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“You could try the mind-mapping technique?”
Alex’s head remained tilted. He was toying with him. If he wasn’t careful, he would end up back in that closet, bent over the sink.
“Quick question,” Alex’s voice assumed a smooth quality. “Will all our dates include homework? Because that might be a deal-breaker.”
Julian bit the inside of his cheek. “Skip the reading. Watch the movie. The 2005 version, though. It’ll give you something to do on the plane ride home.” Reaching for his phone, he said, “I’ll text you my home address.”
Alex pursed his lips, undoubtedly waiting for Julian to realize he didn’t have his number. Eventually, and sheepishly, Julian handed him his phone.
After a few keystrokes, Alex gave the phone back. “Add me to your contacts. Might I suggest the name ‘Crimson Lantern Boi Toy’?”
“Nonsense. ‘Mr. Bennett,’ of course,” Julian said as he typed.
A ping rang out, and Alex smiled at the text, proceeding to add Julian’s contact.
“What did you put for me?”
“‘Mr. Darcy.’ Of course.”
“So you have read it!”
He shrugged and turned to walk away. “Enjoy your break, Professor. See you in class.”
“And Book Club!”
When he had disappeared, Julian stared at the new contact: “Mr. Bennett.”
He had submerged himself in uncharted territory, and the fallout could be catastrophic. Yet as doubt crept in, the fire in Alex’s kiss lingered in his memory. Perhaps the risk of getting burned was the appeal of playing with fire.
Thehighceilingsanddark wood paneling of McClellan Hall only aided in the stench of triviality and irrelevance of the English department’s monthly colloquium. Julian fidgeted in his seat, thumbing his phone screen. Ten days had passed since the encounter at The Crimson Lantern. He’d controlled the impulse to contact Alex, allowing him space to visit with his family and process his own emotions.
Polite applause broke out, and the speaker—some stuffed shirt from some mini-Ivy—took a smug bow, soaking up accolades for his pretentious analysis.
“Afternoon, Professor.” Travis had slid into the seat next to Julian, causing him to tense. “What are your thoughts on Dr. Martin’s perspective on Foucault’s panopticon and its influence on postmodern literature?”
Julian didn’t care. All he could think about was Alex. That glint from behind those glasses. His lips, soft yet hungry against his own. The way he backed his fuzzy little ass up against him in the supply closet of a grungy bar.
Rather than regaling Travis with those specifics, and reveling in the subsequent horror of his expression, Julian suppressed his groan and forced a smile. “The argument’s certainly thought-provoking, though one could counter the panopticon represents a microcosm of society’s self-surveillance, rather than a direct consequence of Foucault’s theories.” He returned to his phone, assuming he’d given Travis the validation he craved.
“Exactly, and how it ties to the deconstructionist movement…” Travis continued, proving Julian’s assumption wrong.
After what seemed like an eternity, and rather than crawling out of his skin, Julian stood and gave Travis an ambiguous “Indeed!” to whatever nonsense he’d said. Then he escaped to the buffet line, where his colleagues debated the merits of their refined yet dull appetizers.
“Professor, got a minute?”
Travis. Again.
His strides oozed privilege and determination. Before Julian found another escape route, Travis had steered him toward a quiet corner, half-hidden behind a large fern.
“Let’s close this deal,” Travis said, his voice low but resonant. “I’m following up on the opportunity to chair my thesis committee. With your guidance, I know I can produce a truly remarkable manuscript.”
Julian stiffened, reflexively patting his pocket, willing a text from Alex to appear. “I’m flattered, Mr. Spencer, but my schedule is overloaded.”
“Don’t underestimate my abilities, Professor.” His jaw tightened, his nonchalance evaporating. “I deserve the best adviser, and we both know that’s you.” He leaned in, his words edged with menace. “Of course, I’d ignore any… extracurricular activities that you might also enjoy.”
Julian scrutinized Travis’s smug expression. Did he know something, or was this a calculated fishing expedition? Either way, Travis had brass balls. No wonder he strutted everywhere. Julian’s fingers pulsed into fists as he weighed his next words. “I’m not following your implications.”
“Oh, you know.” Travis’s lips flattened into a cold line. “Word gets around about professors who take… special interest in particular students.” He batted his eyes with a sneer. “Maybe I’d have better luck if I wore glasses?”
