

I ran my hands through my hair, smoothing more wayward strands that had come loose from my ponytail.

Talk to him about what? He had effectively invalidated months of research.

I glared at the door he’d disappeared through.

Didn’t he understand the fiddly, time-consuming process of completing an ethics application?

I’d spent days in the library, nose deep in thick volumes, followed by even longer nights staring at a screen until my eyes were gritty.

He thought my hypothesis was flawed? It wasn’t.

He was the only problem with my dissertation.

Or rather, my feelings for him. I could have pursued my master’s degree in psychology at any other university.

Could have followed my dream of earning a postgraduate degree in Human Sexuality.

He had encouraged me to do so, but it would’ve meant moving to London.

I stayed here because of him, hoping he would take me under his tutelage when I progressed to my doctoral studies.

Who was I kidding?

I gathered my things and stormed into the auditorium.

He was at the desk, arranging papers into neat piles.

Dr Braithwaite liked everything to be in order.

He was, as Freud would’ve said, quite anal about how he conducted his lectures.

It was a little quirk I usually found endearing, but when I trotted over to him, I had to restrain the urge to sweep his precious papers onto the floor.