Page 2 of Because of Us

Pushing my glasses up, I press my hands against my eyes. I try, in vain, to hold the tears in.

“Shit!”

The deep husky voice shocks me. Heat rises up my neck when I realise I’m not alone. My chest tightens as I race to pull my dress over my legs. The fabric that fell to my knees when I was standing feels too short, barely covering my thighs in this position.

I glance up at the man and feel instant regret. He is older than me, more refined. But not too far older that I don’t still find him beyond attractive. The fabric of his suit pants stretches over his thighs as he crouches down. One hand still clutching at the hemline of my dress, I hesitate before stretching the other toward him.

Instead of helping me, he jumps back up. The abruptness of his movements has me pulling back my hand to clutch at my stomach. My heart flops when I see the sultry glare in his deep brown eyes.

Noticing the rest of his face, my hands fly up to cover my face again. A hint of stubble is starting to show around his jaw, highlighting the gentle shape of his lips. The man is so attractive I want to melt in his presence. I want the floor to swallow me whole because I don’t think I’ll ever get over the embarrassment. When the floor holds its place underneath me, I sob.

I sob because I thought today couldn’t get any worse. Because I just wanted to get home. Because everything hurts. My heart, my nose, my ass. My pride.

OLIVER

The library is empty by the time I close my computer. The few students that had come to make a start on their weekly readings have all left. Off to orientation week activities and wild parties.

I remember those days well. Back when I thought I knew what I wanted out of life. When I thought my work here would mean something. But those days are long gone, and all the years I spent working on my doctorate feel wasted.

Everyone knows the saying, those that can’t do, teach. Except that, I can do. My writing has won awards. My books have sold millions of copies around the world. I just chose to teach anyway. I thought I could make a difference in the lives of young creatives. Inspire them to write their stories, to sell their stories.

If my years as a postgraduate tutor taught me anything, I doubt I’ll be instilling motivation in anyone this semester. Turns out, most of the students that take Creative Non-Fiction are only in it because they have to be. Or because they need extra credit points and figure it’ll be an easy slide.

Honestly, those ones are right. There’s nothing compelling for me to teach them, no big ‘ah-ha’ moment. At least, nothing that will help them write a best-selling book. That shit is all hard work, little reward.

Dreading the start of semester next week, my thoughts shift to the money that landed in my bank account last month. I don’t want it. I certainly don’t deserve it.

Nobody holds a lottery ticket expecting to win, but somehow, I did. I won.

And I still haven’t spent a dime. It doesn’t feel real, but it also doesn’t feel right. The ticket was a cheap addition to a Christmas Hamper I won in a raffle. I nearly threw it out. But then I heard on the news about the unclaimed winnings. My jaw dropped when I checked the numbers.

Ten. Million. Dollars.

I don’t need it, and I’m sure there are far less fortunate people who do. I just need to find the best way to get it to them.

I gather my belongings from the desk, giving up my attempts to write a lecture plan for next week. Sliding my laptop into my satchel and stacking the books, I pick everything up. My mind is elsewhere as I trudge down the hall between aisles on my way out. The stack of books is unbalanced in my arms, teetering just like my desire to work at the university.

She hits me with full force, knocking the wind out of my lungs, and the ground from beneath her feet. Flying backwards, the petite blonde woman lands firmly on her ass while I lose my grip on the pile of books.

“Shit!”

I crouch down to pick up the books, before jumping upright. I’ll get them later. Right now, I need to distract my gaze away from the woman’s black lace panties.

I can’t … shouldn’t … won’t … look. No matter how much I want to. But then I hear her sob.

The sound does something weird to my insides. They twist in an unusual way, leaving my chest feeling hollow.

I drop to my knees in front of her, thankful that she has done what little she can to pull her dress down. The vision of her dress bunched around her waist is burned into my mind. I fight to hold back the incredibly inappropriate desire to plant my face between her legs.

The woman is crying for God’s sake.

I shake my head, running my hands through my hair in a desperate attempt to compose myself.

“Are you okay?”

Her hands inch away from her face, causing her glasses to fall into place over her nose. My hands twitch, wanting to reach out to her. Red bruising lines the bridge of her nose and her eyes are swollen. Puffy from what looks like hours of crying, not just the collision.

Seeing me reaching for her, she hiccups, shaking her head before hiding in her hands again.

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