Sex and Sexuality Read online

  Although it might be worth the fall…

  No. Stop thinking like that. “I’m sorry,” Quentin apologized, holding out a hand for the stranger to shake. “I’m Professor Whiteside. Can I help you with something? Are you lost? This is faculty housing, you know. The professors live here.” He waved at the tall house they stood in front of.

  The stranger’s blue eyes twinkled. He tossed a wave of honey-brown hair tipped with magenta streaks out of his face, pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket, and grinned in a way that made Quentin’s treasonous chest thump again. “Nah, I’m fine. You, though, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Everything okay?”

  “Me? I’m all right.” Quentin tried to courteously dodge around the man, who’d lit up and was drawing in with a deeply satisfied air.

  Attempting not to breathe the fumes, Quentin looked him up and down, carefully clinical. He might have been handsome—stop that—but he couldn’t have been more than twenty-one. Probably a student. “Do you need anything?” Quentin repeated himself politely. An idea struck him. “Are you waiting for a professor? I’m the new lecturer in the English department. One of two.”

  The man chuckled. “Yeah. I’m supposed to take care of moving some things. For another professor.” He tipped his cigarette at Quentin. “Call me Lee. I’m supposed to meet Dr. Jennings’ truck.”

  Quentin resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Not only was this Billy late, but he had the nerve to rope a student into moving his things off a truck and into the apartment for him. He must have gotten a key. What if he’d made copies? Oh, oh, that wouldn’t be a good thing at all.

  Quentin hated to be so tightly wound, but maybe it would be better to keep an eye on Lee. If he had to change the locks…

  Lee ambled over to the porch of the small building, once a private home that had been converted in recent years, and hopped up into what looked like a comfortable seat. He kicked his legs idly. “Mind if I wait? I can stay out of your hair.” He twined a red-tipped lock around his finger. “Nothing better to do, anyway.”

  “I’ll stay outside with you.” Quentin took up position a few feet away, on the other side of the short stairs, and leaned a bit against the edge of the porch. Not too casually, though. He couldn’t afford to be seen as informal by the students. That could lead to trouble. The last Father who’d advised him told him not to let students start thinking he was one of them. They’d take advantage.

  Quentin wasn’t sure, but…

  Better not to encourage Lee, anyway. If he were left alone, who knew what he’d do? He seemed content enough to sit and tap ashes off into the grass, but Quentin didn’t trust him in a deep, instinctual way. From the tips of his dyed hair to the loose, worn sandals on his feet, he seemed like a wild child and one to watch out for.

  A woman, perhaps in her forties, who Quentin recognized as a professor of Economics, came out of the front door and made her way down the stairs. Quentin nodded and smiled at Dr. Framworth. Lee grinned, waved with his cigarette hand and chirped, “What’s up, Doc?”

  Quentin winced.

  Framworth gave Lee a perplexed look and nodded. “Good morning.”

  “Going for breakfast?”

  “I’m afraid I’ve run out of cream for my coffee.” The woman was beginning to smile. Smile!

  “God, can’t have that. If I don’t drink at least half a pot, I’m worthless.” Lee took another drag on his smoke. “Bet you can find some at the cafeteria. It’s not far.”

  “I know where it is. I’ve been teaching here for seven years.”

  “Aw, what a shame. You don’t need an escort, then?”

  To Quentin’s amazement, Framworth chuckled. “I’ll be just fine on my own. Take care, now.” She walked away without any questions or even a comment on the smoking. Also, without saying anything else to Quentin.

  The slow burn of jealousy started in Quentin’s stomach. How could Lee make it so easy to charm people? Quentin tried, himself, he really did, going by the guidelines the Center had drilled in, but…

  Lee watched Framworth go, idly scratching at his calf, then puffed thoughtfully for a minute. “So,” he asked, idly as if he were wondering about the time, “would you bojangle her?”

  “Would I what?” Quentin blinked. It seemed that Lee could salt an innocent question and a slang verb with as much innuendo as three blue jokes. But surely he didn’t mean…

  “Bojangle. Do. You know, fuck.” Lee made an obscene hand gesture with his cigarette. “Would you?”

  Quentin felt himself turning pink. “I—I—of course not. I wouldn’t think about such a thing. She’s my colleague, and it would be most inappropriate.”

  “Oh, not proper. Too bad.” Lee crushed his cigarette out on the edge of the porch, then pulled out his pack again. He tapped it against his palm. “So what about Ten Hawks? I mean, have you seen him? God, he’s something else. I’d bojangle him.”

  “He’s the Chancellor,” Quentin blurted in horror. His mind instantly flitted to a picture of Ten Hawks with his shirt off, muscled chest gleaming with sweat, and…no. No, no, no. “Look here, you really have to stop this. You could get into all sorts of trouble if the wrong person heard you.”

  “Like you won’t report me?” Lee cut Quentin a sly look. “You look pretty law-abiding. Not gonna narc on someone who’s out of line?”

  “I—I—I—”

  “Calm down, take it easy. Don’t want you to stroke out on me.” Lee lit up another cigarette and drew in until the cherry glowed bright red. “Stress. You need to watch out for stress. It’ll kill you faster than these things.”

  That stung. Quentin tried hard to be calm. “I can take care of myself.”

  “I think I could really be good with someone to watch over me,” Lee sang. He had a surprisingly tuneful voice for someone who smoked as much as he appeared to. “But I don’t really think you could call me a lost little lamb.”

  More like the Big Bad Wolf, Quentin thought, but kept to himself. “If you like.” He turned away from Lee, determined not to encourage the boy. Not to look at him. Not to think about what he’d be like when he kissed him, tasting of smoke and probably coffee, soft lips moving under… No.

  Quentin felt his cock stir. Dear God. Hastily, he untucked his shirt and let it hang loose on the outside of his pants. To make it look a little less stupid, he undid his tie a bit. The day seemed to be heating up. Perhaps he’d change into something roomier and more flexible once his boxes arrived.

  Was that a truck? Quentin stood up straighter, peering down the one-lane paved road that curved past the faculty housing. Yes…yes. He heard the sound of a diesel engine. Finally.

  “That your stuff coming?” Lee asked. “Or maybe it’s my cargo. I’m supposed to wait for a delivery van from We-Move-Quick.”

  “It could be for either of us, then.” Quentin had used the popular transport service as well. He looked at his watch. “They’re late.” He sighed. “Just like my roommate. Unorthodox,” he added in a grumble.

  “Don’t knock the unorthodox. It can be a lot more fun than Average Joe. You look like you try too hard to be Clark Kent. Why not unleash Superman and see how you fly?” Lee hopped down off the porch and vaulted over the stairs. Suddenly he was face-to-face with Quentin, those amazing blue eyes sparkling into Quentin’s own. “Bet you can soar.” His voice, low and mesmerizing, held Quentin in place.

  Lee touched his lips to Quentin’s own in a brief, fleeting kiss. Before Quentin had a chance to jerk away on instinct, Lee backed up with a devilish grin. “I think there are two trucks, one for each of us. By the way, I was just kidding earlier. My name’s actually William. But hey, you and I are going to be roomies, so you can call me Billy. I think we’re going to get along just fine.” Billy winked. “Last one to the trucks is an undergraduate!”

  And with that he loped away to the approaching vehicles, waving at them and giving a cheerful yell. Quentin stood frozen where Billy had left him, still as a statue, his lips tin
gling from his fellow professor’s light touch of mouth to mouth.

  He could feel his heart sinking. Unorthodox. Blatantly sexual. Oh…God.

  God, what do I do now?

  Chapter Two

  Quentin’s lips still buzzed where Billy had kissed him. They felt as if someone had applied sparkly color and added two or three small spangles. Just like he’d…back in his youth…

  He couldn’t think about those days now. The Center had taught him how to handle himself. He had to focus on the here and now, and look to the future.

  His bedroom had, at least, provided a refuge. Billy had been all too obliging in letting the first set of deliverymen move Quentin’s things in first, even if he had plopped down in Quentin’s chair and called it “damn good”, insisting that it stay in the den.

  Quentin hadn’t had the strength to protest. Billy’s force of personality was too strong to be denied when Quentin was feeling vulnerable. Another flaw of his, drat it. Looking over at the space where he’d intended his comfort spot to be, he felt another twinge of resentment. If the chair stayed outside his room, its soothingly battered cushions and padded arms would get scarred by cigarette burns and start conforming to Billy’s behind. Billy’s wonderfully tight ass.

  “Please stop,” Quentin begged himself in a whisper. He rubbed the bridge of his nose to try and ward off a headache. He had a feeling he’d be getting a lot of them, though, with Billy as a roommate. The temptation alone could be the death of him.

  He’d have to cling to Melissa. She wasn’t much for men who were emotionally needy, but surely she’d understand once he explained everything she needed to know. She did not need to know about Billy’s good looks, especially from Quentin’s perspective. Melissa wasn’t crazy about any rivals for her affection, and her disdain for anything remotely homosexual was legendary.

  She knew about Quentin’s past, and expected him not to falter from the path he’d chosen. A woman who was aware of what he’d been and what he strove to become, she was something he couldn’t lose. Not now.

  With Melissa as the cornerstone to keep them on track, she and Quentin would have a good life together. Both had neatly outlined their future, following a careful plan. While Melissa completed her law degree, he’d teach for a couple of years and save up some money, as well as publishing enough articles to earn respect and prestige among his peers. They’d put enough aside for a properly attractive house, and once they’d gotten settled they planned to have children. Two, a boy and a girl, if they were lucky. Children they could raise together. Melissa could be hard-nosed, but she would make a wonderful mother.

  Quentin had doubts about what kind of father he’d be, but he kept those private. Where Melissa led, he followed. If she wanted the American Dream, he wasn’t going to tell her no. She was his salvation, and everything he’d dreamed about when he was being practical.

  Seeking comfort, Quentin focused on the picture of his dear girl, poised on the edge of the desk. She’d already been threatened by Quentin’s neat stacks of paper, so he pulled the frame a little closer. Touching Melissa’s image with one finger, lingering over her precise smile, glossy hair, and compact, trim figure, he smiled.

  “I love you,” he said—and almost meant the words.

  Outside, he heard a crash. The noise made him jump in his seat, knocking one knee against the underside of the desk. Melissa’s picture toppled over. Quentin would have set her back upright, but at the moment he wanted to know just what had fallen and how badly something was damaged.

  Standing, he walked to the window and peered out. Billy and a deliveryman were laughing over a burst carton that spilled a collection of broken plates onto the lawn. Waving the moving man aside, Billy squatted on the grass and began to pick up pieces of flatware, tossing them back into the box with careless abandon.

  So he’d be eating off Quentin’s plates, then, wouldn’t he?

  Quentin bit his lip. He didn’t mind sharing. But if Billy broke his as well, he wouldn’t be able to afford replacing what was lost, not for a while. He’d spent enough time in college eating off paper towels with plastic spoons and forks. God help him, he didn’t want to go back to those days.

  Back when he’d…

  Melissa. Think about Melissa. In fact… Quentin reached for his cell phone on top of the filing cabinet. Glad that he had managed to get a signal up in the foothills, he hit her number on the speed dial. Be there. Please, be there.

  Three rings, and a crisp voice answered. “This is Melissa Rife speaking.”

  “Melissa. Hello. It’s Quentin.” Going limp with relief, Quentin sank back into his seat. “I hope you don’t mind my calling.”

  “I have a class in fifteen minutes. Can this wait?” Melissa sounded annoyed and impatient. No questions about how his trip up had been, or how he was settling in. But then again, that wasn’t her way. Unless someone told her otherwise, she assumed that everything was going according to her plans.

  “I just wanted to tell you that I miss you. Are you doing all right?”

  “Me? I’m fine, Quentin. Now, did you have anything you needed to talk about?”

  Quentin thought fleetingly about Billy, then sighed.

  “What was that?”

  “What? Oh. Nothing. Don’t concern yourself.”

  “Why did you call me, Quentin?”

  “Just to hear the sound of your voice,” he replied in all honesty. “As I said, I missed you.”

  It was Melissa’s turn to heave a deep, annoyed breath. “Quentin, I don’t have time for this. Of course you miss me. I miss you too. But we’ve discussed all of this. Everything’s in order. Two years, and we’ll be together again.”

  Two years of nothing but phone calls and the occasional visit. But he had to hold on to her. She was his lifeline. “Of course.” Quentin hid his disappointment, though he knew he should have expected no less. “I’ll let you get back to preparing for class.”

  “Thank you.” Melissa disconnected without a goodbye. Quentin didn’t protest. Melissa rarely used unnecessary words. She’d said “I love you” before, not often, but enough for Quentin to believe her. The rest of the time, he took her on faith.

  Something else crashed outside. Irritated, Quentin flew to the window to look out. This time the culprit was a box full of old records spilling out in a cascade of faded covers and black discs. Billy still seemed to think this was hilarious. And the way he and the deliveryman bent over the mess to clear it up, their hands brushing against one another…

  Quentin swallowed hard. With an effort, he turned away, back to his papers. His first lesson plans. He’d discuss the significance of the historical era in which Jane Austen had begun to write, and then move on to an overview of her works. Pride and Prejudice, Sense and Sensibility… Quentin knew the books almost by heart. He had a copy of each, dog-eared and highlighted, read so many times that they were only just held together by the tape down their spines.

  He heard the front door slam. From the smell of cigarette smoke wafting in, Billy had arrived. There was a heavy thump as he put something down, and then some tuneful humming. Quentin listened to Billy rummaging through whatever it was he’d carried in. Blessed silence reigned for a moment, and then…bam, bam, bam.

  It was the final straw. Carefully putting down his lesson plan, not wanting anything to get out of order, Quentin emerged into the den to find Billy cheerfully nailing album covers to the walls, along with other hooks to hang the records themselves on.

  “So he’s alive,” Billy got out around a mouthful of nails. He spat them into his palm and grinned that same cheeky grin, completely at ease. “This is the noisy part. It gets better. So what were you doing, unpacking?”

  “Not exactly.” Everything Quentin owned had been neatly put away while Billy joked, laughed and smoked with the truck drivers. “I was going over my class notes.”

  Why he’d volunteered the information, he didn’t know. Surely he didn’t want to get into a conversation with the man. Billy
was dangerous. A temptation that lured him down the path he dared not tread. Living with him would be hard enough. They shouldn’t be friends, not if Quentin wanted to stay safe. Pure. Good enough for Melissa.

  Billy picked his ever-present cigarette up out of a glass ashtray. He inhaled and exhaled, looking almost blissful. “Hey, hope you don’t mind about the smoke. I got hooked on these back in community college. Never have been able to kick the habit, but then again, I don’t want to.” He winked. “You ever try? They’re hell on your lungs, but man, do they relax you. And there’s no better place to make friends than around an ashtray between classes. You wouldn’t believe how students chill out. You can really get to know them.”

  “You’ve taught before?” Quentin was surprised.

  “Yeah, did a couple years of quarterlies back at that same tech school. Basic English classes. So many of those kids didn’t believe they could write as much as a few paragraphs. I had ‘em turning out essays before they were done. Nothing like the look of pride on a student’s face when they’ve done what they thought was impossible. Yeah?”

  Quentin had never had the pleasure. The few undergraduate courses he’d lectured in had all been to serious-faced freshmen who, he suspected, had scrambled to keep up. He tried to be hard, like Melissa, but fair. Truth be told, he’d thought they were afraid of him. Just as he was a little afraid of them.

  Maybe they really had been cowed into silence. And all the while, irrepressible Billy had been making buddies outside of class.

  That slowly smoldering spark of jealousy kindled again.

  “Just a few more covers to nail up. I figured you could have the opposite wall for whatever you want to hang. Maybe an art print? You look like that kind of guy. Hey, am I going to get lucky with some Rubenesque ladies? All that pretty pink skin with the naughty bits all plump and perky?”

  Quentin felt his cheeks grow warm. “I don’t… I mean, I haven’t…” He didn’t own anything to put on the walls. Art was a potential snare for the unwary. His only decoration, a large dry-erase board, had already been hung in his bedroom.