Page 6 of The Naughty Professor

Chapter Five

Thorne

The stack of essays on my lap blurred together, the words bleeding into one another like a watercolor gone wrong. I set down my pen, stretched until my spine cracked, and yawned so hard my jaw popped.

The condo was silent except for the hum of the refrigerator in the next room. My gaze drifted across the living room to the flat-screen mounted on the wall. A thin layer of dust coated the top edge, visible even in the soft lamplight.

How long had it been since I had turned it on? Weeks, probably. Maybe months. I preferred a book anyway. At least a book made you think.

I pushed the essays aside, rubbing my eyes.

That’s when my phone buzzed against the coffee table.

I glanced at it. Joan.

A groan escaped me before I could stop it.

Joan Stanwyk hadn’t given me a moment’s peace since the divorce.

When Mark and I had split, she’d been a lifeline—dragging me out of my apartment, forcing me to eat, making sure I didn’t drown myself in bourbon and work.

She’d been a friend when I needed one most.

But now? It was relentless. Calls, texts, invitations to dinner. At first, I told myself it was kindness. But lately, I couldn’t shake the suspicion that she wanted something more.

But she knows I’m gay, I thought. She knows.

I let the call go to voicemail.

A second later, another notification chimed, higher pitched. The unmistakable ping of the dating app TrueMatch.

I groaned again, pinching the bridge of my nose.

Every date I’d been on from that app had been a disaster. Men who looked nothing like their pictures, men who only wanted a quick hookup, men who thought “intellectual conversation” meant listing off their favorite Marvel movies.

I ignored it, grabbed the essays again, and tried to focus.

Then came the ding of a text.

I sighed and picked up my phone. It was my pal Sean.

are you still alive?

Grading papers. As always.

ugh boring. come out tonight.

Pass.

no really i need you. meeting a guy from TrueMatch. don’t want to get catfished alone.

You’ve survived worse.

easy for you to say. what if he’s a serial killer?

Then I’ll get your plants when you’re gone.

ha ha. seriously thorne. just come out.

I leaned back into the couch cushions, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Sean was my oldest friend. We’d met freshman year of college, and somehow, despite two very different lives, had stuck. He was charming, reckless, the kind of man who burned bright and fast.

I, on the other hand, was tired. Bars, apps, strangers—it was all the same. A merry-go-round of disappointment. I typed out a reply.

You’ll be fine.

no i won’t. come to Badlands. please.

My stomach sank at the name. Badlands. Loud music, crowded dancefloor, endless drinks. I’d been too many times, and each time I left emptier than when I arrived.

I’m not in the mood.

you never are.

I frowned.

come on. it’ll be good for you. you’re still young. you should actually enjoy life before you shrivel up with those boring student papers.

I’m forty-three. not eighty.

same difference.

I huffed out a laugh despite myself.

Why do I let you talk me into things?

because you love me. now get dressed.

I set the phone down, staring at the ceiling. The sensible thing was to say no. Finish grading these papers, then pour a glass of wine and go to bed.

But the truth pressed against me in the silence of the condo.

I was lonely.

The essays, the books, my home—none of it filled the hollow space Fred had left behind. I didn’t even miss him anymore, not really. What I missed was the warmth. The companionship. Someone’s voice echoing through the rooms.

And if I stayed here tonight, the silence would press in harder.

So I stood, stretched again, and muttered, “Fine.”

I walked to the bedroom. The condo really was the only good thing I’d gotten from the divorce. Fred had fought for it, of course, but in the end, I’d won. Hardwood floors, a view of the James River, a kitchen big enough for two but empty now.

I opened the closet and scanned the rows of clothes. A navy button-down. Dark jeans. Simple, but clean. I ran a hand through my hair, debating whether I needed gel, then decided against it. My blond hair behaved well enough without help.

I caught my reflection in the mirror—blue eyes sharp, jaw still strong. Handsome, I supposed, in that easy, genetic-lottery kind of way. People told me so often enough. But being handsome was useless if no one could keep up with me once I opened my mouth.

I slipped on my watch, grabbed my wallet, and headed out the door.

The night air was brisk, carrying a faint tang of the river. As I walked toward the car, my phone buzzed again.

don’t bail. i’m already here.

I typed back quickly.

On my way.

* * *

The moment I walked into Badlands, I regretted it.

The bass thudded through my chest like a second heartbeat, the air heavy with sweat, cheap cologne, and vodka Red Bulls.

The dance floor was already a blur of twinks grinding against each other, their bodies slick under the pulsing lights.

Near the bar, a few muscle studs stood in a knot, flexing like they were auditioning for each other, their laughter sharp and hollow.

I’d told Sean a thousand times I hated this place, but here I was. Again.

I worked my way through the press of bodies until the bar came into view.

Shoulders brushed mine, sequins scraped my sleeve, and someone’s drink sloshed too close for comfort.

I elbowed into a space just wide enough to breathe.

The shirtless bartender was all abs and easy smiles, bottles spinning in his hands as if he were auditioning for a circus act.

“Bourbon, neat.” I had to raise my voice to be heard over the music.

He slid it toward me without a word. I curled my hand around the glass, let the burn of the first sip steady me, then set it down and scanned the room: crowded dance floor, a knot of men by the DJ booth, the patio doors swinging open and closed. Every entrance, every exit, but no Sean.

My fingers found the rim of the glass and began drumming—left, right, left. A restless rhythm. The bartender leaned over to wipe the counter beneath my elbow, then muttered a half-apology without looking at me.

“Hey there.”

I turned, and there stood a boy. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-two, with red hair gelled into sharp spikes, and a tank top sliced so low it may as well not have existed. He leaned in with a grin that said he’d already imagined the rest of the night.

It definitely wouldn’t be spent with me.

“You here alone?” he asked, voice pitched above the music. The cloud of Axe body spray around him was enough to sting my eyes.

“Meeting a friend.”

“Cool, cool. I like your shirt. You’ve got, like, a professor vibe. Are you a teacher?”

“Something like that.”

He lit up, leaning even closer to me. “That’s hot. I always thought sleeping with a professor would be kinky, you know? Like earning extra credit.”

I took another slow sip of bourbon, letting the silence stretch.

Unfazed, he barreled on. “So, I’ve been bulking up, right? Two protein shakes a day—whey isolate, not that cheap soy crap—and you should see my macros.”

I stared at him blankly, then yawned.

“Miami next weekend’s gonna be fire, bro. All of my friends are flying down. Clubs all night, gym during the day. Gotta stay shredded, you know?” He flexed his arm as if I’d asked.

I took another sip of my drink. The bourbon burned pleasantly down my throat. I didn’t bother hiding my lack of interest, but this boy was oblivious.

“My trainer says if I can cut down to six percent body fat, I’ll be stage-ready. Like, Mr. Gay Virginia, here I come!” His laugh was nasal, and too loud.

I nodded once, politely. He was the human equivalent of an overexcited puppy.

“Anyway, what about you? You work out? You look like you could, uh, if you wanted.”

Before I could reply, he whipped out his phone and scrolled through a reel of selfies, determined to show me all of them. Identical angles, identical smirk. Jesus, did he have a single brain cell not focused on himself?

The bass pounded into my skull, every word another drumbeat in the migraine blooming behind my eyes. A Margaret Atwood novel would never do this to me. Damn it, I’m going home if Sean doesn’t show up soon.

When I didn’t laugh at his second Miami story—or the third, which was identical to the first—his smile finally slipped. He huffed, then muttered, “Whatever,” and stalked off, already scanning the room for someone else.

I exhaled, my shoulders loosening.

I should’ve stayed at home, I thought. A glass of wine, a book, Mozart playing in the background. Anything but this parade of glitter and obnoxious body spray.

I set my glass down and rubbed the back of my neck, letting my gaze wander aimlessly across the room. That’s when I saw him.

At the edge of the dance floor stood a man in wire-framed glasses.

His slacks were a little too big, and he wore a wrinkled shirt.

He looked wildly out of place among the strutting peacocks.

But his face—his face was striking. Dark hair kept falling onto his brow, and he had sharp features softened by a hesitance in his stance. He looked very familiar.

Then it clicked. Felix Sterling. The chemistry professor.

I’d seen him at Alastair’s memorial service, his voice trembling whenever he spoke. On campus, he was quiet, almost invisible. Not one for small talk in the break room. But here he was, alone at Badlands, staring at the dance floor with a hunger I recognized in my bones.

Should I go talk to him?

I lifted the glass again, buying myself a moment. Maybe I should. It surprised me, honestly. I hadn’t known he was gay. Or maybe I’d never bothered to notice.

Before I could decide, an arm dropped around my shoulders.

“Thorne!”

Sean. Of course. His shirt hung open to mid-chest, his grin wolfish, sweat glistening at his hairline. He leaned in and kissed my cheek with an exaggerated smack.

I swatted him. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Patio,” he said, rolling his eyes. “My date ghosted me. Never showed up.”

“Figures.”

He shrugged, unbothered. “There are plenty of other men in here. I’ll live.”

Typical Sean—rejection slid off him like rain. He was already scanning the room for his next possibility, his attention darting like a crow spotting shiny new things.

I turned back toward the dance floor, but Felix was gone.

A pang hit me, sharp and unexpected. Disappointment? Curiosity?

He’d looked so out of place, standing there with those wire-frame glasses slipping down his nose. And yet—he was handsome, in a raw, unpolished way. If he were anything like me, he was probably already tired of this circus.

I swirled the bourbon in my glass, watching the amber catch the light.

Perhaps I should talk to him at school? God knows I could use a conversation that didn’t involve protein powder or Miami nightclubs.