Page 2 of Give In
I wanted to be one of them.
But I wasn’t.
My blond hair and blue eyes didn’t look badass. I didn’t have tattoos or piercings because they’d never been in the budget. Because everything about me was natural and believable, right down to the fact I actually was a student, innocent Mandi was created.
Well, as innocent as I could be in a tiny schoolgirl skirt, plain white panties, a see-through white top, knee high socks, and Mary Jane stripper heels.
When I’d begun using the persona, my tips more than doubled, and I’d gained a bunch of regulars. Suddenly in high demand, I’d also gotten the Friday and Saturday night shifts, which had been major. Weekdays were decent, but the weekend shifts were guaranteed money makers.
All of that, plus it was easier. Of my two songs, I only stripped during the second,Hot for Teacher. My first,Don’t Stand So Close to Me, was just a lot of coquettish teasing, so I made more money for less time naked. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be insulted by that, but whatever.
I was getting paid.
Right then, however, I wished I’d never agreed to the cliché changes.
They were the whipped cream and cherry on my mortification sundae.
And they were so excruciatingly awkward because I had a crush on Professor Caine.
A crazy, schoolgirl crush.
It wasn’t how hot he was, though he was insanely attractive. His dark brown hair was too overgrown and mussed to look professional. It wasn’t strategically styled, but rather tousled like he ran his fingers through it constantly.
His navy eyes were sharp and missed nothing. He’d always been able to tell which kids pulled excuses out of their asses. I’d bet he knew the kid who sat behind me was always stoned and the one in the back row spent most classes watching porn.
Nothing about him looked like the stereotypical professor. Over six foot four inches of solid muscle, he was intimidating as hell and intensity personified. He’d never worn a tweed jacket, wire-rimmed glasses, or even a tie, instead teaching in casual slacks and shirts.
The first week of classes, he’d gone to his office after a meeting. When word got around, it’d caused a major traffic jam. Everyone had wanted to get a look at him dressed up in slate gray slacks, a matching button vest, and a dark blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled. Girls had whipped out their phones to take pictures.
It was still talked about.
In detail.
In hushed whispers and wistful sighs.
If Professor Caine taught class dressed like that, girls would probably throw their panties like he was a rock star and they were his groupies.
But that wasn’t him. He wasn’t pretentious. And, though he looked like one, he didn’t seem to have a god complex.
Still, something about him felt… off. Dangerous. It was a vibe he put out, but I was beginning to think I was the only one who noticed. Other girls talked about how sensitive and soft he was. They painted him as some tortured hero who’d beg to make love on a bed of roses after he recited poetry he wrote about emo vampires and being misunderstood.
His lectures often turned passionate, and it was easy to become enthralled. But I’d never read him as sensitive. Most definitelynotsoft.
It was entirely possible I’d only been reading his intense dislike for me, though.
As my first song wore down, and my second began, I glanced his way. He was looking around, bored and disinterested. It made the situation better.
Finishing my set, I went in the back to redress and regroup.
I can’t go back out there.
No way.
I’ll just quit and find someplace new to work.
Even as I thought it, I knew I wouldn’t. I’d worked enough crappy jobs to know I had a good thing at Sinners.
Living in Boston was expensive. It didn’t matter I’d been saving foryearsand my scholarship was hefty. Just the basic cost of living expenses could easily blow through my money.
