Page 5 of Screwged for Christmas

Westmoore University’s three most eligible bachelors stood among their students and not a single one of them knew it. Why probably had a story clipped to it, but the fact still remained.

I’m not sure how a conversion got started, but fifteen minutes after Brooklyn left, a terrible idea and a lot of courage later I was being spirited upstairs.

Of course I lied about all of that when my best friend sprung the Spanish Inquisition on me a little after two that morning. How could I tell her what I had done and with whom?

Guilt still plagues me at not being honest and one day I hope I can tell her about the time her advice to cut loose a little landed me between those three. Maybe.

The delicate memory was mine to keep for now. Sharing seems invasive so I’ll keep my secret for now.

Now that I’m not stupid with lust I have a double shift at Krista’s Kafe set for the evening to help make up for the days I missed.

I sigh. I have zero credit cards, terrible credit at the diner with Krista, and fifteen dollars in my bank account with tuition due in three days since I don’t have the luxury of free tuition normally given to children of faculty members. My father saw to that when he refused to acknowledge me as his.

That’s fine. I don’t want free rides. But the coding job I hoped for fell through and God I hope I don’t have to reach out to my parents. Give them yet another opportunity to rub my choices in my face as what they will perceive as failures.

I pull out my phone and check my email hoping I might have a response after hitting send on a few emails with my resume attached earlier today to a few tech companies looking for coders.

An empty inbox greets me. Which I half expected. But damn.

Working at a diner with shitty uniforms isn’t exactly my dream job. But the money is enough to cover a few bills like rent. Coding some minor programs for startups and several odd jobs has so far covered tuition, but the well is drying up and fast on that front. With only a few months left on my degree I only have to hold out a little longer.

I hit refresh on my inbox again. Still nada.

The whole adulting angle blows. If this continues, I’ll be hitting the unemployment office as an after party as the ink on my degree dries.

Whoo—fucking—hooo.

Since the night crowd at the diner is scarce, I plan on using the time to get my feet back on the ground and find my focus. But first, I need to hit the books. Good times.

Head down, I duck between buildings, dodging the brutal air. School is out for another couple of weeks so for now it’s just me walking the empty campus pathways as I make my way to the library.

Two weeks to savor my forbidden encounter and finally tuck the secret safely away before class starts again. I don’t know how I’ll react seeing them again, but I have a timer set on getting my body under control. So far, it’s not going so great. My collection of toys has gotten a thorough workout, but nothing I do to recreate how they made me feel seems to work.

Short story, life is kicking my ass.

I round a corner a little too fast and nearly bump into the one person who can kill dreams with a single slicing glare.

And just like that my dazzling good mood sours when a pair of familiar green eyes lock with mine. My clouds burst underfoot one by one until I feel the bite of winter.

Crap.

I step back so fast I almost tumble into the snow. “Dean Kelly,” I acknowledge the older man with his modestly graying hair and metal rimmed glasses as I right myself. I’ve learned to never call him father. The tongue lashing that earns me makes it not worth the effort.

His eyes dodge around me checking for anyone who might spot us together no doubt. It stings, sure, but after three and a half years of the same thing the heart hardens after a while. But there’s still a sliver that beats for the day I can feel his arms wrap around me.

“Jemma.” No warmth. “Have you heard from your brother?”

His terseness isn’t lost on me nor are the deep lines around his eyes and mouth. You’d think him to be sucking on a lemon.

I clutch the straps of my computer bag a little harder than necessary. “Yes. He’s fine.”

There’s an awkward silence between us and I fight to just blurt out why he’s not asking, ‘Hey sweetheart how’s your thesis coming along? Should we make a honey ham or roasted turkey for graduation dinner in the spring?’

But I bite my tongue.

A curt nod is all I get, dashing my hopes. The man I wish could see me for who I am instead of how he wants me to be brushes past me. Without turning around he calls back, “Call your mother. I’m tired of feeding her reports on your welfare every night.”

To anyone looking on we appear to be student and dean having a simple conversation. The man can erase the tiniest drop of emotion from his voice on the warmest of days. He and my mother are the perfect fit—the rigid scientist and her impeccable career and my father’s razor edged, his way or no way approach to life.

---