Page 48 of Twisted Ties

“Maybe you should be,” he whispers and I remember the pain in my head and frown. “Don’t try my patience.”

“Can I go now?” I ask.

“No,” he snaps. “I think you owe me some lines.”

“Lines?” I laugh. “That’s your big scary punishment.”

“It’s only fair I give you a little warning. We all make mistakes,” he mumbles. “Next time, I won’t be so nice.”

I snort and sink onto the nearest chair, pulling paper and a pen from my bag. It’s lunch time and I’m not so used to skipping meals anymore. My stomach is already grumbling about it.

“What am I writing?” I ask, snapping the lid off my pen.

The professor smirks in that stupidly hot way and then swirls his right hand through the air with a flourish. A piece of chalk dances across the blackboard leaving a sentence of flamboyant writing behind.

I lean forward in my chair to read it, curious despite my best efforts.

I will show Professor Stone the due respect he deserves.

“I’m not writing that,” I say.

“You are. One hundred lines please, Miss Blackwaters.” He picks up his book and starts reading again, tugging off his tie as he does.

I swear under my breath and pick up my pen. This isn’t a battle worth fighting. It’s a relatively light punishment and the sooner I write the lines, the sooner I can eat.

I pick up my pen and hover the nib over the paper.

If I write quickly enough, I’m sure I can finish in thirty minutes which would leave me thirty more to rush to the canteen and hoover down some food.

I flex my fingers, and lower my pen to the page.

Then I halt, an idea forming in my mind. I drop my pen and wave my hand over the page instead. One hundred lines of perfectly handwritten sentences appear.

I smile.

“I’m done,” I say triumphantly.

The professor looks up.

“It seems like maybe you’re finally learning, Miss Blackwaters.” He holds out his hand. “Let me see.”

I hesitate for a moment, then stand up from my desk, pick up the piece of paper and carry it over to him.

He takes it from my hand and his eyes glide over the page. The same sentence written over and over again. One hundred times.

Professor Stone is an asshole.

“Again the obsession with my ass,” he whispers.

“You can kiss mine,” I snap back.

He looks up at me.

“Don’t … fucking … tempt … me,” he hisses, crushing the paper in his fist. He opens his hand and the ball of paper sets alight, burning vividly in his palm.

We watch it together, the paper curling, the flames dancing, the sensation in my stomach stronger than ever.

“I did your lines,” I tell him. “Can I go now, Professor?”