PROFESSOR KANE'S BED

‎Zara

‎

‎I slammed my empty shot glass on the counter, the cheap vodka burning a trail down my throat that did nothing to cool the fire in my chest.

‎“Fucking unbelievable,” I muttered, waving at the bartender for another. My phone screen still glowed with my father’s last message: Credit card declined. Sort yourself out, Zara. You’re 21, not 12.

‎Sort myself out? After everything he’d promised? The man could buy half of Seattle but suddenly decided his spoiled princess needed a reality check. Tonight of all nights.

‎I tossed my long dark curls over my shoulder and downed the next shot. The room moved just a little. Good I was already getting drunk. That was the plan.

‎I spun on the barstool, ready to order something stronger, when my shoulder collided hard with a solid wall of chest.

‎“Watch where you’re going, asshole!”

‎The man steadied me with one large hand on my arm. His grip was firm but not rough. I looked up into a pair of sharp grey eyes that made him look dangerously handsome. Late thirties, maybe early forties. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a black button-down that hugged his chest.

‎He had dark hair with a touch of silver at the temples.

‎He didn’t let go immediately. Instead, he moved his head, his voice low and annoyingly calm. “Easy. You alright?”

‎“Alright?” I laughed, angry and bitter, yanking my arm free. “Do I look alright to you? you’re in my space, breathing all over me like you own the bar. Back the fuck off, bastard.”

‎His eyebrows rose slightly, but his expression stayed polite, that only pissed me off more.

‎“I was trying to help,” he said, stepping back half a pace but not far enough. His voice had this deep rumble that made the hairs on my arms stand up. “You nearly fell off the stool. Maybe slow down on the shots?”

‎“Oh my God, listen to you.” I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt. “Mr. Knight in fucking Armani. What, you think because you’re older you can lecture me? Newsflash, grandpa, I don’t need another man telling me what to do tonight. Go find some desperate cougar who’ll suck your dick for a compliment and leave me the hell alone.”

‎A muscle ticked in his jaw, but he still didn’t raise his voice. “You kiss your mother with that mouth, little girl?”

‎“Little girl?” I stepped closer, jabbing a finger into his chest. It was rock-hard. Bastard. “I’m twenty-one, not some teenager you can scold and trust me, my mouth does a lot more than kiss. But you? You look like the type who hasn’t had a proper fuck in years. All talk, no delivery. Now move before I make a scene and get your old ass thrown out.”

‎He stared down at me, those grey eyes darkening. For a second I thought he might snap back, but he only exhaled slowly, almost amused. “You have quite the temper and quite the vocabulary. Someone should teach you some manners before that pretty mouth gets you in real trouble.”

‎“Manners?” I scoffed, flipping my hair again. “From you? Please. Go home, old man. The bar’s for people who actually know how to live.”

‎I shoved past him, my shoulder hitting him harder than necessary. He didn’t budge much, he was solid as fuck but I heard him mutter something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “brat.”

‎Whatever. I didn’t care. I grabbed my bag, tossed some cash on the counter, and stormed out into the cool night air of downtown Seattle, the echo of my heels clicking angrily against the pavement.

‎By the time I collapsed into the back of a cab, my head was already spinning worse than before. Fuck my father. Fuck that arrogant prick at the bar. Fuck everything.

‎***

‎I woke up the next morning with a splitting headache that felt like someone was drilling through my skull. Sunlight stabbed through the curtains of my off-campus apartment like tiny knives. Groaning, I rolled over and checked my phone.

‎Shit. 8:47 a.m.

‎The new Political Theory lecture started at 9:00 sharp. I had fifteen minutes to make it across campus.

‎I sat up too fast the room spinned. “No… no way. I’m not going. I’ll just email and say I’m sick.”

‎But then I remembered the string of texts from my course rep last night:

‎“The new Political Theory lecturer is supposed to be a total beast. Professor Darren Kane. Apparently, he failed half his class at Oxford. If you miss the first day, you’re basically dead.”

‎Great. Just what I needed, a hardass who probably got off on watching students cry.

‎I dragged myself into the shower, threw on a short black skirt, a tight white crop top that showed just enough midriff, and my favorite heels. I did some light makeup, hair tossed into a messy but cute ponytail. Good enough. If this Professor Kane wanted to fail people on day one, at least I’d look hot while getting my ass handed to me.

‎I ran across the university campus, my heart beating fast, hangover still clawing at my temples. By the time I reached the lecture hall, I was already late. The loud voice of the professor was already echoing inside.

‎I pushed the heavy door open. It creaked loudly.

‎Every head in the packed hall turned toward me. Students were already seated, notebooks open, attention fixed forward.

‎My cheeks burned with embarrassment as I scanned for an empty seat near the back. The deep, commanding voice that had been speaking cut off mid-sentence and silence fell across the hall like a blanket.

‎I looked up toward the front of the room and standing behind the lectern, tall and imposing in a navy button-down with sleeves rolled up to reveal those same strong forearms, was the man from the bar.

‎Those piercing grey eyes locked onto mine instantly. Recognition flashed across his handsome face, followed by something darker that sent an unwelcome spark of heat straight between my legs despite the pounding in my skull.

‎He didn’t smile, or looked angry.

‎He looked completely in control.

‎“Welcome to class,” he said, his voice dropping a bit low and sounding like a private promise of ruin.. “I am Professor Darren Kane and I believe we’ve already met.”

‎