Page 31 of Dean's Delinquent

He’s like my drug, but one far more lethal than the fentanyl that killed Chase. Addicts can make the choice to stay away if it comes down to it. It might take help and intervention, but they can stay away from places that sell it.

How the hell am I supposed to avoid Dean Anderson when it seems like every little space of breath I have to myself ends up with us together again? It doesn’t matter if I choose to be good. He’ll still be on campus somewhere.

There are no warning signs, no back-lit alleys I can avoid. Hell, even class won’t be safe if he decides to just pop in. Throw in the fact that as the sole editor on the Loftry Lantern, I will always end up answering to him, even if the article isn’t something I consider inflammatory.

The only way to truly be rid of him and these feelings is if I transfer schools. But to do that would be to let my father win. Not to mention, I’d be destroying the burgeoning paper I’m building from the ground up.

What other top-notch college would let me do what I’m creating at Loftry? For that matter, what other schools have such a high rate of successful placement? None. It’s why I applied in the first place. It’s why I’m going to stick it out and just contend myself with a vibrator or my hand when things get too tough.

Besides, it’s not as if I have the same effect on him that he does me. No doubt he sees me as an annoyance, an errant brat in need of a firm hand. Ugh. If only that firm hand was attached to someone less magnetic and devastatingly handsome.

As I reach the door to the psychiatrist’s office, I hazard a glance at my reflection in the shiny copper panels. It’s so out of place compared to the other buildings, but I guess it’s for the best. Pretty sure no one wants to accidentally end up in a shrink’s chair.

Exhaustion lines my features, even though I’ve had at least eight hours of sleep. Unfortunately, most of those hours were spent trying to get comfortable. Last night was the first night since he caned me that I’ve been able to fully sleep on my back.

Even though the discomfort has lessened quite a bit, the snug designer jeans I’m wearing feel like sandpaper across my tender cheeks. Why did I think it was a good idea to wear a thong? Probably because I was hoping to run into Dean Anderson again and get into trouble for something.

God, I’m hopeless.

My clit throbs as I rub my thighs together, flooding the small scrap of fabric with my arousal. No. I can’t be like this. I won’t be like this. Hell, if I have to embarrass myself in front of this shrink to get some answers, so be it.

As long as he doesn’t tell the dean, I’m okay.

The door chimes as I open it, shattering through my thoughts until I finally sober. Bedlam is where I’m headed if I can’t get this under control. It would be different if I were his peer. Something, anything other than a student at his university.

But I’m not. Nothing I do will change that until I graduate.

“Hi! You must be our three o’clock?”

I glance over at the cheery redhead sitting behind the glass. The girl looks no older than I am. “Student hire?”

“One and the same. Girl’s gotta get cash somehow. The tuition is killer.”

“Don’t I know it?” I mumble, taking the clipboard from her.

Fortunately, I don’t actually have to work anywhere. My parents have all that covered. Part of me does feel bad for some of the other students, but not everyone can be this fortunate.

“Doctor Andrew is still out, but will be back in time for your session. Why don’t you wait in his office while you fill out the paperwork?”

“Sounds great.”

I follow her through an oddly ornate door and into the world’s weirdest freak show of an office I’ve ever seen. Forget doing a teacher spotlight in the Lantern. I need the world to see this.

Setting the clipboard down onto a plush couch, I take in all the scientific wonders behind glass or sitting in specimen jars. It’s as if I’ve taken a step back into a more medieval setting, where such oddities could easily be on display.

Skulls of all types litter the long display case cavities, their empty eye sockets staring straight into my soul until I pull away. Unfortunately, that doesn’t really help.

There, on a higher shelf, sits what looks like an exploded skull. It’s a Beauchene if I remember correctly. Father had one of those until Mom forced him to get rid of it.

As a child, it always made me feel rather uneasy. As an adult, it’s not much better. The only difference is, as an adult, I can ostensibly walk away and never see it again after this mandatory meeting.

Turning to the side, I study a rich tapestry instead. The deep colors and intricate brocade are certainly far more pleasant to look at than a skull. It feels like heaven under my fingertips, inviting almost, as if it wants to be touched.

The only issue is that it doesn’t look like it really belongs in this office. Everything else is so cold, so clinical. This magnificent piece just doesn’t belong.

As I follow it over, I finger the seam where it seems to end and then pick up again. Odd. When I slide my finger through, it meets no resistance. No wall, no plaster, no concrete. Nothing.

Just like everything else in this office, it makes no sense. Peeking over my shoulder, I make sure I’m still alone as I peel it back, revealing a massive cage built into the wall. The reason my finger didn’t hit anything is because I slipped between the thick metal bars.

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