Page 14 of The Biker and the Professor
Toni
The following evening, a gruff bulk of a man wearing an eye-patch shows up on my doorstep with two large tubs of Cherry Garcia. He wears a leather vest similar to Nero’s, except his is plain with a simple badge that reads, “Prospect”.
“From Grunt,” he rumbles, handing me the cold tubs.
Before I can get a word out, he’s down the steps and on his bike, off in the wind.
Mouth agape, mind boggled, I just stand there and watch him leave.
Grunt. There couldn’t have been a more apt moniker. He’s a man of few words but a whole lot of intimidating masculinity.
Yesterday he defied me, left me in a frustrated ball of unsatisfied desire, and now he sends some scary eye-patched dude with my favorite ice-cream? What’s his deal? Is this supposed to be some sort of apology offering?
After he left yesterday, I’d half-hoped, half-dreaded that he would come back, but he never did. I’d also noted that his helmet was missing from the side table.
All throughout today, my thoughts ran amok with him, my neck tingling with the memory of his touch. I’d barely managed to resist the urge to dart next door and badger my neighbor with questions about him.
Now, however, I’m irritated with myself for being disappointed that he’s not the one who showed up on my doorstep. What the heck is wrong with me?! Clearly, I’m freaking losing it.
I haven’t been with anyone since my divorce, which was well over a year ago, and we’d stopped having sex roughly two years before that. So, am I merely sexually deprived? It’s the only sensible explanation as to why I’m having these forbidden thoughts about my student.
I haven’t felt any kind of attraction to anyonebutNero, and I’ve been asked out quite a bit since I moved here. Professor Fitzpatrick, the physics instructor, asks me out at minimum two times a week. He’s relentless. Yet even with his angular jaw, lean physique, and numerous attractive attributes and features that would make him the absolute perfect match for me considering the intense conversations we’ve had on certain topics, I’ve never felt even an inkling of sexual attraction to him.
So, what the hell is it about Nero goddamn Gunnar? I mean, the guy is twelve years my junior and so clearlynotmy match. What could we possibly have in common?
All that said, I’m giddy about my Sunday night treat. Sure, I’malwaysgiddy about Cherry Garcia, but tonight I’m extra heady because of who it’s from.
Stashing one of the tubs in the freezer, I grab a small spoon from the kitchen, then curl up on my sofa in front of the television and savor every spoonful.
~
He’sabsent from class on Monday. Which surprises me.
Nero is never absent, never late, always turns in his assignments on time, and never fails a test or exam. As a matter of fact, he’s one of mybeststudents. Not just mine, either. Most of the professors have nothing but wonderful things to say about his academic excellence.
“Reticent, a little rough around the edges and slightly intimidating, but respectful and impressively brilliant.”—This from his adviser.
He’s studying to become an electrical engineer. A challenging and impressive field. One I have no doubt he’ll succeed in.
For the entire class, I can’t help worrying if he’s alright. This is college, not high school, so I shouldn’t care half as much as I do, but I do.
He’s not in the parking lot when I’m leaving, to inappropriately stare me down while he breaks the “no smoking on campus” rule. Our routine is broken, and somehow, that leaves me feeling…off. Incomplete?
It’s like when you go to the grocery store without a list, and even after leaving with a full trolley, you feel as if you’ve forgotten something important. Perhaps the main thing you went there for, to begin with.
That’s how I’m feeling. Like I’m missing the main ingredient – a cake without flour.
When I get home, I find an invoice from The Metal House in the mailbox. The price is ridiculously low. There’s no way it’s even a third of the original price.
Goddamn him.
Our next calculus class is on Wednesday. Nero is absent. Again.
This is bullshit. Where the hell is he? I’m so pissed off that I spring an impromptu test on the class, bathing in their shock and grumbles. On top of it, I give them an assignment due for the next class—Friday.
Good. Now everyone is as surly as I am.
In the faculty lounge, I “concernedly” inquire about Nero Gunnar’s attendance for the week so far. According to both his Physics and Mechanical Engineering professors, he had attended all his classes.
